Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blood was in everything Jeff touched.

It clung to him like a second skin, never fully gone, never far from reach. The iron tang seeped into his clothes, lingered in his hair, stained his hands until it became part of his smell—sharp, metallic, familiar. Blood made Jeff who he was. And the things he loved most eventually ended up drenched in it too.

You were no exception.

The front door creaked open, and there he was—clothes soaked halfway through, hair damp and matted, streaks of red drying against the pale lines of his throat. His grin was sharp, feral, his knife still loose in his hand, the faint drip of someone else’s life sliding off its edge.

He looked delicious.

You didn’t wait. You lunged for him, a hungry collision that knocked his back into the doorframe. Your hands grabbed at his hoodie, smearing blood over your fingers, and your mouth crashed against his, tasting copper the moment your lips met. He groaned into you, low and hungry, teeth nipping your lip until they clamped down hard. The kiss turned wetter, messier—copper on your tongue, his and yours mixing—and you moaned against it like it was the only thing you wanted.

“Can barely get in the fuckin’ door,” Jeff rasped, dragging the knife up alongside your hip as he pressed you harder against him. His free hand smeared across your cheek, leaving crimson streaks like war paint. “It’s embarrassing how desperate you are, baby.”

And he was right—you were. You craved the heat of it, the smell that filled your head, the way it slicked over his skin until he looked less human and more like the monster you couldn’t stop wanting. Every drop only made him more intoxicating, and the sight of him—knife in hand, chest heaving, grin sharp and stained—set your body on fire.

You pulled at him harder, clawing through his hoodie, shoving his weaponed hand up near your head, urging him to cut, to smear, to ruin. You wanted every inch of him—every inch bloody, brutal, and yours.

“Cut me,” you panted.

Jeff’s wide eyes nearly shot out of his head. His arm hooked under your thighs, lifting you up the stairs two at a time, his knife still flashing in his hand. You clung to him, mouths locked together in a bruising kiss, blood mixing on your tongues until you couldn’t tell where his ended and yours began.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, and he shoved you onto the bed with a laugh that was half-growl, half-madness. The sheets were clean for a single heartbeat. Then the knife was there—sliding under the hem of your bra, a quick, precise slice that snapped the fabric apart. He tore your shirt away like it was paper, exposing skin that he immediately marred with shallow cuts, crimson blooming across your chest, staining the stark white beneath you. You hissed, body jerking at the sting of his blade, but it just got him more excited.

“Fuck, look at that,” he hissed, eyes wide, transfixed as the red spread across the sheets under your back. “Mine. All mine.”

Your pants didn’t last long—he gripped, yanked, ripped seams until denim gave way, tossing them to the floor without a glance. His hoodie followed, soaked and sticky, hitting the ground with a wet slap before his hands were back on you, dragging down your sides, smearing blood across your stomach. You grabbed at him like you were starved, pulling his mouth back to yours, biting hard enough to taste more iron, grinding against him desperately as he fought with the zipper of his jeans. The knife pressed to your hip, nicking again, sharp little reminders of who was in control, each sting answered by your moan into his mouth.

When he finally kicked free of his pants, he was already slick with blood, pale skin streaked, muscles taut and trembling. He pressed down against you, grinding hard, cock straining against you, dragging blood across your thighs as you writhed beneath him. His hands left crimson fingerprints on your tits, your throat, your hips, marking you as completely as the knife did.

“You’re making a mess—”

“You love it,” Jeff growled back, teeth scraping your jaw as he shoved his knee between your thighs, pressing until you arched. His knife trailed lazily down your ribs, leaving another burning nick. “You love being ruined by me.”

And he was right—you wanted nothing but this: his mouth, his blood, his knife, his body pressing yours into blood-stained sheets until you couldn’t remember where you ended and he began.

The blade glinted as Jeff slid it lower, the edge hooking beneath the thin lace of your panties. One quick slice, and they fell apart, curling uselessly against your thighs as he ripped them away and tossed the scraps aside. He didn’t stop kissing you through it—teeth dragging, lips sucking blood from the cut he’d already made in your mouth, groaning into the mess he’d created.

He pulled back only long enough to shove his boxers down, the fabric sliding to his knees before he kicked them off. His cock bobbed free, thick, flushed, already smeared with traces of pre from your frantic grinding earlier. He wrapped one hand around himself lazily, stroking once, twice, letting you see every inch of him, his grin sharp and filthy as your breath hitched.

“Look at you,” he rasped, knife tip grazing the swell of your breast as he lined himself up against your soaked entrance. “Spread open on my bed, desperate as a whore… begging for me.” He dragged the blade down your chest, pressing just enough for the skin to split in a thin, hot line that welled with crimson. You clenched your teeth, gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles turned white against the sting. His eyes lit up at the sight. “Fuck… perfect.”

”Jeff—” You moaned, arching into the sting, your body desperate, trembling, every nerve alive. He pressed his cock against you, teasing, smearing the head through the slick mess between your thighs but not pushing in yet. Each shallow cut he made along your ribs, your stomach, sent a jolt of heat down your spine, mixing pain with unbearable need.

“Careful now,” he mocked, kissing the corner of your mouth as the knife nicked your skin again. “Every time you move like that… whoops.” He smirked, shallowly dragging the blade lower, across your belly, as he bullied just the tip of himself inside. “You’ll just end up bleeding more for me.”

The stretch was overwhelming, the tease unbearable, and you whimpered, trying to push back against him. His free hand clamped your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you in place.

“Nuh-uh,” Jeff snarled, voice dropping, hungry. “I go slow… or I don’t go at all. And you want me, don’t you?” He pressed in deeper, dragging the knife back up your chest, painting his palm red as he smeared the blood across your breast. His cock split you open inch by inch, filling you until you couldn’t breathe, the sharp sting of the blade mirrored by the stretch of him inside you.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt with one sharp thrust that made the sheets beneath you bloom red from the fresh cuts that dribbled down your skin. His grin widened, wild, manic, as he ground his hips against yours, knife hovering over your throat now. “I want to hear you cry.”

Jeff let the knife clatter to the nightstand, the sound sharp against the breathless silence of the room. His hips rolled steady, deep, a measured pace that dragged along your insides and left you gasping. The sudden slowness was maddening—the kind of tease he never indulged in unless he was trying to get a reaction out of you.

You gritted your teeth, nails curling into the ruined sheets. “You never go slow—ah,” you panted, voice breaking on the thrust. “What the fuck are you doing?”

His grin split wide, feral, eyes burning as he leaned over you. “Oh, you don’t like this?” he mocked, driving in deep, slow again—before snapping his hips forward with a brutal slam that knocked the air out of your lungs. “Better?”

Your cry broke into a moan, your back arching as he did it again, faster this time, harder, the teasing pace abandoned as he fucked into you with agressive, merciless thrusts. His hands roamed your body, dragging through blood on your chest, your stomach, your thighs, smearing crimson across your skin until you were slick and streaked. His fingers pressed into every cut, every bruise, spreading the mess, marking you again and again.

Then, with a wicked laugh, he pulled his hands back and ran them over his own torso, dragging your blood across his pale skin. The contrast was obscene—his chest heaving, abs flexing with every slam, smeared with streaks of red that shone against his ghostly pallor. His muscles caught the light in sharp planes, painted in the mess he’d made of you. You couldn’t look away. His body was lean but cut, every thrust pulling the cords of his abdomen taut, the smear of blood making him look less human and more like the predator he was. His pale skin glowed against the dark color, sweat making it glisten, and your mouth watered with the urge to lick him clean, to taste every inch.

“Fuck, you’re staring,” Jeff rasped, catching the hunger in your eyes. He smeared another handprint over his ribs, dragging down across the sharp V of his hips as he knocked his hips deeper, faster, the blood dripping down his sides in rivulets. “You like me like this, huh? A mess. Covered in you.”

“Yes—yeah, yeah—” You nodded, reaching for him desperately, needing to touch him, to drag your hands across the blood on his chest, but Jeff caught your wrists in one rough grip. He slammed them above your head into the sheets, pinning you down, his grin sharp and merciless as he loomed over you, his dark hair curtaining you to see his face only.

“Nuh-uh,” he rasped, thrusting deep, grinding into you until your eyes rolled back. “You don’t get to touch, baby. You just take it.”

His free hand pressed flat against your stomach, just above where he was buried inside you, and the pressure made every snap of his hips hit deeper, harder. The sensation ripped a scream from your throat, pleasure and pain fusing until you could hardly breathe.

Blood trickled from the thin cuts on your chest and stomach, smeared under his palm, dribbling across your sides and soaking deeper into the sheets. The white beneath you had turned nearly pink, streaks spreading every time you writhed and bucked beneath him. Your whole body was painted red, each thrust shaking more warmth free from your wounds, until you were slippery and glowing under him.

“You’re beautiful” Jeff growled, his voice ragged, feral. He ground harder, pressing his hand down cruelly on your belly while his cock pistoned in and out of you, the wet slap of your bodies mixed with the slick sound of sticky hot gore. “So beautiful. Better than any—hah—any stupid bitch I’ve cut up before.”

You whimpered, locking your thighs around his hips, pulling him tighter, deeper, keeping him there as if you could fuse your bodies together. The iron tang of blood filled your nose, your mouth, your skin, and still you arched into him, trembling under the steady assault of his thrusts.

His pale skin was streaked with your red, his chest shining with sweat and ichor both, every flex of his muscles smeared with proof of how he ruined you. His hair stuck to his forehead, dark strands damp and clotted with copper, and still he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

“You’re filthy,” he snarled, slamming harder, hips snapping with merciless rhythm as his grip on your wrists tightened. “Such a dumb bitch letting me do whatever I want.”

Jeff’s nails dug into the soft skin of your wrists, biting crescents into the flesh until you cried out, your body writhing helplessly beneath him. His other hand pressed cruelly down on your stomach, his full weight bearing into it as his cock drove deep, every thrust slamming straight into your core with bruising force.

“Fuck—fuck fuck fuck—” you felt your eyes beginning to roll.

The pressure was unbearable—too much, too sharp, too good. You broke almost instantly, your body arching against the sheets as your climax ripped through you. A ragged scream tore from your throat as you clenched tight around him, your walls spasming, milking him in frantic pulses.

“F–fuck,” Jeff snarled, voice cracking as his hips stuttered, his cock caught in the vice of your release. “God, you’re—fucking—tight—” His teeth bared, a groan rumbling low in his chest as he slammed harder, chasing the feel of you squeezing him.

Your thighs shook, locked tight around his hips, dragging him deeper as you gasped, “J-Jeff—don’t stop—fuck—”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he hissed, leaning down, his breath hot against your chest. His tongue darted out, dragging a slow, wet stripe up the cut he’d carved there, lapping at the fresh bleed as though it were nectar. You shuddered, the sting sharp and intoxicating as he licked higher, tasting every drop of crimson on his way.

By the time he reached your throat, you were still trembling, aftershocks rattling through your body as he mouthed at your neck, sucking more blood to the surface. His lips finally found yours, crashing down in a wet, messy kiss that smeared both your tastes together. His tongue pushed into your mouth, tangling with yours, copper on both your tongues, kissing you silly, sloppy, desperate.

“Mine,” he groaned against your lips, biting until he drew more blood, then swallowing it down with another bruising kiss. His hips rolled even as he kissed you, deep and frantic, the bed creaking under the merciless rhythm. “My bloody, filthy, perfect girl.”

And you kissed him back with everything you had, tasting iron and sweat and sex, your body wrecked and painted red beneath him, his weight crushing you deliciously into the ruined sheets. “Jeffrey—”

Jeff snarled against your mouth one last time before abruptly rolling, flipping your bodies with a brutal twist. You landed on his chest with a breathless gasp, thighs straddling his hips, your slick cunt still clenching around him. He leaned back against the bloody sheets, eyes dark and burning as he shoved up into you, filling you so deep you nearly saw stars.

“Ride me,” he growled, reaching to the nightstand. His bloody fingers wrapped around the handle of his knife, and he pressed it into your trembling hands. “Here. Feel it.”

You blinked, chest heaving, still gasping for air as you stared down at the blade. The weight of it settled heavy in your palm, the edge still glinting, calling you.

Jeff groaned, snapping his hips up under you, bouncing you effortlessly on his cock, his hands gripping your waist so tight it hurt. “Use it,” he rasped, voice cracked and guttural. He was teetering on that wonderful edge, you could see it. “Fuckin’—let me feel it.”

You trembled, turning the blade down and dragging it teasingly over his chest. Not cutting—just the flat of the steel gliding across his pale skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. His abs flexed beneath it, the contrast obscene, your blood still smeared over every ridge and plane of his torso.

“Like this?” you smiled.

He bucked harder beneath you, his cock stretching you open with each savage thrust, his groans breaking into curses as he threw his head back against the pillow. “God—fuck yes—” His grin split wide, manic and wild, as your hand traced the knife down his ribs, then up across his collarbone. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon—just a little more, baby.”

You moaned, grinding down against him, your thighs trembling from the relentless pace he set, never giving you a moment to settle. The blade traced lower, over his stomach, skimming dangerously close to where you were joined, and Jeff’s breath hitched, his hips slamming up harder, chasing the sting that never quite came.

“You look so fucking good with that knife in your hand,” he panted, dragging his own bloody fingers up your sides. He reached up, smearing more crimson across your tits, pinching your nipples until you cried out. “Sitting on my cock, teasing me with my own goddamn blade—fuck.”

His hips snapped up again, the bed shaking, your body jolting with every thrust, the knife still balanced in your grip as you traced lazy, dangerous lines over the man beneath you. Your eyes roamed his body as you rode him, hips rolling in time with his relentless thrusts from below. Blood streaked across his torso in messy handprints, but underneath you saw the older marks—the faded scars crisscrossing pale skin. Some were jagged, left by fights. Others were neat, purposeful, the kind he had carved into himself out of rage or hunger or boredom.

Your breath caught, the knife still resting in your hand as you traced one scar along his ribs with the flat of the blade. “You’ve already been cut a thousand times,” you panted, your thighs trembling as you ground down against him. “Scars from fights… scars from your own hand…”

Jeff’s eyes locked on yours, wild, fever-bright, as you let the blade skate across his chest.

“But this,” you whispered, rolling your hips harder, your cunt clenching down around him, making him groan. “This would be different. Better.”

His grin faltered into something rawer, his jaw slack as your words hit him. His hips jerked up hard, nearly throwing you forward. “F-fuck—what?”

Your lips curved into a blood-smeared smile as you held the knife poised just above his abdomen. “Can I put my name here, Jeff?” you breathed, the question hot and broken with lust. “Mark you. I’m yours, right?”

He groaned so hard it sounded like pain, his head snapping back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he looked at you again—wrecked, desperate, already teetering on the edge. His cock twitched violently inside you, and you could feel how close he was, could feel him pulsing.

“Fuck, fuck—yes,” he snarled, almost a sob. His hand shot up, catching your wrist, guiding the blade down until the tip kissed the skin just above his hipbone. He pressed harder, the edge dimpling his pale stomach. His eyes burned into yours as he growled, “Do it. Fucking do it.”

His hips snapped up again, brutal, nearly knocking the knife from your hand as he fucked into you. “Brand me—fuck—make me yours, too.”

“Alright,” you breathed, fingers steadying the blade. “I’m going to do this slowly. Letter by letter.”

He groaned immediately, hips snapping up reflexively, grinding into you even as his hand pressed your wrist down to keep him steady. “F-fuck… baby, I—oh—yeah.”

You smiled, teeth biting your lip, and guided the tip of the knife into his skin. The first nick drew a thin line of crimson, and he hissed, back arching, cock twitching. “Ah—shit… god, right there!” His hands fisted the sheets, his hips jerking against you in tiny, desperate thrusts, his legs growing restless behind you, but you held him still.

“Shhh… steady,” you murmured, pressing lightly on his stomach to ground him. You carved the first letter carefully, watching his reactions. “Feel that?”

Jeff groaned, voice raw, ragged. “F-fuck, yeah… like—oh—like fire…” His hips jerked, trying to ride the sensation even as you stopped him mid-thrust. “Hurry… please hurry, baby.”

You let a wicked smile curl your lips. “One letter done. Are you ready for the next?”

His breath hitched, chest heaving. “I—fuck… yes, god, I’m ready… oh shit, please…” He shuddered, pressing tiny thrusts into you every time your attention faltered between letters, edging himself against you, nearly spilling inside your slick heat.

You drew the next, slow, deliberate, following the curves of his skin. “Another,” you whispered, dragging the knife through his flesh, just deep enough to scar. Jeff groaned again, tilting his head back, hands clawing at the sheets and over his face.

“Holy—fuck—yes… don’t stop… don’t ever stop,” he hissed, snapping his hips in shallow jerks, trying to ride the pleasure-pain while you paused between letters. Each time he tried, you pressed your palm down on his stomach, murmuring, “Not yet… be patient.”

He whimpered, cock twitching, almost spilling every time, desperate, on the edge. He gripped your thighs, scratching his nails into the drying blood there. “Fuck—baby, please—I can’t… I can’t hold it—”

“Then feel it,” you teased, dragging the blade across another line, “but stay still. Let me do this.”

His hips jerked involuntarily, grinding into you, nails digging into your thighs, blood smeared across both of you, red and wet and intoxicating. His moans were ragged, broken, every thrust timed between your letters, every hiss a prayer, every twitch of his cock begging for release. You drew each letter slowly, watching his reactions—the arch of his back, the tremble of his thighs, the sharp intake of breath, the guttural groans that shredded the air. Each one made him whimper, shout, beg, growl, and beg again.

“F-fuck… yes, oh god, yes… ah!”

You shushed him, pressing your blood-slick palm against his chest. “And you call me filthy.”

You drew the final letter slowly, deeply, dragging the knife along his pale skin until crimson smeared across every line. Blood coated his abdomen so thickly it was nearly impossible to see the full word you had carved—your name stretched across him in messy, furious lines. Each nick stung, burned hot, and made your hands slick, but you didn’t stop, tracing the final curves with a shaky, trembling grip.

“I’m done,” you whispered, breath ragged, chest heaving, voice trembling from the mix of adrenaline, lust, and blood.

Before you could react, Jeff snatched the knife from your hands, tossing it aside with a sharp clatter. His hands caught you mid-breath, pulling you down onto his chest in one brutal, fluid motion. The wet, sticky press of his body against yours made the heat of your skin and the tang of blood feel electric.

He wrapped his arms tightly around your back, crushing you against him, pressing every inch of his gore-slick body to yours. The friction, the heat, the sheer force of him inside you drove a scream from your lips.

Jeff’s hips snapped violently against yours, faster, harder, and every thrust dug into you with a ruthless intensity. He couldn’t even tease you, teeth clenched so tightly as he fucked whatever restraint he still held up into your sopping cunt.

Then he came, hard and deep, every inch of him shuddering inside you, the sensation overwhelming as he groaned your name, biting, licking, and nipping as he rode out his orgasm. His tongue found your jaw, dragged along your cheek, tasting your blood and sweat as he held you close, grinding you against him even through the aftershocks.

“Mine,” he rasped, voice hoarse, chest heaving, one arm tightening around your back, the other tracing lazy, bloody lines over your skin. “All mine…”

You shivered, trembling in his hold, every nerve alive, slick and sticky, chest pressed to chest, body wrapped in gore and heat. You could feel his heart hammering, matching your own erratic pulse, and you both lay there, panting, bleeding, and utterly wrecked—completely, perfectly consumed by each other.

You pushed yourself upright, hands planted on his chest, panting, sweat and blood slicking your fingers. Your eyes roamed over him—his pale skin streaked with crimson, his hair damp and matted, chest heaving, cock still twitching inside you. The sheets beneath you were ruined, more red than white, sticky and warm.

Sliding off his lap, the slick mess of his cum dribbled down your thighs, teasing you even though your body was still trembling from sensitivity. You were overwhelmed, overloaded, every nerve screaming—but somehow, impossibly, you were still desperate.

Jeff growled low in his throat, eyes dark, staring down at the messy jumble of letters on his abdomen, spelling your name. “Now you really are mine,” he said, sharp, possessive, and it made your chest shiver.

You swallowed, breath hitching, and pushed your lips into a mischievous smirk. “Prove it,” you breathed, voice shaky but challenging.

Your gaze fell to the knife tangled in the sheets at the edge of the bed. Slowly, deliberately, you crawled to it on all fours, hips swaying slightly despite your overstimulation. Then you turned your head back toward him, eyes wide, expectant, burning with need. You picked up the knife carefully and held it out to him, blood-slicked, a silent, daring invitation.

Jeff’s pupils dilated instantly. His grin split wide, sharp and feral. He understood immediately. No words were needed.

He crawled forward, slow, predatory, his blood-streaked fingers closing around the knife. Every inch of him radiated hunger and control as he moved behind you, chest brushing your back, cock hard and twitching even still, hands tracing the curve of your spine, the swell of your ass, the untouched, flawless skin between your blood-smeared patches. “Perfect,” he murmured, voice low, rough, almost reverent. “Completely… beautiful.”

You pressed back against him, letting him feel every slick inch of your heat grinding against his hard cock. The wet friction of him against your ass made your thighs tremble, every nerve screaming even though you were sore and overstimulated.

“I… I want to be yours,” you whispered, breath shaky, voice barely audible. “Truly… all yours.”

Jeff growled, pressing his hands to your hips and gripping hard, thumbs digging into flesh as he edged the knife down your spine. Each pass left angry red lines across your skin, shallow at first, marking you, teasing you, warning you of what was to come. He pressed back into the warmth of your cunt with a slow, steady thrust, hips rolling just enough to make you both gasp.

“You’re mine, baby,” he rasped, voice guttural, low and demanding. “Forever.”

The two of you moved together in this careful rhythm, so slow it made every nerve stand on edge. Every brush of the knife, every grind of his cock against you, made you shiver and whine. Your body was hypersensitive, blood and sweat mixing across your skin, and even the lightest touch from him sent sparks shooting through you.

“You’re going to feel this,” Jeff whispered, teeth grazing your shoulder, tongue dragging across the curve of your neck. “Every inch of this. Every mark. You’ll never doubt it again.”

You gasped, pressing harder against him, thighs clenching, heart hammering in your chest. The heat between your bodies, the sharp sting of the knife, the slick slick press of his cock inside you, all fused together, overwhelming your senses. You fisted the sheets beneath you, trying to stay as steady as possible.

“Slow,” he growled, nipping at your neck, dragging the knife lightly down again. “I want you to feel every line… every letter before I finish.”

And there, in the mess of blood, sweat, and adrenaline, you both teetered on the edge—so sensitive, so overstimulated, so painfully aware of the domination, the obsession, and the love twisted into something violent, erotic, and utterly yours.

Jeff’s hands gripped your hips, holding you steady above the bed, looking down at how you were laid out before him, cock buried inside you, perfectly still as his fingers dug into your skin. His eyes never left the curve of your lower back, where he intended to carve his name—his devotion, his claim. The knife gleamed between his fingers, still slick with both your bloods.

“You got it?” he murmured, voice low, rough, but reverent. 

You nodded, lips trembling, tears brimming as you felt the weight of what was about to happen. Carving your name into him was one thing—Jeff’s body was a museum of experiences, of his story. But this—his name on you—this is the best act of devotion he could give to someone. Him claiming you. Pain licked along your nerves, sharp and immediate, but beneath it there was something hotter, deeper—pleasure tangled with terror, with arousal, with belonging.

He pressed the tip of the knife into your skin above your ass, a shallow nick to start, and you gasped. “Shh,” he cooed, voice soft now, almost tender, trailing kisses along your shoulder. “Beautiful, baby. You’re perfect for me.”

Then he began.

J—a deep, deliberate stroke down and across, dragging red streaks across your lower back. You cried out, pressing against him instinctively, hips lifting as your heat flared with the sting. “Fuck… oh god…” you gasped.

“Shh… don’t move,” he whispered into your ear, rubbing his hand against your hip as he followed the stroke, steadying you, making every throb of pain feel like devotion. “You take this so well…”

E—each line carved slowly, the points of the letter pressing into your skin with precise force. You trembled, every nerve alive, biting your lip, gripping the sheets. The pain shot through you like fire—but beneath it, the pressure of him inside you, grinding gently even as he carved, made you arch, moan, trembling between ache and lust.

“That’s it… so good,” he murmured, voice ragged, pressing down between your shoulder blades to keep you steady. “Doing so good.”

F—the first F cut along the curve of your skin, shallow at first, then deepened, the line streaking bright red, warm droplets trickling down your sides. You whimpered, tears streaking your cheeks, body jerking instinctively. “Oh—oh fuck, yes… Jeff…”

“Shh, my love,” he breathed, pressing against you, letting you feel him pulse, slow and steady. “It looks perfect.”

F—the final stroke, completing his name, heavy-handed, slow, precise. You cried out, clutching the sheets, hips shaking, blood hot and sticky, knife searing, heart racing. And still, the rhythm of him inside you made your walls tighten, muscles clenching around him as you shuddered.

The knife clattered to the sheets with a hollow, wet sound. Jeff sat back on his heels for a heartbeat, pulling your hips to sit back with him, eyes fixed on his work.

You turned your head slightly, catching sight of the mark on your lower back. The letters glowed red against your skin, jagged but perfect—each line precise, evenly spread. He was a master with a blade. Every stroke, every nick, every curve had been calculated, controlled, exactly how he wanted. He had made sure it was flawless.

Jeff’s gaze flicked to you, heat and hunger burning in his eyes. Without a word, he leaned down, the very spot where your name was carved into his abdomen pressing perfectly against where his name now marked you. The alignment was flawless, your blood-slick bodies fitting together like they had been made to mirror each other.

He pressed his weight down on top of you, flattening you against the mattress, your thighs trembling under him, your cunt still clenching reflexively around his cock. His chest pressed into yours, the rhythm of his breathing rough and ragged. Jeff’s lips found your shoulder, dragging soft, wet kisses across the blood-smeared skin. His hand swept across your back, smearing the drying blood between you, mixing your gore together until there was no way to tell whose was whose anymore.

“Mine,” he murmured against your skin, voice low, reverent, possessive. “All of it… you, this… everything. Every inch.”

You smiled, letting your head drop to the cool sheets below as he kissed your cheek. His cock slid inside you with deliberate care, filling you completely, every ridge, every vein pressed against your walls, drawing a shuddered gasp from your lips. He moved slow, deep, steady, letting you feel the full curve of him, the heat of him, the undeniable strength and weight of his body.

One arm snaked under your stomach, fingers pressing against your skin, blood-slick and grimy, curling until the pad of his fingers landed on your clit. Gentle pressure, teasing circles, rubbing slowly as he began to rock into you, each thrust perfectly measured. The combination of fullness and friction, precision and heat, made your legs shake, thighs quivering as your body surrendered to him completely.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmured, voice low, thick, almost reverent, lips brushing your neck, teeth grazing your shoulder. “You were such a good girl.”

Your hands found his arm where it braced beside your head, nails sinking into muscle, dragging him closer as he ground deeper, each steady stroke sending shivers of pleasure and warmth spiraling through you. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark, intense, drinking in your every gasp, every arch, every flush of skin smeared with both your fluids.

The rhythm of him inside you was intimate, slow but urgent in the way that made your body quiver, made your walls contract around him, making every nerve alive, every inch of you acutely aware of him. Jeff’s fingers pressed and rubbed your clit with a soft insistence, his hips grinding deep into you with perfect, controlled pressure. He leaned down further, lips pressing along your jaw, your cheek, whispering praises, murmurs of possession, soft groans of pleasure that vibrated through your chest.

“You’re mine… only mine,” he murmured, grinding you fully onto him. “Mine, and I’m yours… all yours.”

Jeff’s movements grew more urgent, though still deliberate, every thrust calculated to make you feel him completely, every inch pressed into you a declaration of possession and devotion. His fingers never left your clit, rubbing gently, teasing, drawing whimpers and gasps that mixed with the slick sound of his cock moving inside you. Your back arched, back pressed to his chest, hands clutching his arm as heat and overstimulation pooled in your core. Every nerve in your body was alive, every sensation magnified: the weight of him, the fullness of him, the rhythm of his strokes, the soft press of his fingers, the lingering sting of blood, the smell of iron and sweat and sex thick in the air.

“I… I can’t—” you gasped, voice trembling, clinging to him.

“Yes,” Jeff rasped, grinding into you, hips snapping with slow, cruel insistence. “You can… feel it. All of it. C’mon, baby.”

Your walls clenched around him as pleasure built impossibly high, a rising tide that made you arch and cry out. His weight on yours, mouth brushing along your jaw, biting gently at your shoulder, murmuring praises between ragged breaths.

“You’re… so perfect,” he groaned, voice low, possessive. “So beautiful… all mine.”

The tension coiled in your body snapped. Your orgasm ripped through you, hot and shattering, making your legs tremble and thighs clamp together beneath him. Every stroke of him, every rub of his fingers, every grind of his cock into you sent your body higher, trembling with overstimulation, overwhelmed by it all.

Jeff groaned deep, his own restraint breaking as your walls clenched around him, his cock pulsing violently inside you. “Fuck—yes… mine—fucking all mine, baby—” he growled, thrusting deep, hard, spilling into you in shuddering waves. His arms tightened around your middle, holding you flush to him as he rode out the tremors of his release, each thrust slow and deliberate even in ecstasy.

Between gasps and ragged breaths, he turned your face, lips brushing yours, tongue dragging across your mouth, tasting blood, sweat, cum—you. Kisses sloppy, wet, and insistent, drowning out everything else. You clung to him, your hand reaching back to tangle in his hair, your bodies still trembling. His chest heaved against your back, pulse hammering, and he whispered over and over, “Mine… mine… mine… always mine.”

“Always,” you whispered back, voice shaky, heart hammering, “all yours.”

── .✦

Eventually, the cuts had begun to close, deep crimson fading to the raw, raised red of fresh scars. For the first couple of showers, you had to be careful—every spray of water stung, making you wince and cry out. You had resorted to using damp rags, gently pressing over your scars, cleaning yourself slowly.

Jeff had watched you do it once, eyes dark, mesmerized. He didn’t touch you—just leaned against the doorframe, silent, a predator and lover at once.

He loved the way his name showed when you bent over, the raised letters glowing red under your clothes. None of the other cuts he had given you had ever scarred like this. None of them had marked you permanently. But his name—his claim—was different. Every time he caught a glimpse of it, every time he ran a finger along the raised line of skin, he felt that same intense thrill, that same possessive hunger.

When the scars had finally settled, smooth and permanent, he made it a ritual. At night, when you were both tangled in the sheets (new ones, you burnt the others), he’d lean down, press a finger gently against the letters of his name on your back, tracing them slowly, reverently. His lips would follow, kissing along the lines, admiring them, “Perfect.”

You, in turn, loved seeing his abdomen, your name left etched deep into him. Every time he pulled his shirt up, fingers brushing along the scar, you shivered, tracing it with your own fingers in silent admiration. It was a proof of him, of you, of the intimacy and obsession you had shared—permanent, undeniable, and yours alone.

There'd never be a question of who you belonged to again.

Chapter Text

The sound was sharp in the quiet—snap. 

The leather tightened around your throat, snug and firm, the cool weight of the metal D-ring brushing your collarbone. You shivered at the sensation, head tilted slightly upward, gazing at the woman before you.

Jane sat on her couch like it was a throne—her throne. Dark hair falling around her porcelain mask’s sharp features, painted lips curved permanently into a perfect press. One gloved hand still lingered at your neck where she had fastened the collar, her gloved fingers pressing lightly against the pulse beneath your skin, feeling the way it raced.

The room around you was soft and warm, a contradiction to the intensity of her gaze. Candles flickered along every surface—on the mantel, the windowsills, the low table in front of her. Their glow was golden, casting dancing shadows against the walls and filling the air with the faint scent of beeswax and sandalwood. Outside the windows, night pressed close, black and starless, but in here it was cocooned, safe, intoxicating. The air was heavy with warmth, the kind of heat that came not just from flames but from being watched, desired, owned.

“You wear it well,” Jane murmured, her voice low, rich, always so soft yet powerful. She leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other, her eyes never leaving yours. “Almost as if it was made for you.”

You swallowed, the leather shifting slightly with the motion, and your hands flexed where they rested on your thighs. Kneeling in front of her like this made every sensation sharper, every look of hers heavier. You could smell the leather, the faint bite of polish on it, blending with candle smoke and the sweetness of her perfume—something floral, dark, lingering.

Her hand trailed from your throat to your chin, tilting your face upward, forcing you to hold her gaze. The way she looked at you made you feel undone, unwrapped, like she could see every thought as it formed.

“On your knees… looking at me like that.” Her smile deepened. “Do you know what you look like, pet?”

Your lips parted, words catching before you whispered, “Yours.”

The leash jingled as Jane picked it up, letting the metal clasp click against the ring at your collar. She tugged, just enough for the leather to bite into your skin and force your head closer. Her grin sharpened, eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“Exactly.”

The energy between you crackled like static, heady and charged. The warmth of the room seemed to pool lower in your stomach, your chest tight with anticipation. The way Jane sat—composed, steady, regal—contrasted the position she kept you in: low, obedient, offered up to her.

“Tell me,” she said softly, her tone teasing but edged with command. “What kind of pet are you tonight? A loyal one… quiet and eager to please?” Her thumb brushed over your lips, the lightest touch of her long pointed nails. “Or are you going to misbehave, hm? Pull at your leash and see what happens?”

Your throat worked as you swallowed against the snug leather, eyes flicking up to hers, wide and glassy. “I’ll… I’ll behave,” you whispered, the words coming out soft, breathy, more like a whimper than a promise. “I’ll be good for you, ma’am.”

Jane nodded as if she’d expected nothing less. Her grip on the leash tightened, the short tug making your pulse flutter hard against the collar. “Mmm,” she hummed, tilting her head, studying you. “We’ll see, puppy.”

The word struck through you like a live wire, heat prickling down your spine, an ache curling in your chest. Your breath quickened, body loosening under her gaze even as tension built low in your stomach.

This—this was what you’d craved from the very beginning. What started as glances that lingered too long, as tension that could never quite be ignored, had grown into something deeper, undeniable. Jane had always been strong, commanding in ways that weren’t loud but absolute, and you had felt yourself orbiting her gravity long before you admitted what you wanted. What you needed. Her control had slipped into your life like it was always meant to be there, like she’d been waiting to take the reins while you’d been waiting to surrender them. A perfect match—her desire to lead, your desire to be led. To be hers.

And now here you were, on your knees before her, leather snug around your throat, every nerve alight with purpose. There was no place you’d rather be than right here, serving her, pleasing her, being her good pet.

“I love when you look at me like that,” Jane murmured, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip, pressing lightly until you parted for her. She pushed her finger just inside, smirking at the way your tongue twitched against it, obedient and hungry. “All soft. All mine.”

Her other hand gave the leash another light tug, tilting your chin higher so you had no choice but to keep your eyes on her. “That’s my puppy. So eager to please.”

The word again—it curled around you, sank into you. You felt your body sink lower, your thoughts softening at the edges, dissolving into sensation. The warmth of the candles, the leather at your throat, the sound of her voice—all of it blurred together into one need: serve.

You whimpered again, pressing into her touch, your breaths coming shorter now. The edges of the world dimmed, narrowing to the leash in her hand, the collar around your throat, the pulse of want that made you ache to be closer, to show her how good you could be.

Jane’s eyes glared, sharp and knowing. She could see it happening—see you slipping, unraveling in the best way. “That’s it,” she cooed, stroking your jaw, her voice rich and velvet-smooth. “Good puppy. Get down into that sweet little head of yours. That’s where you belong, isn’t it? On your knees, wearing my collar, ready to do whatever I want?”

You nodded furiously, lips parted, heat rising in your cheeks as you whispered, “Yes, ma’am. Always.”

Jane leaned back into the couch cushions, the leash slackening in her hand but not released. Her free hand smoothed down the side of your face, gloved fingers stroking the line of your jaw before moving to ruffle lightly through your hair. The gesture made you melt further, the contrast of her dominance with that quiet, almost indulgent petting.

“Good pet,” she murmured. “Relax. Breathe. You’re safe here.”

You let out a shaky breath, body settling, head tipping into her touch. Her hand withdrew, though, and the shift in her posture made you snap back to attention, eager to listen.

“Take off my heels.” Her tone was calm, steady, but there was no mistaking the command threaded through it. She shifted one elegant leg forward, the black stiletto catching a flicker of candlelight.

“Yes, ma’am,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady. You reached carefully, fingers grazing along the smooth leather, unbuckling the strap and easing the shoe from her foot. Her stockinged toes flexed against the rug, pale against the dark weave. You set the heel aside with care before moving to the other, repeating the motion, bowing your head slightly as though the task was sacred.

“Now the hose,” Jane said, her lips curving faintly under the porcelain mask.

You swallowed, glancing up at her as you slid your fingers carefully beneath the hem where the nylon clung to her thigh. Slowly, reverently, you peeled it down her leg, the fabric whispering against her pale skin. You drank her in as you worked: the sharp lines of her black dress hugging her curves, the way the high neckline veiled the expanse of her throat and collarbones. The dress itself was stark, elegant, the fabric clinging to her like shadows.

And above it all, the mask. The smooth porcelain gleamed faintly in the candlelight, flawless and cold, its painted lips curved in a serene, unreadable smile. You loved it—how it hid her expressions from the world, how it made her gaze seem sharper, endless. Her eyes behind it, dark and consuming, locked on you as if you were the only thing that mattered.

You pulled the hose down past her calf, over her ankle, and slipped it free, folding it neatly beside her shoes. She let out a soft hum of approval, crossing one leg over the other.

Looking up at her, you felt that familiar ache rise again—the one that came from knowing she was all sharp edges and cold looks to the world, but here, with you at her feet, she let you close. She let you serve. She let you belong.

“I love you like this,” you confessed in a soft whine, unable to help yourself. “Your dress, your mask… you’re perfect, ma’am.”

Jane tilted her head, eyes glittering through the candlelight. She tugged gently at your leash, pulling you just a little closer, her tone soft and amused. “Of course I am, puppy. And you? You’re perfect when you’re down there—just like this.”

Your hands rested neatly on your thighs, back straight, head tilted slightly upward toward her—your whole body humming with anticipation, desperate to please.

Jane let out a quiet sigh. “I had a hard day,” she said evenly, her voice soft but laced with the kind of exhaustion only she could carry so gracefully. Her gaze swept down to you, and her gloved fingers gave the leash a slow, deliberate tug. “And I would really love it if my good puppy could do exactly what I say tonight. No fussing. No whining.”

Your breath caught, a whimper slipping free as you nodded eagerly, almost too quickly. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be so good—I promise. I’ll do whatever you want.” You shuffled closer on your knees, the rug rough against your skin, trying to close the space between you as though that closeness itself would prove your devotion.

Jane uncrossed her legs, the movement smooth, deliberate. She placed one knee to either side of you, hemming you in, forcing your gaze to follow the motion. Slowly, with all the knowledge of what she was doing, she spread them wide. The hem of her dress shifted with the movement, riding higher, revealing the soft black lace of her panties stretched across her hips.

Your stomach knotted with excitement, a shiver running through you as your eyes fixated there, heat curling low in your body. Instinctively, you leaned forward, breath catching—

Only for the leash to snap taut.

Jane yanked it sharply, holding you back, the leather collar biting into your throat just enough to make you gasp. “Ah-ah.” Her voice was a low warning, amused but firm. She tilted her head, porcelain mask serene even as her eyes gleamed. “Control yourself. I didn’t say you could touch, did I?”

Your cheeks burned, the embarrassment mixing with the thrill of being reined in. You froze where you were, breathing hard, forcing yourself to stay put even though every nerve in your body screamed to move closer.

Jane gave a small, approving hum, tugging the leash just enough to make you meet her eyes again. “Good,” she murmured. “Stay right there. Be patient.”

Your pulse raced, body trembling with the need to obey, to please, to prove yourself worthy. “Yes, ma’am,” you whispered breathlessly, trying to keep still even as your thighs pressed together, desperate for her command.

“Take it off,” she murmured, lifting her right hand. The smooth leather of her glove caught the glow, tight over her fingers. She brought it down close to your face, fingers splayed. “With your teeth, puppy. Show me how well you listen.”

You grunted softly, eager, leaning forward to obey. Carefully, reverently, you gripped the edge of the glove’s finger between your teeth, tugging slowly, pulling it free inch by inch. The leather slid over her pale skin, revealing her bare hand at last—soft, long black nails, elegant. You dropped the glove onto the floor like an offering, gazing up at her with wide eyes, chest heaving with anticipation.

Jane smirked beneath her mask, flexing her now-bare hand. “Good.” She shifted her weight, leaning back further into the couch, spreading her knees wider, the hem of her dark dress riding up her thighs. Her ungloved hand trailed down, slow and teasing, until it hooked against the lace of her panties. You held your breath as she tugged the fabric aside, baring the glisten of her folds in the flickering candlelight. Heat surged through you, your whole body tensing, collar biting into your throat as you instinctively leaned closer—only to feel the leash snap taut again, holding you just where she wanted you.

“Stay,” Jane commanded softly, and the word went through you like lightning.

Your breathing grew ragged as you watched her press two fingers between her lips, dragging them slowly through her folds, coating them in slick. The sound was faint but unmistakable, wet and obscene, filling your ears.

“Look at you,” Jane said, her voice low, teasing, her eyes never leaving yours. “Breathing so hard. You’d do anything for a taste, wouldn’t you?”

“Y-yes, ma’am, mhm,” you whispered hoarsely, throat tight, desperate to crawl closer but frozen by her command.

Jane let out a soft, pleased hum as she circled her clit lazily, smearing wetness in slow, lazy motions. Then, without warning, she pushed two fingers inside herself, a soft hiss slipping past her painted lips as her head tilted back against the couch. The sight of her body taking her own fingers, the subtle flex of her thighs, the way her hips shifted—it made you whimper out loud, your breath catching painfully in your chest.

“That’s it,” she murmured, working her fingers deeper, curling them just so. “Watch me. Don’t look away, puppy. You stay right there on your knees and you watch your master.”

Your eyes burned, wide and locked on her hand, every thrust of her fingers making your body ache harder. Your lips parted, drool threatening at the corner of your mouth, and you trembled from head to toe with the need to obey, the need to serve, the need to be allowed closer.

Jane’s smirk widened as she pumped her fingers faster, the wet sounds filling the warm air. “Such a good pet,” she groaned, her voice husky, teasing. “Getting all worked up just from watching me touch myself. You’re going to beg before I let you anywhere near this, aren’t you?”

Jane’s fingers moved in and out of herself with a slow, steady rhythm, her whole body rocking with the movement. Her thighs flexed with each motion, the lace of her panties pulled taut to one side, every detail visible to your hungry eyes.

“Beg,” she said, her voice rich, smooth, commanding. Her gaze locked on you through the porcelain mask, unrelenting. “Show me how badly you want it, puppy. Prove you deserve me.”

The leash tugged tighter, forcing your head back a little, making you strain against the collar. You whimpered, hips rocking helplessly against the floor as if your body was trying to mimic her rhythm.

“Please, ma’am,” you whispered, the words slipping out shaky and raw. “Please let me taste you. I need it—I need you.”

Jane’s lips curved beneath her mask, her pace quickening just enough to make your mouth water at the sight. “That’s not enough.”

Your nails dug into your thighs, your whole body trembling as you tried to stay obedient, but the ache was unbearable. “I’ll be so good, master,” you begged, voice breaking. “I’ll do anything you want—anything. Please let me serve you. Please let me lick you, make you feel good. I can’t stop thinking about it—your smell, your taste—I need it.”

Her free hand tightened on the leash, jerking it just enough to make you gasp, the collar biting at your throat. She leaned back further, thighs spreading wider, her fingers pumping deeper as wetness glistened on her hand. “Keep going,” she purred, her tone dark and sharp. “Convince me.”

Your breath hitched, words spilling without filter now, desperate and animal-like. “Please, please, master—I’m your puppy, I’m yours, I’ll do anything if you just let me touch you. I’ll lick you until you can’t stand it, I’ll worship you, I’ll make you cum over and over, I’ll—” You broke off with a helpless whimper, chest heaving. “I burn for you. I can’t breathe without you. Please let me prove how much I need you.”

Jane groaned softly, her masked head tilting back, the candlelight flickering across her pale throat as she worked herself faster. Her voice dropped to a whisper, but it cut through the air like a blade, “That’s it. That’s my puppy. So desperate, so needy… you’d crawl through fire just for one taste, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes!” you gasped, trembling so hard it hurt. “I’d do anything! Please—master—please, I’m begging, I’m begging you—” Your whole body rocked with her hand now, as if entranced, every pump of her fingers mirrored in your chest, your breath, your burning core. It was agony, exquisite and raw, to kneel and watch and beg, every word a prayer at her feet.

But usually, prayers get answered.

Jane’s fingers slipped out of herself with a slick sound, her body giving one last tremor as she circled her clit lazily. Then, without warning, she reached forward, her gloved hand tightening the leash as the other, wet and glistening, hovered before your face.

“Open,” she ordered, voice calm but firm.

Your eyes went wide, fixed on the gleam of her slick fingers, and you obeyed without hesitation, lips parting. She pressed two against your tongue, and you moaned as the taste hit—salty, musky, hers. You sucked greedily, hollowing your cheeks, tongue curling around her digits like you were starving.

“That’s right,” she purred, her masked gaze never leaving you. “Good puppy. Drink it down.”

Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, body twitching with need as you moaned around her fingers, drool mixing with her wetness on your chin. Jane only smirked behind her porcelain mask, tugging on the leash to keep you kneeling where she wanted you.

Then she shifted, lifting one long, pale leg and pressing her knee against your chest before sliding it lower. With grace, she pushed her leg between your thighs, her shin brushing against your heat. She leaned back into the couch cushions, smug and commanding.

“Grind,” she said simply.

Your whole body jolted, a whimper escaping as you immediately lowered yourself onto her shin. The warmth of her skin was smooth but firm against your needy core, sending sparks up your spine as you began rocking against her leg. It was degrading, humiliating—and exactly what you wanted. Jane’s hand still rested in your mouth, her fingers pressing deeper against your tongue, forcing you to moan around them as you humped her like the obedient little pet she’d made you. The smell of wax and perfume filled your head, the warmth of the candles flickering over the perfect porcelain mask that looked down at you, cool and sharp.

Jane let you rut on her shin for a long, delicious minute, her leash steady in her hand, her other fingers still buried in your mouth. You whimpered around them, muffled pleas spilling past the mess of drool and slick. She let you. She watched you. Every little grind made the mask tilt slightly, like she was studying her favorite piece of art.

Then—suddenly—her fingers pulled free from your lips with a wet pop. You chased them instinctively, mouth parting, tongue flicking out, desperate for more. But Jane only smirked behind her mask, wiping her soaked digits on your cheek like you were nothing more than a rag.

She shifted elegantly, slipping her leg out from between your thighs. You whined, your hips stuttering with the sudden loss, and she chuckled low in her throat.

“Already crying, puppy?” she teased, standing her heel against the carpet before gracefully spreading her legs across the couch. Her dress bunched high on her hips now, her lace panties still tugged aside, leaving you kneeling there, face to face with her glistening cunt. Your breath hitched. A keening sound escaped your throat, half-whine, half-beg. You leaned forward instinctively, nose twitching, wanting to bury your face in her warmth.

But the collar tugged. The leash went taut in her grip, jerking you back just enough to deny you.

“Ah-ah,” Jane’s voice was cool, commanding. She gave the leash a light snap, forcing your chin up. “Did I say you could touch me?”

“N-no, ma’am,” you whispered, voice trembling with need.

“That’s right,” she purred, shifting slightly, her thighs spreading wider, showing you everything you weren’t allowed to have yet. “You’re not allowed to touch. Not with your hands… not even with your nose.”

You whimpered, your body trembling on its knees, thighs rubbing together helplessly. Jane’s fingers dragged lazily over her inner thigh, so close to where you ached to taste, and she tilted her head at you.

“You may taste me,” she said finally, voice low, stern, “but only when I say so. Do you understand?”

Your whole body quivered, your eyes wide and wet, your voice breaking with how badly you wanted it.

“Yes, master. Please. Please let me taste—”

The leash tightened again, silencing you.

“Good pets don’t beg without permission.”

Jane shifted against the couch, reclining further into the cushions with the elegance of a queen preparing to be worshiped. Her mask caught the candlelight, making the gleam in her eyes all the more unreadable.

“Take them off,” she ordered softly, her voice sharp enough to cut through your frantic panting.

Your trembling hands immediately obeyed, sliding up her thighs. The lace was damp against your fingertips as you hooked your thumbs under the waistband of her panties. She lifted her hips, watching you with that amused tilt of her head. You pulled them down carefully, reverently, kissing her ankle as you slipped them past, before folding them neatly with the rest of her things like they were something sacred.

“Good,” Jane purred. Then, with a lazy grace, she raised her legs high, crossing her ankles for a moment before lowering them—one draped over each of your shoulders. The weight of her limbs was commanding, pinning you in place, her control inescapable. She used the leash to drag you closer until you were barely an inch away from her glistening cunt. Your mouth fell open on instinct, and you swore you could taste her on the air, your chin already slick from drool. The heat of her, the musky-sweet scent, filled your lungs until you were dizzy.

You whimpered, nearly vibrating where you knelt, tongue flicking out only to meet empty air.

Jane laughed. A low, soft, cruel sound. She reached down with her free hand to ruffle your hair, pushing damp strands back from your forehead as though you were some panting animal at her feet.

“Look at you,” she teased, her voice velvet over steel. “Drooling like a starving thing. My cute, desperate pet.”

Every nerve screamed to lean forward, to close the final inch, to bury yourself in her heat. Then her tone shifted—cool command snapping through the air. She tightened the leash with one hand, her other gripping a fistful of your hair, angling your head perfectly.

“Eat.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. A broken whine ripped from your throat as you lunged forward, burying your face against her, your tongue flattening and dragging up her folds. The first taste of her hit your tongue—warm, slick, intoxicating—and you groaned, muffled against her cunt, as if it were the only thing you’d ever wanted.

Jane gasped softly, then let out a slow exhale, her grip on your hair keeping you pressed exactly where she wanted.

“Good puppy,” she purred, rolling her hips just enough against your mouth. “Now don’t—ahh—stop until I tell you.”

Your tongue traced every slick fold, every trembling inch of her, lapping at her like you could drown in her taste and be satisfied. The wet sounds filled the quiet room—obscene slurps, hungry licks, your own whines pressed between her thighs.

Jane’s mask tilted back against the couch as her hips rolled, her porcelain face hiding nothing of the way her body arched and quivered under your mouth. A long, low moan escaped her—sharp and unrestrained. “Ohhh, yes… that’s it, puppy. Fuck. You’re perfect.”

The leash in her hand tugged at your collar with every jolt of her hips, keeping you tethered, reminding you of your place, even as you buried yourself deeper against her. You sucked at her clit, tongue circling, and Jane gasped loudly, her thighs clenching around your head.

“Good—good pet,” she cried out, her voice breaking into shameless moans. “So eager… oh, you’re so good at this. So good—mhhnm.”

Your body burned with need, your chest heaving as you drank down everything she gave you. Slick coated your chin, dripped down your throat, but you didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, not when she tasted like heaven and ruin. Your hands twitched, instinct driving you to grip her thighs, to hold her steady, to claim her—but the rules, her rules, rang louder than your hunger. You tore your hands away at the last second, slamming your fists into the couch cushions instead, knuckles white as you restrained yourself. A whine of frustration broke against her cunt, muffled and needy.

Jane noticed. Of course she noticed. Her laughter was hoarse, breathless, full of pleasure. She tugged your hair, forcing your tongue to press harder against her clit.

“So obedient,” she praised, her voice ragged between gasps. “Such a good listener. God, you’re making me—” Her voice cut off with a loud moan, sharp and high-pitched as her hips bucked up against your mouth. The room filled with the sound of her pleasure—her unrestrained cries, your wet slurping, the leash jingling faintly with every tug. You were a mess, slick soaking your chin, drool spilling down your jaw, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but serving her.

Jane’s thighs tightened like a vice around your head, the silk of her thighs slick now against your temples. You moaned into her, your tongue working desperately over her clit, tracing circles, flicking, sucking—until instinct took over and you pressed lower, slipping your tongue into her entrance.

The reaction was instant. Jane cried out, sharp and loud, her head snapping back against the cushions. Her hips jerked forward, grinding down into your face, forcing you deeper where she was soaked and pulsing around your tongue.

“F–fuck, puppy—” she gasped, voice breaking with the force of it. Her hand tightened cruelly in your hair, her knuckles white as she held you exactly where she wanted. “Yes… just like that, oh god, you’re filthy—look at you—drinking me down like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

It was. Drool poured freely down your chin, mingling with her wetness, soaking into the cushions beneath. You didn’t care, not when her taste coated your tongue, not when she was grinding herself on your face like she couldn’t get enough.

Jane’s thighs trembled around your head, her voice loud and raw now, no longer elegant or measured. “Deeper—yes, fuck, deeper, my good puppy, my perfect pet—” Her words dissolved into moans, guttural and unrestrained, the leash jerking in her hand as her body shuddered closer and closer to release.

Your tongue curled and pushed inside her again, your nose pressed against her clit, and she nearly screamed. Her hips rolled wildly, riding your mouth, her control unraveling one filthy sound at a time. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—” she panted, breath shuddering, body clenching, her entire form trembling with the inevitability of her climax. “You’re going to make me—oh god, puppy, you’re going to—”

Jane’s body seized around your tongue, her thighs clamping tight as the sharp cry tore from her throat. She came hard, hips bucking up into your mouth, spilling against your tongue as you drank every drop. You lapped at her hungrily, shamelessly, your chin soaked, her slick running down your throat. Even when her cries turned to ragged moans, when her hips trembled and stuttered, you kept going. You pressed your tongue deeper, dragged it over her clit again, greedy and lost in the taste of her.

“Puppy—ah, god—enough,” Jane gasped, her voice breaking in a way you’d never heard before. She tugged back sharply on the leash, but you whined against her, still licking, still chasing the mess of her orgasm as if you could wring more from her.

Her thighs twitched violently, her whole body jerking as overstimulation wracked through her. “I said—stop—” she snapped, voice shaking, pulling the collar so hard your head was wrenched back. You let out a startled moan as the leather bit into your throat, your mouth breaking away from her cunt, slick smeared across your lips, down your chin. You blinked up at her, dazed, your face utterly wrecked—eyes heavy, unfocused, lips red and wet. Your fists were still buried in the couch cushions, nails tearing at the fabric, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. “M–Master—” you croaked, voice ragged. “I’m—sorry—I couldn’t stop, I just—”

Jane’s body was still trembling, her chest rising and falling with sharp breaths, her porcelain mask tilted low as she stared down at you. The leash was taut in her hand, her knuckles white where she held it, her thighs still shaking against your shoulders. You swallowed hard, shame and devotion warring in your voice as you whispered, “I just wanted to be good for you.”

Jane’s thighs finally slid from your shoulders, her legs whispering against your damp skin as she shifted forward. The sudden emptiness made your body ache, your breath still ragged. You stayed frozen on your knees, head bowed slightly, leash pulling tight between you.

“I—I’m sorry, master,” you whispered again, words tumbling out in a rush. Your fists clenched tighter in the cushions, every nerve on fire with fear and devotion.

Jane moved with quiet purpose, slipping to the edge of the couch. Her porcelain mask glowed faintly in the candlelight as she leaned over you, her shadow falling across your wrecked face. You dared a glance upward—and froze when she lifted her gloved fingers, pressing them under the smooth line of her mask.

With a small push, she slid it up—just enough. Just above her nose.

Your breath caught. For a rare moment, you saw what lay beneath: the pale skin, the jagged scars tracing sharp paths across her cheekbones, the deep plum stain of lipstick painted flawlessly across her mouth. Beautiful. Terrifying. Your master.

Jane’s hand moved quick, sharp—gripping your jaw, tugging you closer until your nose brushed the slick lace of her dress. Your wide eyes reflected the flickering glow as she tilted your head back.

Then she kissed you. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t forgiving. It was filthy—her lips crashing into yours, smearing her dark lipstick across your mouth, across your chin already slick with her. You moaned into her, the sound raw, shocked, desperate. She tasted like salt and iron, like sweat and perfume, like herself.

You whimpered into her mouth, your words muffled between hungry kisses, “I’m sorry—sorry—Master—”

Jane only deepened it, pressing harder, her tongue sliding past your lips to claim every corner of your mouth. Her lipstick smeared everywhere—hot, messy stains marking your cheeks, your jaw, your lips until you were painted in her. A low, throaty moan rumbled out of her, vibrating against your teeth as she devoured you, kissing like she wanted to drown in the mess she’d made of you. And you kissed back eagerly, your own desperation spilling over, hands still fisted in the couch cushions as though holding on for dear life.

The kiss dragged on, filthy and consuming. Jane’s tongue tangled with yours, her lipstick smeared so messily it marked you like a brand. You whimpered into her mouth, apologizing between the gasps and moans, but she swallowed every sound, her grip on your jaw unyielding. When she finally pulled back, you were panting, lips swollen, chin slick with her taste. You looked up at her, dazed, hoping for some softness—some sign of forgiveness.

Instead, Jane tilted her head, her lips glistening as she whispered, low and cutting, “Pathetic little mutt. You'd lick the mud from my shoes if I asked you to.”

The words landed like a blow. Your body slumped, a strangled whine catching in your throat. Your eyes burned, shame and arousal twisting tight together. Jane smirked behind her lipstick-stained mouth. She leaned in again, but this time only to drag her tongue slow across your lips, tasting the mess she’d left there. You shivered, your eyelids fluttering as she pulled away and—just as quick—slid her mask back down into place. The perfect porcelain face returned, smooth and untouchable, as though you hadn’t just seen her scars at all.

“Back up,” she ordered.

The leash tugged sharp, and you obeyed immediately, shuffling back onto your knees. She stood with the grace of a predator, towering above you, the leash wound around her fist like a weapon.

Your body knew what to do—you nuzzled against her thigh, pressing your cheek into her smooth leg, whining softly. A good dog. Her good dog.

“Better,” Jane murmured, her hand descending to pet through your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. The praise made your chest ache, made your hips twitch.

Then, without warning, she pressed her foot forward, the pointed toe of her foot slipping between your thighs. She angled it perfectly, pressing against your aching core. Your whole body jolted, a cry escaping your lips before you bit it back.

“Ride it,” she said coolly, her porcelain mask angled down at you. “Show me how grateful you are, puppy.”

You obeyed instantly, hips rocking down against her foot, grinding shamelessly over the top arch of her ankle. The pressure was perfect—enough to make sparks light up your nerves, but not enough to satisfy. You moaned low in your throat, face pressed to her thigh as you rutted like an animal. Your hand crept down, shaking, until you clutched at her heel, steadying yourself, holding her in place just as a needy dog would clutch at its toy. The realization of how you looked—how pathetic you looked—made heat flood your chest, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to.

Jane’s laugh cut through your groans, sharp and rich. “Oh, look at you,” she purred, tilting her head. “Humping my foot like a dog in heat. God, you’re disgusting.”

The words should have burned, but they only made your hips buck harder, dragging yourself raw against her.

“Pathetic little thing,” she continued, her voice rising as she yanked the leash tight. The metal clinked sharply in the quiet room, your collar tugging until you had no choice but to look up. Your glassy eyes met the smooth, perfect porcelain of her mask. You whined, a broken sound, as your hips rocked helplessly against her foot, shame and arousal twisting together until you couldn’t tell them apart.

Jane smirked, tightening the leash just enough to make your breath hitch. “Eyes on me, puppy,” she commanded. “I want to see your face when you fuck yourself on my leg like the worthless dog you are.”

Tears pricked your lashes from the strain, from the leash, from the intensity of it all—but you didn’t look away. You couldn’t. You wanted her to see, to know how badly you needed her. The clinking of the chain echoed every time you thrust against her, the sound as filthy as the slick friction of your clothes rubbing over her foot.

Jane tilted her head, humming low in her throat. “Good. Don’t you dare look anywhere else. If you want to come, you’ll do it staring at me.”

You nodded furiously against her thigh, kissing her skin.

Jane shifted her foot just enough to make you chase the pressure, her heel grinding up against your core before she froze, her voice sharp as a whip. “Stop.”

Your whole body locked, muscles trembling, breath ragged as you froze mid-thrust. You whimpered, whining in your throat, but your hips obeyed, quivering as you held yourself still.

Jane tilted her head, watching you expectantly. Then, with a sing-song lilt, she giggled. “Go.”

You lurched forward instantly, rutting against her foot so desperately you nearly lost your balance, grinding down with a needy cry. Nails dug lightly into her leg where you clutched her for balance, your movements frantic, sloppy.

“Stop.”

You froze again, shoulders hunching, teeth sinking into your lip. A thin tear slipped down your cheek at the sheer ache coursing through you, the way your body screamed to keep going. But still—you obeyed. You had to.

Jane’s giggle rolled into a laugh, rich and mocking. “Good puppy.” Your chest heaved as you stared up at her, eyes glassy, desperate. “Go.”

You slammed back against her foot like you’d been starved of touch for years, grinding harder this time, nails scratching lightly at her ankle, every thrust a mix of frustration and devotion.

“Stop.”

You whimpered loud, thighs quaking as you froze once more, tears pricking hot trails down your cheeks. The ache between your legs was unbearable, but the leash was tight in her fist, the collar firm against your throat—a constant reminder that no matter how much it hurt, you’d listen.

She tilted her head and purred low in her throat, “So obedient, even when you’re desperate.” She leaned forward, tugging the chain until you were practically nose-to-nose with her mask. “Tell me, puppy—how badly do you want me to let you finish?”

“P-please, ma’am,” you sobbed, voice cracking as you kissed the silk of her thigh. You dragged your tongue across her thigh like a starved animal, lips moving feverishly over her leg. “Please—I’ll do anything, I’ll be your good puppy forever, you make me feel so good, I just wanna—” Your words tangled in hiccuping moans as you clutched her leg tight to your core, grinding faintly even though she hadn’t given permission. You kissed and licked desperately, leaving spit-shined trails on her skin, muffling pleas against her thigh.

Jane stood with such elegance it made your head spin, her dark dress flowing around her like a shadow. She looked down at you with that still-painted expression, the faintest smirk visible in her eyes behind it as she tugged the leash up to make you arch your throat, her dominance absolute.

“You’re pathetic,” she said smoothly, but her voice carried the warmth of satisfaction. “Does my leg feel good, pet?”

“Yes, mm-ma’am,” you choked out, pressing your cheek to her thigh, the chain rattling as your chest heaved. “I am pathetic, I’m your puppy, I’m yours—mmn—please, please let me—”

Jane tilted her chin, savoring your desperation. Then she pressed her foot between your legs again, firmer this time, letting you clutch her calf and grind shamelessly.

“Finish for me, puppy,” she commanded, her tone sharp as steel. “Make a mess. Show me how much you need me.”

The permission shattered you. A broken sob tore out of your throat as you ground down hard, rutting desperately against her foot, panting and moaning as if you were losing your mind. The friction sent you spiraling—your whole body tightening before you fell apart, crying out her name as you came, shame and pleasure overwhelming every inch of you as you made a mess of your clothes.

Jane’s grip on the leash kept your head tilted back, forcing your tearstreaked face up toward her as she watched with cruel delight. “Good puppy,” she purred, her voice low and victorious. “So good when you listen.”

Your orgasm left you trembling and clinging, your arms wrapped around Jane’s leg as if it were a lifeline, wet kisses pressed into her thigh through tear-soaked lips. Your chest hitched with ragged little whines, still begging even though you’d already come, still lost in her, lost in her words and smell and touch.

But then Jane shoved hard with her heel. The sharp kick sent you sprawling back onto your ass, the leash clinking as you scrambled to stay upright. You blinked through tears, chest tight with panic.

“M-Master, I—I’m sorry—” you stammered, already bowing forward, already desperate to make up for whatever mistake you’d made.

Jane didn’t give you time to recover. She stepped forward, towering over you, her silhouette backlit by the glow of candles. The porcelain mask glinted faintly as she reached down and grabbed you by both sides of your head, her fingers digging in, her hand curling tight in your collar. She yanked you forward, forcing your mouth between her thighs. The heat of her cunt pressed against your face, still sticky and warm from her last orgasm. Your nose and lips were smothered against her slick folds, her scent flooding every sense you had left.

“You’ve made me excited again,” she hissed, voice thick with lust but still sharp, commanding. She ground herself against your mouth, not giving you the option of pulling back. “And a good dog knows how to take responsibility for their owner.”

You whimpered into her, the sound muffled by her cunt, your hands instantly flying up to grip her thighs. The smooth silk of her skin strained under your fingers as you held on, pressing yourself deeper into her heat. Her lifted dress blocked your view of her face, but you could still feel her. Her thighs tightened around your head, locking you in place as she rutted slowly against your mouth. “That’s it,” Jane purred darkly, breath hitching as she forced you to drink her down. “Use that tongue. Don’t you dare waste a drop. Make yourself useful, puppy.”

Your body shook as you obeyed, tongue plunging and lapping, hands clinging desperately to her legs as she smothered you against her core, her leash chain rattling above your head every time she tugged to keep you exactly where she wanted you. You worked frantically, licking up every drop of her, but Jane’s grip on your collar only got tighter. Her thighs clenched around your head as she panted through her mask, hips rolling against your face in slow, relentless circles as she stood over you.

“Use your hands, puppy,” she ordered, her voice hoarse and vibrating with need. She tugged the leash so hard the collar bit into your throat, making your eyes sting with tears. “If you want to make me feel good—then make me feel good.”

You whimpered, muffled against her, but immediately obeyed. One hand stayed clutching her thigh for dear life, the other trembling as you slid it between her legs. Your fingers slipped against her soaked folds, slick already coating your chin and dripping down your neck. You pressed two fingers inside her, curling instinctively as you pushed in deep, tongue flattening against her clit at the same time.

“Ohhh—” Jane’s moan cut sharp through the air, guttural and unrestrained, her head tipping back. “That’s it. Good little mutt.”

Her hips ground your face harder, rocking herself shamelessly into your mouth, using your tongue and fingers like toys she owned. Her slick smeared across your lips and nose, dripping down your cheeks, soaking your skin as you worked desperately to keep up.

“That’s it—finger me harder. Deeper. Yes.” She leaned over you, voice vibrating in your skull as her dress pressed against your face, blocking your view of her. “You love this, don’t you? Mhm—love me ruining your face, love how—hah—how I smell, how I taste. God, you’re such a fucking mess for me.”

Your fingers pumped faster, curling inside her, your tongue stroking rough, eager circles around her clit. Jane groaned nasty, vile little praises, words spilling hot from her shaky moans. “Filthy little dog—so messy. So obedient. You’ll k-keep eating, won’t you? Won’t stop until I’m—hmmn—cumming all over your face again.” 

Her slick dribbled down your chin, your throat, her thighs slick against your skin as you trembled under her weight. The leash rattled with every tug, every grind, while Jane rode your face raw, every moan sharp enough to make you burn with pride. Your moans vibrated straight into Jane’s cunt, your words garbled against her clit. The sound alone made her knees shake, her thighs threatening to buckle until with a sharp gasp, she let herself collapse back against the couch.

Still clutching the leash, she dragged you with her, the collar biting into your neck as you scrambled on your knees, unwilling to let your mouth leave her. She tugged hard, pulling you up the length of her body until she flipped, rolling over onto her stomach. Her knees dug into the hardwood below, the hem of her dark dress riding high around her waist. With a low, guttural groan, she lifted the fabric and bared herself to you completely—her ass round and perfect, her cunt already swollen and dripping from your mouth. Her porcelain mask tilted, her cheek pressed into the back of the couch as she looked back at you over her shoulder. “Well? Don’t just sit there, mutt. Eat.”

You didn’t hesitate. You dove forward, mouth fastening back onto her cunt as your fingers buried themselves deep, curling hard inside her. Your tongue worked sloppily, dragging up from her clit through her folds until you slipped higher—lapping over her tight little ring, tasting the mix of sweat and slick, moaning filthily into her. Your free hand clawed into her ass, tugging to the side so you could press your face deeper into her.

Jane let out a raw, guttural sound, her nails scratching at the couch as her other hand shot back, gripping your hair like reins. “Oh fuck—yes. Yes, puppy—filthy thing.”

You fingered her deep and rough, your other hand clinging to the meat of her thigh, holding her open for your tongue as you buried yourself between both holes. You licked her ass like it was the only thing you’d ever wanted, sloppy and wet, plunging your tongue in between frantic flicks over her cunt. Jane tugged your leash up over her shoulder, dragging it taut until your face was pressed hard into her, smothered by the mess of her. “That’s it—good dog, good fucking dog,” she panted, her voice shaking with how wrecked she was. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop.”

Her thighs trembled violently, ass pressing back against your mouth as she ground herself back on your tongue, her words breaking into moans and curses as she lost control. Your fingers pistoned hard into Jane’s cunt, your palm slick with how wet she was. Every thrust made her whimper sharper, every curl of your fingers pulled a new moan from her throat. But it wasn’t enough—you needed more, needed to ruin her completely.

You pressed your tongue harder, circling her tight ring before forcing your way in, pushing past the clenched muscle. The heat, the taste—it made you groan into her, needy and filthy.

That was it.

Jane broke with a strangled cry, her entire body seizing as the wave crashed over her. “F-fuck—fuck, puppy!” she wailed, her hips jerking erratically as she squirted hard, the gush soaking your chin, your chest, dripping down her thighs and staining the couch beneath her. You didn’t stop. You held her steady, gripping her thigh like a lifeline as your tongue plunged deeper, your fingers working relentlessly until every ounce of her release was pouring out against you, until she clenched down so hard you couldn’t move your fingers any longer. You were drenched, her slick matting your hair, soaking your clothes, but all you could feel was pride. Pride that you had made your master fall apart like this.

Jane’s cheek pressed hard into the back of the couch, her mask skewed from how much she shook, panting in ragged bursts. For a long, trembling moment, she simply let herself be ruined, hips twitching, thighs trembling around your face.

Then her hand clenched the leash again, jerking your head just enough to hear her hoarse command. “Clean it up, puppy.” Her other hand ruffled roughly through your hair, grounding you in her touch even as she smirked through her exhaustion.

You nodded frantically, eyes wild with devotion as you dove back in, licking her thighs, her folds, her ass—every drop of her release. You lapped it up like it was salvation, whimpering in delight as you cleaned her thoroughly, mouth and tongue worshipping her until her skin gleamed again under the candlelight.

You pressed a final kiss to the curve of her ass before pulling back, your face messy, your chin damp, but your heart swelling with pride. Reaching carefully beneath her, you helped Jane shift, guiding her weight until she rolled over and sat upright on the couch. Her knees pressed together, her dark dress falling back over her hips, though the hem was still rumpled high from the ruin of your worship.

You didn’t climb up beside her—not yet. Instead, you dropped back onto your haunches where you belonged, resting your head on her knees, gazing up through heavy eyelids at her masked face, waiting—aching—for her command.

Jane tilted her head, her chest still rising and falling with ragged breaths, the porcelain mask gleaming in the soft golden candlelight. She smoothed a hand down your cheek, then threaded her fingers into your hair, petting slow and steady.

“You did so well for me tonight,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing, each word like a caress. “Such a good dog. You listened. You obeyed. You pleased me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned into her touch, a whine catching in your throat. Her hand drifted lower, fingers brushing over the collar that still gleamed around your neck. And then—with finality—she slipped her hands behind your nape. A soft metallic click filled the quiet as the latch released, the collar loosening. She pulled it away from your skin, folding it carefully in her lap before placing it neatly on the table beside her.

The absence of its weight left your throat strangely bare, vulnerable. But her hand immediately returned to your hair, grounding you.

This time, you crawled up onto the couch, cautious, reverent. Jane leaned back against the cushions, her porcelain mask tilting as you lowered yourself over her, pressing your cheek against her stomach. She sighed, soft and tired, as she carded her fingers gently through your hair, nails grazing your scalp.

For the first time that night, her voice softened to a whisper. “Good puppy,” she murmured, stroking you tenderly. 

“My puppy.”

Chapter Text

“Do you really think another one is necessary?”

Eyeless Jack’s voice was flat, the words edged in the dry patience of someone who had been asked to do something they already considered absurd. He stood across from you in his basement workspace, arms folded over his broad chest.

The examination table you sat on was cold beneath your thighs, the leather cracked from age, smelling strongly of iron and antiseptic. The room was dim, lit by a single hanging lamp overhead, its glow casting long, jagged shadows against the walls lined with old medical cabinets. Some of the glass panes were clouded from years of dust and fingerprints, the jars inside holding yellowing bandages, gleaming steel instruments, and vials of half-used solutions. The air was heavy with the sterile bite of alcohol and the coppery tang of blood that seemed embedded into the very stone of the basement.

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. The lamplight caught the sharp lines of his face—the hollow, sightless sockets that made his name, the scars that laddered across his grayed skin. Without his mask, he was raw, unhidden: lean jawline, brunet hair falling in neat messiness, and the permanent air of someone teetering between predator and human.

You just smiled, tilting your head, the glitter of your piercings catching the light. Jeweled rings along your ear cartilage, studs through your nostrils, tiny hoops hugging your helix, the faint shine of metal at your brow—your skin was a constellation of decoration. To Jack, it was clutter. To you, it was expression.

“Of course it’s necessary,” you said sweetly, holding up a small plastic case. The tongue bar you had bought gleamed inside, brand new. “I already bought the jewelry, see? All you have to do is… well, what you always do.”

Jack’s head tilted slightly. He didn’t move closer. “You have enough holes in your body to whistle when the wind blows. Do you really think poking another one into your tongue will make a difference?”

You grinned, leaning forward with your hands on your knees. “Yes. And it’ll look hot.”

Jack let out a sharp exhale—half laugh, half snarl. “Pointless.”

“Not pointless,” you corrected quickly. “Decorative. Expressive. And…” You licked your lips deliberately, letting the words linger. “…functional.”

That made him pause. His empty sockets locked on you, unreadable but heavy in their focus. His arms dropped, and he moved slowly toward the table. The air shifted when he drew close, his tall frame blotting out the glow of the lamp for a moment, the scent of him—earthy, deep, cold—settling over you.

“You’re going to waste my time on this,” he said flatly.

You gave him your most innocent smile. “Oh, come on. You’ve done worse for less.”

His lip curled faintly, showing the edge of a sharp tooth. “What’s in it for me?”

Your legs stilled their swing. You leaned back on your hands, tilting your chin up to meet his height, trying your best not to be intimidated. “I’ll owe you one.”

Jack’s expression stayed hard, but his shoulders shifted with the faintest tension. “A debt?” His voice wrapped around the word like a vice.

“Mhm,” you hummed. “I’ll do something for you, whatever you want. One favor. Anything.”

He leaned closer, his stern face inches from yours now, his sockets boring into you. His lips were pale, his jaw lined with faint stubble. Up close, you could see the fading scar tissue from old wounds, a road map of violence and endurance etched into his skin. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “You’re willing to trade freedom for something this trivial?”

You shrugged. “It’s not trivial to me. And you wouldn’t waste a favor. I trust you.”

That gave him pause. His gaze lingered on your face, your piercings, your mouth. Slowly, he reached out, fingers brushing the small plastic case from your hand, examining the barbell inside. He scoffed at it. He clicked the lid shut again and glanced back at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” you teased, letting your tongue peek past your lips in demonstration. “But I’ll look even cooler when you’re done. I’ve already brushed my teeth and used mouthwash and everything. Admit it—you like the thought.”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. He set the case on a tray beside his tools, and you caught the faintest trace of hunger in the way his head tilted, sockets locked on your mouth like he could already imagine the glint between your teeth.

Jack dropped onto the battered stool with the weight of someone already tired of you, his knees spreading as he dragged the rolling tray at his side closer. Metal clinked faintly as he laid out his tools—forceps, clamps, a sterile needle, a small glass vial of antiseptic. His long, scarred fingers moved with steady precision, each item cleaned and arranged in its proper place. He pulled two latex gloves from a container, sliding them on and popping the band against his wrists. The basement air carried the sharp bite of disinfectant, faintly undercut by the copper tang that seemed to cling to everything Jack owned.

You watched with your chin propped in your hand, swinging your legs idly off the edge of the examination table. “You know, you’re a lot more careful with piercings than you are with organs,” you teased.

Jack didn’t look up. “Organs don’t scream when you botch it.”

You laughed, and his gloved fingers stilled for just a beat before moving again. He picked up the plastic case you’d brought, flipping it open to glance at the tiny barbell inside, then set it aside like it barely mattered.

Finally, he pushed the tray forward and looked at you. “Tongue,” he said simply.

You blinked, leaning back a little. “Right now?”

His sockets narrowed—if they could. “What did you think this was? Story time?” He stood, the stool creaking behind him, and crossed to you in two long strides. His hand came up suddenly, rough but controlled, clawed fingers catching your jaw. “Don’t tell me you’re getting shy now.”

Your lips parted on instinct under the pressure of his grip, breath caught in your throat. He tilted your head back slightly, coaxing your mouth open with a faint press of his thumb against your chin.

“Tongue,” he repeated, lower now, with a rasp that left no room for argument.

You obeyed, sticking your tongue out slowly, hesitantly. Jack leaned down, face close, his sharp features illuminated by the lamp’s harsh glow. He held you steady, sockets fixed on the wet muscle, studying the anatomy with detached precision. His other hand came up, thumb and forefinger bracing your tongue gently at the tip, pulling it forward just a little further.

The cool latex of his glove brushed against your lips, the faint taste of sterile powder blooming on your tastebuds.

He hummed low in his throat, tilting his head as if mapping invisible lines. “You’ve got enough thickness. No major veins in the way. It’ll take a bar.” He let your tongue slip free, wet with spit, and straightened again.

Reluctantly, he gave a short nod. “It’ll work.”

You grinned triumphantly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Knew it.”

Jack rolled the stool toward the tray, muttering, “Stupidest thing I’ve agreed to all week.”

Jack rolled the stool forward until his knees brushed the edge of the table, slotting himself right between your legs. The tray clattered softly as he pulled it closer, then reached up to angle the lamp until the harsh white light spilled down over your face, highlighting every flicker of unease.

Eye to eye now, his ruined features filled your view—fluttered scars twisting over sharp cheekbones, the raw darkness of his sockets locked onto you. Close enough that you could smell his cologne as it tried to overpower the musk of him.

Your pulse picked up. Adrelaine. Yeah, yeah.

Jack didn’t care for your nerves. He dipped the slender barbell into a dish of sterilizing liquid, tapping it once against the rim before setting it neatly aside. Then his hand closed around the clamp, cold steel gleaming under the lamp.

You shifted, breath catching. “That’s—big,” you murmured, eyeing the prongs.

Jack’s mouth tugged faintly, not quite a smile. “You don’t say.”

He lifted the clamp off the tray and leaned in, his palm finding your jaw with firm familiarity, tilting your head just so. His thumb brushed along the edge of your chin, coaxing. “Open up.”

You hesitated for a heartbeat, then parted your lips, the heat of your breath misting faintly against the glove. Your tongue slid out, tentative, trembling just slightly under the weight of his stare.

“Good,” he muttered, almost distracted, adjusting the lamp angle one more time. The clamp clicked lightly in his other hand as he brought it up, the metal chilled even in the warm basement air.

Your hands hovered, restless—then, almost on instinct, you reached forward, grabbing onto the hard muscle of his shoulders. His shirt stretched under your grip as you braced, knuckles whitening.

Jack barely glanced at you, but the sockets lingered on your face for a moment before dropping back to the task. “You’ll live,” he rasped. And with calm precision, he settled the clamp around your tongue, locking the flesh into place. The cold bite of steel made your stomach swoop. Your tongue strained slightly against it, but his hand kept your jaw steady, immovable.

He swabbed your tongue with antiseptic, the cool sting spreading across the soft muscle, then angled the clamp a little tighter. The bite of pressure made your throat bob.

“Hold still,” he murmured, low and even, as if this were nothing more than stitching a wound or setting a bone. To him, maybe it was.

Your fingers dug harder into his shoulders. He didn’t flinch, didn’t complain—just kept his focus on the tiny spot he’d marked. His gloved hand shifted minutely, keeping your jaw steady, and with his other hand, he raised the long piercing needle.

The sight of it hovering made your stomach twist. You whimpered through your stretched tongue, body tense.

“Relax,” Jack said. The rasp in his voice was strangely grounding, rough but steady. “You’ll make this harder on yourself if you fight it.”

You tried—really tried—but when your tongue twitched, saliva spilled messily over your lip, sliding down your chin. Your face went hot instantly.

“God—sorry,” you mumbled around the clamp, humiliated.

Jack’s thumb brushed along your jaw again, firm, not unkind. “It’s normal,” he said simply. “Stop worrying about it. Focus.”

The lamp’s heat bore down, sweat slicking the back of your neck. And then the cold edge of the needle touched the top of your tongue. For a heartbeat, everything in you screamed not to let him. But Jack’s hands were steady, immovable, his face unreadable as he pressed.

The burn was sharp, white-hot as the needle slid through the meat of your tongue. Your entire body jolted. A groan tore out of your chest, muffled and shaky, as you clung to his shoulders like a lifeline. Jack’s grip on your jaw held you firm. “Almost there,” he muttered, calm in the face of your panic. He threaded the barbell through the other end quickly, efficient, then secured the ball at the end with a careful twist of his fingers.

The pressure was gone, but the ache throbbed hot and deep. Your breath shuddered out in a whine, tongue swollen, drool still slicking your lip.

Jack finally lowered the clamp, tugging it free with a clean snap. His gloves adjusted your chin once more, tipping your head so the light caught his work.

“Done,” he said. Just like that. No drama, no softness—only that steady, quiet certainty.

The sting lingered like fire on your tongue, radiating down your jaw and into your throat. You winced, trying to lift a sleeve to wipe at the mess smeared along your chin—but before you could, Jack’s gloved hand was already there, brisk and practiced as he swiped away the drool with a sterile pad.

Your cheeks burned hotter. “I—”

“Don’t move,” Jack cut in, tossing the pad aside. His hand returned to your jaw, thumb pressing with controlled pressure to tilt your chin. “Open.”

You obeyed, sticking your tongue out again despite the raw ache.

Jack leaned closer, eye sockets shadowed under the lamp’s glow. His gaze sharpened on the small bar now settled through your flesh. For a rare moment, a smile tugged at his lips—subtle, fleeting, but proud.

“Hm,” he muttered, satisfied.

Then, just as quickly, his expression hardened again. He released your chin with a scoff and snapped your jaw shut with a firm push of his fingertips.

You swallowed around the throb, ears burning. “…Thanks. And, uh—sorry for, you know—” you gestured vaguely to the wet spot on your shirt where drool had seeped down onto your chest. Finally, you eased your grip from his shoulders, realizing just how hard you’d been holding him. Jack straightened on his stool, tugging his gloves off with quick flicks. “You owe me,” he said flatly, though his tone carried a hint of amusement under the gravel. “And don’t think getting it done here means I’m not keeping an eye on it.”

You blinked at him, still lightheaded from adrenaline. “…Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Jack continued, dropping the gloves onto the tray with a snap, “you’ll come find me every two weeks. I’ll check the healing. If you screw this up, I’ll take it out myself. Understood?”

Your heart hammered, but you nodded quickly, tasting metal as your tongue roved against the new barbell. “Understood.”

── .✦

Every two weeks, like clockwork, you found yourself back in Jack’s basement clinic. At first it had been strictly business: you’d shuffle in, he’d grumble about you having too much metal in your face already, and then he’d tilt your chin up under that harsh lamp, checking for swelling, infection, proper healing. He always worked with the same efficiency—sterilized gloves, cotton pads, a tray of instruments laid out in neat rows.

But something had shifted.

The third visit, when he asked to see your tongue, he didn’t just glance. He hooked two clawed fingers into your mouth without warning, tugging your tongue out between your lips. His cool tone didn’t match the sharp tensing of his jaw.

“Still alive. Guess you didn’t manage to ruin it yet,” he muttered, peering down at the barbell. Then he smirked faintly, tugging your tongue just a little harder before letting go. You’d coughed, cheeks hot, but the memory of his latex covered claws brushing your lips had stuck with you for days.

By the fourth check-in, you were starting to notice the way your pulse picked up when he called you down. Jack always phrased it like an obligation—“basement, now,” or “let me see it.” His voice was steady, exasperated even, but the fact that he remembered, that he insisted on you coming to him, left a quiet warmth knocking in your chest.

The room itself had grown familiar. The low ceiling, the cracked linoleum floor under your shoes. The old exam table you always perched on, cool leather biting through your clothes. It should have been cold, clinical, even unsettling—yet with Jack there, it felt like a fun routine.

Sometimes, during the check, he’d taunt you.

“You really begged for this? For what—so you can lisp when you talk?” he scoffed once, his claws pressing insistently at your jaw until your mouth fell open. You rolled your eyes around the barbell, only for him to slide two fingers inside and tug at your tongue.

You’d made a muffled sound, half protest, half laugh. Jack raised an eyebrow, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t tell me you actually like this,” he said. His tone was teasing, but his grip was firm, keeping you there as he inspected the piercing. When he finally let go, the absence left you oddly empty, craving the contact again.

By the fifth visit, you’d stopped thinking of it as just a check-up. You found excuses to linger, kicking your feet idly against the exam table as you made conversation. Jack would sigh, pretending to be annoyed, but he didn’t send you away. Sometimes he even responded—short, dry comments that still gave you more than you expected from him.

“You keep coming back like this is a social call,” he said once, cleaning off his instruments. His tone was flat, but his sockets flicked to you in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Maybe I like it here,” you replied softly.

Jack huffed, tossing the cloth aside. “Then you’re stranger than I thought.” But he didn’t tell you to leave. Instead, he reached for your chin again, thumb brushing your bottom lip before sliding a claw between your teeth.

The dynamic was shifting, and you both knew it. What had started as a compromise—your insistence on getting a tongue piercing, his reluctant professionalism—was twisting into something else. You weren’t just there for the piercing anymore. You wanted him. His sharp comments, his cool hands, his claws tugging your mouth open. Even the sound of his voice, gruff and unimpressed, had become something you looked forward to. And though Jack wouldn’t admit it out loud, he’d grown used to you, too. He remembered your schedule better than you did. He always called you down before you could forget. He still rolled his eyes when you smiled at him, but there was no hiding the fact that he wanted you there, perched on his table with your lips parted, waiting for his hands.

── .✦

Your shoes thudded lightly against the concrete as you hopped down the narrow steps into Jack’s basement clinic, the sound echoing faintly in the low, cool space. You knew the way by heart now—the dim light bulb swaying gently overhead, the constant tang of antiseptic laced with something older, iron and copper. The hum of Jack’s equipment filled the quiet like a low drone.

You bounded the last step, a little too eager, and caught sight of him at his workbench. He looked more tense tonight, the sharp lines of his jaw and the pale shadows under his hollow sockets illuminated by the lamplight. He looked up, and though his face was unreadable, something in his posture told you he’d been expecting you.

“Back again?” he muttered, voice gravel low.

“Yeah,” you said, grinning as you hopped onto his exam table like it was your seat. You leaned forward slightly, tongue pressing against your teeth before you stuck it out, showing off the piercing. The little jeweled ball glinted as you rolled it, pinning it between your teeth. “See? All healed.”

Jack’s gaze tracked the movement, expression flat, but his attention heavy. He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

You did another little trick, pushing the bar back and forth with your tongue, hoping to get a reaction. When he still didn’t speak, you tilted your head. “…What?”

Jack finally leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely. “What are you doing?”

The words dropped like a brick hitting metal. Not curious, not amused—an interrogation. You blinked, suddenly aware of how your heart had sped up, of how much space you were taking on the table. The piercing didn’t need to be checked anymore. He didn’t need to see it. Your throat went dry.

“I—” You closed your mouth quickly, tongue pressing against the back of your teeth. The little ball clicked softly.

Jack stood slowly, the scrape of his stool against the floor loud in the silence. He crossed the room with loud steps until he stood over you. Then, with one swift motion, he stepped between your knees, caging you in against the edge of the table. His height loomed, the lamp light shadowing the sharp planes of his face.

You swallowed hard, but didn’t move.

Jack tilted his head, sockets narrowing slightly as he studied you. “You’re not here for the piercing anymore,” he said flatly. Your breath caught. He didn’t phrase it as a question, but still waited. You opened your mouth, searching for something to say—but all that came out was a shaky exhale.

Your gaze flicked downward, just for a second, to his hand. You hadn’t meant to look. But you did.

That was all he needed.

His fingers flexed at his side, claws catching the lamplight. He leaned in, voice low and steady as a blade pressed to skin. “Are you really here so I’ll put my fingers in your mouth?”

You sat frozen, his shadow stretching over you, swallowing you whole. Jack’s presence was suffocating—broad shoulders tense, his stance planted like he wasn’t going to let you slip past. Your eyes flicked down his frame despite yourself: the way his shirt clung to his chest, the way his hands flexed at his sides, claws catching the faint light. Your legs swung restlessly at the edge, nervous energy spilling out in small movements. The sound of your legs creaking against the table echoed in the low-ceilinged room.

Then, without warning, Jack’s hand shot out. His fingers closed firmly around your knee, halting the swing. The grip wasn’t cruel, but it was final. He leaned closer, face dipping into your space until you could see every scar etched into his pale skin, every twitch of tension in his jaw.

The air in your chest stilled.

“I—It was an accident,” you blurted, the excuse stumbling out clumsy, weak. You shifted on the table like you might hop down, flee past him, but his looming frame blocked the way entirely.

Jack tilted his head, studying you like he was dissecting a specimen. The sockets of his eyes, hollow and unblinking, were unbearable at this distance. His voice came low, rough as gravel.

“Open.”

The single word cut through you, sharp and uncompromising. You froze, lips pressed together. For a second, neither of you moved. The silence stretched taut.

Then your resolve cracked. Slowly, cautiously, you parted your lips.

Jack’s other hand lifted, claws glinting faintly as he reached up. His touch wasn’t gentle—his fingers gripped your chin, angling your jaw just how he wanted it. The pads of his claws brushed against the sensitive edge of your lips, pressing into the soft skin as he held you open, testing the weight of your obedience. Your breath shuddered, warm against his knuckles.

He pressed against your lips, pulling them apart just enough to expose the faint gleam of the piercing ball against your teeth. He held you there, hovering close, the sharp curve of his mouth tugged into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more like a smirk laced with disdain.

“It’s funny,” he murmured, his voice low, edged in mockery. “All that metal in your skin for attention, and you still get nervous the minute someone looks at you too long.”

Heat rushed to your face, but you stayed still, his grip on your chin firm.

He leaned in closer, sockets locking onto your eyes. “What’s the matter? You came all the way down here just to sit on my table, show off, and now you can’t even keep your mouth open?”

Your pulse drummed in your ears. You wanted to look away, to escape his hold, but his claws dug faintly into your jaw, tilting your face so you had no choice but to look at him.

Jack dragged the tip of one claw lightly along your bottom lip, tugging it down. “Embarrassed?” he asked, voice a taunt. “Or are you waiting for me to do all the work for you? Like always.”

The weight of his words, the pressure of his hand—it made your whole body tense. You wanted to answer, but your throat had locked tight. Instead, your tongue slipped forward on instinct, the silver barbell catching the light as you stuck it out, trembling under his gaze.

Jack didn’t move. He only watched, unblinking. Waiting.

Your breath hitched. Then, nervously, you leaned into the touch of his claws, letting the wet heat of your tongue drag across the tips. Only then did he push. His fingers slipped into your mouth, firm and unrelenting, sliding over your tongue until you gagged softly around the intrusion. His sockets narrowed, his smirk deepening as his claws rested heavy against your tongue.

“That’s better,” he muttered, voice low and cruelly amused. “Finally figuring out how this works.”

Your breath hitched around the weight of his fingers, the taste of him hitting your tongue—sweat and chemicals clinging to his skin, but beneath it something rawer, him. It wasn’t gloves this time. It wasn’t clinical. It was his bare hand, his claws heavy against your lips, and you couldn’t stop yourself from trembling as your tongue moved around him.

Jack angled his head, sockets narrowing in a mockery of focus. “Mm. I should check the barbell,” he drawled, his tone mocking the professionalism he usually wore like armor. His fingers flexed, pressing down on your tongue, the pad of one claw nudging the cool metal of the piercing. He rubbed against it once, twice, as if inspecting his own work.

But then his hand didn’t retreat.

Instead, he pushed deeper.

The intrusion made your throat seize, spit slicking his fingers instantly as you gagged around him, eyes watering. Your hand shot forward on instinct, gripping his shoulders like the first time—digging into the fabric of his shirt as if he were your anchor.

Jack’s sockets flicked down at your hands, and a laugh—a low, rasping thing—escaped him. “Relax,” he murmured.

He dragged his fingers out slow, saliva stretching in long strings from your lips to his knuckles. Your chest heaved, gasping for breath. Then, without hesitation, he shoved them back in. Deeper.

Your whole body jolted, thighs squeezing tight against the edge of the table as his claws pressed on your tongue, his knuckles pushing against your teeth. You gagged again, the sound muffled and wet, and he watched every second of it.

“Messy,” he taunted, pulling out again, only to thrust them back in, his pace relentless, cruel. “Listen to yourself. You think you’d be used to it by now.”

Your spit coated his fingers, glistening under the lamplight as it dribbled down your chin. He moved them with purpose now, dragging in and out of your mouth like he was fucking it, each thrust pressing deeper into your throat. You whimpered, nails curling tighter into his shoulders, body arching helplessly under the rhythm.

Jack tilted his head, sockets fixed on your face, on the tears brimming in your eyes, on the sound of your wet, gagging breaths. His lips curled in that faint, cruel smile.

“Good,” he rasped, his voice thick with mockery, but low with something heavier. “Have you had enough to satisfy yourself?”

Jack let his claws drag slow through the air, holding the soaked fingers up between you like he was displaying evidence. His sockets narrowed in cruel amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching with a grin.

You coughed, your chest hitching as you caught your breath, spit smeared on your chin. For a moment you could only stare at him, wide-eyed, stunned. Then your lips parted, voice weak, trembling. “You’re so mean.”

The laugh that rumbled out of him was low, dark—pleased. He leaned closer, sockets shadowing your face as he rasped, “Mean, huh? Funny… your body doesn’t seem to think so.” He inhaled, a sharp sound through his nose, and his grin widened. “You’re excited. I can smell it on you. You can play coy all you want, but your body always tells the truth.”

Your stomach twisted, heat crawling through your veins.

Before you could respond, Jack’s clean hand hooked under your knee. With a rough jerk, he dragged you forward on the table until your thighs wrapped around his hips. The movement made you gasp, and then you froze—because the thick, unmistakable bulge of him pressed into your hip through his jeans. He didn’t move away. He pressed harder, pinning you there like prey.

Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling quickly as your eyes flicked up to him. His soaked fingers still hung in front of you, spit dripping down his knuckles. Your gaze lingered on them, shame and hunger colliding, until your hand shot out. You grabbed his wrist.

Jack let you—watched you—his sockets unreadable, his body still and tense.

You pulled his hand toward you, guiding the spit-slick fingers back between your lips. The taste of yourself and him filled your mouth, thick and salty, as you pushed them in deeper, willingly this time.

His sockets widened just slightly, then his other hand came up in a sharp, decisive motion. His claws clamped around your jaw, tilting your head up to him. He forced you to meet his eyeless stare as he shoved his fingers down, pressing deep into your throat without hesitation. Your body jerked, a gag ripping out of you, tears instantly springing to your eyes. His grip on your jaw tightened, claws pricking your skin as he leaned over you, hissing, “That’s it. Take it. Show me just how bad you wanted this.”

Your legs locked tighter around his hips, clinging, trembling, your hands sliding up his shoulders for balance as he mouth-fucked you with his fingers, grinding into you with the same cadence. Jack’s hips rolled, slow at first, then harder, grinding his cock against the heat of your clothed core. The pressure lined up right where it needed to, his thickness pressing into you with every shift. You bucked your hips to meet him, chasing friction shamelessly even as your throat was stretched around his fingers.

The noise you made was guttural—half moan, half gag—as his knuckles bent and pressed lower. He shoved down on your tongue, forcing your jaw open wider, until he slipped past that tight clutch at the back of your throat. The intrusion was brutal, making your entire body jolt. Tears streaked hot down your cheeks as you gagged around him, spit bubbling and pouring from the corners of your lips. You instinctively jerked your head back, but his grip on your jaw held you still, causing you to cough roughly around the digits.

Jack hissed through his sharp teeth, pulling back for a beat, watching you sputter and drool. A slow smile twisted across his scarred mouth. “Messy little thing,” he murmured, almost to himself, voice thick with satisfaction. “Is this all you can handle? Surely not.”

But he wasn’t pulling away. If anything, he leaned closer, his looming form crowding every inch of your space. You could feel the grind of his bulge against you, the heat radiating through his jeans, the sharp prickle of his claws holding your jaw steady.

And then you realized how close his lips were to yours.

He inhaled, sockets narrowing, and the corners of his mouth curled as something inhuman stirred. From between his lips, his tongues slipped out—three slick, long, dark appendages. They writhed lazily, tasting the air, one curling over his bottom lip, another licking slow across the corner of his mouth. He let you see them. Let you hear the wet sound of his tongues flicking over his own skin, tracing the sheen of your spit that still clung to his hand. His sockets burned down at you, watching the way your body quivered as you moaned around his fingers. One tongue dragged along his lip, tasting the place where his grin ended. Another curled upward, so close you could almost feel it brush your cheek.

Your hips moved on their own—grinding harder, sharper, desperate for friction. Jack groaned low in his chest, the sound rumbling deep, vibrating against your lips where his fingers still stretched your mouth. His sockets narrowed, hungry, as if your writhing only confirmed something he already knew.

And then—he withdrew. His fingers slid out, leaving your tongue slick and aching. You barely had a chance to gasp before something else replaced them.

Wet heat. Heavy, overwhelming.

One of his tongues pushed past your lips, then another, until all three were sliding into your mouth in a seamless, fluid invasion. They filled the space his fingers left, but deeper, longer, stronger. Jack’s clawed hand clamped around your jaw, forcing your mouth wide as his tongues shoved further down your throat. You gagged immediately, throat convulsing around the intrusion, spit gushing down your chin as your body jolted against him.

He groaned at the sensation, his hips grinding harder, cock dragging over your arousal through layers of clothes. His other hand hooked behind your knee again, yanking you forward so your core was flush with the heavy bulge in his pants. Each roll of his hips pressed harder, made your nerves spark hotter, your legs trembling around his waist.

Your hands shot up—gripping his hair, desperate for purchase, tugging at the dark strands as if you could ground yourself. His hair was coarse, thick, and your nails scratched his scalp, but he only growled against you, tongues writhing deeper.

You felt everything. Each tongue moved differently—one pressing flat and heavy against your pierced tongue, flicking at the metal barbell, another tracing the roof of your mouth, and the last sliding down, teasing the back of your throat mercilessly. They roved every inch, tasting, testing, mapping you out as though he’d claim every corner of your mouth for himself.

Your gagging only seemed to fuel him, his grip on your jaw bruising as he forced you to take more, his body grinding harder into yours. His groans slipped into low chuckles, muffled around his own writhing tongues as he pushed you deeper into submission.

But just as quickly as he pushed them in, he pulled them right back out.

Jack grumbled, retracting them slowly, leaving your mouth slick and overstimulated. Both of you were panting, breaths ragged, your chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips glistened with saliva as he licked along them, catching stray dribbles of your spit. You swallowed, throat still sore, and your hand brushed your own hair out of your face.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” you gasped, voice shaky, eyes wide.

Jack cut you off with a low, guttural growl. “Your debt,” he rasped, leaning closer. His voice was hard, no room for argument. “Remember? You wanted this piercing. Said you’d do anything for me if I gave it to you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. Heat pooled between your legs, body trembling with anticipation and fear.

“I’m cashing in,” he continued, dragging a clawed hand down your side, fingers smearing the spit on your chin, pressing you back against the edge of the table before tugging you forward. “I want it now.”

Before you could fully process, he was shifting you off the table, hands firm on your shoulders as he shoved you down onto your knees. You hit the floor with a hard thud, legs spread slightly as he loomed over you. His intensity was almost palpable, his cock pressing against his hip through his jeans.

“I want this favor to be you,” he said, voice low and sharp, “I want to feel that tongue. I want to feel your piercing. I want to feel warmth,” he growled, stepping closer until his bulge was level with his face.

Your breath caught in your chest. His hand gripped your hair, holding your head steady, and with the other, he fumbled at his belt frantically, ripping it open. He tore at the button of his jeans, shoving the fabric down until his boxers came with it, his cock springing free.

Jack’s cock was thick, pale against the dim light of the basement, veins standing out sharply along the shaft. You knew he was big, could feel him when he ground against you, but this was absurd. The tip glistened slightly with pre, catching the overhead lamp’s glow, and the way it throbbed with each shift of his hips made it clear how impatient he was. A dark shadow of pubic hair framed the base, and the sheer tautness of the skin along the shaft made your heart hammer. He was twitching with every breath he took.

“Can’t wait another second,” he muttered, low and rough, leaning his weight toward you. His gaze bore into yours as he growled, each word a command, “Take it. Now.”

Jack didn’t give you a second to adjust. One hand wrapped firmly around the base of your skull, the other under your jaw, and with a single shove he forced the head of his cock past your lips, past your teeth, until the tip hit the back of your throat. You gagged instantly, eyes watering, body jerking against the sudden, merciless intrusion. He was so big, having to strain your jaw to fit all of what he was trying to push inside. Instinctively, your hands shot out, gripping his thighs for purchase, nails digging into the taut muscles. Every inch of him pressed into you, slick heat brushing against your tongue piercing with each shallow shift.

Jack hissed low, a rough, wet sound, as he leaned forward, pressing his weight down. “Fuck… that’s good,” he groaned, voice vibrating deep in his chest. “So warm… that piercing—Jesus… it’s perfect.”

You swallowed around him, feeling the metal bar on your tongue press against the vein along his cock. Heat and friction radiated up, making your thighs quiver. Your mouth watered, gagging again as he adjusted slightly, pressing deeper.

Jack’s lips parted over a hiss, and he leaned down to talk down to you. “You’ve convinced me. I do like it. A lot.”

Then he started to move. Not slow. Not gentle. He began bucking into your throat, each thrust forcing your jaw open wider, your tongue stretched over his length. You gagged and cried, strained, muffling sobs into him, while he kept his grip firm, hollow gaze boring into your tear filled eyes.

“You like that, don’t you?” he taunted, voice low and cruel. “Like taking it deep… like having your little mouth played with.”

Your throat burned, saliva pooling in your mouth, but you clung to his thighs tighter, grinding your piercing against the thick vein with every desperate thrust. Jack groaned again, hissing as he pressed further, cock sliding in and out, bucking hard. “Look at you… choking for me… good little thing,” he mocked, reveling in the way your body reacted, every gag, every tear, every shuddering breath.

You could barely think—just feel the heat, the pressure, the weight of him forcing you to take him, your tongue pressed to every ridge, every vein, every slick surface.

Jack’s hips bucked hard against you, merciless, driving himself as deep as he could into your throat. Your gagging was muffled, choking sounds spilling around him as he fucked you with no hesitation, no mercy. Every inch of his cock stretched your mouth, pressing the barbell on your tongue against thick veins and ridges, making your eyes water and your chest heave.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d started, he pulled out entirely, letting you gasp, cough, sputtering for air. Your lips were slick, throat sore, and your tongue burned from the raw feel of him. Jack didn’t give you time to recover. One hand wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking fast, slick sounds filling the basement. His other hand yanked on your hair, tilting your head back toward him.

“Stick it out,” he growled, low and vicious.

You coughed, trying to catch your breath, weakly asking, “J-just a second—”

“No. Open,” he snarled, jerking your hair harder. The growl in his throat made your knees shake, your body responding even as you tried to protest.

You did as he commanded, opening your lips and sticking your tongue out. The cool barbell gleamed wetly under the lamp, saliva sliding down it, pooling at the tip. Jack pressed the slit at the head of his cock against the piercing, tapping it, testing the metal against the sensitive underside of your tongue. Your eyes widened at the pressure, mouth quivering, and you felt the first slick bead of precum warm your tastebuds, rolling down and dripping into your mouth.

Jack cursed low, throat vibrating as he adjusted, pressing harder. “Fuck… feels so good,” he muttered, eyes dark and hungry. His strokes accelerated, slick hand pumping, cock rubbing against your barbell, teasing and testing every nerve. You let your tongue flick and slide, teasing the head of his cock. The jeweled ball pressed against the sensitive underside of his tip, rolling and tapping as you circled the slit with the tip of your tongue, dragging it across, swirling around the crown. The warmth of him, slick with precum, coated your mouth, mixing with the shine of your saliva.

Jack’s hips stuttered, groaning low as he stroked himself in time with your movements. His hand pumped fast, fingers tight around the base, while his cock rode the rhythm of your tongue. Every flick, every press of the barbell against his slit, made him hiss and curse, the sound rough and intoxicating in your ears.

“You like that, don’t you?” he rasped, leaning down so the only thing you could see was the expanse of his body, his snarled face. “Taking it all for me… can’t get enough, can you, little whore?”

You shivered around him, lips slick and quivering, the barbell dragging teasingly over the sensitive flesh. He grunted, jerking harder as he watched you, brows knotted with concentration. “I’m gonna fill that pretty mouth,” he growled, voice low and rough, “Do you hear me? And you’re gonna drink it all.”

The words, harsh and commanding, made your stomach clench. Your tongue moved faster, swirling, flicking, dragging the metal against his slit over and over. Jack groaned again, bucking slightly against your mouth, hand moving faster over his cock, body rigid with overstimulation.

“Fuck… yes,” he cursed, throat vibrating. “Such a filthy little thing… so nasty… should give you more of those stupid little piercings…”

Jack’s body tensed violently, his hips stuttering as he snarled low in his throat, a sharp, guttural warning. “Fuck… I’m going to—” His voice broke into ragged growls, and your tear-soaked eyes locked onto his yawning sockets, wide and pleading, your chest heaving from exertion.

The first hot, slick string of cum hit your tongue, the warmth making your stomach clench as it coated the barbell. Before you could even react, he pressed back in, slamming his cock deep into your throat with no hesitation, pushing every inch past your gag reflex. Your mouth stretched impossibly wide, jaw trembling, as he groaned and cursed over you.

Jack didn’t relent. One hand gripped your hair tightly, tilting your head just so, while the other hooked a thumb into the corner of your mouth, forcing your jaw open further. Pain and overstimulation collided, making your body spasm involuntarily. You groaned, choked, and gagged around him, desperately trying to swallow, keep up, drink down every shot of searing cum into your throat.

Every thrust pressed you flush against his abdomen, your nose flush with the patchy hair there, the scent of him overwhelming, addictive. You shuddered, trembling as your own taste mixed with his, your tongue rolling across the barbell as you drank him down, swallowing whatever you could.

Jack’s grunts and growls filled your ears, thick and hot, a constant pressure driving you crazy. Each pulse of his cock pressed deeper, pressing your throat against his abdomen, your lips coated in his warmth. He was relentless, riding your gagged attempts to take him fully, every movement of your tongue over the piercing drawing new sounds from him as you swallowed his cum.

“Good… good little whore,” he growled between harsh breaths, hissing as he slammed into you, “That’s it… all of it… swallow it all—good little mouth—”

Jack’s hips stuttered violently, every last pulse of his cock spilling over your tongue and lips, warm and thick. You gagged around him, eyes watering, body trembling as the strings of cum dribbled down, coating your barbell, teeth, and tongue. Finally, he pulled back, leaving your mouth filled and dripping. You gasped, heaving for air, tongue slick with him, trying to swallow and catch your breath. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy, glazed, every muscle trembling. You let go of his thighs—the only anchor keeping you upright—and sagged forward, but his grip on your head kept you from falling completely.

Jack sank to his knees before you, claws gripping the sides of your face, tilting you up as he leaned close. “So good,” he growled, voice low and rough. Without waiting for a response, he shoved his tongues past your lips, sliding deep into your mouth.

They twisted and pressed over your tongue, exploring every surface, pressing against the piercing, swirling around the slick mess of cum and saliva coating your mouth. You gagged and choked softly, but your body couldn’t resist, hips shifting instinctively against him even though he wasn’t pressed against your core anymore. Jack’s sockets locked onto yours as he worked his tongues in and out, tasting himself over your tastebuds, a low, pleased growl vibrating through his chest. “Good,” he slurred, pulling you just a fraction closer, forcing your mouth wide, “Tastes good… you know it does.”

Your hands rested on his shoulders, trembling, barely able to keep your balance, mouth full of him, body on fire, utterly braindead.

Jack’s relentless tongues slowed, hesitating as if testing you, then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted. Instead of shoving further, his lips met yours. The kiss was sudden at first, heavy and demanding, but it quickly softened, losing the harsh urgency of him trying to consume your mouth. Your jaw ached, tongue burned, slick and overstimulated, and yet it pressed against him, tasting him still, as your hands slid up to either side of his face. He held you there, firm but gentle in contrast to the chaos moments before, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, thumbs grazing along the sides of your jaw. His sockets were dark and intense, but there was a softness there too, a tether anchoring the frenzy.

The kiss lingered, deep and wet, and your body shifted instinctively against him. The basement felt smaller somehow, shadows flickering across the walls from the lone lamp overhead, the smell of antiseptic and sweat mixing thickly with the lingering taste of you and him.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were panting, breaths ragged and hot, foreheads almost touching. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension in his shoulders, the lingering slickness of your mess.

Jack swiped a thumb across your lips, gathering the remnants of spit and cum, gaze scanning your flushed, messy face. His voice was low, rough, teasing but softer now, “Fuck… I don’t—I don’t know what got into me.”

You exhaled shakily, tasting him on your lips, voice breathy, “You… you’re impossible…”

He let a low chuckle rumble through his chest, thumb lingering against your lips, pressing gently. “Maybe those stupid little piercings aren’t the worst thing.”

You bite lightly on the ball of your tongue piercing, the metal pressing between your teeth as you give a lazy, tired smile. Jack huffs before you, chest rising and falling, the dark heat of him still lingering in your senses. You think for a moment, stirring the thought in your mind, then leaning close, you brush against his shoulder, voice soft and teasing as you whisper into the pointed edge of his ear, “I… I also have some on my nipples.” The words hang in the air, playful but loaded with intent.

For a moment, he freezes, sockets narrowing as if processing the information. Then a low, guttural growl rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your ear. You feel the shift instantly—his cock, already slick and warm, stiffens again, twitching freelyn between his legs, heavy and insistent. His claws against your head, and before you can blink, he lunges.

“Filthy thing.”

Chapter Text

Kate’s room was just like her: practical, cold, and unforgiving.

No decorations. No warmth. Just a neatly made bed shoved against the far wall, a desk cluttered with blades and cleaning supplies, and the faint copper stink of blood baked into the air. The only soft thing in the space was the worn rug underfoot—dark with stains you didn’t want to identify. It wasn’t a bedroom. It was a den, a war room, a place made to sharpen knives and plan kills.

And right now, it was your cage.

Your back slammed against the wall hard enough to crack the drywall and rattle the door on its hinges. Kate’s hand was buried in your hair, wrenching your head back so you couldn’t look anywhere but at her. The edge of her mask pressed into your cheek as she shoved close, close enough you could hear the ragged snarl of her breath through the filter. Her clothes were still soaked in blood from tonight’s mission, dark splatters painting her hoodie and streaking her jeans. Some of it wasn’t even dry yet—when she shoved her knee against yours, you swore you felt it smear.

“You think this is a fucking game?” Her voice cracked through the mask, muffled but vicious, her words hot against your lips. “I told you exactly what to do, and you hesitated. You froze. You let that bastard slip past you, and guess who had to clean it up? Guess who had to chase him down while you stood there useless?”

“I—I tried—” Your voice broke, your hands coming up instinctively to grab her wrist, to relieve the pressure on your scalp, but she yanked harder, tearing a whine from your throat.

“Don’t you dare say you tried.” She hissed it like venom, slamming you harder into the wall with the weight of her body. The drywall cracked behind your shoulder. “Trying doesn’t count out there. You either do it, or you don’t. And tonight, you didn’t.”

Her forehead pressed to yours, the cold mask biting into your skin as she pinned you with it, as if the sheer force of her fury could burn a hole through you. You could smell the blood on her, the metallic tang clinging to every inch of her clothes. The room felt too small, too heavy, the air buzzing with the heat of her rage.

“I trusted you.” Her voice dipped lower, dangerous, shaking with something deeper than just anger. “You’re the only one I ever trust to have my back. And you made me look like a fool.”

You swallowed hard, words catching in your throat. “Kate—please, I’m sorry. I’ll do better—”

She punched her fist into the wall beside your head, the sound cracking loud in the silent room. “Sorry doesn’t fix it. Sorry doesn’t stop me from seeing you choke when it mattered most.”

Her grip twisted tighter, the pain sharp and hot at your scalp, but what stung worse was the look in her eyes behind the dark eyeholes of her mask. You felt it—that burn of betrayal, of disappointment, of fury laced with something aching. Something that promised you weren’t getting out of this without scars, one way or another.

“Dammit,” she hissed.

Kate finally let go of your hair with a sharp shove that sent you off balance. She turned away fast, her boots pounding against the rug as she paced, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. The tension radiated off her like heat, coiling tighter with each step.

“Fuck!” she snarled, lashing out with her boot. The side of her bed creaked and scraped against the floorboards under the vicious kick, the frame rattling. Her shoulders heaved with each breath, hoodie sticking to her sweat-smeared skin.

“Kate, I’m sorry—” You pushed off the wall, taking a careful step toward her. Your hands lifted, reaching for her arm, her shoulder, anything, but the second your fingers brushed her sleeve, she snapped her arm out, shrugging you off like your touch burned.

“Don’t.” The word cracked out sharp, dangerous. “Don’t you fucking touch me right now.”

You froze, throat tight, watching her pace in that small, suffocating room. The silence between her words was worse than the shouting—the sheer weight of it pressed down until you thought your chest would cave.

You swallowed hard, trying again, softer this time. “Please… I didn’t mean to—”

Kate whipped around, her hands flying up to the straps of her mask. “Don’t you dare—”

The buckles snapped loose under her fingers, and then the mask was ripped off her face and hurled across the room. The heavy ceramic hit the wall with a violent crack, then clattered to the floor, rocking once before it stilled.

Her face, bare and raw, was flushed with rage. Her jaw clenched hard enough to ache, eyes blazing with betrayal that cut far deeper than any blade she carried.

“You don’t get it, do you?” she hissed, stepping closer, her voice breaking on the edge of something heavier than fury. “I don’t trust anyone. I don’t let anyone near me. And then I let you in—I let you be the one exception.” Her voice shook, teeth gritted as if she was holding herself together by threads. “Do you know what it costs me to do that? Do you have any fucking idea?”

Your chest caved with guilt, your hand twitching forward again, aching to soothe her. To hold her. To kiss away the venom in her voice. But when you leaned in, desperate to connect, to prove yourself, she shoved you back hard, palm smearing blood onto your cheek.

“You don’t get to kiss me like nothing happened. You don’t get to smooth this over.” Her lip curled, breathing heavy as she loomed over you. “You want my trust back? You’re going to earn it.”

Kate’s hoodie hit the floor with a wet slap, the fabric streaked and sticky as she tugged it over her head and tossed it aside. Underneath, she stood rigid, chest heaving, shoulders hard with muscle and tension. Her sports bra clung to her, dark with sweat, outlining every inch of her toned frame—abs cut sharp under the dim light, arms flexing as her fists clenched. She looked like violence carved into flesh, like anger incarnate, all wrapped up in a girl’s body.

Then her hands went for the buckle of her belt.

Your stomach lurched, eyes flicking from her face—sharp, furious, unrelenting—to the leather strap she was tugging loose. Panic and desire twisted together in your gut, and before she could rip it open herself, you surged forward, reaching for her hips.

Her eyes widened for a flash of a second, then narrowed. She let you grab it, let you fumble at the strap, but not before her hands slammed down onto your shoulders. She shoved you hard, and your knees cracked against the rug under you. Pain shot up your thighs, but you didn’t stop—you couldn’t. You scrambled closer, fingers clawing at her belt until it slid free of the loops with a metallic hiss. The belt landed with a dull thud to the side, forgotten, as your hands went immediately for the button of her jeans.

“Kate, please,” you whispered hoarsely, desperate, your voice cracking as you worked the button loose. “I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just… just forgive me. Please.”

Her zipper rasped down under your hands, her jeans loosening as you tugged at them frantically. You couldn’t look up—not when her shadow loomed over you, not when her chest rose and fell like she was seconds away from exploding. But you could feel her eyes burning into you, her rage tempered only by the sight of you on your knees, begging.

Your fingers trembled as you pushed the denim down her hips, the apology spilling from your lips again and again like a prayer.

Kate’s grip on your shoulders tightened, her nails biting through your shirt as she leaned down, her voice a low growl right against your ear, “You think getting on your knees is enough to fix this?”

Your hands shook as you reached down, fingers fumbling with the thick laces of Kate’s boots. The leather was stiff, crusted at the edges with mud and blood, and every knot you tugged free felt like an eternity with her standing above you, silent, seething.

“Look at you,” Kate finally rasped, voice sharp as broken glass. “Scrambling around like some dog. Think this fixes it?”

You whispered, “No…”—your voice small, cracked, barely more than a tremor—but your hands kept moving. If you couldn’t fix it with words, you’d do it with actions. You slid one boot off, then the other, careful, reverent even, as though this tiny act might cool the fire in her eyes.

She didn’t move, didn’t help, just watched you through clenched teeth, her jaw rigid as a blade.

When the boots were gone, your fingers found the waistband of her jeans, tugging at the denim, shimmying it down her strong thighs. Your breaths grew shallow, every inch of bare skin making your pulse thunder. Kate didn’t stop you, but she didn’t soften either—she let you do it, her control absolute, her silence deafening.

And then… her jeans slipped to the floor, pooling heavy around her ankles.

You froze.

Kate towered over you, sports bra hugging her chest, boxer briefs riding low on her hips. Your throat went dry at the sight of her thighs, at the sheer strength in her form, every muscle cut from tension and experience. The heat that shot through you made your whole body tremble.

Her laugh cut through the silence, low and mean. “You’re shaking.” She tilted her head, hair falling into her face as she stared down at you. “Pathetic.”

The word stung, but the sound of her voice made your knees dig deeper into the floorboards. If this was the only way she’d acknowledge you—if the only way to prove yourself to her was to be exactly where she wanted you, at her beck and call—you’d give yourself over entirely.

You bowed your head slightly, hands resting just shy of her thighs, your voice hoarse with need.

“Please, Kate… I’m sorry—” Your apology barely left your lips before Kate snapped.

“Shut the fuck up,” she hissed, her voice low and trembling—not with weakness, but with rage ready to boil over.

Her hand shot out, tangling into your hair, yanking your head back so sharp your gasp caught in your throat. She hauled you up from the floor, your knees scraping the wood, your body stumbling gracelessly to your feet. Before you could even steady yourself, she spun you hard, your back colliding with her chest, the solid wall of her body pressing flush against yours.

The world tilted as her arm snaked around your throat, locking you into a brutal headlock. The sound you made was strangled, your fingers immediately clawing at her forearm, nails scrabbling for purchase. Kate’s breath ghosted hot and furious against your ear, her jaw grinding against your temple as she wrenched you tighter against her.

“I’m sick of your fucking apologies,” she growled, every word vibrating through your spine. “Sick of how whiny you sound.”

Your lungs burned, your chest heaved against her hold, but before you could protest again, her free hand was at your hip. You barely registered the scrape of denim tearing until the violent sound rang in your ears—your jeans splitting open, button snapping under her brute force.

“Kate—” your voice broke, high and needy, as her fingers shoved down into your pants, slipping past your panties like they weren’t even there.

And then she froze.

Her palm was flat against your core, the slick heat of you undeniable. She curled her fingers, testing, dragging them slow and thick through your wetness until your thighs trembled and your breath hitched.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she snarled, half incredulous, half disgusted. Her grip around your throat tightened, forcing your back to arch as her fingers pressed deeper against your cunt. “You’re wet? Really?”

Your whimper escaped before you could bite it back, a pathetic sound muffled against the steel of her arm. Kate’s laugh was bitter, dark, edged with something dangerous.

“You like this,” she spat, voice low in your ear as her hand worked rougher, her nails scraping your thigh through the soaked fabric. “You like when I’m angry. You get off on me putting you in your fucking place.”

Her fingers shoved harder, knuckles grazing your entrance as you shook in her hold, choked whines spilling from your lips.

“You want punishment, huh?” Her words dripped like venom, her hand clamping around your cunt as her arm cinched tighter across your throat. “Fine. I’ll give you punishment you’ll never forget.”

Her fingers, once just testing, suddenly swiped across your clit in a brutal rhythm, fast and unrelenting. The shock ripped a strangled cry out of your throat, your body jolting alive like a livewire under her touch. Your knees buckled instantly, legs giving way as your whole body tried to fold in on itself—tried to get away from the overwhelming sensation.

But Kate held you locked tight, her forearm a bar across your throat, yanking your head back against her shoulder. “Don’t you dare fucking move,” she hissed, the words hot against your ear, venom dripping in every syllable.

You scrabbled at her arm, nails raking against her skin, your hips twisting, but all of it was useless. She was stronger. She was always stronger. Every frantic wriggle only made her fingers circle your clit faster, harder, until your thighs were quivering and tears pricked hot in your eyes.

“Pathetic,” Kate spat, pressing her face against your cheek, her breath searing. “Can’t even take this without falling apart. All that talk about being useful, and here you are—wet and whining like a fucking slut.”

Your whimper turned into a sob as your legs trembled beneath you, your weight dragging down, but Kate wasn’t finished. With a sharp growl, she shifted her stance, shoving one of her knees between your thighs. She kicked outward, forcing your legs apart wide and graceless, opening you up to her merciless hands. You barely had a chance to gasp before her slick fingers abandoned your clit and plunged deep, two at once, bullying inside your cunt with such force your whole body lurched forward in her hold.

“Ah—Kate!” your cry cracked, strangled as her arm cinched tighter against your throat.

“Shut up,” she barked, her fingers curling viciously inside you, pumping rough and unforgiving. “You don’t get to moan my name like you deserve me. You fucked up—you failed me—and now you’re gonna take every fucking second of this.”

Her thrusts were harsh, punishing, her palm grinding mercilessly against your clit with every shove. Your body was trembling, your head lolling back against her shoulder, your hands still weakly pawing at her arm as the wet, obscene sounds of her fingers inside you filled the room.

“Dripping all over me already,” Kate snarled, nipping at the shell of your ear with her teeth. “God, you’re so disgusting.”

Kate knew your body well. Too fucking well.

Her fingers drilled into you without mercy, each thrust angled perfectly to smash that spot deep inside, her palm grinding against your clit with every slam. It was ruthless, punishing—pleasure sharpened into pain until you were gasping, choking against her forearm as she kept you pinned. Your thighs knocked together helplessly, knees buckling, but Kate only hitched you tighter against her, her body a cage around yours. 

Her breath was hot and furious against your ear as her words slithered down your spine. “At least try and pretend you don’t like this. Your cunt’s squeezing me like you want to milk my fingers. You’re so easy it’s fucking embarrassing.”

You sobbed, twisting in her grip, your nails raking across the bare skin of her arm as you tried to wriggle away from the unbearable pace. “K-Kate, please—s-slow down, I can’t—”

Her arm cinched tighter around your throat, choking your plea into a strangled whimper. She pulled your head back against her shoulder until your vision spotted at the edges, her hand between your legs never faltering.

“No,” she hissed, the word a command and a promise all at once. Her fingers curled inside you, merciless, pounding that sweet spot until wet heat gushed over her knuckles and down your thighs. “You don’t get to tell me when. You don’t get to decide anything. You just take what I give you—understand?”

Your legs shook violently, the weight of your trembling body hanging in her grasp, your nails digging deeper into her arm as if clawing for air, for mercy. But Kate’s thrusts only grew rougher, harder, the wet slap of your cunt against her palm echoing through the room.

“Cry louder,” she taunted low, her lips brushing your temple, her voice a venomous whisper. “Scream for me—let the whole mansion hear what a useless, fucked-out mess you are when I get my hands on you.”

Kate could feel the way your body was seizing around her fingers, the desperate gush of slick soaking her knuckles. You were so close—right on the edge of snapping apart under her hand, and she knew it. That’s when she leaned in, her voice like poison poured straight into your ear. “Damn, you’re clamping down like a virgin. Might just have to fuck you nice and loose tonight, won’t I? Would you like that, brat?”

The filthy words ripped through you, your stomach flipping, pleasure cresting—until suddenly her fingers were gone, tugging out of your cunt altogether. You wailed, your whole body jolting in protest as your cunt clenched around nothing, release stolen. “N-no, Kate, please—please don’t do this, I was—”

Your begging cut off into a gag when she shoved her slick-coated fingers into your mouth, forcing them deep, hooking under your tongue until drool spilled past your lips. Her other arm stayed firm around your throat, keeping you in place as you sobbed around her digits.

“You whine too much,” she snarled, grinding her fingers across your tongue. “You want to cum? Then choke on your own mess.”

You gagged, tears streaming, trying to lick her fingers clean, muffled pleas spilling out as your whole body trembled from denial. Your cunt still pulsed, wet and aching, every nerve screaming for the orgasm she ripped away.

When she finally wrenched her fingers free, you gasped, babbling broken apologies, begging to be touched again. Kate just laughed, a low, cruel sound, before loosening her arm from around your neck. For a split second, you thought maybe she was softening—until her hand slammed flat between your shoulder blades, shoving you down. You hit the floor hard, chest against the carpet, your knees buckling underneath you. Kate towered above, her chest heaving, her shadow swallowing you whole.

She watched you as she peeled the waistband of her boxer briefs down her thighs slow, teasing, never breaking eye contact. She let them fall in a careless heap on the floor, then turned her back on you like you weren’t even worth acknowledging, striding toward the bed.

You knelt there, breath shuddering, tears still wet on your face as you followed her with your eyes. She sat down at the edge, posture loose, leaning back on her hands. 

When her thighs parted, your breath caught.

You turned on your knees without even thinking, your whole body angling toward her like a magnet. You wanted to speak, to say something to break the tension, but all you could do was watch. Then she lifted one finger—crooked it once.

“Come here.”

You scrambled, shifting your weight, ready to push yourself up—

“Ah-ah.” Her voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade. “Crawl.”

Your body froze. Shame and want burned through you in equal measure. Your lip trembled, but when she arched an eyebrow, daring you to disobey, you lowered yourself down. Hands pressed to the floor, knees dragging across the rug, you made your way toward her, every inch forward feeling like surrender.

Kate’s eyes were molten, following your every movement, her jaw tense. When you got close enough, she reached out, tangling her fingers in your hair again, stopping you just shy of her thighs. She forced your head up, making you look at her, making you feel how small you were on the floor while she sat back like a queen on her throne.

“Good,” she murmured, though there was nothing soft in it. “That’s the first smart thing you’ve done tonight.”

Kate’s hand tightened in your hair, nails scraping your scalp as she tilted your head back. She was studying your face, reading every crack in your expression.

“You still close?” she asked suddenly, voice sharp and mocking. “Still aching after I pulled my fingers out of you?”

Your lips parted, no sound coming at first—your throat too tight. Finally, a trembling whisper: “Y-yeah…”

Kate’s grin was wicked. “Hurts, doesn’t it? Hurts to have faith in someone to finish a job, only for them to fail you.” She tilted her head, peering down at you like you were no more than an ant under her boot. “That’s what happens when you put your trust in someone and they don’t follow through.”

The words carved into you worse than her grip on your hair. Your gaze dropped, shame flooding hot into your chest, and you felt yourself curl inward, shrinking before her.

Kate’s smile widened when she saw it—that flash of guilt she’d been digging for. She leaned down, so close her breath brushed your cheek. “See?” she whispered, voice dripping with venomous delight. “Now you get it.”

And then, without giving you a chance to process, she shoved your face down into her thighs. The musky heat of her hit you instantly, your nose buried against her, her slick brushing your lips before you even had time to inhale. You gasped against her, and Kate gave a satisfied groan, leaning back on her hands, tilting her hips forward like she was settling in for a performance.

“Eat,” she ordered flatly.

You obeyed immediately, your tongue pressing past her folds, sliding over her clit. She let out a sharp hiss and tugged your hair hard enough to sting, dragging your mouth tighter against her.

“That’s it,” she muttered, head tipping back, voice rough but edged with smugness. “Get to work.”

Her thighs flexed around your ears, her grip in your hair keeping you right where she wanted you as you licked, kissed, and sucked at her. Kate lounged back, one knee bouncing lazily, her other hand supporting her weight behind her as she leaned back. The image was obscene—like she was relaxing into the couch while you were nothing more than her toy.

Every time you tried to set your own pace, she’d jerk your head cruelly, forcing your tongue to stay exactly where she wanted it. Every moan she let out was less about pleasure and more about control—the sound of someone enjoying their power over you as much as the act itself.

Every tug of your hair sent your tongue deeper, every harsh roll of her hips ground her cunt against your face until you were smothered in her. Your muffled words—soft apologies, desperate pleas—buzzed into her slick folds, and Kate let out a sharp laugh. She yanked your head back just enough for her eyes to bore into yours, dark strands of her hair slipping into her eyesight.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she sneered, shoving you right back down, harder this time, so your nose pressed against her clit.

You groaned, hands latching onto her thighs, nails digging shallow crescents into her skin. Kate hissed through her teeth but didn’t stop you; if anything, she shoved you tighter against her, grinding slow and hard.

“Yeah,” she breathed out, voice low and dangerous. “Scratch me all you want, brat. You’re not getting up until I’m satisfied.”

Her thighs flexed under your grip as she rolled her hips, forcing your tongue exactly where she wanted it. Every time you faltered, she corrected you with a painful tug of your hair, sharp enough to make you whimper into her cunt.

“Focus,” she snapped, gasping when your tongue flicked her clit just right. She tightened her grip on your hair, dragging your mouth into a merciless rhythm. “That’s it. That’s how you earn me back. Not with your useless words—” her voice broke into a moan, guttural and raw, “—but with this.”

Kate gathered your hair in one rough motion, twisting it tight in her fist until she had you bound in a makeshift ponytail. She pulled your head back for a moment, just enough for you to see her wicked smirk before she shoved you down again, grinding her cunt against your mouth.

“Good girl,” she hissed, voice cutting with heat. “Now don’t stop until I tell you.”

Your tongue flicked over her clit in sharp, eager strokes, trying your damndest to make her feel good. Kate’s breath hitched, her thighs tensing around your face. Her free hand slid down between her legs, fingers parting her folds wide, exposing every slick inch to your tongue.

“There,” she groaned, forcing your face tighter against her as she spread herself open. “Get in there. Taste me—don’t be shy.”

You obeyed, dragging your tongue lower, dipping into her as your nose nudged her clit, then sliding back up again. Kate moaned, a raw, guttural sound that echoed in the walls of her room. She tugged on your makeshift ponytail with every twitch of her body, guiding your rhythm, bobbing you against her until your jaw ached.

Her thighs trembled around you as she laughed breathlessly. “That’s it… c’mon brat.”

Your face was drenched, every inhale full of her scent, every flick of your tongue rewarded by the tightening grip on your hair as she opened herself for you and used you without mercy. Suddenly, Kate’s thighs locked like a vice, pulling you so deep you could hardly breathe. Her nails scraped across your scalp as she yanked your hair tighter, grinding herself down against your tongue with no rhythm but her own desperation.

“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop,” she growled, voice breaking on a moan. She wasn’t asking—she was demanding, dragging your face in harder as your tongue flicked furiously against her clit.

Your jaw ached, lungs burning, but Kate didn’t care. She spread her folds wider with her free hand, forcing you to lick every inch, every slick line as she used you. “Whiny brat,” she panted, tugging your head back only to slam you back against her. “You’re nothing to me—got it?”

You whimpered into her, the sound swallowed by the wet slap of her grinding. Kate’s hips bucked, sharp and rough, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her thighs quivered around your ears as she leaned back on her bed, utterly lost in her own pleasure, not sparing a thought for yours.

Then it hit—she arched, gasping out a harsh cry as her climax tore through her. She shoved your face harder against her cunt, riding your mouth shamelessly, moaning loud as she came all over your tongue.

“Fuck, yes—” Kate cursed, hips jerking against your face. “Stay there—don’t you fucking move.”

Her release poured over your lips and chin, soaking you. She held your head in place, grinding through every aftershock, groaning and shaking, using you until the last pulse of pleasure left her body trembling.

Finally, with a hiss of overstimulation, she yanked your head back by your hair, your lips and chin smeared with her slick. Her chest heaved as she stared down at you with a cruel smirk, flushed and satisfied as she fell back fully onto her bed, finally letting you go.

Kate’s body slackened into the mattress, one arm thrown lazily behind her head, the other absently tugging at the hem of her sports bra. She looked spent, flushed, her chest still rising and falling in the aftermath. You crawled closer, careful, lips trailing reverent little kisses along the inside of her thigh. “Kate…” you whispered, voice soft, coaxing. You pressed a kiss higher, then another, murmuring apologies, sweet nothings, anything to ease the storm in her.

Kate tilted her head, peering down at you with half-lidded eyes. For a moment, she seemed almost calm, almost tender. Her fingers slid into your hair, stroking slowly, soothingly. “You still aching?” she murmured, tone deceptively soft. “You still wanna cum, baby?”

Your chest tightened at her words, a tiny hopeful nod given against her thigh.

Then her hand tightened viciously in your hair, yanking your head back so you had to look at her as she sat up. That cruel smirk was back, sharp as glass. “Good,” she hissed, all softness gone. “Because I’m not done with you.”

She shoved you back onto your ass, your scalp burning under her grip. “Go get my strap,” Kate ordered, voice low and commanding. “Top drawer of the dresser. Bring it to me.”

Your heart hammered as her smirk widened, eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. “If you’re going to cum tonight,” she added, voice dripping with venomous promise, “it’ll be on my cock… and only when I decide you’ve earned it.”

You stumble to your feet, legs shaky and sore, padding toward Kate’s dresser. Every step feels heavy under her sharp gaze burning holes into your back. Your fingers fumble through folded clothes, socks, stray knives she never bothered to put away, until your hand lands on the silicone.

It’s heavy in your palms, the harness worn leather softened from use, the silicone cock thick and unyielding, gleaming faintly in the low light. Just holding it makes your stomach twist, heat pulsing through your core. It’s big, and thick, and you can practically feel the stretch already.

When you turn, Kate’s still watching. She hasn’t moved from the bed, one knee bent, an arm draped over it lazily like a predator lounging. Her smirk is smug, muscles shifting subtly under her skin. She cocks her head, expression saying more than words, she knows you’re nervous. You shuffle forward, eyes cast low as you offer the strap to her. Kate rises slowly, taking her time, towering over you when she takes it from your hands. She buckles it on with ease, cinching the straps tight around her hips, the cock jutting forward obscenely.

“Take your clothes off,” she commands simply, voice sharp.

Your breath catches, fingers twitching at the hem of your shirt. You peel it off, then your bra, skin prickling under her stare. She doesn’t look away once, eyes tracing every inch like she owns it. When you hook your thumbs under your jeans and push them down, Kate chuckles low in her throat.

And then your panties—damp, the fabric clinging between your thighs. Kate’s smirk splits wide. “Gross,” she mocks, her voice dripping with scorn. “I’ve never seen someone so wet from getting bullied around.”

You shift uncomfortably, shoving the soaked panties down, stepping out of them as heat crawls up your chest. Naked now, you can’t help but cross your arms over your chest, thighs pressed together instinctively.

Kate barks a laugh. “Don’t bother hiding. I see everything I need.” She steps closer, the cock swinging between you, her hand gripping it as she tilts her head, eyes raking over you with cruel satisfaction. “And you’re gonna take it. Every. Fucking. Inch.”

Kate’s grip is iron around your wrists as she yanks you toward the bed, spinning you with a rough twist until your chest hits the mattress. You gasp, the air leaving your lungs in a rush, your arms pinned behind your back. She presses down hard, keeping you flat, your body bent at the waist, ass high and vulnerable, feet scrabbling against the rug underneath for purchase.

Behind you, you hear her spit and then feel her slick fingers drag across your folds. You whimper at the contact, the cool slickness smearing over your already sensitive skin. Kate teases, circling your clit only to trail down and smear it across the thick silicone cock pressing against your entrance.

“Are you scared?” Kate mutters, her voice dark with amusement. “If not, I think you should start.”

The sting of her palm cracks against your ass before you can reply. You yelp, burying your face deeper into the mattress, the burn blooming hot across your skin.

“Quiet,” Kate snarls. She shoves your head harder into the sheets, her fingers knotting in your hair now, tugging until your scalp burns. “If you’ve got breath to whine, you’ve got breath to take me.”

And then—she pushes forward.

The blunt head of the strap stretches you mercilessly, the slick spit doing little to ease the way as Kate sinks inside. The pressure makes you arch, fingers clawing at the sheets, muffled noises spilling into the mattress as she forces herself deeper. Kate hisses a curse under her breath, hips grinding against your ass once she’s buried to the hilt. She tugs your hair back so your head lifts from the bed, voice rough against your ear.

“Feel that? That’s mine. My cock in your cunt. You’re gonna take every inch until you learn not to fuck up again. Got it?”

Kate releases your hair with a shove, your cheek slamming into the sheets, but the relief doesn’t last—her palm slams flat between your shoulder blades, pressing you deeper into the mattress until your back arches. Her other hand clamps tight around your hip, nails biting your skin, and then she starts to move.

It isn’t fast. It isn’t hurried. But it’s brutal.

Each thrust slams into you with every ounce of her anger, her hips grinding forward to bury every inch of the thick strap inside, pulling halfway out only to drive back in so hard your knees skid against the footboard. The sound of her body meeting yours echoes sharp in the small room, mingling with your muffled whimpers.

“You think you can fuck up my mission and just get away with it?” Kate spits the words like venom, her voice low and molten against the back of your neck. Another thrust knocks a choked sound out of you, and she digs her hand harder into your back, pinning you in place like a bug under glass.

“You’re nothing without me. Can’t do what you’re told without me, what makes you think you can cum without me, too?” She jerks your hip back against her cock, forcing you to feel the drag and stretch of every vein and ridge in the silicone. Your thighs tremble, instinct making you try to squeeze them shut for some kind of reprieve, but Kate kicks your legs wider with a sharp crack of her knee. The new angle is merciless—her strap drives deeper, hitting something that makes you cry out, muffled into the sheets.

“That’s it,” she growls, leaning her weight into you, the bedframe creaking under the punishment she’s doling out. “Open up for me. Take it. Let me fuck that stupidity right out of you.”

Her words burn hotter than the sting of her thrusts, the kind that make your chest tighten and your stomach twist with shame and arousal. Every time you clench down around the strap, Kate snarls a curse and drives harder, forcing you to unravel beneath her.

“Kate—” you gasp.

Kate is relentless—her hips snapping forward again and again, curses spilling from her lips with every brutal thrust. Sweat dampens her temples, her teeth bared as she growls through the effort, but she doesn’t slow, doesn’t falter. Each deep grind sends the bed rattling and your bones aching.

You’re a mess under her, whimpering, your face pressed to the mattress, tears streaking hot down your cheeks. “K-Kate—please, easier,” you choke out, your voice ragged, begging through the sting of her pace.

She snarls, but then abruptly stops—her palm leaving your back, her grip on your hip loosening. For a moment, you think she’s done with you. Instead, she leans back, hands off, her body towering behind yours. The strap slides out slow, agonizing, until only the very tip stays inside, keeping you stretched and aching.

Kate’s voice cuts sharp, low, and cruel. “You want it easier?” Her tone drips with disdain. “No. If you want to cum, then do it yourself.”

You lift your head, dazed, your breath catching. “W-what?”

Kate smirks down at you, crossing her arms like she’s watching a show. “Ride it. Fuck yourself on my cock.” She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “You’re so desperate? Prove it.”

The weight of her command pins you harder than her hand ever could. Your thighs shake as you press your palms into the bed, pushing yourself back against the strap. It fills you inch by inch again, the stretch dragging a sob from your throat. Kate doesn’t budge—arms crossed over her chest, looming behind you like a shadow. Her stance is solid, watchful, her smug grin only deepening as she watches you tremble on all fours.

“Go on,” she says flatly, her voice cutting through your whines. “Prove you deserve it.”

Your thighs burn as you push yourself back onto the strap, the hard silicone sinking inside of you with every shaky roll of your hips. Each movement is uneven, desperate, and the effort makes your whole body quake. You glance over your shoulder, your tear-streaked face searching hers for softness, for approval—but Kate just raises a brow, unmoved, like a queen waiting to be entertained.

The frustration mounts, need curling hot and unbearable in your belly. You let out a broken sob and slip one hand between your thighs, seeking the release you’ve been denied.

Kate moves like lightning. She snatches your wrist, yanks it back, and pins your arm behind you in a bruising grip. You cry out, your cheek pressing harder into the mattress, your body forced to hold itself up on one trembling arm.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” she hisses, venom sharp and intoxicating. She jerks your wrist higher, making your shoulder ache, forcing you to arch back harder on her strap. “No. You cum from this—” she grinds the strap’s tip just enough to remind you where it is, “—or you don’t cum at all.”

Her words make your cunt clench around the silicone, a betraying wave of pleasure rolling through you as tears drip hot down your cheeks. Kate sees it instantly, her smirk widening.

Your frustration finally boils over—you’re done being toyed with, done being edged into madness. You suck in a ragged breath and snap your hips back hard, the slap of your ass against Kate’s thighs filling the room as you grind down on the strap like you own it. The shock of sensation makes your back arch, a cry tumbling out of you as the silicone drags deep inside.

Kate doesn’t move, doesn’t help—she just watches, still holding your arm behind your back. Arms still folded, her chin tilted in challenge, though you can see the sharpness in her gaze shift. Your nails claw at the bedding as you set a rhythm, hips rolling and snapping back, each thrust of your own making hitting deeper, rougher. Tears streak your face, but this time your moans rise higher, sweeter—not pleading, not apologizing, but praising.

If she doesn’t want to hear your apologies, then you’ll flood her ears with your praise instead.

“God—Kate—” you whine, your voice breaking as you push harder, grinding the base of the strap against your clit. “You feel so fucking good—so deep—”

Her jaw tightens.

You cling to that reaction, breathless words tumbling from your lips between moans, “Fuck—you’re amazing—no one makes me feel this way—” You begin bouncing your hips back, legs shaking underneath your trembling body. “Kate, please—don’t stop—feels so good, it’s all you—always you—”

Your body bucks harder, chasing her, wanting her, worshipping her even as she stands there like a statue of iron.

Maybe it’s the look in her eyes that finally pushes you over.

You can feel it building—your legs trembling, your thighs burning, every desperate snap of your hips driving you closer and closer until your cunt is clenching tight around the strap. Your voice is muffled against the sheets, but still you keep gasping her name, still praising her through sobs and breathless moans.

“Kate—Kate, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum—”

Your arm gives out, your chest pressed into the mattress, drool dampening the sheets, and that’s when Kate finally moves. Not to help, not to take over—just the barest rock of her hips forward. The sudden push sends the strap slamming deep, and it’s all it takes.

Your body seizes, cunt spasming violently around her cock as you cum hard—too hard—your vision blurring, your throat raw with the broken cry that rips out of you. It’s messy, unrestrained, overwhelming—like your body is punishing you for holding back so long.

But Kate doesn’t even let you finish.

Before the last wave has torn through you, she’s grabbing you by the hair again, pushing you up fully onto the bed. You’re still twitching, still weak, when she shoves you down flat on your stomach. The mattress dips with her weight as she climbs after you, her fingers biting cruelly into your hips, dragging them up so high your spine arches sharp and painful, your knees barely keeping you steady. Before you can gasp, she plants her palm flat on the back of your head and shoves, smashing your face into the mattress.

The world goes muffled against the sheets. Her weight is everywhere, heavy, inescapable.

And then she’s inside you again.

The strap slams back into your cunt, wet and relentless, not deep this time but fast—hard, shallow thrusts that pound against your clit and nerve endings in a dizzying blur. Each snap of her hips rattles through you, quick, merciless, dragging sharp cries out of your throat until they’re muffled into raw screams against the bed.

Kate’s breath hisses through her teeth above you, low curses spilling between clenched jaws. “That’s it—take it—scream for me, you fucking mess.”

Your fists twist in the sheets, your body buckling forward, but she doesn’t let you collapse. Her palm grinds your face harder into the mattress, holding you in place as her pace quickens, brutal and unyielding. The rhythm is ruthless, punishing—each shallow thrust a reminder, each slap of her hips against your ass a declaration of her control. Your body shakes, the sound of wet, obscene slaps filling the room with every thrust. Tears streak down your cheeks into the fabric under you, your voice cracked and high from how desperately she’s wringing you out.

It’s not slow, not teasing—it’s relentless, dizzying, and enough to break you open all over again.

Your body shakes under her, each shallow thrust driving you past the point of reason. Your face is pressed into the mattress, muffled screams catching in your throat, and she growls curses at you—nasty, cutting, cruel words spilling like venom.

“You think you can fuck this up and just—ugh, Christ, you’re such a mess,” she snarls, her teeth gritted. Every syllable drives you higher, your cunt clenching around the strap so tight it feels like it’s burning. “Look at you—shaking like a whore—always so desperate for it—”

Your whimpers turn into full-blown wails, breathless cries rattling your chest as your body bounces under her relentless pace. The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping skin, the slick smear of strap against you, and your ragged, pleading noises.

And then something shifts. Slowly. Her growls soften just a fraction. Her harsh words falter, stumbling mid-sentence. She jerks your body a little less roughly, and the cursing melts into something less pointed, almost awed. Like her anger is finally sizzling out.

“God… fuck, you feel so good,” she mutters, voice rough around the edges. Her fingers ease from digging into your hair, instead tracing the curve of your shoulders as her pace becomes less erratic, more controlled. “So… pretty, like this—so tight, so warm…”

Your cries are still raw, breathless, but you can hear her tone changing, how she leans closer, body pressing heavier against yours, grinding instead of punishing. The strap still fills you, every movement precise, but now it’s more about connection than proving a point.

Her arms snake around your middle, pulling you flush against her chest. Her chest presses into your back, her stomach flat against it as she adjusts her angle, grinding down into you with slow, deliberate motions. Prone boning. The force is still there, still intense, but there’s no rage—only the messy, greedy rhythm of her body pressing into yours.

Her lips brush your ear, whispering low praises now, compliments threading through moans, “Such a good girl… you feel amazing…” She grunts, kissing your shoulder. “Look at you, taking me like this…”

Your body shudders beneath her, your hips moving with hers almost instinctively, slick sliding over slick. You whine, dragging your nails across her comforter as she presses deeper, the strap shifting deliciously inside you.

She forgets entirely. Forgetting the anger, forgetting the mission, forgetting why she’d been so sharp with you in the first place. All that remains is this—the weight of her body, the press of her chest, the hot friction against your cunt, and the intoxicating sound of her praising you breathlessly between grinding, moaning, and gentle growls.

Your cries soften into shaky, ragged whimpers as she continues, hips rolling, chest pressing, arms wrapped around you like she doesn’t want to let go. Every time you twitch, every shiver that wracks your body, she murmurs your praises, reveling in the feel of you beneath her, lost entirely to the mess of pleasure she’s finally letting herself enjoy.

The room is heavy with sweat, sex, and the warm press of bodies. The strap fills you, her weight flattens you, and for a long, sloppy, messy stretch of time, Kate doesn’t care about missions, mistakes, or who she has to kill. There is only the primal, needy rhythm of her fucking you from above, over and over, until all that’s left is her breathing hot against your shoulder and the sticky, delicious ache of being completely owned by her.

Your body quivers under her weight, hips pressed flush to hers as the strap stretches you in all the right ways. The frantic, dizzying pace from before is gone—Kate’s movements are slower now, deliberate, grinding down into you with the full weight of her chest and arms pressing you into the mattress. Every rub of her hips against yours, every press of the strap into your soaked cunt, is measured and precise, teasing out the pleasure inch by inch.

Your back arches, nails digging into her bedsheets, breaths coming in shaky pants, soft whimpers trailing with each slow, heavy thrust. You can feel her weight, her warmth, every curve of her body pressed against you, and it drives your need higher, different from before—not desperate or frantic, but deep, molten, and spreading through your stomach and thighs like fire.

“I… I’m gonna…” you whisper brokenly, and she hums against your ear, grinding even slower, drawing out the moment.

“Yeah?” Kate murmurs, voice low, almost possessive. “C’mon, brat. Cum for me. You’ve earned it.”

Your thighs tremble, cunt clenching impossibly tight around the strap as warmth coils deeper and deeper. Your stomach twists, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut, every nerve ending alive with the slow, insistent friction. You cry out, but it’s soft, ragged—a stark contrast to your last frantic, wild orgasm. This one is long, rolling over you in slow, shuddering waves, your body convulsing under her weight.

Kate doesn’t move away. Instead, she buries herself against you, hips still pressing down, grinding you through every slow tremor, arms wrapped around your middle to hold you steady. Her chest is flush against yours, and her breath hitches in time with yours as you ride out the slow, deep release. Your muscles clench and tremble, a warm, pulsing ache spreading through your core, legs trembling as the orgasm rolls through you with exquisite insistence. Kate hums approvingly, murmuring praises against your hair and shoulders, letting you feel her approval, her ownership, her satisfaction as you shake beneath her.

Even as your body slowly settles, your cunt still clinging wetly to the strap, her weight presses you down, grounding you. She whispers your name softly now, no anger, no teasing.

Kate’s weight shifts slightly as she loosens her hold, still pressed against you, but one hand slides free from around your waist to tangle in your hair. She tilts your head to meet hers, and before you can react, her lips are on yours. The kiss is slow and heavy, deep, lingering, and you whimper softly, exhausted and still shaky from how hard she had been on you. Punished, fucked out, but still alive with warmth.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Kate murmurs into the kiss, voice low and rough. Her thumb brushes across your jaw as she presses her forehead to yours, letting you feel her warmth. “I just… I got angry. I went too hard.”

You shake your head, tired but still attentive, leaning into her hand, pressing your lips against hers again. “No, I… I’m sorry too,” you murmur between breaths. “I never… I never want you not to trust me again. I—I’ll do anything not to…”

Kate hums against your lips, nuzzling into your cheek before pulling back slightly, still keeping your hair wrapped gently in her fingers. “Forget it,” she says firmly, her voice soft but steady. “You’re the only one I’ll ever trust. Nothing—not even me having a tantrum—could change that.”

A weak, tired smile spreads across your lips as you finally allow yourself a soft laugh. “Well… if I’m still making it up to you… maybe you could… eat me out?” you tease, the words slurring slightly from the exertion, eyes flicking up to her.

Kate freezes for a moment, the corners of her lips twitching into a smirk before her fingers yank sharply at your hair. “Brat,” she growls, though it’s playful, the anger from before fully melted into lingering heat. She leans down, pressing her forehead back to yours, letting you rest under her body weight, her chest still warm and heavy atop you, both of you catching your breaths.

The room smells heavily of sweat and sex, the sheets twisted and warm beneath you. Your clothes are askew all across the floor, and there’s still blood stained across Kate’s sweatshirt puddled on the floor. You press a soft kiss to her lips once more, letting her feel your warmth, your lingering need, and she hums against it, tightening her hold just slightly, murmuring your name.

Until—

“Do you really like it when I bully you?” Kate smirks, scanning your face.

You blush, rolling your eyes. “Maybe…”

You feel just the slightest shift, just the lightest roll of Kate’s hips where her strap is still buried snug inside you, and you gasp, body tensing with the movement , your core fluttering and clenching around it. You glare at her, only to find a smug smirk on her face.

“Good to know.”

Chapter Text

You were never very good at being nice.

The mansion always smelled like dust and metal—like it had been left half-finished, a place where nothing felt quite alive except for the quiet echo of your footsteps and the faint hum of half-dead lightbulbs buzzing overhead. The corridors stretched on endlessly, sharp shadows falling from the tall fogged windows, and you moved through them like a storm barely contained. Your boots knocked against the hardwood, the sound sharp, echoing through the emptiness, and you didn’t bother to hide the edge in your movements. You were unpredictable, loud, angry, and no one here wanted to deal with it.

The other proxies kept their distance. Tim with his mask drawn over his face, Brian lurking in the shadows, Toby half-snarling as he muttered to himself in the corner—none of them wanted to get caught in your line of fire. Not because you were strong—they all were—but because you were volatile, quick to lash, and you never cared about consequences. You’d shove, scream, or fight just because you felt like it. Because the mansion taught you that chaos was its own currency, and you were good at earning it.

You leaned against the cracked wall near the living room, arms crossed over your chest, staring at the half-empty room with its grimy furniture and scattered papers. You could hear muffled voices down the hall, Toby arguing with someone, probably Tim, but you didn’t care. Not anymore. You weren’t here to socialize. You were here because he wanted you here—Slenderman.

He didn’t come often—not in a way anyone else could detect—but you always knew when he was watching. The way the shadows seemed to move, the way the air shifted around your shoulders, like the world had bent slightly to accommodate him. And you, of course, liked to test him. Sometimes.

“Don’t get clever,” he would say if you ever stepped too far, his voice impossible to locate, coming from everywhere at once, stretching the corners of your mind like ink bleeding through paper. “Do as I tell you. Nothing more.”

You’d laugh. You always laughed. “Oh, I’m clever, all right,” you muttered under your breath, arms tightening across your chest. “You just don’t like it when I am.”

He didn’t respond, but you felt him, and that was enough to make the other proxies uneasy. You could push, talk back, even scream into the silence of the mansion, and he would let it happen—sometimes—but the moment you crossed a line, the tug on your thoughts, the subtle reshaping of your mind, reminded you who was really in control.

You didn’t like them—the other proxies. You didn’t like their careful whispers, their little squads of conformity. You liked the chaos, the destruction, the sharp edges you left in your wake.

While the mansion’s proxies moved in careful, predictable patterns—quietly running errands, exchanging whispered codes, working in unison—you were a storm in their midst. You spoke too loudly, you laughed too harshly, you argued over every little thing. Tim would glare when you shoved past him, Hoodie would mutter in frustration whenever you ignored his instructions, and Toby didn’t care for you, but he still made it clear that your presence irritated him.

And you thrived on it. Every eye-roll, every whispered complaint, every “just leave me alone” that slipped through the cracks of their patience was a small victory. You liked that heat rising in the room, that tension tangling itself like wire between the four walls. It made you feel alive. Made you feel sharp. Made you feel… different.

More often than not, it got you in trouble. Slenderman had to intervene more times than you could count. His corrections were subtle at first—a mental tug here, a creeping awareness there—but you knew exactly when he was scolding you. You could feel him in your mind, his presence threading through the chaos of your thoughts, dampening your impulsive bursts, reshaping the corners of your anger into something tighter, more focused.

“Do not provoke them,” his voice would echo, low and impossibly patient. “Do not let your fire flare without purpose.”

And yet, the very things that earned you his attention were the things you couldn’t resist. You’d shove someone aside just to see the ripple in the room, yell back at another proxy just to feel the heat of the correction coil in your mind, and almost immediately, you’d sense him threading through the darkness of your consciousness, pulling at your thoughts, reminding you whose control you were under.

There was fear in it, yes—the kind that tightened your stomach, made your pulse jump—but there was also something darkly intoxicating. Something thrilling about feeling his dominance settle over you, pressing in where the others couldn’t reach. The mansion was cold, harsh, unforgiving, but he made it personal. And every time he entered your mind, scolding you, punishing your defiance in ways that were equal parts terrifying and magnetic, you found yourself craving it.

Even when he was angry with you—especially then—you felt it. The way his voice resonated inside your head, threading through your thoughts and reshaping your impulses. The way your mind flinched and bent under the weight of his presence, and yet, somewhere under all that, you thrived.

It was a dangerous game. You’d push the boundaries of the mansion just to feel that tug at the edge of your mind. To feel him assert control, remind you of your place in the hierarchy, and force you into obedience. And each time he did, your anger would flare, you’d fight it, and he would guide you back—over and over, like a master carving a sculpture from raw, unrefined fire.

Eventually, you realized something about yourself: you didn’t just crave the fight, or the chaos, or the freedom to spout off and spark conflict. You craved him. You craved the feeling of his will brushing against your mind, the way it both restrained and consumed you, the way it reminded you that despite your fury and defiance, you were his. That your chaos wasn’t chaos at all—it was a playground for his control, the reason he scooped you up and put you in this mansion in the first place.

And so, you kept testing the limits. You kept getting into arguments, you kept mocking the other proxies, you kept causing small incidents, because you knew, deep down, you would get exactly what you wanted. His presence, his correction, his discipline. The very thing that was supposed to keep you in line became a lure, pulling you further into the dark, intoxicating bond between your defiance and his absolute control.

But there’s only so far you can push an eldritch forest creature before he snaps like the branches under your boots.

You weren’t even sure which of your outbursts had finally done it—maybe the screaming match with Toby that ended with a knife embedded in the kitchen wall, maybe the string of insults you’d spat at Tim when he told you to “try acting like a decent human for once.” It didn’t matter. What mattered was that the air had gone wrong afterwards. The mansion had felt wrong.

There was a moment—just a breath—when the hall went silent around you, and you knew. You felt that cold, weightless pull ripple through your mind, a whisper threading through your skull like smoke.

Come to my office.

No voice. Just intent. It pressed deep into your chest and made it hard to breathe.

And so, here you were—moving down corridors you didn’t even realize existed. The air grew thicker with every turn, the walls darker, the flickering lights replaced by an impossible twilight that seemed to live inside the wood. You’d been in this mansion for years, and yet, this part of it felt ancient, like something that had been waiting for you.

His office was a door unlike the others. Black wood, old, no handle—just an awareness that if he wanted you in, you would be in. The door opened soundlessly, as though the air itself had parted, tearing reality apart to reveal another world.

You stepped through.

The room was vast and suffocating all at once. Shelves of tomes and thick-bound books lined every wall, the smell of old paper and candle wax filling your lungs. Strange diagrams and maps were pinned across the walls—drawings that hurt to look at, symbols that seemed to shift if your eyes lingered too long. The candlelight burned without flame, pale and steady, as though it too answered only to him.

And at the center of it all, sat Slenderman.

He didn’t have to move to dominate the space. He was already everywhere—the air, the silence, the weight in your chest. His tall, thin frame sat unnervingly still behind a massive oak desk, his featureless face turned toward you in a way that made your skin prickle. You could feel his gaze without eyes. You could feel his displeasure like cold hands pressed against your mind.

You stare up at him, trying to make sense of the impossible. He’s taller than any human should be, impossibly thin, limbs stretching at angles that shouldn’t exist, each movement smooth and unnervingly precise. His face is blank—featureless, smooth like polished porcelain—but it isn’t just a lack of features. It’s a void, a dark mirror that seems to pull at the corners of your mind, reflecting everything you try to hide and twisting it. His black suit clings unnaturally to his body, almost part of him, the edges of it whispering into the shadows around him. Even the light bends around him differently; shadows cling to his form like they’re alive, moving slightly when he shifts, as if the room itself recognizes his command.

For once, you didn’t have something smart to say.

Your throat tightened as you stood in the middle of his office, surrounded by the oppressive quiet of his presence. You’d never been called here before. Proxies whispered about this room—about how he only summoned people here when the mental scolding wasn’t enough, when he needed to address matters face to featureless face.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The voice wasn’t sound—it was thought, low and resonant, sliding through your head with that deep, thrumming cadence that made your pulse stutter. You swallowed hard, and forced yourself to answer.

“I… I guess I pissed off the wrong people again.”

Again. The word hung in the air like smoke.

Slenderman didn’t reply immediately. He shifted slightly, the movement slow, smooth. The faceless head tilted—just a fraction—and every nerve in your body fired at once. You wanted to look away, to move, to do something, but your body wouldn’t listen. 

“You act as if your defiance is strength,” the voice murmured inside your skull. “It is not. It is a waste. I have tolerated your chaos because you are useful. Because you are clever. Because I see potential in you.”

Each word hit like a pulse against your ribs. You bit your lip, feeling heat crawl under your skin—not shame, exactly, but something close. His presence filled your thoughts, every inch of your mind suddenly heavy and aware of itself.

“I told you once,” his voice went quieter, almost a hiss, “that my patience has limits.”

“Then why keep me around?” you said before you could stop yourself. “If I’m such a problem, just… just get rid of me.”

That earned a silence so thick you swore the air in the room shifted. When he spoke again, the voice didn’t sound like words—it sounded like your insides were chanting. It wrapped around your thoughts, threaded through the anger and fear and defiance until you couldn’t tell which was yours anymore.

“I do not discard what belongs to me.”

Something inside you jolted at that. A heat. A sharp pull of confusion and something darker that made your pulse jump. You couldn’t tell if it was fear, arousal, or both.

Slenderman rose slowly from behind his desk, his height impossible, his movements smooth and soundless. His presence pushed the air itself out of the room. You felt your mind flutter with static, felt your body tense under the invisible pressure that came with him standing at his full height. Every instinct screamed to look away, but you couldn’t. You were caught in him—in the dark, in the sheer weight of being seen by something that didn’t need eyes to see you completely.

“Come closer,” he said.

His command doesn’t sound like an order so much as gravity, pulling at every muscle you’ve got. You can feel your pulse start to sync with the low hum that fills your skull when he speaks.

But you don’t move. You’ve always had a nasty tongue, and it proves true even now. You cross your arms instead and bark out, “You’re not my dad.”

The words sound ridiculous the second they leave your mouth, but the stubborn part of you refuses to take them back. You glare up at him like you’re daring him to react.

His faceless head tilts a little further, “Careful.”

The sound of it crawls down your spine, deep and even. You can feel that single word slide through your mind like a hand closing around it—a warning.

You grit your teeth. “No, screw that,” you say, your voice getting rougher. “You always do this. You drag me around like some kind of pet project, and then the second I act like a human being, I’m suddenly ‘out of line.’”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just stands there, impossibly tall, perfectly still, as if he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with the silence.

And you can’t stand that silence. It’s too calm. Too controlled.

“Why keep me here, huh?” you snap. “In this shithole with all those freaks who can’t stand me? You knew I’d never fit in with them, so what’s the point? Why bring me here just to… just to watch me screw up?”

Still nothing. Not even a twitch. The more you talk, the more it feels like you’re the only sound in the room, your own anger echoing back at you.

Finally, his voice threads through the air again, quiet, measured, too calm for how hot your face feels, “Because you belong here. Because whether you understand it or not, you are already bound to this place. To me.”

You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Yeah, well, that’s not what belonging feels like.”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t get angry. That’s what makes it worse—how calm he stays, how steady every word feels. “You mistake comfort for purpose,” he says. “You were never meant for comfort.”

For a heartbeat, the words don’t even register. Then the meaning sinks in. The air seems to get colder, the edges of your vision flickering, as though the world itself is bending toward him. You open your mouth to throw another barb, but your voice falters when the hum in your skull deepens—soft, rhythmic, like something brushing the inside of your mind.

“You seek answers,” he murmurs. “But you will not find them in defiance.”

“Right,” you spit, heat flooding your face. “So that’s it? I’m just another pawn? A good little weapon you can point at whatever target you want and then stash back in the basement when I’m done?” You laugh, high and ragged. “You talk about ‘purpose’ like it’s some gift. All you’ve done is strip away everything else I was until there’s nothing left but—”

Your voice breaks. You bite it back, but the tears sting anyway. “You think that makes me belong here?”

He doesn’t answer. The silence only fuels the fire.

“You’re sick,” you hiss. “You take people, you twist them, and when they break, you call it destiny. You can keep your purpose, Slender. I’m done.”

You spin toward the door. Every nerve in your body is screaming for movement—just to leave, to find something you can hit until the noise in your head stops. Toby, maybe. He’d deserve it.

You take one step—and then it hits. 

Not the quiet hum you’ve felt before, not that low vibration that tugs at your spine—this time it’s sound. A sound that is somehow everything, low and thunderous and whisper‑soft all at once.

“Stop.”

The word cleaves the air.

Your body obeys before your mind can even catch up. Your feet freeze. Muscles lock. You can feel your pulse hammering, but you can’t move, can’t even turn your head.

It’s not pain. It’s command. A perfect, absolute command that doesn’t ask—it is.

For a few seconds, you can hear nothing but the rush of blood in your ears and the echo of that voice, still vibrating through the walls, through your chest. It’s terrifying because it’s real—because for the first time, you’ve heard his true voice, not the quiet thoughts that slide behind your eyes.

Slowly, you realize you’re breathing too fast. Your hands tremble where they hang useless at your sides. Behind you, the air shifts—the faint static that always follows him thickens, brushing your skin like invisible threads.

“I said stop,” he repeats, quieter this time, almost gentle. The sound still vibrates through the floorboards. “Do you feel how simple it is?”

You want to scream that it’s not simple, that he’s inside your head again, but your throat won’t form the words. His voice is terrifying out loud, its presence pressing against your back like cold pressure.

“This,” he says, his voice settling into your bones, “is not a punishment. It is understanding.”

The static hums in your ears. Your anger’s still there—but now it’s tangled with fear, with the awful, undeniable truth that part of you likes being noticed like this. 

It just fuels your anger.

No matter how hard you try to step, to turn, to move, your legs feel like they’re filled with lead. Your fists clench, your teeth grind, your pulse races—but your body betrays you. It doesn’t respond. It won’t.

Then his voice—soft, calm, impossibly certain—threads through the air.

“Turn.”

And just like that, your body obeys. Slowly, almost unwillingly, you pivot, every movement feeling like a stranger operating your limbs. You face him. The room tilts, the shadows in the corners bending toward his frame, and he’s no longer behind the desk. He’s stepping out, each footfall heavy, echoing on the cold floor.

He circles you. Your skin prickles under the weight of his gaze, and your chest tightens. He measures you, studying every inch of you as though your body were a map to be read, every thought you try to hide reflected in your posture, your tension, your flushed skin.

Anger surges through you, wild and unrelenting. How dare he? How dare he make you this exposed, this powerless. Your hands clench at your sides, your nails digging into your palms. You want to shout, to lash out, but no sound comes. Your chest heaves as the frustration bubbles over.

Tears prick your eyes, hot and humiliating, but they come anyway. Your body trembles, your mind screaming, angry.

He stops, just behind you, voice low and even, carrying that strange calm that makes your brain stutter, “Why are you upset?”

Something in the question—the way it isn’t angry, the way it isn’t punishing, the way it’s just… curious—makes you falter. You feel the weight of all the fury, all the humiliation, all the helplessness inside you. He’s letting you speak.

“I…” you choke out, your voice trembling, caught somewhere between defiance and despair. “I hate… I hate that I can’t… I can’t even move the way I want. That I… that I’m just… yours. That I’m… nothing but a tool for you to—”

You break off, shaking, frustrated tears spilling freely now. Your words catch in your throat. He remains quiet, letting the silence hang. His presence presses closer, a phantom weight that both terrifies and fascinates you.

“Speak,” he urges softly, almost patiently. “Tell me everything.”

And despite the anger still thrumming through your veins, despite the madness clawing at your mind, a part of you wants to. Wants to admit it, wants to be seen, even if it means surrendering a little more to him.

So you do.

“I—” your voice cracks, the sound small against the static hum that fills the air. “I hate it here.”

The words tumble out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered. “I hate this mansion. I hate them. They look at me like I’m broken, like I don’t belong with them—and maybe I don’t. I don’t know how to talk to them, I don’t know how to be like them. I just… don’t fit.”

You swallow, the lump in your throat thick and painful. His head tilts slightly, an unreadable motion, and the flickering light behind him warps his silhouette.

Your voice lowers. “You’re the only one that doesn’t treat me like that. The only one who even bothers to speak to me.”

You sniff, trying to wipe at your face, forgetting your body is locked in place and growing more frustrated. “And when you do talk to me, it’s only when I’ve done something wrong. When I’ve made a mess. When I’ve given you a reason to step inside my head.”

He says nothing, but you can feel him listening. You always can.

“I like it when you do that,” you whisper, ashamed but too tired to lie anymore. “When you’re there. In my thoughts. When I can feel you. When you’re watching me, when you’re in control… it’s the only time I don’t feel like I’m in the way.”

The air grows heavier, static prickling at the edge of your mind. You can almost feel his attention sharpen, focusing entirely on your confession.

Your voice breaks again, softer this time. “But I don’t want to be just your pawn. I don’t want to just be another one of your tools. I want you to see me.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then his voice—smooth, deep, and calm—slides through the air like silk.

“You are seen.”

You shudder. Your heart pounds, but you can’t tell if it’s from fear or from something far more dangerous. He steps closer again. “You are reckless,” he continues, his tone low. “Unpredictable. You break order, you defy rules, and yet… you crave my attention. You claim to despise control, but you seek it out.”

You flinch, tears stinging your eyes again. “That’s not—”

“It is,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “You invite me into your thoughts because the chaos inside you feels quieter when I am there. You destroy things to remind yourself you still exist.”

You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s right. And that’s what hurts the most.

Then, quieter, almost curious, “Tell me, little one… when I enter your mind, does it comfort you? Does it calm you… or does it excite you?”

The question settles in your chest like a brand—searing, inescapable, impossible to answer without baring every truth you’ve been hiding.

Slender’s steps are unnervingly silent as he circles you again, each movement heavy, the sway of his impossibly long limbs almost hypnotic. You can feel his presence closing in with every measured motion, the shadows stretching across the room as if the mansion itself leans toward him. Your tears streak your face, catching in the faint glimmer of the scattered candlelight, but no matter how much you shake or attempt to flee, your body refuses to respond. It feels heavier, weighted with a strange numbness, like your muscles have been drained of their will, leaving only your emotions raw and exposed.

Finally, he stops. His towering frame hovers over you, and you feel the impossibility of his attention—immense, consuming, suffocating. A clawed hand rises slowly, brushing against your cheek with an unsettling gentleness that contrasts with the sharp, alien angles of his fingers. The touch is electric, cold yet searing, and it forces you to meet his presence fully. You cannot look away, cannot move, cannot escape; the numbness doesn’t feel like imprisonment—it feels like a clearing of your mind, leaving only what is undeniable.

“Speak,” he intones again, his voice a low, rumbling vibration that reverberates through the floor, through the walls, and through you. You find your lips trembling, and finally, words escape, raw and shaky.

“I… I like it,” you whisper, your voice breaking, almost inaudible against the silent hum of the mansion around you. “I… I like it when you’re in my head. When you watch me, when you roam through my thoughts, when you see everything.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his clawed fingers linger against your skin, tracing a path from your cheekbone to the corner of your jaw. You can feel his gaze, though it’s more than just seeing—you sense him everywhere in your mind, brushing through your memories, lingering on your fears, your desires, the parts of you you’ve never shown anyone else.

“It… it excites me,” you admit, voice quivering as tears continue to slide down your cheeks. “I crave it. I want you to see me. I want—I need—you to hold everything about me.”

Slender’s hand slides down to rest at the base of your neck, clawed tips barely brushing your collarbone, and you feel the impossible weight of his attention pressing into you. You realize, with a mixture of fear and longing, that you are entirely seen. Completely observed. And the knowledge of it—of being stripped of your defenses, exposed to his awareness in every thought, every twitch of your mind—sends a shiver of dark thrill coursing through you.

“I… I can’t… I can’t stop thinking about it,” you whisper, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “I want it… I want you to be in me like that… to always be there. To control me. I crave it… I crave you.”

He tilts his head, silent for a moment, the darkness in his eyes—or where his eyes would be—pressing into your very soul. And though he does not speak, the air shifts, thickening, and you feel the undeniable pull of his will threading through yours, marking the moment as irrevocable. Your heart races, your body still unmoving, but your mind is alight with the sensation of his power, his attention, his presence—and the terrifying, intoxicating exhilaration that comes with being utterly his.

You swallow hard, your throat tight, your body trembling as Slender’s presence presses in on every side. His voice is sharp, slicing through the fog of your mind with an authority that makes your chest tighten, your stomach coil. “Say it,” he commands, the words vibrating through the room and your very bones. “Give yourself to me. Hand yourself over. More than a proxy. Fully.”

Tears stream down your face, hot and unrelenting, burning as they track down your cheeks. Your hands shake at your sides, and you find your knees quivering beneath you, yet your mouth moves of its own accord. “I… I give myself to you… fully,” you whisper, voice breaking under the weight of your own submission, “Please, make me more than a pawn… make me yours.” Each word feels like a jagged edge being smoothed away, the confession scraping from your soul and into the air.

The moment the syllables leave your lips, Slender acts. His form seems to ripple with a strange, almost liquid darkness as it stretches into your mind, threading tendrils of cold control through your thoughts. There’s no pain, no violence—but a profound, overwhelming force pressing into every corner of your consciousness. Your mind, once rebellious and chaotic, feels like it’s being drained, every spark of doubt, fear, or anger swept away. Warmth and numbness settle in, a suffocating cocoon that fills every synapse and nerve ending.

It’s like the power to think independently has been switched off. Thoughts stall before they even form, lost to the weight of his presence. You are aware of your body—trembling, wet with sweat, heart hammering—but it is no longer yours to command. He controls every sensation, every reaction, every rising breath. The mansion, the shadows, the faint candlelight around you—all of it bends to his will, framing him as the axis of your entire existence.

You realize you cannot think negative thoughts. Fear, frustration, anger—they evaporate under the pressure of his control. Even desire itself is reshaped; it is no longer chaotic or scattered. It is pure, distilled, pointed directly at him. Every nerve, every pulse in your body screams with attention for Slender, for his dominance, for his acknowledgment. You are aware of your own craving, yet it is filtered through him, shaped by his will, synchronized to the rhythm of his presence.

Your mind quivers as he probes deeper, feeling every layer of your awareness as if it were his own. You try to form words, to fight, but the command is absolute. Thoughts of resistance crumble before they surface, leaving only the molten awareness of him inside your mind. You are simultaneously empty and overflowing, senses sharpened but thoughts hushed, mind and body fused into a singular receptacle for his attention and control.

“Good,” his voice whispers directly into your skull, resonant and cold, yet not unkind. “If this is what you’ve desired from the beginning, you could have just asked.”

And in that moment, the last strands of your independent thought unravel, replaced entirely with the intense, heady certainty of his dominance. You are his, entirely. Every heartbeat, every shiver, every breath belongs to him. Your mind is empty, your body alive, every sense focused, every nerve aching to obey. The numb warmth of surrender coils inside you, stretching outward, filling every part of your being. You are no longer merely a proxy. You are a vessel of his will, and the awareness of it thrills, terrifies, and consumes you completely.

The world outside his presence—the other proxies, the mansion’s shadows, the distant echoes of everything else—fades. There is only him. Only this connection, this domination, this complete and utter submission. And as you stand, trembling, trembling and yet alive in a way you’ve never known, you realize that this surrender, this control, is intoxicating. It is both punishment and salvation. You are his, and the truth of it pierces deeper than any blade ever could.

Your eyes widen as the first of Slender’s tentacles unfurl from his back, black and sinuous, sliding through the shadows of the office with a slow, eerie grace. They ripple like water, each one moving independently, yet with the same hypnotic purpose. One tentacle sweeps toward your ankle first, brushing along the curve of your calf with an almost sensual awareness, before rising, wrapping around your wrist lightly, testing your tension. Another slides under your shirt, coiling gently across your ribs, pressing into the soft curve of your waist, mapping the contours of your body as if memorizing them.

You shiver violently, both startled and unnervingly aware of the way your own nerves sing beneath his touch. It’s like a cold warmth, a sensation that simultaneously makes your skin crawl and your chest burn. You can feel the weight of his attention, the way each appendage traces, pushes, and coils with care. One of the larger tendrils snakes up your back, brushing under your bra strap, tracing the curve of your shoulder blades, and then circles your neck in a slow, possessive embrace, teasing the nape of your neck. You gasp, heart hammering, breath uneven, lost between the prickling fear and the heady pulse of exhilaration.

Slender’s voice washes over you, low and resonant, not from his mouth, but inside your mind, threading directly into your thoughts. “Such fire… such fury,” he murmurs, and the words slither around your consciousness. “Who knew that all you desired was to be seen, to be acknowledged?” His voice vibrates against your skull, and the tentacles respond, tightening slightly as if punctuating his words. One glides along the side of your throat, the other brushing beneath the curve of your hips, pressing and teasing in ways that make your chest ache with want.

You try to squirm, to retreat, but each movement is anticipated, countered, and guided. The tentacles adjust, encircling your arms, tracing your thighs, gliding under your clothing to explore without breaking the taut fabric against your skin. There’s no pain, no outright force, just an inescapable intimacy, a mapping of your body by an intelligence that knows every nerve ending it touches. 

His voice continues, threading praise and observation through your mind, “You are a storm, a fire unbound… and yet, all you’ve ever wanted was my attention. You burn with your own chaos, and still, you long for me to see it, to hold it, to claim it.” One of the tentacles drifts downward, tracing the curve of your spine before brushing under your shirt and teasing the sensitive skin at the small of your back. Another slides under your chest, pressing firmly against the swell of your breast, teasing and coiling as if testing how much you can bear.

Your body trembles uncontrollably under the sensation, overwhelmed by both the physical presence of the tendrils and the psychological weight of his command. The mapping of your form, the exploration, makes you feel exposed in a way that is both terrifying and intoxicating. Every movement of his appendages is mirrored by the subtle pull of his will in your mind. You are caught in a dizzying balance of control and surrender, knowing that you are at once trapped and worshipped, exposed and adored. 

Your chest hitches as Slender’s tentacles move with purpose, the black appendages sliding across your skin with a mesmerizing, almost sentient grace. One coils around your waist, pressing firmly against your ribs, lifting you slightly off the floor, while another curls around your thighs, teasing at the hem of your pants. The sensation is electric, each touch sending a shiver down your spine, your core throbbing in response even as your mind struggles to catch up to the intensity of his actions. Your boots slip from your feet, thudding softly onto the floor, leaving your legs exposed to the ghostly, serpentine hands that explore without mercy.

You arch into him instinctively, leaning forward as the tentacles press against the sensitive curves of your body, teasing under your shirt and brushing across your shoulders. One drifts up your arm, wrapping around your wrist, pulling gently, coaxing your hand toward the edge of your own clothes. Another slides under your bra strap, nudging against the swell of your breast, testing the skin there. Your breathing grows uneven, shallow gasps mingling with low whimpers as your heart pounds, each thrum echoing in your chest like a drum in the cavernous room.

Slender remains impossibly still, his clawed hands clasped together, watching you with a presence that feels simultaneously distant and unbearably intimate. You can feel the warmth of him in the pressure of the tentacles, the subtle tug and glide that follows every inch of your curves. When one tentacle snakes between your legs, brushing and pressing against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, your body responds before your mind can fully process it—leaning, arching, silently pleading for more.

Another tentacle circles your neck, firm but not suffocating, pressing against the hollow at your throat, sending a thrill of nervous excitement through you. You feel weightless as he lifts you fully from the floor, supported only by his dark, undulating appendages. Your shirt slips from your shoulders, your bra following, the cool air brushing against newly exposed skin as the tentacles map every curve, every sensitive ridge of your body. Your fingers brush against his tentacles instinctively, seeking some tangible connection, and he allows it, letting you press into him just enough to satisfy the craving that has flared in your chest.

Your mind swirls in a haze of warmth and nothingness, your core throbbing with need as the tentacles continue their slow, methodical work. One slides along your back, tracing the arch of your spine, then glides forward to tease the underside of your breast again, coaxing a shiver from your lips. Another reaches up, pressing into your stomach, then curves around your side to graze the soft skin near your stomach. Every movement is calculated, as if the appendages themselves are aware of your responses, adjusting, teasing, pressing exactly where you ache the most.

Your knees buckle slightly in midair, and you reach out, letting your hands grasp at the nearest tentacles, urging him closer, needing his touch as much as you fear it. You moan softly, hazy and entranced, leaning fully into the coils that cradle and explore you. Your core is slick with anticipation, your breaths shallow and rapid, and each heartbeat feels magnified in the quiet of his office. Slender’s presence surrounds you completely, the dark, intoxicating air of his control pressing into every inch of your awareness, and you find yourself surrendering to it fully, leaning into him, craving more, wanting every touch, every glide of him, wanting him in ways that feel impossibly urgent.

“Awfully needy, aren’t you?” Slender murmurs, each word almost demeaning, but the teasing edge makes your stomach flip. You whine at him, half in frustration, half in anticipation, your body already coiling around the presence of him and the probing, purposeful movements of his tentacles.

One of his tentacles snakes up your legs, sliding over the hem of your pants as he nudges them down past your ankles. The fabric slips to the floor, and your panties follow shortly after, the cool air brushing against your bare skin making your nerves tingle with awareness. The room is cold—unforgiving—but it doesn’t matter. Your body is ablaze with warmth, every nerve alight, every thought consumed by the sensation of him, by the subtle pressure and teasing of his appendages tracing your curves.

A tentacle slips smoothly between your legs, circling your folds with an aching slowness that makes you squirm, hips shifting instinctively, your breath hitching. He watches every reaction, his attention meticulous, the quiet low chuckle vibrating through the room as he begins to tease you thoroughly, slowly, exploring, pressing, and teasing your cunt. Your mind feels hollow, yet completely full—filled only with his presence, his dominance, the way his appendages map every inch of you.

“Do you feel that?” his voice drifts across you, deep and calm. “The way your body responds. That’s for me. Only me.” His claws brush lightly against your jaw when you tilt your head up, guiding your gaze to him, to the shadowed mass of his figure looming over you. He speaks as he moves, narrating his intent with each curl and press of his tentacles, detailing how he wants to tease, where he’ll touch, how your body should respond. Your breaths come faster, shallow, uneven, as the sensations wash over you.

A tentacle flicks across your clit quickly, making you gasp and arch, and he chuckles softly. “So eager… so much for holding back, right?” Another tentacle snakes around your hips, pressing into your sides, coaxing you upright even as you try to squirm away. You can’t, and you don’t want to. Your mind has surrendered, your senses entirely consumed by the warmth, the teasing, the way he wraps around you, claims you, maps you. 

“You’re entirely mine,” he whispers finally, a low rasp that makes your chest tighten. “Every reaction, every sound, every thought—you’re delivering it to me. And I’m going to take my time. You understand?”

You whimper at him, nodding shakily. 

“Good,” he murmurs. “You’ve never been much of a listener… but you will be now.” 

Then, slowly, one of his appendages presses forward, sliding into your entrance. Sharp pain bursts through, making you jolt and squirm, but his voice cuts through it like a tether.

“Relax,” he commands, low and unwavering. And your body obeys, as though a switch has been flipped. Muscles that had tensed around the intrusion loosen, your legs spreading wider, your breathing deepening, your core responding to the firm, thick pressure. Heat pools in your belly, spreading outward, each push of the appendage sending tremors up your spine.

He circles the tip inside you, coaxing you with words, his voice measuring every reaction. “Well done… Let me hear you. Moan for me. Let me know how good this feels. Don’t hold back.” Your lips part on their own, letting out soft whimpers that grow into louder moans, echoing against the walls of his office. Every sound fuels him, his presence overwhelming, intoxicating, filling every corner of your awareness like a stout cologne.

Another tentacle slides toward your mouth, warm and wet, curling gently between your lips. Your breath hitches as it presses against your tongue, demanding entry. Two more coil around your chest, tugging and teasing your nipples, making your body arch instinctively, hips rolling into the tentacle still inside you. You are utterly surrounded, every sense filled with him—his whispers, his pressure, his cold, commanding gaze that seems to pierce through your very thoughts.

“You’re entirely mine,” he murmurs, voice low, almost a growl. “I feel it all. Every part of you is mine to take, to shape, to enjoy.”

Your body is lax in his grasp, trembling and shivering, hands clawing at nothing, reaching instinctively for him, for anything, desperate to anchor yourself to him.

He steps closer, looming over you, and seizes your wrists, gripping them in his claws. His cold, elongated fingers curl around your hands, holding you tight as he drives the tentacle inside you faster. You’re face to face now, his featureless visage inches from yours, and the sound of your own moans fills the room, mingling with the low, rasping hum of his voice.

“Do you feel how good this is?” he murmurs, voice silk and steel at once. “Do you feel it all for me?”

You can barely respond, gasping and whining, but words tumble out anyway, trying hard to speak around the tentacle pressed on your tongue. “It… it feels… so good… please… please more…” The tentacle in your mouth slides free, allowing you to speak more clearly, “Yes… yes… it’s… it’s perfect… I… I want it all… I can’t… I can’t do anything else…”

He doesn’t relent. If anything, he pushes further, thrusting deeper and faster into your cunt, black tentacles gushing your arousal as they piston into you, knocking against your insides.

It’s not long before another tentacle worms its way off of your back and between your legs, slipping next to the one inside of you, pressing against your aching entrance alongside. You immediately tense your legs closed, fighting the push that’s already beginning, your head spinning. But Slender just chuckles, watching your panic.

“Open,” he commands. Your body shudders, then you feel your legs pry apart. A moan drags from your throat at the sensation of your entrance relaxing, the second tentacle pushing in with little resistance now. It nudges, cramming into your cunt, and you wail—so full.

It hurts, you know it does—but it hurts so good thanks to Slender’s molding and meshing of your mind. It’s like his claws are raking through your thoughts, pulling at your insides and stretching your consciousness out for him to play with.

It’s orgasmic.

That’s all you can think before your body is convulsing, limbs dangling in the air, head spinning as your abdomen tightens and you’re cumming so hard you see stars. The tentacles are rapid, the two inside of you fucking into you in alternation—the second one tugs out, the other is shoving its way it.

“Sl-Slender—fuck—” you gasp, your orgasm snapping your body taut, your hands grasping his claws desperately.

“Good,” he hums. “Feel it. You’re doing splendid, pet. Don’t fight it.”

You try, but Slenderman has always been relentless. He’s a creature of habit, and those habits are very keen on watching humans crumble and strain under him—especially you—his tentacles finding their way around your throat, your nipples, into your mouth—anywhere they can make you louder.

And all the while, his blank face watches on. Catches your every expression, notices your every grimace and strain—and quickly corrects it with the words lofted  into your head. 

“Can’t—It’s too much… Slender—please—” you groan as your legs feel like jelly, growing numb from being dangled and thrashed about, spread wide so oozing appendages can cram their way inside you. And they’re not stopping. breathing came uneven, a tremor in every word. “I—wait, I can’t—” you stammered, your mind scattering under the feel of him. It wasn’t pain that overtook you, but the sheer magnitude of his relentlessness—a force pressing down on every corner of your consciousness until you could barely tell where you ended and he began.

“Silence,” the command wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even harsh. It was simply truth—and your mind obeyed.

Warm, humming power coiled through your thoughts, wrapping around your panic and swallowing it whole. It didn’t erase you, but it remade your focus. The terror and overstimulation blurred into clarity, into pleasure again, every nerve pulled toward him like gravity itself had turned sentient.

“Feel what is real,” his voice vibrated inside you, low and resonant, a thousand tones in one. “Not the chaos you conjure, not the fear you cling to. Feel me.”

That’s when you began to hear the dripping. Through hazy eyes, you looked down, past where the tentacles continuously speared into you, past your dangling feet—but to the floor. Droplets pooled onto the hardwood beneath you, evidence of your mind-numbing pleasure. When your body was commanded to open, all of your arousal came with it—soaking you.

Your inner thighs, the glistening tentacles, the space beneath you—all of it was shimmering with the evidence of your orgasm. You felt your face flush, your eyes clamping shut as another wave of pleasure shot through you, hot and fast.

“Please—please, please, please—” you chattered, your eyes looking up through heavy lashes to meet Slender’s gaze. “You—I want you, sir—”

“You have me, alrea—”

“Not these—fuck—these slimy fucking things—you.”

Your voice cut through his, rattled as you tried to speak over the sound of squelches and a tired throat. Slender’s head cocked to the side, irritation clear in the way your vision began to static at the edges.

“You’ll be careful not to interrupt me again,” he warned, leaning his smooth face closer to yours.

The tentacles inside you aligned with his words, the two of them pressing together, pushing up into you as one. The stretch was unbelievable, your body jerking forward and clamping down, eyes clamping shut. It may have been intended as punishment, but it only made you beg louder.

“Slender!” you gasped, reaching for his pristine jacket. You gripped his collar, tugging at the black fabric, nails digging and tugging so hard you swear it would tear. He didn’t react, his body as still as stone as you tugged, trying to bring him closer. “Please—just you. I just want—hnngh—just want you. It’s always fucking you, sir. Take these—fuck—these things offa me.”

“Do you?” His tone was condescending, almost hurtful, yet carried the weight of a command. “Then ask.”

You blinked, confusion mixing with dread. “I’m asking.”

“No.” The word vibrated through your skull, shaking the air. “Ask nicely.”

Every light in the room flickered. His height loomed, his presence pressing like a storm about to break every window in the mansion. Your throat went dry. Whatever this was, it wasn’t about words—it was about surrendering pride, giving up control, proving that you meant it.

You took a trembling breath, eyes locked on the faceless dark before you. “Please,” you whispered, voice nearly swallowed by the hum in the room. “Please, I want you, sir.”

The tentacles slowed, the static in your brain halted. The overwhelming pressure of him, and the office, and everything simmered—as if Slender was trying to overwhelm you from the very beginning. The only noise you heard was your panting, eyes still locked onto his face, hands still gripped in his collar.

But the tentacles retracted from inside you, tugging your thighs open to slip out one at a time, your cunt clamping around nothing the minute you were empty. They didn’t leave, but instead wrapped around your middle, holding you even more secure as Slender stepped closer.

They lift you easily from where you’d been trembling, your limbs weightless, your body carried through the space like a marionette that no longer needs to fight its strings.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

The dark tendrils draw you closer, the air around him thick and electric. When they finally release you, it’s into his arms—a careful motion that feels impossibly human. His frame is cold and smooth, but the embrace is steady, his long arms sliding beneath you until you realize he’s holding you like a bride. You curl instinctively toward him, the hum of his presence a low vibration against your ribs. You can hear nothing outside the rhythm of your own heartbeat and the faint, static whisper that lives inside his chest.

“Wha—”

You looked up just as Slenderman went very still.

Then the smooth expanse of his face began to split.

The white surface cracked down the middle, fine as a hairline fracture at first—then deeper, wider, until the pale expanse of him peeled apart to reveal darkness beneath. It wasn’t blood or bone, but something abyssal. A gaping wound that shaped itself into a mouth lined with jagged, unnatural teeth, black and sharp like broken glass.

And from that mouth, a tongue unfurled—long, inhuman, glistening like wet smoke. It didn’t move quickly, didn’t lunge. It tasted the air like a snake, as if it were savoring the electricity that pulsed between you.

Your first instinct was to pull back, gawking at the sight, but Slender only lifted you higher, pulled you closer until your head was level with his.

Without warning, he tilts his head closer, and you feel the faint press of his smooth face against yours. Then, the long, wet tongue sliding out to brush against your lips. You gasp, but the sound is muffled against him as he presses forward, guiding your mouth to his.

Your lips part instinctively. His tongue slips into your mouth, slick and probing, moving with a confidence that makes your body weaken even further. Your hands drift to his chest, trying to steady yourself, but it’s useless—he’s everywhere at once, his presence all-consuming. You respond instinctively, pressing back against him, tasting the strange, cold tang of him as your tongues dance together. The world shrinks until there is only him, the wet press of his tongue, and the sound of your shared breaths echoing faintly in the room.

“Such fire,” he murmurs between the kisses, his voice like static in your mind, deep and commanding. “I can feel it… all of it. Your need. Your craving.”

You whine softly against him, feeling your body react, heart thudding wildly in your chest. “I… I only want you,” you manage to whisper, even as the kiss deepens, his tongues exploring yours, mapping you as surely as his tentacles had mapped your body. He tilts you slightly, keeping you pressed to him, and the kiss shifts—slower now, more deliberate, but no less consuming. Every flick of his tongue, every press of his mouth against yours drives heat through you, leaving you dizzy, hazy, entirely caught in him.

You feel him begin to move, turning and carrying you back towards his desk.

His tentacles retreat with a fluid grace, slipping back into his form until it’s as though they’d never been there at all, leaving only the lingering heat of his touch on your skin. You’re aware of every movement, every step he takes, yet powerless to do anything but trust him, your body already aching to feel his presence.

When he sets you in his lap, you adjust instinctively, straddling his legs, and the warmth of him envelops you. His hands settle lightly at your hips, steadying you, but not constricting, and your own hands find their place against his chest, bracing as he leans in, and the kiss resumes. His mouth moves against yours with hunger, your knees press instinctively against the sides of his legs, as though grounding yourself against the force of him.

You gasp into him, and he deepens it, tilting his head to give him better access, your lips parting willingly as your body melts into the pressure of his. Every heartbeat pounds in your ears, every nerve ending igniting as his hands roam just enough to anchor you, guiding your body against his. 

“Do you feel that?” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and rough through your thoughts. You can only whimper in response, lost in the heat of his presence, the world outside his office utterly gone. His claws slide up your back, fingertips brushing along your spine, and you arch instinctively, pressing your chest against his, craving more of the closeness, more of the contact.

An eldritch horror may have all the time in the world to make out, but you certainly don’t.

Your fingers tremble as you reach beneath your hips, grazing the waistband of his dress pants. The smooth fabric resists at first, but then you find the button and your fingers fumble, desperate and eager. You undo it, tugging at the zipper as your heart thuds in your chest, face craned upwards as he shoves his tongue deeper, tasting every inch.

You reach in blindly, hand pressing against his solid abdomen, then down to his hips, and then finally wrapping around the length of him. You hesitate, eyes widening at the feeling.

“Your fear is humorous,” he chuckles, sliding his claws down your spine, over your ass, and under your hips. Your shift forward, his tongue leaving your mouth to lick around your jaw, sending chills up your arms. “I will never understand a human’s desire, nor will I understand your fear.”

He speaks as he tugs his cock out of his slacks, claw wrapping around the length.

It’s odd. It’s not human, nor is it a tentacle, but some strange thing in between. It twitches and writhes against his claw, oozing pre as he strokes himself. What you’re worried about isn’t the irregular shape—but the size.

Slenderman is tall, and long, and all gangly limbs and stretched proportions. You should have anticipated the rest of him being the same way. Sitting on his lap, his cock sits in front of you, nudging against your sternum. Fear rockets through your nerves, everything telling you to get away—but his claws are already moving back to your hips, and your hands are already clasping onto his shoulders.

“It matters not,” he continues, obviously ignoring the panic in your mind. “You will take me, little thing. You’ve made it this far—you can withstand a bit more.”

His clawed fingers dig into your hips, holding you firm as he positions himself under you, the heat of his length pressing insistently to your core. Your breath catches, chest rising and falling rapidly, body already trembling with anticipation. It writhes, the tip brushing through your folds as if it has a life of its own—like a creature in its own capacity.

You jerk, eyes flicking back and forth between your legs and to Slender’s absent face. With his mouth present now, you can see the humor on his face, see the smirk.

“Please be gentle…” you whine, knuckles brandishing white as you grip his shoulders. Slender shifts his hips, tugging your hips forward, and the tip catches on your entrance. You gasp, and he chuckles, slowly nudging upward. “Sir…”

“Cum.”

You’ve never been hit with a truck, but that’s the closest thing you can compare the sensation to as your cunt slams with pleasure. You scream, a shrill, intense thing as Slender shoves his cock through your convulsing entrance and straight into your cunt. You’re cumming hard, completely untouched as Slender takes advantage of your dazed state to begin fucking his length up into you.

Your body falls forward onto his chest, his jagged teeth coming beside your head to bite and nip at your ear, staticy grunts and growls filtering through his mouth. Your entire body is rammed, arms going limp at your sides, legs jello underneath you. Slender’s claws grab under the curve of your ass, bouncing you mercilessly on him.

You feel as he writhes, as his cock jerks and fills you. He’s not pulling out barely before he’s slamming back in, cockhead cramming against your cervix, stuffing you.

“Tighten,” another command into your mind.

Your cunt clenches at the words, walls molding around his cock, barely letting him fuck into you as he growls. You’ve never heard these noises from him, but it’s all you can hear as he hisses into your ear. Your face presses against his chest, tears streaming from your heavy eyes.

You can’t think, couldn’t form a sentence if your life depended on it. All you know is him—your master. Being a proxy means being a servant, and what better way to serve your master than like this?

Your thighs shake intensely, head sagging between your shoulders as your mind blanks, then blanks again. There’s nothing—nothing but his cock, his feel, his warmth. Slender’s voice echoes in your mind and in your ears—you’re completely enveloped with him.

Master. Sir. My master. Mine—

Slender’s claws slip from under you, letting your hips drop until his length is snugged deep into your sopping cunt. His hands move from your body, planting each claw on the armrests of his chair, sitting back fully against it. Your body shakes, tears staining the front of his suit, darkening the already midnight black. You want him to keep going, you want him to use you—

“Ride me.”

Your eyes blink, then your body snaps upright against him. You hiss as his cock presses deep, looking down to see the flex of your stomach and the cock nestled deep inside. You can’t stop—your hips rise, knees shuffling under yourself to hold your weight. Slender watches as your hands reach behind yourself, palms finding the cold wood of his desk and leaning your weight back.

A moan tumbles from your lips as your hips fall back, shoving his cock back inside. You bounce, hips and arms shaky, head lulling between your shoulders—but you do as you’re told. Your body swims with the sensation—the fullness, the pain, the devotion.

“You listen so well… hnn… when you stop fighting…” Slender grunts with each drop of your hips. It’s all the strength you can muster to lift your hips, letting gravity do the rest to drop you back down. Each time has a moan spilling, lewd noises and skip slapping echoing off the dusty walls.

For a creature whose entire presence is to be blank—Slender doesn’t do very well at concealing his pleasure. He’s always been a stone wall of neutrality—no emotions, no telling facial queues, no bouts of intense emotions. But you can see it in the way his claws dig into the armrests of his chair, in the way his hips gently buck up to meet your every bounce—he’s feeling good.

“Wan-Wanna make you feel—hah—feel good, sir.” The words tumble out of your mouth, half shrill and shaky, but your intent is clear as you roll your hips on the downward thrust, arching your back. Slender grunts, long tongue flicking out through his jagged mouth to taste the air and the static in it. “Feel so good.”

“Faster,” he huffs.

Your hips jolt, livening with the command. You whine, his cock knocking all the sensitive spots inside you, reaching further than you could’ve ever imagined. You try to look at his face, try to keep some humility about yourself—but there’s none left. Your body is just his toy, his rag to throw and do with as he pleases.

It should be depressing, it should make you upset—but it just coils your arousal tighter.

“I’m—I can’t—God, Slender—” you cry, head falling back, hips snapping up and down as fast as your limbs will allow. You feel like putty, your brain feels like hot wax. “Mmn—M’gonna cum—gonna c-cum—”

Slender’s claws lash from his armrests to your hips, his body rattling yours as he stands abruptly. The wind is knocked from your lungs as your back slams against the top of his desk, papers and files scattering to the floor beneath. You gasp, but he’s already over you, crowding your senses in.

“Not yet,” he growls, claws digging under your hips as he bucks into you, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your arms splay across his desk, reaching for anything you can hold, anything to stabilize yourself. Your fingertips grip the edge of the desk above your head, and Slender slams his cock into you, hips snapping so rapidly you’d think he’s aiming to break you in two. “You’ll finish when I allow you to.”

You nod, back arching against the oak, his cock ramming against your g-spot with every desperate attempt to get deeper. Your thighs squeeze around his hips, eyes hazy as you watch the sinful way his tongue lashes the air.

Your hands reach up, gripping his shoulders, pulling his tall frame over your body. You meet his tongue first, lips already open as you push your lips up to his jagged ones. Slender hisses into the kiss, tongue pushing under yours and invading all available space, choking you. His thrusts are sloppy, and his claws are scratching your skin as they look for purchase.

“Never in my eons,” His claws slide under your back, wrapping his arms under you as he leans down to hiss in your ear. “Have I ever met a—ahh—a human as sinful as you.”

His voice shakes.

Slenderman communicates his best through the mind—through the mental state. He’s good at control, and commands, and being able to read you better than you can yourself. But when a pulsing, jabbing, aching television static rings through your psyche—you realize Slender shows pleasure through the mental too. The static pulses with every jerk of his hips, clouds at the edge of your vision the harder he goes.

You think it might consume you, the feeling so intense you feel like it’ll never leave again. Your eyes unfocus, your breathing wavers, it’s all you can do not to pass out—

“Cum for me, pet—”

Your orgasm slams through you harder than the last. Slender follows it, his hips snapping hard one final time until he buries himself deep, cockhead pressing your cervix. His tongue shoves deeper, limbs wrapping your body tighter. All it takes is the searing tightness of your cunt to send him tumbling, cum shooting deep, filling you so miserably full.

Your legs tighten around his hips, arms around his shoulders, clinging to each other until every drop is milked. It feels like it’ll never end—but then the static begins to dissipate little by little. Each grind of his hips into yours dumbs it down ever so slightly—until eventually, it stops just as abruptly as it started.

Slender shifts against you, dragging your back off his desk, pulling you tight to his chest as he falls back into his chair. He doesn’t pant or shake like a human, but there’s a low growl from deep within his chest—pressing right against your ear as you shake against him.

It feels like an eternity until you catch your breath again, and even longer before either of you moves. Slender is the first, brushing his claws against your back.

“Is… this what you intended when you said you desired me?” he hummed, his voice low, calm, yet edged with the quiet weight of authority. There was no lingering anger there, only that unreadable, measured presence that made you shiver despite yourself. Even with him still buried inside you, he keeps his composure.

You let your laughter trail off, shifting slightly, tilting your head up just enough to look at the angles of his faceless visage. The jagged cracks of his mouth were reforming, the pale lines and edges smoothing back over until there remained no blemishes at all. “Well… I guess you kinda made it all happen,” you murmured, fingers brushing lightly against his suit. “I mean, you basically commanded me to do everything.”

There was a pause, a quiet that seemed to fill the entire room, and then his tone shifted, “I do not outright control often,” he said, each word measured, almost reassuring. “Do not take this… act of intimacy… lightly. Remember that what occurred here is not casual. Nor will it be often.”

You pressed closer, teasing, your voice light, brushing against the edge of insolence and affection. “Oh, I know. But you did command me,” you whispered, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Doesn’t that make it… kind of my fault too?”

Slender’s faceless head tilted slightly, just enough to suggest the faintest acknowledgment of your words. The room’s air seemed to still thrum with the energy between you—an intimate tension, dangerous and yet grounding. You could feel the weight of his presence through his lap, the slow, steady rhythm of his unseen heartbeat echoing into your own.

“Perhaps,” he replied, voice even. “But do not mistake this for leniency. You are still liable for punishment and the consequences of your inability to listen to orders.”

You laughed again, soft and breathy, letting your fingers trace idle patterns along his chest. “Consequences,” you echoed playfully, “well… I think I like those.”

There was a moment of silence, then you felt a sharp sting as Slender’s claws pinched your skin—a warning.

You jerked, but then smiled, relaxing into him.

“And, I did not command every action,” he lilted. You leaned back, looking at him. “The final time you came—that was all on your own. I merely advised you. It’s quite impressive how resistant you are to instruction when it comes to your job, but your pleasure is another story. How interesting the mortal body is.”

His clawed hand reaches up to cup the side of your face gently, guiding your gaze to the unseen depths of his presence. For the first time, you feel truly seen—not as a pawn, not as a proxy, but as something that exists entirely for him, fully, utterly—even with his terrible pillow talk.

You lean into his touch, staring up at him—before smirking.

“Does this mean I get special perks over Toby?”

“Quiet.”