Tahlia #2
I should spit at him, should gather what saliva I have left and aim for that smirking mouth.
I should stay silent, should cling to the last shred of dignity that hasn’t been stripped away along with my knickers.
I should keep the final piece of myself that he hasn’t claimed yet.
But it’s already gone, isn’t it? It vanished the moment I let my hand slip between my thighs knowing he might be watching, might be recording, might be cataloguing every moment of weakness for later use.
So I say it, the words scraping past my throat like broken glass.
Whisper it, actually—hoarse, ashamed, wrecked beyond recognition.
“Thank you.”
His smile is slow and predator-slick, spreading across his face like oil on water and he leans back in like he’s about to give me more, like he’s going to reward my compliance with the release I’m desperate for.
But then—he stops, body going still in a way that’s more unsettling than any movement could be.
Doesn’t move forward.
Doesn’t speak.
Just waits in the charged silence, watches me with those cold eyes that miss nothing.
And that’s worse than anything, worse than the denial, worse than the teasing, because I know what this is now.
It’s the game, the sick, twisted one where he gets off on watching me fall apart piece by piece—just to see if I’ll break his rules all over again, if I’ll prove that I’m exactly as weak and desperate as he’s always known I am.
My hips twitch involuntarily, seeking friction that isn’t there.
My thighs clench around nothing.
My skin burns with unfulfilled need that seems to radiate from my core outward until every inch of me feels too hot, too sensitive, too aware.
He’s still kneeling there at the edge of the bed, still watching with that infuriating patience, still hard beneath the fabric of those black slacks—a brutal outline pulsing between his thighs that draws my gaze like a magnet.
And I can’t stop looking at it, can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop imagining how he’d taste, how he’d sound if I wrapped my mouth around him, how he’d snap the second I—
No.
He said no touching.
I move anyway, before I can talk myself down, before I can stop myself, before I can remember who I’m supposed to be—the defiant captive, the girl with pride intact, the one who doesn’t break.
My hand reaches for him, shaky and greedy and blind with lust that overrides every screaming warning in my brain, and lands against the front of his slacks where the heat of him burns through expensive fabric.
His breath catches, sharp and sudden in the quiet room.
His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the ice-blue until there’s nothing left but hunger.
Not with surprise—he’s not surprised.
Not with anger—not yet.
With hunger that matches my own, with something primitive and claiming that makes my stomach clench with equal parts fear and anticipation.
He still doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t give me permission or prohibition.
Not as I fumble with the zipper with trembling fingers.
Not as I slide my hand inside the silk lining of his trousers and wrap my fingers around the hardest fucking cock I’ve ever felt—hot and thick and angry, pulsing against my palm like it has its own heartbeat.
Hot enough to burn.
Thick enough to make me wonder if I could even take it.
Angry in a way that promises retribution.
Mine, for just a second, for this stolen moment where I pretend I have any power at all.
I stroke him once—slow, tentative, testing the weight and heat of him, watching his face for any sign of what’s coming.
Like I want to see how deep I can fall before I hit the floor and shatter completely.
And when he groans—low, deep, sharp enough to slice through bone and reason—I feel it reverberate through my own body.
The shift in the air, charged now with violence barely contained.
The snap of whatever leash he’d been holding himself on.
The unravelling of the control he’s maintained all evening.
Then he moves with a speed that steals my breath.
Fast.
Violent.
His hand grabs my wrist, fingers circling the delicate bones there with bruising force.
Wrenches it away from his cock with enough force to make my shoulder twinge.
And then he’s on me, dragging me by the throat back down onto the mattress, his body looming over mine like the fucking executioner come to deliver judgement, his cock still hanging heavy and hard from his opened trousers as he glares down at me like I’ve just committed the worst possible sin.
But he’s smiling through it—that sick, dark, feral smile that promises terrible things.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you, little fairy?”
He presses his cock between my thighs—not inside, not yet, never that merciful. Just enough for me to feel the searing heat of it against my slick folds, the throb of it, the punishment waiting in those inches that separate us.
“You’re going to fucking pay for that.”
His hand doesn’t just hold me down—it owns me, pressed to the mattress like I’m nothing but a body to be used, to be positioned however he pleases.
I’m spread wide beneath him with my thighs trembling from exhaustion and arousal, my mouth parted around gasps I can’t control, my breath hitching like I’ve forgotten how to breathe around the weight of what I just did, the line I just crossed.
His cock is pressed against my soaked cunt—hot and throbbing and cruel in its proximity.
Not inside because that would be too kind, too easy, too much of a reward for my disobedience and there’s nothing kind about him, nothing easy about the way he toys with me.
“You’re dripping,” he whispers, his voice curling around my ear like a razor wrapped in velvet, each word a caress and a threat. “Look at you—fucking soaking for me after I told you not to touch, after I gave you explicit instructions that you couldn’t follow for even five minutes.”
I try to turn my face away, to hide the flush spreading across my cheeks, the shame written in every line of my expression.
He grabs my chin with bruising fingers, forces me back to face him.
His mouth hovers over mine, close enough that I can taste the whisky he must have drunk before coming here, but he doesn’t kiss me—he never kisses me, as if that would be too intimate, too human.
Not with lips.
Only with words that cut deeper than any blade.
“You think you’re in control because you reached for my cock?” he asks, voice dripping with mockery. “Because you got one stroke in before I made you regret it?”
He laughs, low and lethal and utterly devoid of humour.
“You haven’t even tasted regret yet, Tinkerbell. But you will.”
Then his mouth is on my throat—not kissing, not biting, just pressing hot and open-mouthed against the pulse point that betrays how fast my heart is racing.
His breath brands me, his weight pins me down whilst his hips grind slow, relentless pressure against the aching, swollen mess he’s made between my legs.
“You want to cum, little fairy?” he asks against my skin.
I whimper, the sound pathetic even to my own ears.
He laughs again, darker this time.
“You want to break for me?”
His hips roll forward with cruel precision, a deliberate grind that makes my clit twitch, makes my spine bow off the mattress, makes my body scream yes even when my mouth stays stubbornly shut.
I know he wants to hear it—the words, the begging, the complete and utter surrender of everything I am.
I won’t give it, can’t give it, refuse to give it even as my body riots against the decision.
I can’t.
“You’re so fucking tight I can feel you clenching through my trousers,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear like a sin I’ll never be clean from, like something that will stain my soul long after this night ends.
“You want me to fuck you stupid right here, right now, until all that fire burns out and the only thing left is need and submission and the knowledge that you belong to me.”
He pushes again, hips rolling with practised ease against exactly the right spot.
I gasp, the sound punched from my lungs.
He growls, low and satisfied.
“Bet your little cunt’s fluttering already, so eager, so disobedient, so desperate for something you haven’t earned.”
His hook slips between us with ominous intent, the cold metal dragging down my stomach in a line that raises goosebumps on my heated skin—not sharp enough to cut, just threatening enough to remind me of the danger, of what he could do if he wanted.
A reminder of who holds the power here. A promise of what’s coming if I continue to defy him.
“You’re going to beg,” he says with absolute certainty. “And I still won’t let you cum.”
Then he drops lower, body sliding down mine with feline grace, and his mouth finds me again—hot and wet and deliberately slow.
He licks me with broad strokes of his tongue—once, twice, right over the spot that makes my vision go white and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
I cry out, shameless and wanton, a strangled moan that betrays everything I’m trying to hide.
“That’s it,” he breathes against my sensitive flesh. “Cry for me, whimper like a good little cunt. But you don’t get to cum, not yet, not until I decide you’ve suffered enough. Not until I say so.”
He flattens his tongue and licks deep, tongue pushing inside me for just a moment before pulling back.
Then stops with agonising abruptness.
Breathless seconds stretch between us like pulled taffy, the pressure unbearable, my body twitching and aching and pleading without words.
He just grins up at me from between my thighs, eyes glittering with something wicked and knowing.
“Say please,” he whispers, voice like silk over steel. “Say, please, let me cum on your tongue like the filthy little whore I am.”
My throat burns with the weight of the words he wants, the submission he’s demanding.
I choke on them before they even reach my tongue, before they can form into sounds.
I won’t say it, can’t say it, refuse to give him that final piece of my dignity.