Tahlia #3
“Poor little fairy.” His voice is a razor dipped in honey. “Trying so hard to pretend you’re not mine. You think I didn’t see the way your hips moved when I stepped closer?”
He leans in.
His breath ghosts my cheek.
His hook dips lower, not touching skin, just the suggestion of it—a whisper above the curve of my stomach where the fabric thins.
My thighs press together.
And I hate myself for it.
Hate the ache building between them. Hate how it throbs with every beat of my racing heart. Hate how his voice slithers into the deepest parts of me and poisons the place where pride used to live.
“You want to be good,” he murmurs, “but your cunt’s just a filthy little traitor, isn’t it?”
A sob breaks out of me. Small. Choked. I jerk my face away, but he doesn’t let me go. The tip of his hook traces back up, dragging slowly along my inner thigh. My breath catches. My eyes squeeze shut.
“You going to touch me now?” he whispers. “Going to break your own rules and reach for the man who broke you?”
“I hate you,” I breathe, the words cracking as they leave me.
He chuckles—and I want to slap him.
“Liar.”
“I do.”
“You’re soaked.”
My whole body flushes with shame. I move to turn my hips away, to curl in on myself, but he doesn’t let me. The hook presses down—not painfully, just enough to remind me that he’s always one step ahead. That I’m not leaving. That I don’t get to run.
He lowers his mouth to my ear.
“Go on, sweetheart. Rub your little thighs together. Try to chase what only I can give you.”
I shudder violently.
“Tell me no again with that pretty mouth whilst your body screams yes.”
My fingers curl tighter in the sheets.
He waits. Watches. Breathes against me like he’s not even human—like he’s something darker, made of rot and obsession, a sin given a silver smile.
I don’t know what comes out of me—moan, gasp, plea—but it’s enough.
He moves like a striking shadow, fast, hard, brutal in his precision. One hand slams beside my head on the mattress as he cages me in, and the hook drops the lace strap of my bra without effort.
He doesn’t touch the skin that’s revealed.
He just looks.
Then lifts his gaze.
“You don’t get to cum until I say,” he says, voice guttural now. “But you do get to beg.”
And I hate that my knees are already parting.
That I’m already aching for it.
That some sick part of me wants to obey.
Even as the rest of me screams to fight.
I don’t beg.
I don’t beg.
I would rather die with my pride in splinters than let him see me fall to my knees for this. For him.
My body is a traitor. A twitching, slick, desperate thing that doesn’t care what my mouth says. My thighs are trembling. My hands are fisted in the sheets so hard I feel the bite of my own nails through the skin.
And he waits.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t press. Just watches, breath steady, like this is some game he’s already won and he’s letting me pretend I still have a move to make.
“I hate you,” I whisper again, voice wrecked.
“I know, little fairy,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But your cunt’s trying to kiss me through your knickers.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My spine arches—involuntary. Fuck. I hate that it’s involuntary.
He drags the hook lower. Down over my stomach. Down the seam of my knickers where the heat pulses loudest. He doesn’t touch—never touches. Just traces, just hovers, just teases like the devil himself, grinning through the flames.
And I can’t stop the sound that leaves me.
A whimper. Shaky. Raw.
My thighs clench.
His chuckle is dark. Hungry. Filthy.
“Keep fighting it, sweetheart,” he says, dragging the metal edge up again. “Let’s see how long your pride lasts before your pussy breaks.”
“Stop,” I gasp, even as my hips jerk forward.
He leans in.
His lips brush mine. Not kissing. Just hovering, his breath hot and slow and thick as syrup.
“No.”
He says it like a sentence. A command. A fucking religion.
My body shakes.
His mouth moves lower, grazing down my jaw, down my throat, until he’s kneeling in front of the bed. His eyes—those icy, gleaming eyes—stay on mine the whole time, like he wants me to see what he’s about to do.
Like he needs me to witness my own ruin.
Then his breath ghosts over the inside of my thigh.
And my body betrays me again.
I moan.
Not quietly. Not softly.
Loudly.
Embarrassingly.
Really.
His hand grips my thigh, spreading them apart slowly, deliberately, whilst the hook presses flat and cold against my ribs like a silent warning.
“Keep them open,” he says, voice low and gravelled. “Or I stop.”
I nod—barely—because I can’t trust my voice not to crack.
He dips lower.
And licks.
Once.
A cruel, calculated swipe that barely brushes my clit—but it’s enough to make my whole body jolt. My fists slam into the sheets. My legs twitch.
But he pulls back.
Smirking.
“Did I say you could enjoy that?”
I whimper.
He leans in, tongue circling everything but the place I need it. Everywhere but the heat. Everywhere but the spark that’s burning me from the inside out.
And I can’t take it.
I’m going insane.
“Please,” I whisper, and the sound is so broken, I don’t recognise myself.
“Louder.”
“Please.”
“For what?”
My nails dig into the mattress. My back arches. My mouth opens—but the words catch.
I don’t want to say it.
But I need him.
“Say it, Tinkerbell.”
My thighs tremble. My walls are clenching around nothing.
“Please let me cum.”
He stills.
And grins.
Then presses the flattest, coldest part of his hook against my throat as his mouth finally—finally—descends.
And just when my world begins to blur, just when my body is poised on the sharpest edge of release—
He stops.
Lifts his mouth.
Pushes himself up so he’s straddling me, fully clothed, his cock hard and twitching against the line of my stomach.
His eyes glitter.
And he slaps my thigh. Once. Sharp.
“You don’t get to cum yet, little fairy. Not until you tell me what else you’d beg me for.”
His command slices through the room like a blade, cruel and deliberate.
“Tell me what else you’d beg me for.”
The words hang heavy in the air—thicker than the heat crawling over my skin, filthier than the slick between my thighs, darker than the shadows dancing across his face.
He’s still straddling me, fully dressed, pressed against my naked, trembling body. His cock is a steel rod behind his tailored slacks, twitching every time I move, every time I breathe, every time I look at him. And I can’t stop looking at him. I hate that I can’t stop looking at him.
Because he’s beautiful in a way that feels like a curse.
A punishment wrapped in perfect bone structure, sharp collarbones, and obsidian eyes that promise damnation with every blink.
He drags the cold metal of his hook down between my breasts, over my stomach, circling my navel like a predator playing with its kill.
My lips are cracked open, breath stuttering. There’s no part of me untouched. No part of me unclaimed. And yet he hasn’t even fucked me.
Not once.
I think that’s the worst part.
He owns me without having to take anything. Just watching. Just waiting. Just denying.
“I…” My voice shakes, and he tilts his head, encouraging without mercy.
“You what?”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
He smiles. It’s not kind.
It’s the smile of a monster who’s been waiting years to sink his teeth into something that bleeds just the right shade of red.
“You know exactly what to say, Tahlia. Your cunt is screaming for it. Say it.”
I close my eyes, shame burning down my cheeks like acid, my voice barely audible. “I want your mouth.”
He hums. One hand comes up, not gently, not softly—just forcefully, fingers gripping my chin, yanking my face up so I have to look at him. His eyes search mine, not like he’s looking for the truth, but like he already knows it—and he’s waiting for me to admit it.
“To do what?” he asks.
I want to sink into the mattress. I want to claw my way out of this moment. I want to fight. But my body is so desperate, so wired and raw, that the words tumble out like blood from a slit throat.
“To make me cum.”
He grins like a devil given permission.
And then he moves.
Quickly.
His hand wraps around my throat, not cutting off air, just holding, just claiming. His mouth crushes mine, all tongue and teeth and unforgivable hunger. I gasp, and he devours it, eating every sound, every ounce of resistance I still had left.
His fingers slide between my legs.
No teasing this time.
No soft touches.
Two fingers—thick, calloused, brutal—slam inside me with a rhythm that feels like war drums against my ribs. I cry out, legs jerking, hips bucking, and he doesn’t slow down. If anything, he speeds up.
His thumb finds my clit, circles it in tight, punishing spirals, and my spine snaps off the mattress.
“Say my name when you cum,” he growls into my ear, voice wrecked, voice ruined. “Scream it. Let the whole fucking building know who owns you.”
I don’t want to.
I want to bite my tongue off before I give him that.
But I’m drowning. My body is twitching and convulsing and breaking. He’s not letting up. He’s fucking me with his fingers like it’s a goddamn threat. Like it’s a promise. Like it’s the last thing I’ll ever feel before I die.
My head tips back.
My thighs clamp around his wrist.
And the orgasm slams into me like a freight train through glass.
“Hook!”
The word tears from me in a scream that tastes like salt and sex and surrender.
He groans.
Darkly.
Wreckedly.
Possessively.
And still doesn’t stop.
Another orgasm builds immediately, just from the aftershocks. Just from the overstimulation. Just from his mouth sucking my clit into the wet, torturous heat of his tongue.
“Please—” I sob, eyes rolling, legs twitching.
But he doesn’t listen.
He owns my pleasure now.
And he’s going to fucking ruin it.
I’m shaking.
Not because I’m cold.
Not because I’m scared.
But because he’s still fucking going.
His mouth is locked to my clit like it’s his last meal.
His fingers are still inside me, curling, pressing, stroking a spot so raw it feels like my spine is wired straight to his hand.
I’m already oversensitive, already ruined, and the second wave is dragging me under before I can even recover from the first.
“Stop—” I gasp, but I don’t mean it.
God help me, I don’t mean it.
I say no, but my hips lift for him. I say stop, but my thighs are holding his head like a noose. I don’t want him to stop. I want him to destroy me.
He growls, deep in his chest, and the vibration against my clit makes my entire body seize like he’s flipped a switch under my skin. He presses his hook flat to my stomach, holding me down like I’m nothing but a toy he’s winding up.
“I told you to scream my name when you came,” he says without lifting his mouth. “So why the fuck are you still quiet?”
I sob. Not from pain. Not from shame.
From need.
From the brutal, exquisite weight of a second orgasm climbing higher, tighter, meaner.
“Say it,” he demands again, tongue dragging slow and thick over my clit. “Beg for it. Beg me, Tahlia.”
“No,” I whisper, barely audible.
But he hears it.
He fucking loves it.
“Then I’ll take it anyway.”
He slides a third finger inside me.
I scream.
No rhythm now—just chaos. Just pain and pleasure mashed together, like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of me with nothing but his fingers and his tongue and that voice that shouldn’t turn me on but does, god help me, it does.
His hook—presses against my throat, tighter this time, making it harder to breathe, making the blood pound in my ears until it’s just him. Until the world is just him. Until I’m not even sure I’m real unless he’s inside me in some way.
And just when I reach the edge again—
Just when I start to fall—
He pulls away.
Again.
Mouth gone.
Fingers gone.
Pressure gone.
I wail. I actually fucking wail, like he ripped something out of me I’ll never get back.
My thighs are shaking. My hands are clawing the sheets. My body is ready to explode and he just smiles down at me like the devil watching a soul try to crawl out of hell.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Fucking pathetic. All that fire, all that fight—and one orgasm away from forgetting your own name.”
I shake my head, biting my lip so hard I taste copper.
He leans down, hooking his thumb into my mouth and dragging it down until I can’t hide the mess of my expression. “No more begging until I say. No more cumming unless I allow it. You wanted to play, little Tink? Now you’re in my game.”
He drags the back of his fingers down my cheek, mock-gently, his voice dropping to something darker, something meaner.
“I’m going to leave you like this. Ruined. Aching. Empty. And the next time I touch you, you’ll be grateful just to feel pain.”
Then he stands.
Adjusts his slacks.
And leaves.
Doesn’t look back.
Doesn’t touch me again.
Just leaves me on the bed—naked, ruined, throbbing—my body screaming for something I know I’ll never get unless I break for him completely.