Chapter 2 #3
“Do you like being worshipped, Hallow?” he asks, his fingers sliding back inside me, slick and effortless.
He’s not thrusting; he’s just feeling the way I clench around him, the way my internal walls are still shivering in the aftermath.
“Does it make the cage feel smaller when I’m the one holding the bars? ”
He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth—not the one on my face, but the bruised, swollen flesh of my pussy. He tugs at it with his teeth, a tiny, possessive nip that makes me shriek, my head thrashing on the mattress.
He’s feasting on me, his hands moving up to grip my waist, his thumbs digging into the purple bruises Miller left, as if he can press them out of my skin and replace them with his own marks.
I’m so fucking wet again, a fresh surge of fluid slicking his chin and coating his fingers. It’s a biological nightmare. I want to kill him, I want to rip his eyes out, but under his tongue, I am nothing but a vibrating chord of Need.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, his composure finally shattering. He buries his face deep into me, inhaling my scent, his tongue flicking over my clit in a frantic, desperate rhythm that tells me he’s finally lost the doctor and found the man.
He’s worshipping the very thing he tried to medicate into silence. He’s worshiping the madness. And as he sucks the last of my resistance out of me, I realise that in this room, in this moment, the doctor is just as broken as the patient.
“Tell me,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye, his mouth smeared with my essence. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I look at him through the haze of my swelling eye, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven beat against the ribs he’s currently crushing.
“I’m… the thing… that’s going to burn… your world… down,” I whisper.
Aris isn’t just a doctor anymore; he’s a fucking addict. His eyes are blown wide, the pupils swallowing the blue until they’re just two black pits of fixation.
He stares at my pussy, at the way the skin is flushed a violent, beautiful pink from his tongue and the chemicals. He looks like he wants to eat me alive and sew me into his own skin.
“You’re a sickness, Hallow,” he breaths, his voice a jagged ruin of its former self. “And I think I finally want to catch it.”
He stands up, the stool screeching against the floor like a dying bird.
His hands are shaking as he fumbles with the belt of his charcoal slacks.
The refined, clinical Dr. Aris is gone, replaced by a man who is coming apart at the seams. He shoves his trousers down, his breath hitching, and then I see it.
His cock is a thick, heavy vein-mapped weapon, standing rigid and angry against the sterile white of his lab coat. It’s a dark, flushed red, the head swollen and glistening with a bead of pre-cum that catches the clinical light.
It looks monstrous in this room—a raw, pulsing piece of biology in a world of plastic and steel. It’s thick, the skin stretched so tight it looks like it might snap, a deep ridge circling the head that looks designed to ruin whatever it touches.
He doesn’t dive in. He’s too obsessed with the torture of the wait.
He kneels back down between my splayed legs, his cock bobbing with every frantic breath he takes. He leans forward and licks me again, a long, wet swipe that starts at the base of my pussy and ends at the very tip of my clit, his tongue heavy and insistent.
“Look at it, Hallow,” he commands, his voice a dark snarl. “Look at what you’ve done to me.”
He takes his cock in his hand, his knuckles white as he grips himself, and he brings the head of it to my entrance.
He doesn’t push inside. He just teases. He drags the hot, velvet head of his cock up and down my slit, painting himself in my wet nectar.
The heat of him is a shock—a massive, throbbing weight that makes my internal walls clench in a desperate, involuntary rhythm.
“Please,” I gasp, my head thrashing on the mattress. The chemical irritant is making the friction of his skin against mine feel like a lightning strike.
“Please what?” he whispers, his voice vibrating against my thighs.
He teases the head of his cock against my clit, circling the swollen, sensitive nub with the broad, blunt tip. He’s pushing just enough to make me think he’s going in, then pulling back, the suction of my own wetness making a filthy, squelching sound that echoes off the padded walls.
“You want it, don’t you?” he growls, his hand pumping his shaft as he continues to grind the head against my clit. “You want this clinical cage to finally have a purpose.”
He leans down and licks my pussy while he teases me with his cock, his tongue swirling around the base of my opening while his cock continues its slow, punishing friction against my hood. It’s too much.
My body is a live wire, the drug haze and the pain and the sheer, dark heat of him combining into a sensory overload that makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst.
I’m so fucking wet it’s dripping onto his thighs, a hot, steady stream of arousal and defiance. He’s obsessive, his eyes fixed on the way my skin stretches as he drags his cock across me, his breath coming in jagged, animalistic grunts.
“You’re so tight,” he mutters, his thumb finding my clit and pinning it against the head of his cock as he rubs them together. “I can feel you pulsing. You’re begging for me to break you open.”
He’s a fucking maniac, a man who has lost his mind to the scent of a girl who hates him.
He licks a trail from my pussy to my navel, his tongue rough and demanding, before dropping back down to bury his face in me once more, all while his cock remains pressed firmly against my entrance, a loaded gun pointed at my soul.
“I’m going to ruin you, Hallow,” he breaths into my skin. “I’m going to fill you with so much of me that there won’t be room for the voices anymore.”
The air in the room is thick enough to swallow, a stagnant soup of bleach, blood, and the heavy, musky scent of a man who has completely surrendered to his own rot. Aris isn’t breathing anymore; he’s panting, a ragged, rhythmic sound that matches the frantic pulse in my throat.
He grips his cock, the skin of his knuckles white and strained as he lines himself up. He’s massive, a dark, throbbing shadow of meat and intent poised at the edge of my ruined pussy.
The head of him is slick, glistening with a mixture of his pre-cum and my own frantic wetness, and as he settles against my entrance, the heat of him feels like a brand.
“Look at me, Hallow,” he snarls, his hand moving to my jaw, fingers digging into the bruises Miller left. “Look at the man who’s finally taking what’s left.”
I don’t look. I can’t. My eyes are rolled back, my vision a fractured kaleidoscope of clinical white and blood-red.
Then, he pushes.
It’s not a slide; it’s an invasion. He shoves his cock inside me with a slow, brutal force that makes my entire world tilt on its axis. I let out a jagged, high-pitched scream that breaks against the padded walls, my back arching so high that only my heels and my head are touching the mattress.
He is too thick, too big, a solid wedge of muscle that stretches my pussy to the point of tearing. The chemical irritant screams in response, every nerve ending in my walls igniting like a fuse.
“Fuck,” Aris groans, his eyes snapping shut as he sinks deeper.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps pushing, his hips heavy and relentless, until the base of his cock slams against my clit. The impact is a sensory explosion, a white-hot lightning strike that fries my brain. I’m full—completely, agonisingly full.
I can feel the shape of him, the ridges of his veins against my internal walls, the way his weight is anchoring me to the bed in a way the leather straps never could.
“You’re… so… fucking… tight,” he gasps, his composure finally dissolving into a puddle of primal need.
He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving against my knees. I’m sobbing, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts, my pussy clenching around him in violent, rhythmic spasms that I can’t control.
The feeling of him inside me is a violation of the highest order, but with the drugs and the pain and the isolation, it’s also the only thing that makes me feel like I’m still made of flesh and bone.
He starts to move.
He pulls back—slowly, the suction of my wetness making a filthy, wet sound—until he’s almost all the way out, the head of his cock teasing the very edge of my opening. Then, he plunges back in.
Thud.
The sound of his pelvis hitting mine is a dull, wet echo.
He’s hammering into me now, a rhythmic, punishing pace that turns my thoughts into static.
Every thrust sends a new wave of fire through my gut, his cock hitting my g-spot with the force of a wrecking ball while his pubic bone grinds against my clit.
“You’re mine,” he growls with every shove. “My patient. My toy. My fucking masterpiece.”
I’m a wreck. I’m a disaster. I’m bucking against him, my hips meeting his thrusts in a desperate, animalistic dance of survival and psychotic need.
The room is spinning, the lights are screaming, and all I can feel is the sliding, heavy heat of him ruining me from the inside out.
I’m so wet that the fluid is splashing against his thighs, a hot, messy lubricant for my own destruction.
He reaches down, his thumb finding my clit and pinning it against his own shaft as he thrusts, a dual assault that pushes me right to the edge of the abyss. I’m right there—the orgasm is a towering wave of black fire, and Aris is the one holding the match.
“Cum for me, Hallow,” he commands, his voice a jagged edge in the dark. “Show me how much you love the cage.”
The air in the room is screaming, but it’s nothing compared to the roar in my head.