Natalya #3
“I felt,” I begin, “the inevitable moment before passing out from lack of air. Hands tightening around my throat so hard I would choke—” I swallow, surprised by myself for even being able to articulate it, “—but not enough to grant me the relief of actually losing consciousness.”
I pause, breath shallow.
“It’s like never-ending suffocation,” I say, my voice dropping as a wave of something close to shame slides down my spine.
He stays quiet.
The silence stretches long enough for doubt to creep in.
What am I even doing? Why am I—
His hand suddenly finds mine. He places my palm flat against his chest, firmly this time, not gentle.
“You can push me away anytime you want,” he says steadily. “I swear I’ll obey it. Okay?”
I nod.
The last sliver of distance vanishes as he steps forward, his body now towering over mine and his mouth hovering right next to my ear.
I’m wearing my hair up in a ponytail, and so his breath spills directly onto the bare skin of my neck. My hand stays pressed to his chest, fingers digging into his sweatshirt without permission from my brain.
“I could say I’ll never touch your neck again,” he says, his voice quiet and right by my ear. “But I don’t want to do that,” he adds, voice getting a little deeper. “I don’t think I could.”
Large hands settle on my waist, drawing me closer until the surface behind me disappears completely and the only solid thing left is him.
“I want you to rewire what you just felt,” he says calmly, but there’s an edge to it now—authority and intention. “You can do it.”
And as he suddenly talks to me with a hint of mandate, I surprisingly ease into it, both my body and mind glad I’m not treated with such a delicacy anymore.
“Don’t move. Just do what I say,” he murmurs roughly, while his hand is already climbing up from my waist, brushing over my belly and my cleavage before coming to rest against my bare collarbone, fingers slipping beneath the tight fabric compressing my breasts so much they might spill out at any second.
At the same time, a second touch slips beneath the material at my waist.
My hand on his chest loosens involuntarily, starting to drift lower—
He catches it instantly and presses it back into place.
“Keep it there,” he insists, his tone sharpening just enough to cut through the haze. “That’s your stop sign.”
I nod, swallowing, and then his lips are on my bare shoulder—no hesitation now.
Rough kisses trail along my collarbone, unhurried, possessive, before drifting upward into the crook of my neck. That alone pulls a silent moan out of me, my body folding too easily into him.
Feeling it, he nudges me an inch back until my spine meets the tree again and then he continues to devour me like that’s exactly where he wants me.
I’m slick with sweat from the run, my skin is hot and sensitive, the forest dirt is clinging to my hands. The filth should feel wrong, but it only sharpens everything and turns the sensation feral and raw.
His hand slides up under my sports top, his palm settling firmly against my ribs, right in the hollow beneath my breasts, holding me there. His tongue works its way higher, tracing the pulse of my artery all the way up to my jaw, and it drives me insane.
I squirm from the pleasure, friction biting into my back, my fingers twisting into the fabric of his sweatshirt. I want to touch him. I need to touch him.
I keep one hand planted on his chest like he told me, but the other betrays me, slipping under his clothes, finding the warmth of his lower back.
His low, involuntary whimper vibrates against my neck. But he snaps my hand away, fingers firm and controlled.
“Not yet,” he says, never breaking contact, his mouth still working my skin. “This is about you. I need you to replace what you’re scared of with this.”
He moves to the other side of my neck, kissing me rough, then slow, layering sensation until my breath stutters. I feel his fingers there, his thumb grazing from my chin down the column of my throat, not pressing, just mapping.
“From now on,” he murmurs beneath my ear, his voice steady as he talks me through it, “the only time you’ll fight for air is when you’re laughing so much you can’t breathe.”
His fingers circle my neck gently, a promise rather than a grip.
“Or when I’m taking you so hard your lungs won’t be able to catch up with your pleasure,” he adds, the words curling around me as his touch remains light. “Okay?”
My fingers knot tighter in his sweatshirt, trying to pull him even closer even though there’s no space left between us.
“Okay,” I nod, breathless.
His hand under my top slides higher and finally cups my breast. The sensation brightly detonates low in my belly and for the first time the chaos there settles. The butterflies don’t scatter anymore. They fall into rhythm, wings fluttering, and no longer panicked.
His lips travel down my jaw, still devouring me like he doesn’t want to leave a single place on me untouched, while his hand at my neck grows more confident—not violent or claiming, just firm enough to remind my body how this touch is supposed to feel.
Our lips are brushing but not quite meeting. His fingers tighten slightly along the sides of my throat, where the muscles are. The hold is firm but careful, guiding instead of overpowering, reassuring me that this touch isn’t meant to hurt.
And I don’t spiral or pull away. I do exactly what he told me to do. I let the moment rewrite itself. I overwrite the memory lodged at the back of my mind with him and with this.
He feels the shift without delay, the way my body accepts it, the way I start pressing into him instead of bracing.
I find my balance and rise onto my tiptoes to reach his mouth fully.
The second I kiss him, he answers like a starved animal, slamming me back against the bark. The rough surface bites into my bare shoulder.
The kiss is brutal, messy, broken by gasps and moans since he’s still tenderly stroking my breasts and neck. Our tongues clash again and again, as a fight no one wants to win or lose.
He releases my throat and dives straight into my leggings, gentle but hungry, and he stops just as his fingers reach my pussy.
The kiss breaks. For a single second, he melts—his forehead dropping to mine with an exaggerated breath tearing out of him, something between losing control and barely holding it together.
Then he goes deeper. He pauses for the briefest moment, right at my entrance, his lips curling into a wicked smile against my mouth when he feels how dripping wet I am.
“God, I missed you,” he mutters through it.
I lift my hand and slap him as hard as I can from this angle, trying to wipe the smile off his face—but it only widens as he pushes two fingers inside me.
No, I don’t even know how many fingers that is. I only know it’s so much a wave of pressure surges from deep inside, racing up my spine and catching in my throat, ripping a string of broken moans out of me.
The moment he enters me feels like all the bricks stocked up in me just break, the whole pile falling down and shattering. It feels as if he tore something out of me when he disappeared and now he finally placed it back where it belongs.
“That’s it,” he hums. “I missed this so fucking much baby.”
He drives into me slowly, curling his fingers inside me, finding the same places over and over, building the sensation instead of rushing it, deliberately heightening the ecstasy.
I clutch his shoulder, my fingers digging in as I try to steady myself against the pressure coiling tighter and tighter inside my core.
Suddenly he withdraws his fingers, and before the desperate, wrecked sound can tear out of my throat, I realize his hand is still between my legs.
He only shifts himself behind me—putting himself against the tree and turning my body so my back presses into his chest and my ass settles against his lap.
For a second, I don’t understand what he’s doing. And then his finger finds my clit. My head falls back against him instantly, another wave of relief crashing through me, while his other hand drags down over my ass and slips back between my legs.
Two fingers slide inside my pussy from behind, curling just right, pulling a sound out of me so loud it borders on someone being murdered.
My body gives up completely, collapsing into his. His hands drive me utterly insane between my legs, his lips diving into the crook of my neck from behind, as he starts gritting more words out, but it doesn’t even feel like talking anymore.
“From now on,” he murmurs between his own gasps, “the only ache you’ll ever feel again will be the one that comes with pleasure.”
Inside me, he moves in long, deep strokes.
“The only pain you’ll ever feel again is when I stretch your pussy open.”
I abandon any attempt at holding myself upright, letting him take all of my weight, letting myself be solely in his possession.
“And only me. Understand?”
It feels like he’s carving the words inside my nervous system.
“Uh-huh,” I barely nod.
“If the wrong memory ever comes back,” he continues, his voice steady against my skin, “you reject it and take it out on me.”
It takes a pathetically short time to make my blood boil from the rush, building what is about to be probably an embarrassingly intense orgasm.
“You can beat me, choke me or degrade me all you want. Don’t let it stay trapped inside you,” he explains. “I need you to give it to me instead, okay?”
“Uh-huh,” I manage, right before my body locks up, clutching the oncoming release. He feels it instantly and intentionally slows, holding me there, stretching the moment until it burns in the best possible way.
“Promise me you’ll do that,” he insists, his voice low but unyielding.
“Okay,” I breathe. “I will.”
He’s everywhere. He’s all I see, all I sense, all I feel. He’s under my skin, in my breath, in the way my body responds without asking.
I’m afraid that if someone cut me open right now, they’d find pieces of him where my soul is supposed to be.