by Solace Ames
“I wouldn’t come, otherwise,” Paul said. “I like women—you know how much—but I don’t have much use for straight men in this scene. Even the submissives get on my nerves. If I go out for a non-business night, it’s almost always to a gay space.”
“Why do they get on your nerves?”
He led her toward a corner of the room, where another scene was taking place: a man and a woman, naked, being bound back to back. “Drama, whining, entitlement, abusiveness. They’ll complain endlessly about not finding the right woman while refusing to work on their social skills or hell, even basic hygiene. I work out for an hour every morning, then I brush and floss and shave my balls. No sympathy.”
She giggled. All of a sudden this felt like their first date at The Ankara Café, warm and close and giddy, with Paul’s wonderful deadpan humor easing away any awkwardness. “Well, the hard work pays off. But even if you didn’t...” she trailed off, not knowing what she was about to say. Something about his personality, or maybe love. Damn, her mind still wasn’t working right.
Paul didn’t press her on it. “I’m not hopelessly prejudiced, though. That man there—” he pointed discreetly, “—is perfectly all right, even though he’s straight and not flexible. Unless his mistress bent him, that is. We had a long talk about urban planning the last time I came here.”
“So that...bending. Is that a common thing?”
“It’s a kink for a lot of people, yes. Forced gay, forced het. Anything that crosses boundaries holds a sexual charge. You consent first, then give me the power to make you cross that boundary. I could make you kneel for a woman.”
“Would you like that?”
“Yes. But in the near term—” he pulled her closer until his heat pressed against her back, “—I want you for myself. All of you.” He insinuated one of his fingers underneath her skirt, hiking it up just a little bit. A little, but enough. She wriggled her hips upward in anxious reaction to the exposure. It didn’t help. Her efforts only hiked the skirt up more. She slid against herself, flesh against flesh, lip against lip of her shameless naked cunt.
A man not ten feet away was already staring between her legs.
“Not here,” she moaned. Too much space, too many hungry eyes.
He smoothed her skirt back down. “We could leave. And there’s the private room, if you’d—”
“Yes. Please.”
“Of course.”
He led her away, his hand on the back of her shoulder, maintaining their link. They entered a dim hallway, and the music faded.
“I’m all right, Paul,” she said as soon as she caught her breath. “It was just...too much in there, all at once. I still want...I—” She felt like crying out of sheer frustration, because all her emotions suddenly stormed too strong for words and she wanted to tell him—had to tell him—
She remembered, and touched her collar.
Chapter Eighteen
Paul had her pressed against the wall a half second later. He was big and he was fast and oh God he made sure she knew it. She had a mouthful of leather strap and breasts squeezed back into her chest hard enough to hurt and Paul grinding against her, taking his due.
“Who do you think you are?” he rasped, no trace of concern in his voice. Only cold amusement.
“Yours.” The tighter he pressed, the faster she spiraled inside, down into the delirious vortex.
He stepped back, keeping one arm against the wall, overshadowing her. “Good. Now show me your cunt.”
She reached for her skirt once she realized her arms weren’t pinned anymore.
The world jumped. When her vision came back, her cheek stung, and the shockwaves of his slap ricocheted through her shivering body.
“Move faster, you fucking whore.”
She swallowed a moan. It became a coughing sob, instead. He hit me. He hit me. He—
He slapped her again, on the other cheek.
She couldn’t make sense of what she felt. It was way too intense to hold meaning. Not hate, not love, not anger, not fear. Not even desire, though she was already throbbing between her legs. Crying softly, she tried to remember—Oh. She jerked up her skirt until it rode like a sash across her hips.
“You can do better than that,” Paul said, inhumanly calm.
She almost sobbed out an apology. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m sorry. If she said it, he’d hurt her some more. Maybe that was what she needed to break through. Pure, sweet pain. But she was proud, too.
I can try.
The wall was cold and rough against her shoulders as she slid downward, balancing precariously on her heels. Thighs straining, knees parted. She dipped her right hand between her legs and formed an upside-down V to spread her labia. She trembled at how hot and wet she found herself, how fucking ready.
She looked up at Paul.
“Do you want that cunt filled? Nod for yes. You don’t open your mouth unless I’m using it, but you’re such a good slut, you know that already.”
She nodded.
The motion severed something inside her. Cut away a layer of consciousness. There could have been a hundred people staring at her, watching her debase herself, and it wouldn’t matter. She only saw herself through his eyes.
He reached down and grabbed her by the ring at the back of the collar. Pulled her roughly to her feet and pushed her down the hallway, the edge of the leather biting into her throat. A sickly delicious pleasure shot through her body. She felt so close to Paul in this moment, like she was also the devil at his shoulder whispering, “Hurt the bitch. Fuck her raw. Use her.”
A half-open door loomed. He pushed her into the room. She caught a glimpse of burgundy drapes and bookshelves before he tugged the collar downward, driving her onto her knees. Breaths came hard. The air was warm and thick and alive in her lungs. Champagne oxygen. I’m going, she thought. I’m almost gone.
“I’m leaving the door open,” Paul said. “At some point, someone will walk in, and see you. I’m going to take you over that edge.”
She nodded, hearing the words he didn’t speak at the end: and no further.
“Get on your hands and knees.”
Welcome darkness came when she closed her eyes, sinking down into ancient, primal worship, presenting herself. The carpet, dry and silky against her palms. His voice. Her need.
He hurt her a little before he took her—hard-handed strikes on her ass that stung and nearly knocked her over. Then he shoved his cock into her with no warning, the shock of it making her growl like a fighting cat. She wanted to take him all the way, perfect and passive, but her body revolted—
—no matter. He forced her back by grabbing her hip and pulling her hair, then ground deep inside her until she coughed and screamed. So full and deep, there was nothing of her he didn’t touch, didn’t claim, didn’t control. Stars whirled in the blackness of her tight-shut eyes, exploding in patterns of violent joy.
“Tight. Fucking tight. I’m going to stretch you out,” he promised. “You’d like a room full of men for that, wouldn’t you, lining up to stuff their cocks in the first fuckhole that opens up. I’d hold you down and watch. Take a turn later, maybe.”
Yes. He made it come alive, better than a movie, better than a dream. The ecstasy of humiliation hammered at her. Every breath, another blow. She tried to tip herself into orgasm, squeezed her thighs and pussy tight, tight enough to hurt. So close. “Oh God.”
She was his, and his choice wasn’t to make her come, not yet. He fucked her hard and spanked her ass. Pulled her hair until the edge of the collar dug into the back of her neck, and told her what she was good for.
The door was open. Anyone could see. It was all right. It was just fine.
Walk on in. Look at him. See how he enjoys me.
He pulled out and shoved her down to her sto
mach on the carpet.
“You’re ready for more now,” she heard him say. It must be true. The anticipation drew a high sound from her throat, a sawing string note too urgent and harsh for a melody. Please. Please. Maybe he’d fuck her ass now, or her mouth.
Instead, he pulled her to her feet and dragged her to the corner of the room. A grotesque sex machine lay there, a black half-cylinder saddle form with a pale beige dildo sprouting from the top. Paul knelt in front of it, stretched a condom over it—fuck, it was huge, almost as thick as it was long.
“Lick it,” he ordered. “Get it wet.”
She did. The plastic, artificial taste turned her stomach; the satisfaction of obeying him made up for it. Bittersweet. He liked her tears. He liked to disturb her body.
“Now rub your pussy all over it. Let’s see if you can take it without lube.”
Straddling the cylinder and following his order was easy, after what she’d done in the hallway. The thing’s bulbous head rolled against the flushed, delicate edges of her flesh. The things you make me do... She hadn’t even looked at Paul for a while, but it seemed like he was everywhere, under her skin, firing her blood.
“Slowly,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Now.”
She clenched her fists. Bore down, letting it drive between her thighs, into her shy, greedy cunt. “Hnnn—”
“Slowly.”
The pressure was—
“Oh fuck. Fuck! God.”
“Quiet. Slow. You’re almost there.”
The weight of her own body drew her down, down, until the thing was fully seated inside her, stretching her outrageously, keeping her hovering on the edge of pain. His warm hands stroked her hips. His voice whispered, “Breathe, breathe.” She rocked until the weight felt right, relaxed her thighs until she found a precarious pleasure in the fullness.
He was tender with her now. Light, soft touches trailed over her fevered skin like kisses. He unhooked her bra and encompassed her breasts with his hands, rolled the pads of his fingers around her nipples in serene spiraling motions, stiffening them and easing them at the same time.
“Good?”
She nodded.
He moved away. A second later, the machine roared into life.
Its motion was infinitely more powerful than any vibrator, but smooth and subtle at the same time. The force of it seized her, dragging her away like the tide. She rode a wave that never crested. The soft ridge grinding against her clit, the thick dildo impaling her—her body helpless against the fucking brutal unstoppable pleasure pleasure pleasure.
“You were screaming,” Paul remarked, after he’d cut the power down to a low whine.
She hiccoughed for breath, deep in the aftermath of her overthrow, and tried to stop her cunt from convulsing around the inhuman anchor inside her.
I can do it. Muscles she hadn’t even been aware of before relaxed, one by one.
“I’m turning it up again,” Paul said. “Someone’s watching, by the way.”
No one else mattered. Even Paul faded into a shadowy, meaningless form. No sound, no vision, just pure raging pleasure chasing along every nerve. She sank deep into the world of her body, down through the caverns and oceans into the molten core. Fire. Peace. Joy. Nothing else. Nothing.
He took her up and down the levels for what seemed like ages, at some points stroking his erect cock against her sobbing face. She liked that, the smooth feel of it, the contrast of warm, human flesh.
“Adriana.”
She was still floating. But there was silence now.
“Adriana...”
He gently eased her up from the saddle, waiting until she found her footing and supported her own weight. She opened her eyes for the first time in what felt like forever and looked down to see her dark-rose inner lips stretched around the dildo, gradually yielding its form. It was horrifying, dizzying. She closed her eyes again, falling back into the close, welcome darkness.
Paul and someone else, a woman, or maybe two, were having a conversation, but she could barely understand the words. Something technical. Logistics. Hygiene. Scheduling. She focused on breathing, on finding a new awareness of her body after the storm of sensations had passed. Paul was leading her across the room. Oh. She could walk.
“Back on your hands and knees,” Paul said, speaking very slowly and clearly.
She sank to the ground. He was becoming more real for her, but she still didn’t experience any particular joy in obedience, not like she had earlier. Maybe she’d given that up, released that along with her will. If the pleasure came again, she’d accept it. Pleasure or pain.
She felt leather cuffs closing around her wrists and ankles. Opening her eyes didn’t frighten her anymore—she’d lost fear, along with so much else—and hazy vision revealed that she was bound to a metal I-frame on the floor.
Paul combed his fingers through her hair and gathered it all to one side. His fingertips against her scalp felt agonizingly intimate, a kind of loving torture.
He turned his attentions elsewhere soon. Not to her aching vulva or numb, pulsing channel, even though she would have accepted that, yes—your toy, your whore, yours. He massaged her asshole instead. Dripped cold lube on it and began to slide his fingers in and out, stroking the inside of her tightly clenched ring.
New sensations, new nerves. The pressure was familiar, though—even comforting. His caressing motions set off rhythmic reactions of almost-pleasure, like overlapping ripples in a pond. She must feel so smooth in there, so nice for him. Relax. Accept.
“Good,” he murmured dreamily. Then hardened his voice for his next words. Gone as she was, she noticed that, the change in tone. “You’re going to get a hard assfuck now. From another machine. Rock back a little. Take it in.” He slid his fingers out and guided her.
More...newness. Something foreign and cold and slippery nudged at her hole. The fact that she hadn’t even seen the object of penetration should have panicked her, should have had her clenching tightly and fighting away, clawing at the straps. But that was someone else, someone she’d left behind. She pressed backward. Again. More. And there. Right there.
She moaned softly, but really, there wasn’t any pain. The dildo was soft-bodied and not wide at all, not as challenging as when Jay fucked her this way—memories from another life, but they were good ones, his lovely hot shaft parting her cheeks and sinking deep, silk sliding against silk.
The machine let out a low, warning growl as soon as Paul turned it on. She didn’t clench around it, didn’t fight to get away before it started its inevitable drilling. She was ready.
The first strokes were slow, shallow. Almost gentle. But the machine doesn’t care. The thought made her pussy throb, then ache from the backlash of countless screaming orgasms. She still jerked her right hand as if she could rub her clit to relieve the primal need, but of course she was shackled in place...
Paul had moved. He nudged his cock against her lips. She knew he wasn’t going to go easy on her. Move faster, you fucking whore.
He doesn’t care.
Some dormant part of her knew that he really did care, it was just...he was very good at lying. And this was a very beautiful lie.
She opened her mouth obediently. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and shoved in.
He was dry and hot and stiff, crushing her tongue down, gagging her. Her stomach seized. Her heart raced. The angle was more difficult than the other times, but the feeling was just as strong and good. He’d found her limits and was fucking her hard against them, forcing her, filling her. His cockhead probed at the back of her throat—shallow, vicious little pushes that brought thick saliva welling up and drooling out of her mouth.
No shame—he’d said she was pretty this way, after all. She was perfect.
The dildo in her ass began to pump faster and deepe
r. The friction was intense, disturbing, constant, and knowing there’d be no falling off until he decided to press the button or turn the dial would have frightened her if she hadn’t gone to a comfortable space, warm and floating and peaceful. She trembled back and forth, Paul slipping further down her throat with each thrust.
“Breathe.”
He took her all the way. The collar...her throat...oh God—
“Yes.”
The dildo fucked her forward onto his cock. Her face pressed against his hard unyielding body—nowhere left to go. Every inch claimed. She was a soft machine used for the highest purpose, mindless, gone.
She stayed in the no-place for a long time. There was immense pleasure there, not the rush of orgasm but slow, slow, clouds rolling, gravity pulling, sunset-slow and everywhere. No more ache or strain. On some level, her body was still being used, still pounded and shaken, and eventually—time moved strangely here—a warm mouthful of come slid nicely down her body’s throat.
“Say thank you.”
So good of him, to remind her. “Thank...you.”
He smoothed her hair, rocked her off the machine, unshackled her. She dimly registered that the sensations, the disturbances, faded. She fell, or rose. Needs came back. Wants.
Her throat was sore and dry; he pressed a bottle of water into her fingers, held her as she drained it, then took the empty bottle from her trembling hand. She was cold, so very cold, but a blanket materialized and wrapped around her. I don’t want to be alone. He stroked her shoulders, reminding her of his presence with the lightest of weight.
He dabbed at her face with something wet and soft and clean-smelling. “I feel like I’m sick,” she whispered. The feelings weren’t quite coming together. He had a hand between her legs soon, massaging her thighs open. No. No more. But she let him, because this wasn’t about pain or pleasure anymore. Just...easing her. His touch felt clinical but comforting.
