Chapter 20 #2
He closed the gap in a single stride, hands locked on my hips. Then he caged me against the chair, one palm on the small of my back, the other sliding down to cup my ass—hard enough to sting.
I gasped but held still.
“Are you being a brat, Alex?” His mouth hovered at my ear, the words a quiet rasp.
I shrugged like it was nothing. “And if I am?”
He squeezed, the pressure punishing, and then hauled me up until my toes barely grazed the floor. The room whirled. He pinched the seam of my panties, yanked, and—true to his threat—ripped them clean off. The elastic snapped against my skin as the fabric tore free and fluttered to the floor.
He spun me by the shoulders and bent me over the back of the chair, my chest pressed to the leather, my ass exposed to the air. The world condensed to Luka’s hands and the cold shock under my skin.
He caught my wrists, pinned them overhead, and snapped a zip tie around them. The plastic cinched tight. I gasped—half terror, half euphoria.
Somewhere behind me, the wire cutters snicked through cable.
Luka palmed my skull, pinning my cheek to the chair. “Count,” he said.
“Count what?”
The first strike landed. A lash of cable snapped across my ass, a stripe of fire blooming across the flesh.
“One,” I gasped.
Another, quick and precise, across the other cheek.
“Two.”
Luka’s hand never left my neck, anchoring me. No space to move. No space to think.
The third strike landed harder. Pain flashed sharp, then flooded warm, heavy, pulling something loose inside me. My hips jerked. Heat spiked between my legs.
“Three.”
My hands trembled against the binding.
The room fell away. The office. The call. The humiliation. Each strike stripped something off me, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but sensation.
No past. No future.
Just this.
He didn’t ask for another number.
Instead, he glided his palm over the rising ladder of welts, as if claiming the marks. I whimpered and pressed back into his touch.
Something inside me fractured open. And stayed open.
Without warning, he yanked me upright by my bound wrists. I stumbled, off-balance, heat still burning across my skin. He turned me to face him and looked me over, slow and assessing.
He ran the cable around my torso, winding it under my breasts and over my shoulders, cinching it into a crude harness. The plastic pressed and bit where it crossed under my arms.
“Deep breath,” he instructed.
I drew one in. The wire held firm but didn’t stop my lungs. I could still breathe, but it was his air, on his terms.
Luka nodded, satisfied.
Then he scooped me up. My feet kicked uselessly in the open air before he laid me on my back on the coffee table. My head rested at the edge, but my legs hung free. Cold glass bit at the fresh welts on my skin.
He pressed a palm to my sternum, steadying me. Then he threaded another length of cable through the harness, under the table’s edge, then back up. He pulled it tight, cinching my body flat against the glass. When he secured the line, my ribs barely lifted with each breath.
I looked up at him.
He loomed over me, expression sharp—beautiful and terrifying. He bent my knees and pressed them outward. My legs opened, spread wide, calves falling over the edge of the table. Cool air moved over exposed skin, every nerve awake.
Luka worked quickly, looping, tightening, snipping the cable at my sides, wrists, and thighs.
At first, I followed the movement. Then I lost track.
Only when I tried to shift—lift an arm, draw my knees in—did it register.
I couldn’t move.
My arms were secured above my head. My legs fixed open. The harness pulled my breasts upward, the tension holding everything exactly where he’d placed it.
Luka paused above me, surveying his work, his hands tracing the lines of cable down my torso. He squeezed my breasts through the crosshatch, thumbs digging into the soft flesh until I moaned.
Then he dropped between my spread thighs and pushed my knees wider, opening me further.
Cold air hit first. Then his breath—humid, warm.
“Such a gorgeous cunt,” he murmured.
The words hollowed me out.
He dragged his tongue along the seam. My body clenched against the restraints. I tried to lift into him, but there was nowhere to go.
He worked his tongue in slow, devastating circles, building, holding me exactly where he wanted me—open, exposed, forced to take whatever he gave. Helpless to do anything but feel.
Then he slid two fingers inside me. The stretch burned, then bloomed. He curled and pressed upward.
My breath broke. I couldn’t move, couldn’t brace. Couldn’t escape the sensation building under my skin.
“You’re so fucking wet.”
The sound of it nearly undid me.
He pumped and twisted and scissored his fingers inside me. The burn was molten as the pressure climbed. My toes curled, and my hips strained uselessly against the cables.
He lifted his head, his mouth wet, and fixed his gaze on me.
“I want to fill this cunt,” he said, voice soft but so cold it could have sliced through steel. “Stretch it. Pack it full until you burst.” A pause. “But what to fill it with…”
“Your cock?” My voice came out breathless.
Luka grinned, teeth flashing. For a moment, I thought he might give in.
Instead, he bent and bit my nipple through the harness, sharp enough to send a jolt up my spine.
“So impatient,” he murmured, tongue laving the sting. “We’ll get there. But I was thinking something more imaginative.”
He glanced around the flat, eyes darting from object to object. Then he disappeared into the kitchen. Drawers slid. Cabinet doors creaked. The refrigerator snapped open and shut again.
When he returned, he carried a tall green bottle with a long, tapered neck. He unscrewed the top and poured a single bead of icy liquid onto the puckered tip of my breast.
I yelped.
He did it again, this time letting the cold trail downward and pool in the hollow between my breasts. Then he took a drink before pouring another thin line, tracing it down the center of my body.
The chill spread. My muscles tightened against the restraints.
Then he touched the bottle’s glass rim to my entrance, rotating the bottle, the lip easing past flesh.
When he tilted the bottle, the cold poured inside.
The shock hit deep—sharp, total, telescoping, stealing the air from my lungs.
“That’s it,” he said quietly. “Drink up.”
He rotated the neck of the bottle slowly, working it in a deliberate circle before pressing deeper.
The stretch was brutal. My body clenched around the glass, a cry tearing out of me before I could swallow it.
Luka stilled for a beat. “That’s it. Take it.”
He brushed his thumb against my clit. My muscles clamped down reflexively, trying to push the bottle out, but he held it steady.
“No.” He clicked his tongue. “This cunt is greedy for more.”
He twisted again, easing forward another inch. The flare at the neck stretched me wider. My eyes rolled back, vision fuzzy at the edges.
He didn’t rush. Just steady rotation. Forcing my body to open around the unyielding glass.
My scream burst out, raw and uncontrolled, my hips straining with nowhere to go.
“Good girl,” he breathed, voice so close I felt the vibration in my bones. “Scream for me. Let me hear how fucking desperate you are.”
The width burned. Tears slid from my eyes into my hairline. The exposure of it—being wrenched open like this—only made everything sharper.
“Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open.
“You’re going to take the whole bottle.” Not a threat. A certainty.
My body believed him before I did.
He rocked the bottle back and forth, forcing the full girth to breach me. I felt every nerve catch fire, every cell scream.
“Luka—fuck—please!”
“That’s it.” His voice was low and rapturous. “Good girl. Take it.”
He didn’t slow, moving the bottle in a steady rhythm—push, twist, withdraw, press—forcing my body to split around the cold glass.
The stretch climbed higher, pressure spreading through my belly while the harness carved valleys into my ribs.
My thighs shuddered, caught between the urge to pull away and the need to drive down.
“I’m going to make you come in this bottle.”
Before I could brace for it, he popped the bottle halfway out, then drove it back in. Heat flashed through my pelvis, sharp and overwhelming.
He was merciless. He rubbed at my clit like he was trying to rub out a stubborn stain and sawed the neck of the bottle in and out, the ridge at its lip scraping every nerve. Sweat slicked the length of my spine. Each movement tightened the pressure coiling inside me.
The room narrowed.
Nothing existed but the bottle and Luka’s hand.
My body locked down, muscles rippling, trying to expel or devour the glass at once. Luka’s thumb never eased, never let me escape the pressure.
When the orgasm hit, it detonated like a grenade—violent, blinding, ripping screams from my throat.
I was still shaking when Luka pulled the bottle free.
The sudden vacuum—the cold absence—hit just as hard. I sobbed as liquid gushed from my body—mine, the bottle’s—I couldn’t tell. He pressed the rim against me, catching what poured out.
He lifted the bottle into the lamplight. The green glass was clouded, the neck streaked, marked with the proof of my body’s surrender. He held it above me for a moment. My warped reflection stared back at me.
Then he crouched and tipped my chin up, bringing the mouth of the bottle to my lips.
“Open.”
I obeyed. The glass touched my teeth. He tilted it, and the flavor spread across my tongue—salt, mineral, faintly metallic.
My throat worked. I swallowed.
Luka watched every movement, his gaze fixed on my mouth, on the slow rise and fall of my throat, as if each swallow mattered. When he pulled the bottle away, the taste lingered everywhere—on my tongue, my lips, inside my head.
He leaned in and dragged his tongue along my jaw, gathering sweat and salt. Not comfort. Not gentleness. Claim.
Then he stood.
Through the haze of endorphins, I watched him place the bottle on the mantle—a trophy in plain view, gleaming green and streaked with me.
When he turned back, the hardness had eased at the edges. He came to me and cupped my face, his thumb brushing beneath my eyes, wiping away tears I hadn’t noticed.
“Beautiful mess.”
I believed him.
I was.