Kerris
Day eight. I broke.
I'd spent the night watching him across the chamber, my body screaming for something my pride wouldn't let me ask for. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth on me. His fingers inside me. The ghost of his cock pressing against my entrance before he pulled away.
Two edging sessions. All those orgasms. And I was more desperate than I'd been before he touched me the first time.
The storm had quieted sometime before dawn, not entirely, but reduced from a scream to a moan, the bone shards no longer flying with lethal force. He'd gone to check the perimeter, leaving me alone in the Keep with nothing but my desperation and the memory of the nursery.
Twelve platforms. Twenty cycles of waiting. A monster who built things with the same obsessive precision I did.
He wasn't like them. He wasn't like Jonah or my parents or anyone who'd ever taken from me. He was patient and deliberate and he kept walking away when I begged him to stay.
I hated him for it. I also understood it in a way that terrified me.
He wanted me to choose. Not because I was desperate. Not because the tonic had broken me. He wanted me to look at what he'd built and decide it was worth staying for.
The problem was, I was starting to think it might be.
He returned midmorning, bone dust coating his armor, his scent stronger than ever. The moment he entered the Keep, my body responded. Clenching. Flooding. Preparing.
Eight days. Eight days of this, and I'd lost the ability to be in the same room with him without my pussy clenching like it was trying to pull him inside through sheer force of will.
He looked at me and saw the state I was in. His nostrils flared, and I watched his armor shift, the bulge between his legs swelling visibly.
"The storm is weakening," he said. "Another day. Maybe less."
Another day. I couldn't survive another day.
I crossed the chamber and stopped in front of him, naked and desperate and past the point of pride.
"Please."
"Please what?" His voice was rough. Strained. He was suffering too, I realized. Had been suffering this whole time.
"Touch me. I'm asking. Not begging. Asking." I met his eyes. "Please."
His expression changed. He reached out, touched my face with one massive hand.
"Lie down."
I lay down on the sleeping platform. He knelt beside me, and for a moment he just looked. His eyes traveled over my body with that assessing gaze. Cataloguing. Evaluating.
"You're so swollen," he said. His hand moved down, hovered over my pussy without touching. "Eight days of this. Your body is desperate."
"Yes."
"You've been trying to satisfy yourself."
"It doesn't work. You know it doesn't work."
"I know." His finger traced a line from my navel to my pubic bone. Not quite touching where I needed. "Your body has been conditioned to need me specifically. My scent. My touch. My—"
"Please." The word came out broken. "Please, I can't—"
His fingers found my clit.
The first touch was electric. I gasped, my hips jerking up, my whole body shuddering. He circled the swollen bud with a pressure that made my vision blur.
"That's it," he murmured. "Show me what you need."
His other hand found my entrance. Two fingers pushed inside, and I cried out at the fullness. Not enough. Not nearly enough. But so much better than the emptiness I'd been drowning in.
He worked me with both hands. Fingers inside me, curling against that spot. Thumb on my clit, circling in steady rhythm. Methodical. Precise. The same attention to detail he applied to construction.
I came within minutes. A sharp, bright orgasm that tore through me without warning. My walls clenched around his fingers, my back arched off the platform, and I heard myself making sounds that weren't quite human.
He didn't stop.
"One," he counted. "Give me more."
His fingers moved faster. Harder. He added a third, stretching me wider, and the burn of it mixed with pleasure until I couldn't tell them apart. His thumb pressed harder on my clit, rubbing in tight circles.
Two. The second orgasm crashed into the first, rolling waves of pleasure that left me gasping.
"More."
Three.
Four.
I was sobbing now, tears streaming down my face, my body convulsing with each peak. His fingers were relentless, finding every sensitive spot, working me with a precision that felt almost cruel in its thoroughness.
Then his mouth.
He shifted lower, spread my thighs wider, and that textured tongue found my clit. I screamed. The sensation was overwhelming, too much, exactly enough. He licked me with long strokes while his fingers kept pumping, kept hitting that spot, kept driving me higher.
Five.
Six.
I lost count, losing myself, letting go of everything except the pleasure and the pressure and the desperate, aching need for more.
His tongue worked my clit while his fingers fucked me. The wet sounds filled the chamber, obscene evidence of how thoroughly he was taking me apart. I felt his breath, hot against my oversensitive flesh and could feel the ridges of his tongue catching on my swollen bud.
Seven.
Maybe eight. I couldn't tell anymore where one orgasm ended and the next began. It was all one continuous wave of pleasure, cresting and falling and cresting again.
His cock rubbed against my thigh. Hot and hard and massive, pressed against my skin while he worked me with his mouth. Leaking fluid. Ready.
"Now," I gasped. "Please. I need you inside me."
He lifted his head. His mouth was wet with my arousal, glistening in the low light. Those amber eyes watched me with something that might have been restraint about to break.
"Yes?"
"Yes. Please. I'm asking. I'm choosing. Please."
He moved up my body, positioning himself between my spread thighs. His cock pressed against my entrance, hot and textured and impossibly large.
Finally. Finally.
He pushed forward. Just the tip. The stretch was incredible, burning and perfect, my body opening for him even as it protested the size. I gasped, grabbed his arms, tried to pull him deeper.
"More. Please. Give me more."
He didn't move. Just held there, the head of his cock barely inside me, pulsing with his heartbeat.
"Tell me why you're here."
The words didn't register at first. I was too lost in sensation, too desperate for him to finish what he'd started.
"What?"
"Tell me why you're here. Not the debt. The real reason."
I stared up at him. His cock was inside me. Just barely, just the head, but inside me. And he was asking questions.
"The debt," I said. "I told you. 180,000 credits. The portal clears it."
"That's the excuse. That's what you tell yourself." He shifted slightly, and the head of his cock pressed deeper. I moaned, pushing my hips up, trying to take more of him. His hands on my hips held me still.
"Tell me the real reason."
"I don't—I can't—" I was crying again. From frustration. From need. From something deeper that his question had touched. "Please. Please just fuck me. I'll tell you anything after. Just please—"
"Now." His voice was implacable. Patient. The voice of someone who had waited twenty cycles and would wait twenty more if that's what it took. "Tell me now, or I stop."
"You can't stop." I was sobbing. "You can't. I'll die. I can't take anymore."
"You won't die. You'll suffer. And tomorrow I'll ask again."
He started to pull out.
"NO!"
I grabbed him and tried to hold him inside me. He was stronger than me. Infinitely stronger. My hands on his arms did nothing.
"Tell me," he said. "Why are you really here?"
The head of his cock was barely inside me now. One more inch and he'd be gone. One more inch and I'd be empty again.
"Because they didn't want me!"
The words tore out of me. Raw. Broken. A truth I'd never admitted to anyone, including myself.
"Because my parents chose Jonah every single time. Because I was never good enough. Because I spent my whole life building things for people who didn't care about me, and when I finally said no, when I finally stopped giving, they threw me away like I never mattered at all."
I was crying so hard I could barely see. His face was a blur above me.
"The debt was an excuse. I could have paid it off eventually.
But they called—my mother called—and she didn't ask how I was.
Didn't care that I was drowning. She just wanted me to take Jonah in.
After everything. After he ruined my life.
And I realized I would never be enough. No matter what I built.
No matter what I gave. I would never be the one they chose. "
I gasped, shuddering. "So I chose to disappear. I chose to come here and never go back. I chose to let a monster hunt me through a bone maze because at least that was honest. At least you weren't pretending to love me while you took everything I had."
Silence. The only sound was my ragged breathing and the distant moan of the storm.
Then he pulled out completely.
I screamed. The emptiness was devastating. After everything, after finally having him inside me, the loss was unbearable. I tried to grab him, pull him back, force him to finish what he'd started.
He caught my wrists and pinned them above my head, holding me still while I thrashed and sobbed and begged.
"Thank you," he said.
"Fuck you." I was beyond reason. Beyond pride. "Fuck you. You can't do this. You can't—"
"Tomorrow." His voice was gentle. Almost tender. "When you can tell me what you want. Not what you're running from. What you're running toward."
He released my wrists. Stood. His cock was still hard, still jutting from his body, still wet with my arousal and his own leaking fluid. He was suffering too. I could see it in the tension of his muscles, the way his hands shook slightly.
But he walked away anyway.
Left me on the sleeping platform. Empty. Ruined. Shattered.
I curled into a ball and sobbed until I couldn't breathe. Then I tried to touch myself, tried to finish what he'd started, tried to find any relief at all.
It didn't work. Of course it didn't work. My body only wanted him now.
I spent the night in agony. Physical, emotional and everything in between. The truth I'd finally admitted echoed in my head, mixing with the desperate need until I couldn't tell where one pain ended and the other began.
They didn't want me. I'd never been enough.
And now I was lying naked in a monster's Keep, begging him to breed me, because at least he saw something in me worth waiting for.
Tomorrow. He'd said tomorrow.
I didn't know if I could survive until the next day.
But I was starting to understand what he was asking for. Not just surrender. Not just my body.
My choice. My real choice. To stay not because I was running away, but because I wanted to run toward something.
Toward him. Toward the Keep. Toward the empty nursery that had been waiting twelve cycles for a purpose.
Could I choose that? Really choose it?
I didn't know.
But lying there in the dark, empty and aching and finally honest with myself, I was starting to think the answer might be yes.