Chapter 15 #2
I climbed on and positioned myself exactly as ordered.
I wasn’t sure what to do with my legs, so I put my knees close to my shoulders and hooked my arms over the backs of my thighs to hold them there.
The angle left me completely exposed and nearly folded in half.
The waist cincher didn’t allow my torso to bend, so even with my flexibility, I felt the stretch in my hips and legs.
He stood between my legs and looked down at me with a calm, dark expression that made my stomach flip — and that only grew worse when he settled the thick head of his cock against my slit.
There was no tenderness, no care. He lined up and drove into me in a hard, punishing thrust that forced the air from my lungs and tore broken cries from me.
The vicious stretch was so much worse than I remembered from the morning.
The plug in my ass made everything tighter, and it felt like I was being split in both holes at once.
He drew back and slammed in again. Then again.
Each brutal stroke shoved me farther open, scraping over raw, already-sore tissue and jostling the fat plug deeper.
I tried to scramble backward, away from the edge, tried to escape from the relentless thickness of him pounding into me.
He caught both wrists and pressed them into the mattress while he sped up and fucked me in earnest — deep, brutal strokes that gave me no time to adjust. Every thrust forced more raw sounds out of my throat.
Part of me didn’t want to fight him, but my body kept trying: hips twisting, legs kicking weakly against his ribs, but escape wasn’t possible under his weight and strength.
“Oh yeah, little cunt. Fight it,” he said, voice low and rough. “You’re going to take every fucking inch whether you want to or not, but fight me, little bitch.”
Over time, he went deeper and deeper, and my body had no choice but to yield under the steady, heavy pounding, opening impossibly wider.
The dual sensation of his cock and the plug made every stroke so overwhelming I was on an overload — too much stretch, too much friction, too much of him.
Tears streamed sideways into my hair, and I was sobbing openly by the time he released one wrist, reached down, and started rubbing my clit in tight, ruthless circles.
“Come on my cock, slave. Now.”
The combination of the brutal fucking and the sudden direct pressure on my clit — and that gravelly, sexy-as-fuck commanding voice — pushed me straight over the edge.
The orgasm tore through me and I clenched around his cock and the plug at the same time, every muscle locking as the climax ripped me apart.
My mouth opened on a raw, broken sound I couldn’t control, but he didn’t stop and it was way too much right after coming.
The overstimulation hit like a second wave — too much, too sensitive, and every thrust scraped over raw nerves.
I begged and pleaded for mercy between sobs, but my words seemed to spur him to go faster and harder, as if my pleas were gasoline fueling a fire.
He maintained a relentless, punishing rhythm until the oversensitivity blurred back into desperate need, then put his fingers back on my clit and rubbed in tight, merciless circles until I was right on the edge once more, and ordered, “Again, slave. Come on my fucking cock. Milk me with that tight little cunt.”
The second orgasm slammed into me even harder than the first, and screams ripped from my chest while my back arched off the bed despite the cincher.
My pussy and ass muscles clenched and spasmed while he just kept going, kept fucking me through it without mercy — never giving me room to recover while I writhed beneath him and fought for air between my sobs.
The third time he made me come, I was barely coherent.
My voice was hoarse. My thighs were trembling so hard I couldn’t control them.
When he finally buried himself deep and came inside me with a deep, guttural sound, my sobs only came harder as I lay there overwhelmed, used, and completely taken apart.
He stayed inside me for… I don’t know how long, kissing my cheeks, my temples, my forehead. Soothing me while he softened inside me and his breathing evened out.
Eventually, he stood and withdrew, holding the condom. He disposed of it, returned to help me sit up, then stand. My legs were shaky as he walked me to the chin-up bar between the bedroom and bathroom.
“Grab hold, cunt.”
It was low enough I didn’t need to jump, so I reached up and wrapped my fingers around it.
He unfastened the steel-boned cincher and peeled it off my skin.
The relief of being able to breathe deeply again made me dizzy, but he quickly replaced it with a spandex one — still tight, but without the bones, and this one was fastened with dozens of hooks and eyes.
It held me in, and breathing still wasn’t easy, but the bones didn’t dig into me and force my spine into an arch, at least.
He squatted behind me and removed the padlocks on the shoes.
“Take them off, put them on the pedestal beside you, and then you have permission to use the toilet. Slaves don’t have permission to leave their owner’s bed at their whim.
If you need to get up for any reason, go into the humble pose and wait until I give you permission to speak. ”
I nodded, too wrung out to do anything else. I don’t often need to pee in the middle of the night, so it should be fine.
Putting the shoes on the Greek-style column felt odd, as if they had some kind of position of power in this room, and I suppose they did. Artwork to him, hell to me. They were gorgeous and graceful, but also cruel and merciless.
When I came back from the bathroom, he was already in bed. He pulled me in front of him and wrapped an arm around my waist, tucking me in close. This cincher was snug, but not crushing. The plug was still inside me, though — a constant reminder he made the rules and I conformed to his demands.
I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep. My body was still buzzing, sore, overstimulated, and strangely content, so it’s no surprise that the heat of him behind me combined with the comforting weight of his arm around me pulled me into a dead sleep.
The next thing I knew, I was waking to the feel of him shifting behind me with the first pale light of dawn coming through the window.