Page 166 of Chandelier Sin
He spread my thighs, positioning me so that I was again impaled on him, spread apart so all could see each time I sank onto him.
They’d witness each time he entered me, sliding in and out forall to see, my pussy on show—exposed, violated, and yet feeling prouder than I’d ever felt about my body.
This time, I refused to hold back, refused to pretend I wasn’t enjoying this, I rode him like a wild cowgirl, dipping low and rising fast, pounding him to drag out my own pleasure, fully aware all eyes were on us.
For a brief second, I made eye contact with Aemon, reading pride in his expression, but what he couldn’t know, couldn’t read in me, was a fierce rebellion as I took what I wanted from this moment, stole back the power, the control, dragging out my own bliss.
“I love this man,” I wanted to scream, to share it with the world.
Yet they wouldn’t read the truth because they saw what they wanted to see, a woman destroyed and ruined even as I reveled in my own personal win.
I drew out pleasure from every plunge, every glide upward on Atticus’ enormous cock. Slick from my arousal, it was easy to slide up and down on as I chased after another climax.
To them, I had completely surrendered—and I had, only it wasn’t to my punishment, it was to Atticus and all he offered, not only in this moment, but the promise of a future where I could choose my own way.
Just as he’d shown me.
Seemingly vulnerable, I was being teased and prodded, my breasts pinched, and my nipples squeezed. He played with me like a toy, forcing climax after climax until all that was left was everything good and delicious and satisfying.
I went inside my mind, to a place I knew so well, only it was on my terms.
Savoring these exquisite colors in my mind’s eye, these vibrant textures, each moment a symphony of delight, awakening my senses to the profound experience.
Even the stillness, the silence we shared at the end, carried with it its own kind of awe.
I was owned by Atticus.
And in these unfolding moments we shared a sacred language only we spoke.
He came, heat bursting inside me as I felt a flurry of his pleasure as he rode out his own release.
Too soon it was over.
After it was done, Atticus cleansed me between my thighs. Then, he untied me from the ceiling fixture and carried me in his arms over to the bed and laid me down, bringing a satin sheet up to cover me. He repositioned the pillow to make sure my head was comfortable.
“Sleep,” he said.
I resisted.
He ran his fingers through my hair to reassure me it was safe.
Finally, I heard Atticus move away from the bed. I glanced over my shoulder and watched him take a bow.
Our act was over—and me, the punished one, was being permitted to rest at last. I welcomed the sound of the audience leaving the chamber.
When I heard the clink of glasses, I knew Atticus and Aemon were drinking a toast to the ultimate degradation of Pendulum’s queen.
He was pleased with the way I’d been tortured.
What he could never know was that at no time had I been asked to give up control, because moment by moment, Atticus had ensured I remained the one who had consented to each act.
Even though it had been subtle, it had been there, guiding him, sharing my tolerance with our silent language that proved there was something sacred between us.
Atticus was the drug I’d become addicted to.
When I awoke, it was to an empty dungeon and a glass of water waiting for me on the side table.
And a note:
