21. Twyla
CHAPTER 21
“What?” he growls, his hips faltering for only a single thrust before he returns to his precise pace.
I try to give him a reassuring smile, but the pleasure is too all-consuming to be able to focus on the muscles of my face. “Let go. Please, Seven. I want you to let loose on me.”
He shakes his head, his sweat slinging and landing across my body. “No way, little toy. I don’t want to break you.”
My pussy clenches around his girth at the name he’s called me tonight, and I hope it sticks around even after we’re done with this sex doll game. “You won’t, Master,” I breathe, groaning as he hits an extra sweet spot inside me. “Please. I know you won’t hurt me. You can’t.”
I don’t say it like a challenge. I say it as a reminder that he is incapable of allowing himself to cause me harm.
He shakes his head again, but this time, there’s less conviction in the gesture. He closes his eyes, seemingly trying to ignore me as his willpower falters. So I keep pressing.
“It’s what I want from my Dom. Please, Seven. I want to see you let go the way I did while you fucked my mouth.” My face flames as I say the last part, but it’s worth it, because it has the effect I was hoping for. His hips thrust forward with extra power behind them. But I know he’s got so much more he’s holding back. I’ve always sensed it beneath the surface, and I don’t want to be the reason he can’t be himself and just let it out.
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he tells me, his voice going cold as he stares into my eyes with his beautiful hazel ones.
My nipples harden to a painful degree, finding the sadistic part of him he locked away from me so freaking sexy each time I catch a glimpse of it.
“I do,” I assure him. “Please. It’s what I want. Let go and show me. Let me be brave for my Master.”
And that’s apparently the right combination of words to unlock his cage. Because with a growl that’s not only sexy but scary in its ferocity, Seven rips himself away from me, takes hold of my hips, and flips me in one easy move. I hit the padded table with an “oof” as I land on my stomach, and before I can spread my legs and prepare to take him from behind, his knees clamp them shut. My feet don’t reach the floor, since the table is set to be the right height for his long legs, so I have no leverage in any direction. My arms are trapped beneath me, still bound at the wrists, but the table is so cushioned it doesn’t hurt. I’m just completely immobilized.
And at the mercy of my Dom I just begged to go feral on my ass.
The feel of his long, thick, and extremely hard erection entering me this way—with my legs pressed together, my hips at the exact height he needs—takes my breath away. I’ve never felt so full, not even when he had the whole damn palm of his hand in my vagina a while ago. The sight had been grotesque to my own eyes, but the way he was looking at the act, like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, combined with the magical way he moved his fingers inside me, I found myself incapable of caring how it appeared to me, especially as my eyes rolled back and I couldn’t see it anymore. And the orgasms it produced were unlike any I’ve ever felt before.
If the ease in which he slipped his cock inside me afterward was anything to go by, it had made me rather slippery, and I feel my face heat even now from getting so wet.
At least he seemed to like the little bit of extra slickness I produced.
Now though, I’m grateful for every milliliter of lubrication between us, because his dick feels like it’s doubled in length and girth at this angle. He goes slow at first, making sure he’s completely coated, even as his hands suddenly grip my ass roughly, his fingertips digging in to my cheeks so hard I know they’ll leave little bruises. And for some reason, the thought excites me.
My sister and friends have always been so proud, showing off the various marks left on their flesh after scenes with their husbands. But Seven has always been so careful in the way he handles me, the way he’s never forceful enough to leave more than a little red mark that disappears quickly, no evidence left of it by the time we’re dressed again. I was never jealous of their “souvenirs.” I honestly didn’t get why they’d want to be struck or grabbed hard enough to bruise or even bleed.
But now…
I don’t know what flipped the switch inside me…
But I get it.
And I want it.
As he paws my butt cheeks, kneading my flesh way more roughly than during the massage he treated me to earlier, my hips try to lift off the table, seemingly trying to seek more of his ministrations. I hear him growl again, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine that ends with me clenching around him.
“Fuck, little doll. You like being manhandled,” he rumbles behind me, not a question, an observation. One that surprises the both of us. Because I really, really do.
“Yes, Master,” I exhale, my heart starting to race with anticipation, because something within me senses I’m about to get exactly what I asked for, and then some.
And then it happens.
With a brutally tight grip on each of my hips, I feel Seven pull all the way out of me, and then he thrust back inside so swift and hard it feels like my brain sloshes inside my skull.
He does it again.
This time, I feel my teeth rattle, and my eyes roll back in my head.
Again.
And again.
And again.
And by the sixth thrust, I’m back to being that fully surrendered fuck toy, just taking everything he’s willing to give, each stroke pulling me deeper and deeper into an ocean of mind-numbing bliss.
I could drown in it, and I would die happily.
And then I’m aware he’s pistoning his hips faster than I’ve ever felt before, his right hand leaving my hip to grip the back of my neck, then moves to my shoulder to give him even more leverage to fuck me like a savage beast. Like he’s breeding me. And I freaking love it.
“Color?” floats around in my head, and I don’t know if it’s a distant memory of some other time he asked me to check in, or if it’s been freshly spoken in my ear. Either way, my response leaves me in a sigh.
“Green, Master.”
If he hadn’t just asked me, then the words would only serve to urge him on. And that is fine by me.
Somewhere along this floating journey, a voice whispers that this must be subspace. The way people always described it before, it sounded much like dissociation, but my husband had assured me it was a much more positive experience than that.
I had dissociated during my assault five years ago, and while you’d think your mind shutting down to protect itself during a traumatic event would be a good feeling, it was actually scary and traumatizing in itself, since at the time, it didn’t feel like I’d ever come out of it, not even when I was safely back in Seth’s arms.
This is nothing like that.
This is what movies make you think being drunk or high feels like before you ever try those things yourself and reality bursts your bubble.
This is like that one quick second between a happy dream and waking up, when you don’t quite know what’s real.
And as blissfully relaxed as it is, I also feel stronger and more powerful than I’ve ever felt before, like I’m invincible. Like no amount of pain could hurt me in this state. In fact, it’s almost as if the more pain I’m given, the deeper into this level of consciousness I’d go. And it occurs to me that this is probably what masochists are seeking whenever they play. Yes, they get off on the pain itself, but the pain leads to this. The delicious in-between. That same relief you get when you scratch a mosquito bite so hard you draw blood, and even though it hurts, you keep scratching, because the relief is worth the pain.
And then I’m coming. I’m orgasming, my pussy spasming and rippling around my Master’s relentless cock as he pounds into me. But it’s not the usual earth-shattering explosion that hits all at once after a build-up of stimulation. It’s completely different, like I’m living in that moment right between the detonation and the mushroom cloud, as if someone hit pause on the exact frame that only shows a cylinder of flames before there’s any smoke.
Or that moment after a scream but before your next inhale.
And I’m not coming out of it.
Yet unlike when I dissociated, the thought of staying like this isn’t scary. I don’t want to struggle against it or fight my way back to the surface of cognition. I could live here forever, with my Master fucking me into literal oblivion, my only purpose in life to be the vessel he takes his pleasure from.
“Color?”
“Fuuck…”
“…fill you up until you can taste it…”
“…marks on you, don’t you?”
“Brand you with…”
“Take it like a good…”
“Yeah…”
“…my pretty toy?”
“…slutty little pussy wants…”
My Master’s filthy words are birds that fly diagonally through my consciousness, entering from the bottom, then exiting out the top, or dive-bombing from above and disappearing beneath.
But as his grip on my shoulder tightens and he loops his other arm around the front of my hips, my body seeming weightless as he pulls me on and off his cock while he fucks up into me, using me like the sex doll I aimed to be for him, I hear it loud and clear when he yanks me up to growl in my ear.
“Take it all.”
With one last thrust that’s violent enough to bruise my insides—and a weird part of me hopes it does—he comes with a roar that breaks my entire body out in chills. His grip on me is brutal as I feel jet after jet of hot cum coat my walls, feeling like a soothing balm on the pain I begged for.