Chapter 5 #3
The final strike was different. Harder than the others. Harder and somehow gentler, a contradiction that made my whole body arch off the throne.
"Twenty," I whispered. "Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, thank you—"
The words kept coming, spilling from my lips in a desperate stream. I couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop. I was empty and full at the same time, wrung out and overflowing, and the only thing anchoring me to reality was his hand smoothing over my burning flesh.
"Shh." His palm was cool now against my heated skin, or maybe I was just so hot that everything felt cool by comparison. "I've got you. You did so well."
A sob caught in my throat.
"You took pleasure without permission," he said, and his voice had changed—rougher, hungrier, straining at the edges. "So now you'll learn what it means to receive pleasure only when I allow it."
I heard him move away. Heard a drawer open somewhere behind me—one of those hidden compartments the palace seemed full of, spaces that appeared and disappeared according to his will.
When he returned, something cool and slick pressed against my rear entrance.
I stiffened.
"Easy," he murmured. His free hand came to rest on my lower back, steadying me. "This will remind you who owns every part of you."
The object was small—I could tell that much from the pressure. Tapered, unyielding, slick with something that made it slide against my most private place with devastating ease.
"Breathe."
I tried. Drew in air that felt too thin, too hot, too full of him.
He began to press forward.
The stretch was . . . I had no words. Nothing had ever—
A sound escaped me. High and desperate and so raw it should have embarrassed me. The plug pushed past the initial resistance, spreading me open inch by slow inch, and the fullness was overwhelming. Invasive. Claiming.
"That's it." His voice had dropped to something dark and sweet. "Take it. Take all of it for me."
The widest point breached me, and I cried out—then the base settled snugly against my rear, and suddenly I was full. Completely, impossibly full, stretched around something that pulsed with the same ancient magic as the restraints.
I could feel it everywhere. Not just where it rested inside me, but radiating outward—pressure against sensitive walls, a constant reminder of intrusion, of ownership, of what he'd just done.
"Every moment you wear this," he said, his hand smoothing down my spine, "you'll remember: your body is mine. Your pleasure is mine. You do not touch, taste, or take without my command."
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. The plug shifted with every tiny movement I made, sending jolts of sensation cascading through my core, keeping me balanced on a knife's edge of pleasure and overwhelm.
Then he reached around my hip.
His fingers found me unerringly—slipping through the wetness that had gathered between my thighs, seeking out the swollen bundle of nerves at my center.
The first touch of his fingertip against my clit nearly sent me into orbit.
"Now," he said, and his voice was wrecked, ruined, holding on to control by threads that were visibly fraying, "let's see how well you can obey."
He began to stroke.
He played me like an instrument he had been studying for ten thousand years.
His fingers moved against my swollen flesh with devastating precision—circling, pressing, stroking in patterns that seemed to read my very soul. Every gasp I made, every shift of my hips, every flutter of sensation he tracked through the bond and adjusted accordingly.
He knew exactly what I needed.
And he was using that knowledge to destroy me.
His other hand alternated between soothing my spanked flesh and pressing on the plug—just enough to shift it inside me, to send jolts of sensation radiating through my core and meeting the pleasure he was building at my clit.
The dual assault was overwhelming. My bound wrists strained against the restraints.
My thighs trembled with the effort of staying still.
The pleasure climbed.
Higher. Higher. Building like a wave gathering force before it crashed against the shore. I could feel it approaching—the crest, the breaking point, the release that would shatter me into a thousand pieces.
"Please," I heard myself beg. "Please, I'm close, I'm so close—"
He stopped.
His fingers lifted from my flesh, leaving me gasping, sobbing, my whole body clenching around nothing.
"No," I cried. The denial was physical pain—worse than the spanking, worse than anything. "Please, Daddy, please—"
"Please what?"
His voice was rough. Barely controlled. And through the bond, I felt what he was fighting—
Gods. He was hard as stone.
His arousal pressed against the edge of my awareness like heat from a forge, massive and aching with denied want.
He wanted to bury himself inside me so badly it was making his hands shake.
Wanted to claim me completely, feel me come apart around him, fill me until we couldn't tell where one of us ended and the other began.
Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to take me.
And he was denying himself.
"Please let me come." The words came out broken. Desperate.
"Absolutely not."
He began again.
His fingers found my clit with unerring accuracy, resuming those devastating circles. The plug shifted inside me as he pressed against it with his other hand. I was so sensitive now—every touch felt magnified, multiplied, like my nerve endings had been rewired to feel nothing but him.
I climbed faster this time. The pleasure built in relentless waves, each one higher than the last, each one carrying me closer to that shattering edge.
"That's it," he murmured against my hair. When had he leaned so close? "Let me feel you. Let me feel how badly you want to come."
I was shaking. Trembling. My whole body had become a single point of focused need, every cell reaching toward the release he kept dangling just out of reach.
Close. So close. Right there, right at the precipice—
He stopped.
I screamed.
The sound echoed off the crystal walls, raw and broken and more animal than human. I was crying now—sobbing openly, my face pressed against the throne's armrest, my bound wrists pulling against restraints that gave nothing.
"Good girl." His voice was dark and sweet and shaking at the edges. "That's my good girl. You can take this."
I couldn't. I couldn't take this. I was going to die if he didn't let me come, was going to shatter into pieces that could never be reassembled—
"You can," he said, answering the thought I hadn't spoken aloud. "You were made for this. Made to surrender to me."
He began again.
This time was different. This time he didn't build slowly—he pushed me toward the edge with merciless efficiency, his fingers relentless, the plug shifting in counterpoint, until I was climbing so fast I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.
Higher. Higher.
The pleasure crested. I was right there, right at the breaking point, one more stroke and I would shatter—
He stopped.
The denial broke something in me.
Not my body—my body was still intact, still trembling, still desperately reaching for a release that kept being yanked away.
But something deeper. Something that had been holding itself together through five days of wanting, through ten thousand years of guilt, through every moment of resistance I'd maintained since I first looked into those dying-star eyes.
I surrendered.
Completely. Absolutely. With nothing held back.
I stopped fighting. Stopped struggling against the restraints. Stopped trying to chase the pleasure he kept denying. I went limp against the throne, tears streaming down my cheeks, my entire being focused on one thing:
Him.
Pleasing him. Obeying him. Being whatever he needed me to be.
"There you are," he breathed.
“I hate you,” I sobbed.
His eyes widended.
The restraints clicked open.
“I understand.”
And I felt that he did.
His arms came around me before I could collapse, gathering me against his chest with a tenderness that made something in my chest crack open. He lifted me like I weighed nothing—like I was precious, fragile, the most important thing in any world—and carried me away from the throne.
Furs. Soft and warm beneath my oversensitive skin as he laid me down, then followed me down, curling his body around mine like a shield against everything that might harm me.
"I've got you," he murmured against my temple. "I've got you. You did so well."
His hand stroked through my tangled hair. His lips pressed against my forehead, my cheeks, the salt tracks of my tears. He held me while I shook, murmuring praise in a voice that trembled as badly as my own.
Through the bond, I felt him.
Really felt him, with all the walls down and nothing between us but raw, devastating truth.
He was shaking too.
Not from cold. Not from exertion. From the effort it was taking to hold himself back from me. From the war raging inside him between the monster who had planned my death and the Daddy who wanted nothing more than to keep me safe forever.
He was losing.
"Four days," he whispered against my hair. His voice cracked on the words, broke apart around edges that couldn't hold their shape anymore. "Four more days until..."
He didn't finish.
Couldn't finish.
Because we both knew why he couldn't say it.
He didn't want to kill me anymore.
The god he wanted to become, the freedom he had planned for ten millennia, the transformation that required my death at the moment of climax—none of it mattered as much as this. As holding me. As feeling me surrender in his arms, trusting him completely despite everything he'd threatened.
He wanted to keep me forever.
The monster was losing to the Daddy. Four more days of proximity, of caring for me, of feeling me call him by that name that broke something open in his ancient, frozen heart—
Four more days might be all I needed.
I pressed my face against his chest and felt his arms tighten around me. His lips found my hair, pressed there, trembled.