Tahlia #3
But I want to—God help me, I want to more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Every nerve in my body is on fire, screaming for release.
My clit throbs like it’s being punished for crimes I didn’t commit, slick drips between my thighs in slow, humiliating betrayal that pools on the silk sheets beneath me, and my hips rock up on pure instinct, chasing friction, chasing anything—but he moves just enough to deny it, pulling back with infuriating precision.
Like he’s waiting, like he has all the time in the world.
Like he’s enjoying this far too much.
“You’re going to say it,” he murmurs, breath hot against my inner thigh, his lips brushing my skin like a lover’s caress and a prison sentence all at once. “Because I want to hear how pretty your mouth sounds when it breaks, when that stubborn pride finally shatters and you give me what I want.”
His tongue traces a lazy line over my folds, slow and taunting and wet, and my back arches off the bed before I even realise I’m moving.
He holds me down again with one hand splayed across my stomach.
Like I’m his to command, his to control, his to break.
And maybe I am—maybe I’ve always been, maybe that’s what terrifies me most.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll say it, doesn’t mean I’ll give him the satisfaction.
His mouth drops back to my pussy with brutal precision, tongue flicking over my clit so fast, so exact, it feels like lightning crackling across my nerves.
My fingers tear into the sheets hard enough to hear expensive fabric rip, my thighs shake with the effort of staying open, the sound I make isn’t human—it’s something animal and desperate and utterly shameless.
He doesn’t stop this time, doesn’t pause to gloat or threaten.
He drags it out with methodical cruelty, building me towards something catastrophic.
Lick.
Pause.
Suck.
Stop.
He builds me like a crescendo he never plans to finish, like he’s tuning me to the pitch of his obsession, finding exactly what makes me shake and exploiting it without mercy.
And I’m dripping now, slick soaking the sheets beneath me, thighs trembling so violently it feels like shame and worship and punishment all twisted together.
“Still not begging?” he breathes against me, tongue flicking out again to tease my entrance, circling it without entering. “Still clinging to that last little scrap of pride like it means anything?”
I try to turn my head away, try to block out the pleasure that’s building to unbearable levels, try to pretend this isn’t my body betraying me with every clench and pulse.
“You don’t get to look away,” he snarls, grabbing my jaw with his hand and forcing me to look at him, to watch him between my spread thighs. “You put on a show earlier, little whore—now you watch how it ends.”
Then he moves faster, changes tactics with devastating effect.
His mouth claims me like a man starved, like something he’s been denied for years—lips closing around my clit with wicked intent, tongue circling it with precise, relentless pressure, over and over in a rhythm that’s designed to break me, until I’m thrashing against the mattress, until the coil tightens so hard it feels like death, until the orgasm threatens to detonate through every cell in my body—
And then he pulls back again with agonising slowness.
No warning.
No mercy.
No apology.
Just a breathless, filthy laugh that slides over my skin like petrol waiting for a match.
“No,” he says simply. “Not yet.”
I sob into the heavy air of this room—shameless, wrecked, utterly gone.
“That’s right,” he coos, licking his lips slowly like I’m his favourite flavour, like he could feast on my humiliation forever.
“Cry for it, shake for it, show me how desperate you are. But if you want to cum, you better start acting like my fucking pet. Say it, Tahlia. Say you’re my good little cumrag and beg me to let you cum. ”
It’s there, right there at the edge of my consciousness—white-hot and unforgiving, so close I can taste it, feel it crawling up my spine like it’s going to burst through my skin if I don’t shatter first. My thighs are trembling uncontrollably, my core pulsing with a need that borders on pain, every inch of me burning so violently I swear I could scream and shatter the windows.
But then—he stops, pulls away completely.
He fucking stops.
His mouth—gone, leaving only cold air where heat was.
The heat—vanished, leaving only aching emptiness.
The friction, the rhythm, the filthy, sinful descent I’ve been riding with tears streaming down my face—ripped away in cruel silence.
And for one suspended second, I can’t even speak, can’t even process what’s happened.
I just blink up at the ceiling with its ornate cornicing and shadows, the tears clinging to my lashes like glass splinters, and try to understand why the orgasm still hasn’t come, why the world hasn’t cracked open beneath me, why I’m still here—and he’s not touching me, not on me, not doing anything but watching me fall apart.
“No,” I choke, voice broken and desperate. “No, no, no—”
“Yes,” he says smoothly, the single word somehow more cruel than any blow could be.
That yes—yes to the denial, yes to the punishment, yes to everything I’m begging him not to do—cuts deeper than his hook ever could.
He rises slowly from his position between my thighs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like I’m something he’s tasted but hasn’t finished consuming, like there’s more to savour later.
His slacks are still open, his cock still thick and hard and glistening in the dim light—and he doesn’t even look at it, doesn’t touch it, doesn’t acknowledge the evidence of his own hard cock.
Just me.
Only me.
Always me.
Like he’s choosing to leave me like this with deliberate cruelty, choosing to let me feel every drip of slick clinging to the inside of my thighs, every pulse of an orgasm stolen before it could bloom, every twitch of a body that obeyed before I ever said yes.
“You don’t get to cum,” he says, his voice low and cold and precise as a scalpel. “Not until you know what it means to beg properly, not until you understand what it means to be owned completely, body and soul.”
I shake my head weakly. “You said—”
“I said if you begged,” he interrupts, stepping forward and grabbing my jaw with bruising force. “And you haven’t, not really. You whimpered, you cried, you reached for my cock like a greedy little slut—but you never begged. You never broke. You never gave me what I actually want.”
He leans closer, eyes glittering with something sharp and hungry.
“But don’t worry, little fairy. We’re going to fix that before the night is through.”
Then he grabs me with sudden violence, fingers wrapping around my wrists and yanking me upright like I weigh nothing, like I’m a doll to be positioned however he pleases.
My knees hit the floor before I even know I’m falling, and he drags me across the room by the throat—not hard enough to choke, just enough to control—and slams me with terrifying gentleness into the cool, mirrored wall beside the bed.
“Look,” he commands.
I do, because I can’t not, because my eyes go to the reflection even as I try to turn away—and I see myself.
Naked and flushed and destroyed beyond recognition.
Slick still glistening on my thighs, lips swollen from gasping, mascara bleeding down my cheeks like ink from a story I never got to finish, hair wild around my face.
I look like ruin personified.
He steps behind me, his reflection towering over mine, fully clothed whilst I’m completely bare.
His hand grabs my jaw again, forcing me to watch our joined image.
“You see that?” he whispers against my ear. “That’s not a woman anymore. That’s a lesson in what happens when a brat thinks she can fuck with a man like me and come out the other side clean and unscathed.”
His hand presses between my legs—just once, just enough pressure to make me sob with renewed need.
“Dripping. Begging. Empty. Desperate.”
His voice lowers to a growl that I feel in my bones, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“And still not allowed to cum. Still denied what you need most.”
He shoves something cold and small into my trembling hand.
A remote—small, black, with a single button that flashes red like a warning light.
“You want to cum, little fairy?” he murmurs against my ear. “Then earn it. All you have to do is press that button and you can have everything you want.”
My fingers twitch around the plastic, my reflection staring back at me with wide, uncertain eyes.
His smile grows in the mirror, cruel and knowing.
“But if you do…” He pauses, lets the silence stretch. “The next time you scream, it won’t be from pleasure. It’ll be from something else entirely.”
The remote burns in my hand like hot coal, like forbidden fruit, like the apple Eve shouldn’t have eaten.
A small, plastic nothing with a single button. That’s all it is—simple, innocuous, barely weighing anything at all.
But it might as well be a gun, might as well be a knife pressed to my own throat, might as well be a contract written in blood.
I stare at it in the mirror’s reflection—red light blinking steadily like it’s watching me back, like it knows I don’t have the strength to resist, like it’s counting down to my inevitable surrender.
My legs tremble where I kneel on the expensive rug, sore and raw and aching, slick still dripping down my thighs in slow, humiliating betrayal like proof of the need he’s carved into me with his tongue and his words and his calculated absence.
He’s behind me in the reflection, perfectly still now.
Not touching me anymore.
Not even breathing loud enough to hear over the thundering of my own pulse.
Just watching with those ice-blue eyes.
Waiting with infinite patience.
“All you have to do is press it,” he says, voice smooth as oil, as seductive as sin itself. “No more rules after that. No more hands holding you back. Just one tiny choice, one moment of weakness.”