Page 184 of Violent Possession
I lose all shame. I let the drool run, I let him use me, because this is everything to me. The feeling of being completely dominated, of having no control over anything, of being just an object in his hand.
I pant when he pulls me back, almost laughing. “Are you trying to kill me, is that it?”
He shoves in again, even deeper, and I choke loudly, the tears burning. My dick throbs painfully, trapped inside my pants, and I arch my hips, begging for friction that doesn’t come.
“Be quiet and suck,” he orders. And I obey, working my mouth, my throat, my tongue, doing everything I can to push him to the edge. I feel him get even harder, pulsing in my mouth.
The pressure builds, his head throbs against my tongue, and I almost come again just thinking that I can push the boss to the limit like this. His hand holds my nape firmly, cutting off any chance of retreat. It’s pure dominance. His breathing quickens, that fucking self-control threatening to crack right in my throat. I force myself not to choke, because Iwantto see him lose control, I want to feel him tremble.
Every time he pushes, I taste the salt, the saliva running down, my pride going to hell. He moans low, a hoarse sound of pleasure, and my own arousal hurts, my cock crushed in my jeans.
He holds my head for an indecent amount of time, leaving his cock there, throbbing on my tongue.
Then, he pulls out before he loses control, making a point of leaving me on my knees, drooling, my breath bursting in my lungs. He loves to see me like this, fucked up, adrift, begging.
Fuck. My brain can only think of one thing now: I want him inside me. I want to feel the whole fucking thing.
Alexei pulls my face back up, forces my gaze to lock with his. He smiles that bastardly way, as if he could dismantle me completely just by thinking about it.
“Come here,” he says, low.
I go. I don’t even try to hide it. I just get up, hard with lust, and follow his command like a trained dog. Alexei pulls me by the collar of my t-shirt, rips it off me—my last disguise of civility—and I let him. I always let him.
His gaze tears through me. He examines every inch of the damage: the fresh bruises on my torso, the sweaty, throbbing skin. The boss loves to collect evidence. Every new bruise, every crooked line of my bones, every time someone tried to break me and failed. He looks and smiles, just with one corner of his mouth.
I’m faster. I pull him to me, my mouth pressed to his ear, and I speak softly, dirty. “Fuck me, boss. Do it right. I want to feel it tomorrow… I want to feel it all week.”
His hand is already roaming my chest, slow, cruel, and every touch makes my muscles tremble. He presses right on top of the bruises, explores every mark and every scar with his fingers on purpose just to hear the noise I make—a dirty, shameless fucking moan.
“You love seeing the damage, don’t you?”
He loves the worst spots: the rib that almost turned to dust, the recent cut that still itches, the spreading bruise that will be green and yellow tomorrow. Then he lowers his mouth to my neck, bites, kisses where the skin is most sensitive, looking for where it hurts most. He knows, the son of a bitch. He palpates every bruise, squeezes hard.
I let out a wet, dirty laugh and push my body against his, wanting more, wanting everything.
“You’re a lost cause,” he murmurs in my ear. His voice is scratchy. “Look at the state you’re in.”
My brain boils. “Yeah, look, boss. Look what you do to me,” I say, arching my hips to grind against him. “I can barely take it, fuck, just thinking about your cock inside me. Feel this. Feel how much I want you…”
He pushes me onto the sofa, effortlessly. He slams my back against the upholstery, rips my belt, tears off my jeans. Alexei comes on top of me, his weight crushing, imposing.
I don’t fight. Every time I touch him, it’s a free fall. I open my legs for him, an invitation, a plea. Alexei fits between my thighs without the slightest hesitation, his scent a mix of expensive French cologne and that fucking power that makes me feel both smaller and larger at the same time. The tip of his cock brushes where I need it, hot and insistent.
I arch my hips, look up—I don’t even try to hide it. I just want him to see the hunger, the defeat, the little pride I have left turning into desire.
He pins me with one hand, with enough force to immobilize me. I could break free if I wanted to. I don’t.
“Beg,” he whispers, the command tearing through the space where I played at being rebellious. I don’t even need to think.
“Please,” my voice comes out scratchy, ridiculous. “Alexei, fuck me. Now. Don’t play games.”
He laughs. Perverse, affectionate. He obeys, but in his own way. His tongue travels down my neck, biting lightly, drawing territories that are already his. I feel his hand slip between my legs, opening me up more. He aligns me, the head of his cock pressing, threatening, until, in a single movement, he enters, slow and insistent.
The pain blacks me out for a second, but the feeling of being filled is so absurd, so fierce, that my entire body explodes in gratitude. I moan loudly. He stops there, inside, without moving. He lets me feel every millimeter of the invasion, of the stretching, of my body claiming what shouldn’t fit. I hate andlove him for this, because he knows exactly what it takes to bend me without ever breaking me.
“Fuck,” I say, and it comes out in a moan. “You don’t need to be patient with me. Fuck me however you want.”
He doesn’t need any more encouragement. He pulls out all at once, lets the emptiness burn, and enters again, whole, deep, pushing me to a place where only he exists. The rhythm is precise, training me to endure more, to never forget the feeling of him inside. He alternates between deep, slow thrusts that tear and stitch my insides, and quick bursts that make my brain short-circuit.
