Page 138 of Violent Possession
“I decide the rhythm,” I say, and I slow down. On purpose—I move inside him with unbearable slowness, one step, a stop, a controlled torture.
He roars, frustrated, and tries to push himself back again. I pull him closer, hold his arms behind his back, and pin Griffin with my whole body.
“Son of a bitch,” he spits, but the insult is a compliment. “You love this, don’t you? It makes you hard as fuck to know that I’m your little bitch, right?”
I like it so much that his words repeat in my head like a prayer.
I press a bruise with my thumb, and Griffin’s body arches, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable in the sound he makes. I feel that, if I ordered him, he would crawl on the floor, laughing, proud.
I correct the angle, look for a new spot, and his whole body shudders, the extreme tension collapsing into spasms of pleasure.
“That’s it,” he moans, “there.” He repeats the word like a litany, a mantra, a password.
The last vestige of control vanishes, and need takes over. I clench my jaw, force possession, cup my hand at the base of his nape again.
The rhythm is brutal, paced only by the need to mark territory, to make it clear that, from there, there is no more room for doubt about who won.
“That’s it,” he moans, his voice melted, “show me who’s boss...”
I squeeze every bruise, rekindle the memory of all the blows of this night, and he groans louder, reverberating throughout the entire apartment, maybe the entire floor, and I don’t care if anyone hears. Iwantthem to hear.
The thrusts become faster, stronger. I hold Griffin by the hair, pull his head back until his neck is exposed—I sink my teeth into his hot skin, and he roars.
The rest of the world disappears. There is only the blind certainty that, at that moment, I am everything he has and everything he wants.
We are both lost in this now—he is a fire that I started and that now threatens to consume me completely.
“Look at me,” I order. He turns his head, and his eyes meet mine in the reflection of the window. The pain is gone from his face, replaced by an expression of ecstasy.
I want him to break, and I know he’s close—I feel his body start to lose the battle, I feel his legs trembling, the spasms increasing. He groans my name, not once, but several times, each time louder, each time more urgent.
I squeeze harder. I want him to remember me for weeks.
He trembles, the muscles in his thighs contract.
“Alexei, I’m going to?—“
“No,” I cut in. The power of the imperative is all I have left now, and I discover that I can squeeze Griffin to the exact limit, holding him on the edge of the abyss, where desire becomes agony and agony, perfect obedience. “Not yet. You’ll cum when I tell you to.”
I slow down drastically, almost stopping, and the sound of protest he makes is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. I torture him, moving slowly, dragging out the pleasure.
The words of supplication that form in Griffin’s mouth are wet and disarmed, devoid of the ironic veneer that protects his pride. “Please,” he begs. “Alexei... please, I need to...”
“Need what?” I demand against his ear. “Say it. Say what you need.”
He hesitates, his breath held. And then, he gives in. “I need to cum... I need you to let me cum, please.”
“Ask properly,” I whisper, and when I feel the tremor in his body, I know I’ve touched the exact point of collapse.
“Sir,” he moans, in a whisper so low it could be mistaken for an obscene prayer. “Fuck... please, sir, make me cum...”
The blood rushes, a foolish wave of euphoria washes away any rationality.
I increase it. The rhythm, the friction, the violence of what I force myself to do. I pull Griffin against my body, hold his wrists tightly, imprint on his ribs and hips the kind of marking that doesn’t disappear in a day or two. I want him to be an unfinished work for weeks, with fresh scars to remind him with every movement who he serves now.
“Good boy,” I allow, and I feel his body shudder, the last resistance crumbling in an instant.
I pour myself inside him at the exact moment he groans, torn, staining the wall.
