Part Two: The Second Day
I didn’t know what time it was when I woke — only that I was sore, soaked, and empty.
And wet again.
My thighs were sticky, my mouth dry, and my body humming with the kind of ache that only comes from being touched exactly how you needed… and denied what you needed most.
The sheets were gone. Replaced by fur against my skin. The collar still tight at my throat. The plug still inside me — a slow, pulsing reminder that I’d given up control, and that he wasn’t done.
Not even close.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps. Slow, measured. Confident.
My breath caught.
And then — his voice. Low. Smooth. Dangerous.
“Morning, sweetheart.”
Something about the way he said it made my stomach twist. Like he already knew what I’d dreamt about. What I’d woken up craving.
He crouched beside me, fingers brushing my cheek. I leaned into them without meaning to.
“No safeword, remember?” he murmured, mouth just inches from mine. “But you can still beg.”
I nodded, breath hitching.
“Good girl.”
He stood, and I followed his command without it being spoken — dropped to my knees, hands behind my back, chest open, thighs spread just enough. Wanting him to see.
He did.
And he smiled.
But he didn’t touch me. Not yet.
He walked behind me, slow, circling, letting the silence build like static. I could feel the heat of him. Smell him — that mix of cologne and sweat and something unmistakably male. My nipples tightened. My cunt clenched.
Then — finally — his hands. On my hips. Down my thighs. Palming my arse, pulling the plug just enough to make me gasp.
“Still full,” he said. “Still mine.”
He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanked my head back, and kissed me — rough, filthy, deep. His tongue fucked my mouth like he’d been waiting all night to claim it again. I moaned, but he swallowed it whole.
And then?
He stood.
Unbuckled his belt.
And just looked at me.
“I want you on the table.”
He pointed. A wide oak slab, worn and sturdy. I climbed on, unsure of what was coming but already soaked again. He guided me to my knees, then down onto my elbows — arse up, legs wide, plugged and leaking.
He walked around, slow, watching.
“I could keep you like this all day,” he said. “Just to watch the way you tremble when you don’t know if I’m going to use you or leave you.”
I whimpered. My body was buzzing — desperate, stretched, every inch of skin alive with need. I felt like I could shatter from the inside.
Then — the softest kiss, right between my shoulder blades.
And without warning — he was inside me.
Not gently.
He slammed into me, dragging a cry from my throat that sounded nothing like language. One hand on my hip, the other tangled in my hair, pulling me back onto him with every stroke.
“You’re not here for romance,” he growled in my ear.
“You’re here to be ruined.”
And I was.
My vision blurred. My hands clawed the table. I begged — not for release, but for more. Harder. Deeper. Filthier.
He didn’t stop.
He used me like he owned me — every thrust brutal and perfect, every word in my ear filthier than the last.
“Look at you. Dripping for me. So fucking desperate. You were made for this.”
I didn’t disagree.
Because in that moment — bare, used, fucked — I felt more real than I had in years.
And when he finally let me come — shoved hard against the table, his fingers tight around my throat — I screamed. Loud. Raw. The kind of orgasm that tore through me like it wanted to take part of my soul with it.
He didn’t stop after that, either.
He pulled out, finished across my back, then left me shaking, wrecked, and smiling into the wood.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, tucking himself back in. “Then wait for me upstairs.”
His tone dropped lower.
“I’m not done with you yet. Not even close.” |
