Iskra
The humiliation kept my face buried in the pillows.
He sighed, and his weight pressed my chest further into the bed—not his full weight, his knees still bracketing my hips, enough to contain without crushing. His cock felt like a bat inside me, twitching and jerking at intervals, as though it hadn’t quite finished making its point.
I forced myself to release the pillows and stretch my fingers out before they cramped. The fabric was creased where I had been gripping it.
I had thought the sex would be clinical.
Not—this.
Whatever this was.
He curled one arm around my neck and slid the other beneath my ribs until his hand closed around my breast. I swallowed against the pressure of his forearm and lay very still, waiting to see what he intended.
I tried not to react. My body had other ideas—my muscles clenched down on him involuntarily and I hated myself for it.
His chuckle started low in his chest and shook us both.
His fingers circled my nipple while his arm tightened around my neck until I reached up and gripped his forearm on instinct.
“Choking me wasn’t in the contract,” I gasped.
“It is fun, though,” he murmured against my hair.
“For you.”
“It tightens that pussy of yours up,” he said, squeezing my neck.
My body tensed on cue. My inner muscles clung to him. The betrayal of it was immediate and complete.
Oh god. He was right.
He relaxed his hold and I dragged in a breath, the air reaching my lungs in a rush.
“What did you hear from my office?” he asked, his fingers resuming their lazy work on my nipple as though the question were an afterthought.
“Just murmurs. No one spoke loud enough.” I kept my voice as steady as I could manage given the circumstances. “Then the snitch found me and moved me along.”
He grunted and released my neck. My cheek sank back into the pillow.
When he sat up the warmth of him vanished all at once and the cold air hit my back and I shivered before I could stop myself.
“Turn around and keep your hips on the pillow,” he said, already moving. “I don’t want to see a single drop of my come drip out of you.”
“How am I supposed to—”
He was already pulling out.
“That’s your problem.”
I turned quickly and pressed a hand between my legs, wincing at the slick warmth of him already beginning to escape regardless of my efforts.
He flung the covers over me without looking back and disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing with the finality of a man who considered the interaction complete.
I stared at the ceiling.
The man needed serious help.
??
??
??
The bathroom door opened and he stood in the doorway.
My eyes travelled over him before I could stop them. The breadth of his shoulders. The muscles that had no business belonging to a man who spent his days behind a desk—the kind built through years of physical discipline, dense and functional rather than decorative.
His chest and arms were mapped in ink. The stars on each shoulder marked him immediately for what he was—Bratva, rank and standing worn on his skin for anyone who knew how to read it.
The Orthodox cross sat beneath the collarbone.
Lower, a sword with a snake coiled around the blade, the detail precise enough that whoever had put it there had taken their time.
His hand moved and my eyes followed without permission.
He gripped the base of his cock and ran his fingers slowly to the tip, pausing there to choke it in his fist before driving his hand back down the length of him. Unhurried. Deliberate. Watching me watch him. The smooth head faced me, flushed and blunt, entirely at ease with my attention.
All while I lay there trying to keep his come inside me as instructed, one hand pressed between my thighs, acutely aware of how undignified the entire situation was.
Didn’t men need time to recover?
Apparently not this one.
He moved closer.
Fisting himself.
Pumping more rapidly now, his grip tightening with each stroke, the thick length of him growing heavier and darker in his hand. I watched despite myself. The room was quiet except for the sound of his breathing and the faint movement of the bedsprings as I shifted.
He grew larger.
He released himself and I breathed again—one full breath—before he reached down and pulled the cover back in a single motion.
“Show me,” he rasped.
I removed my hand from between my legs and looked away, fixing my eyes on somewhere neutral, anywhere that wasn’t his face or the rest of him.
“You didn’t do a very good job, did you?” he mused.
The mattress dipped as his weight shifted onto the bed. He pushed the covers further back as he moved between my legs.
“I like law and order,” he said, repositioning the pillow beneath my hips to tilt them higher. “I don’t abide rebellion from anyone.”
He truly loved the sound of his own voice.
“I expect complete obedience from you at all times,” he said, pressing his thumb over his cock.
I stared at him from between my legs as he began to rub himself along my pussy.
The pressure of his length dragged up and down me and I gasped despite myself.
The head bumped my clit before dropping lower.
He continued the slow torture until I grew restless beneath him, my hips shifting without my permission.
Then he moved up my body until his cock loomed over my face.
I stared at it.
“Lick me clean,” he said, tapping his heavy length against my lips.
I held his gaze for a beat before I opened my mouth and tentatively put my tongue out.
Something settled on his face. Behind the cruel mask—satisfaction. The more I licked the more it showed. The taste of us was all over him, salt and heat and something that was entirely new and not entirely unpleasant, which was its own kind of humiliation.
“Open up, Iskra,” he murmured. “Time to put your mouth to use.”
The shadow of him loomed over my face. There was no way he would fit—I knew that much—but I opened wide anyway and he placed the rounded head between my lips.
“Suck.”
One word.
A command.
I barely had a chance before he pushed deeper, the weight of him pressing toward the back of my throat immediately.
“I’ll need to train that throat of yours,” he said, gripping my head in both hands.
Panic rose in my chest as he hit the back of my throat. He began to move my head—not asking, not waiting—working me up and down his length at the pace he wanted.
“Get a good taste of what’s to come,” he growled.
My eyes began to tear. I placed my hands on his thighs to ground myself, focusing on breathing through my nose, trying not to gag each time he reached the back of my throat.
His fingers buried into my hair, pulling my head up as he thrust down simultaneously, the double movement forcing him deeper than I thought possible.
I curled my fingers into his thighs when he lodged himself into my throat and held there.
A pause.
Then he pressed deeper. I gurgled, fighting the reflex, willing my body not to betray me further.
“This is what I need,” he groaned, beginning to rock his hips. “A good little hole.”
I stared up at the base of him—the trimmed dark hair, the length of him buried in my throat, the sheer indifference of it.
He didn’t care that I could barely breathe.
He didn’t care that he was forcing my throat open around him.
He simply moved, his weight pinning me, taking what he had decided was owed to him.
“Yes, give me that mouth,” he rasped, moving faster.
I closed my eyes. That didn’t help. I opened them again and focused instead on breathing—steady, through the nose, throat as loose as I could manage.
Relaxing was a mistake. The moment my throat gave a fraction he thrust harder, and my teeth grazed his cock.
He hissed. I widened my jaw immediately, feeling spit coat my lips and chin, blinking against the tears running sideways into my hair.
The saddest part wasn’t being used in such a manner, but the fact that my pussy throbbed for more. The fact that the tension began to coil in the pit of my belly. The fact that a part of me enjoyed being able to take all of him.
He seemed to enjoy that fact too—his balls pressed against my chin and the hair at the base tickled my nose, forcing me to breathe him in.
I tapped his thigh when he didn’t move.
“Spread nice and wide,” he said before he pulled back.
I gasped for air as he moved off my chest.
“But I can’t come in your mouth. Not yet,” he murmured, hooking my legs over his arms.
I held my throat as he lined himself up. A long guttural moan left me when he sank into me.
“There you go, wife. Nice and wet from a good throat fucking,” he taunted.
“I hate you,” I croaked.
“Good,” he snapped, and then he was moving—dragging my legs with him, folding me in half beneath him.
“You’ll still take me, won’t you?” he said, driving deeper before pulling back and plunging in again.
His chest scraped along my sensitive skin, brushing my nipples until I nearly grabbed his shoulders to pull him closer. My feet began to bounce as he picked up his pace. Even through the hate I needed this—the heavy stretch of him working my insides, filling me completely.
He buried his face in my neck. Hot lips moved over my skin, then his tongue, his breath coming hard through the thrusts. When he began to suck on my flesh I hissed in pain and clutched his shoulders, my nails digging in. I wanted him to feel something too.
The sounds of him fucking the air out of my lungs filled the room—the slap of flesh against flesh, the dull rhythmic thud of his balls swinging up to meet my pussy with each drive forward. I clenched around him.
He growled against my throat. His teeth bit into my neck and just like that I came—on his cock, hips jutting up to meet him, proving him right without meaning to.
In that moment I didn’t care.
All that mattered were the crashing waves of pleasure that took hold and wouldn’t let go.
“Da,” he growled. “Take it all.”
And I did.
Every last drop of him.
Just as I had agreed to.