Chapter 9 - Ayla
AYLA
The moment I see the door slide open, my decision steels itself in my chest like a knife forged in fire.
I’m naked on the floor.
Not curled up, not hesitant—but kneeling, legs spread, hands clasped behind my head, eyes forward, breath steady. My pulse might be chaotic—a furnace in my veins—but I’m unwavering.
Kallus steps in like a storm made flesh. There’s no hesitation in his gaze, no surprise, only a slow, dark hunger blooming behind red irises like eclipsed stars. His nostrils flare, and I know he can smell me—heat, want, surrender.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
Not a plea. Not a question. A truth.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t scoff. He stalks forward like a predator who’s already claimed his prize. The soft hiss of the door closing is the only sound besides our breathing. My thighs tremble, not from fear—never fear—but anticipation so sharp it tastes like blood.
He crouches before me, claws resting on his thighs. “Mine,” he murmurs. “Say it again.”
“I’m yours.”
His hand cups my cheek, callused palm against flushed skin, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth like he’s memorizing it.
“Then I’ll treat you as mine.”
He rises, towering above me, and slowly—painfully slowly—removes each piece of his armor.
The clink of metal and synth against the floor echoes like a heartbeat.
My eyes trace every revealed inch of him: the gleam of his obsidian skin, the stark white bone spurs rising like armor from shoulders, hips, elbows.
His cock hangs heavy between powerful thighs, thick and ridged, with a visible spur at the crown twitching in anticipation.
My breath catches. I ache.
He sees it. Smells it.
“You need discipline,” he growls. “And reward.”
I nod, silent, obedient. His eyes glitter with approval.
He moves behind me and begins binding me—not to restrain, but to frame. Black leather and Reaper bone curl around my limbs, cradling me like art. The harness bites lightly into my flesh, not painful, just enough to remind me I’m claimed.
Then he blindfolds me.
Sight disappears, and with it, the last illusion of control. My skin is alive with sensation. Every breath he takes feels like thunder against my back.
“Spread your legs wider,” he commands.
I do. The air against my pussy is shockingly cold—but it only heightens the awareness of every inch of bare skin.
His breath brushes the back of my neck. “Perfect.”
His fingers trail up my calves, teasing, stroking. Then higher. My inner thighs quake as he reaches the edge of my slit, brushing so lightly I sob.
“Wet already,” he growls, voice smug. “Good girl.”
He laps at me once—slow and hot and devastating. I cry out, hands straining in their bind, toes curling against the cold metal floor. His tongue is longer than any human’s, textured and brutal. He circles my clit with a single curl of muscle and then withdraws.
“No,” I gasp.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “You’ll beg for it.”
I do. Gods, I do.
“Please, Kallus. Please…”
He dives back in.
This time, he doesn’t hold back. His tongue slashes against my pussy, plunging deep and curling, stroking my inner walls while his hands knead my ass and thighs. The ridges of his teeth brush my folds but never bite.
I come—hard—before he even touches my clit again. The orgasm shudders through me like lightning. I scream into the silence of the chamber, thighs clenching around his face.
He doesn’t stop.
One thick finger slips inside me, and then another, curling, probing. His spur brushes my walls—his actual cock hasn’t even touched me yet—and I’m already seeing stars.
“Please,” I sob, “I need it. I need you.”
“You need cock,” he corrects. “Say it.”
“I need your cock.”
He groans.
He lifts me in his arms like I weigh nothing, like a doll meant only for this. He doesn’t lay me on the bed—no, he holds me in the air, legs spread, knees hooked over his forearms. I feel the tip of his cock pressing at my entrance, thick and impossibly hot.
“You ready for me, little flame?”
“Yes. Fuck, yes.”
He thrusts.
I scream.
His cock is too big, too thick, every inch stretching me open impossibly. The spur at the base of his shaft scrapes along my walls in just the right way, making my whole body jerk in overstimulated delight.
He holds me still and pumps slowly, each motion deliberate, reverent, destructive.
“Mine,” he says with every stroke.
“Yours,” I gasp.
He thrusts harder, faster. My back arches, tits bouncing with every slap of our bodies. I’m soaked. Ruined. Grateful.
“Tell me what it feels like,” he hisses.
“Like fire,” I cry. “Like falling. Like I’ve never known anything before this.”
He grins, savage. “You haven’t.”
Another orgasm barrels through me, but he doesn’t stop. The spur inside me hits the perfect angle, again and again, making my voice a string of half-formed words and sacred curses.
When he comes, it’s with a roar that shakes the walls. I feel him pulsing deep inside me, filling me. Marking me.
He carries me to the bed—finally, gently—and wraps his arms around me.
“I’ve taken many,” he whispers against my temple. “But never like this. Never like you.”
“I know,” I whisper back.
“I’ll never let you go.”
“Good,” I say, eyes fluttering shut. “Because I’m not letting go either.”