Lover of Pathetic Men

Theodore Bentham.

Your vision wobbles.

There's hands on your elbows and muffled voices in your ears.

Teddy Bentham.

Nausea laps at you in waves, pitching with the ship.

You think someone's asking if you're alright.

Lord Bentham.

Your head pounds.

Someone's helping you out of your seat.

Lord Theodore Bentham, future Earl of Weird Bury St Edmunds.

Your knees give out.

Someone catches you.

For a moment your vision is back, almost too sharp.

And then everything goes dark.

.

.

.

The smell is so sharp and invigorating, it pierces through your unconsciousness with ease. It smells sterile, floral, and a little bit… well, you're embarrassed that your mind immediately goes to the smell of urine. Groping for a more accurate assessment—you know this smell, but the exact memories seem to slip from you as you search for them—you find your mind wandering to the doctors you've seen. It's something medical. Something…

Smelling salts!

A sponge—soaked in the mixture of salts, alcohol, and perfume—is being gently wafted under your nose. It's a strong smell. One that has you back to full consciousness within seconds. Beside you, Zander is holding the sponge, brows furrowed in concentration.

“But, it's salt…” He speaks slowly, continuing whatever conversation had been started while you were unconscious.

“Aye. Doesn't mean it's for cooking though.” Callum sits in the chair in front of Zander's vanity, perusing the letter casually.

“But it's salt.”

You get the feeling that he's been repeating the same thing for a while now. Callum, to his credit, gives a patient sigh and nods.

“Sure, but not all salts are safe to eat. Smelling salts are made with ammonia.”

“But it's salt.”

“Not cooking salt. You'll kill us all if you put it in the food. Or most of us, at least.” Callum's eyes stray to you and he gives a smile that settles your frantic thoughts. “Alright, lass? Took a wee turn there.”

You smile weakly, grateful when Zander removes the sponge from near you and returns it to an ornate vinaigrette. The box is golden and bent into the shape of a rose, ornately monogrammed with a flourishing Z. You briefly wonder whether it was a gift from Etienne or another client, but the thought is overridden by horror at your own casualty in thinking about his… other work. These pirates really are rubbing off on you.

“Thank you.” You fall back, as you always seem to, on your manners. “And apologies for any worry I caused.”

“Don't worry, love. Dinner was just about finished anyway,” Zander's tone is warm, large hand patting yours.

“Might have been more fuss if you'd hit your head, but lucky for us all, Z's got the reflexes of a fox.”

Looking at Zander, you do see something of the fox about him. If only in the red of his hair. “Thank you.”

He waves you off, but looks flattered by the recognition. “It's nothing. How are you feeling, more important.”

You take stock for a moment. Your head is spinning a little from the strength of the salts. There's an odd pressure in your forehead and nose, as though they might start bleeding any moment. You feel a little sick. Your heart thumps almost painfully in your chest. Your throat feels tight. You feel… bad. Really bad.

“I'm alright,” you smile politely. “It was a shock, is all. I never expected…”

“This Bentham lad.” Callum waves the letter. “You know him?”

“Callum!” Zander narrows his eyes. “She'll talk about it when she's ready.”

Your instinct is to agree. To promise you'll talk when you're ready and hope they all forget about it. You want nothing more than to curl up and pretend you'd never read the letter. It wouldn't matter soon anyway, would it? You've been kidnapped, he's free to find someone else to marry. It was an easier lie to tell yourself before you knew it was Teddy waiting for you. No, you can't keep running from this. He won't let you run.

“Our… families are close,” you choose your words carefully, diplomatically. “Our fathers fought for Mary, and his father was gifted an earldom for services to the crown. While our fathers were away, my mother brought us to spend a summer at Bentham Hall. Tedd—Lord Bentham and I grew quite close during that time. And then he got his commission. I didn't see him for many years after that. And when we met again, he was a young man and I a young woman. It would have been improper to spend too much time together. We have shared some dances and the occasional conversation since then, but…”

“You're different people now?” Zander supplies helpfully.

You nod. “I feel I hardly know the man he's become. So for him to speak so…” your face flushes hot at the memory of his words, “informally. Well, it simply caught me off guard.”

“Informal?” Callum snorts. “You and I have very different definitions of informal. Zander, don't.”

Without so much as a glance at him, Callum seems to have noticed Zander cautiously bringing the salt-soaked sponge to his tongue. The giant looks like a scolded puppy, slowly returning the sponge and closing his vinaigrette. You get the feeling that he'll be tasting it later, out of the watchful eye of Callum. And if Callum's frown is anything to go by, he knows it too.

“I—” You're relieved that the meaning of Teddy's words seem lost on Callum, but a small part of you wishes he understood why you felt so uncomfortable. “I simply think he should have honoured the wishes of my parents. They did not wish for me to know who I was to marry, writing the letter was a liberty he should not have taken.”

Callum shrugs. “To each their own, I suppose. I know I'd want to know who I was marrying before the day.”

Your newfound temper flares a little. “If you were a nobleman, you would understand.”

“Aye,” he snorts and rolls his eyes. “And I wouldn't have to steal for my bread either. But here we are, princess. Suppose I'll just have to make do with marrying for love like a peasant.”

“Cal.” Zander's lips are pursed, and he gives a disapproving shake of his head. “Not everyone gets to choose whether or not they marry.”

Something of a look of regret flashes across Callum's face and he returns to inspecting the letter. Zander sighs and turns back to you, giving your hand an understanding squeeze. Something about the soft, slightly sad look on his face makes you feel a little… better isn't quite the word for it. But you feel understood, somehow.

“You know, if you just tell Eti, he won't make you go back. We could make a pirate out of you. You wouldn't be the first noble pirate.”

The idea calms something inside of you. You no longer feel like a caged animal, pacing back and forth along the bars of its enclosure. There's a whole wide world out there; far away from Teddy Bentham and arranged marriages and familial obligation. One resting in the palm of your hand, if only you have the courage to grab it. Not something flighty, like a bird, but something solid. Something you have time to consider.

“I know.” You smile at Zander and it feels genuine. “Thank you both. I… I assure you I am not usually so prone to swooning.”

Callum looks up from the letter once more, eyes alight with that familiar scientific curiosity of his. “Syncope isn't uncommon, especially when your emotions run high like that. And it's nothing to worry your pretty wee head about. It doesn't do any lasting damage.”

“Right, if it was that bad, Dr. Ash would've taken you.” Zander points out. “Instead it said you 'aren't dead or dying, so that's not its pervue'.”

“Not that I wouldn't be able to help if it was more serious,” Callum looks like a nerve's been struck, and Zander shoots him an apologetic smile. “The perks of having two doctors on board.”

You sit up, curiosity piqued. “You're a doctor?”

“Aye.” Callum nods, trying to keep a smug smirk at bay. “Dr. Callum Fitzsimons. I'm more than just a bonny face and an ace navigator, you know.”

You see Zander stifling a laugh out of the corner of your eye. He schools his face into something solemn and nods. “Cal's very smart! And humble.”

“Ach, who could be humble when they're as accomplished as I am?” Callum jokes, laughing. “But seriously, if you're ever feeling peaky and want someone with a proper bedside manner, feel free to come to me instead.”

“Or me!”

“No, not you.” Callum levels Zander with a firm stare. “You and your damned teas…”

“They're medicinal!” Zander defends, giving you a playful wink. “You ever have a stomach ache or need to sleep, come see me. I'll sort you right out.”

“No! For fuck's sake, Zander. You're going to kill someone with those teas of yours one day. You've got fuckall measuring system, you don't examine the person first, you've got no medical training, and you are—let's be honest here—a fucking moron.”

Every muscle in your body tenses, ready to witness a fight.

Zander laughs.

“Course I am! But my mum's brilliant with herbs and the like, and she taught me everything I know. It's fine if you go to Cal, though. I don't mind.”

Callum pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. This is clearly an argument they've had many times.

“Alright, well… You should get some rest.” Callum stands up, setting the letter on the vanity. “I'll be on the deck if you need me, I've got my charts to work on.”

Zander stands as well, reaching down to ruffle your hair. “I should get back to the kitchen. The dishes aren't gonna wash themselves. Rest here as long as you need, love.”

As they both make to go, you get a bit of a sinking feeling in your chest. You're not sure you want to be alone. You need time to process it all, sure. And maybe that's best done here, by yourself. But part of you also wants company. Something to take your mind off the whole situation.

The situation is an awkward one. Through a series of mundane clerical errors related to “catboy homunculus” not being a recognised option for species on the housing application, Glitch had been placed in a dorm reserved entirely for women.

No one's happy about the arrangement. The girls on the floor aren't sure if Glitch's odd hours are normal for his studies or if he's trying to avoid them in particular, but he does his utmost to stay away from his floor-mates. And they do their utmost to make it clear that he isn't welcome there.

It doesn't stop them from gossiping about him. About what sort of perv he must be. How he must have hacked the system himself somehow to get placed there. Whether or not he sneaks into the women's bathroom, since there isn't a men's room on the floor.

And, as time went on, the gossip turned. The girls on the floor have taken to bullying him. Mocking and teasing and poking fun until—flustered and furious—he storms off back to his room. Probably to touch himself, the rumours insist, he's clearly into the humiliation. Some have even taken to listening in at his door in the hopes of confirming the rumours.

You've never gone quite that far. You have no interest in straining to hear something that might not happen. What a waste of time. No, you satisfy yourself with mockery and bullying alone. In fact, he's never safe with you around. Whenever you feel even the slightest stress—about exams, work, your social life, anything—you look for him to take your frustrations out on.

Which is how you ended up stumbling upon him on the empty top floor of the library. The silent floor. Not that there's anyone around to enforce such a thing. In fact, even Glitch isn't there when you first climb the steep steps up to the final floor. Only his laptop sits abandoned at a desk, pushed half-closed.

He must not have expected anyone to come up. In the dorm, he's always a stickler for privacy. Locked door, closed blinds, the works. But you don't look this particular gift horse in the mouth. Rather, you slide onto the bench and lift the screen, eager to find something new to bully him about.

What confronts you is a dark screen and line after line of multi-coloured code. And on the side are tabs that—you click—hold even more code. Nothing interesting, at least to your untrained eye. Just some boring computer geek stuff.

You open his browser, but it's more of the same. Searches for code bugs and fixes, downloads for software, and the uni site where work is posted. Even his search history is largely boring, though you suppose he knows to clear that sort of thing regularly anyway. Nothing worth making fun of him over.

Your last ditch effort is his files. His laptop is strange, and you can only guess that he's modified it himself. But navigating to his file explorer is easy. It looks odd, each item a string of letters, numbers, and symbols with no discernable icon. Even the folders are named with that same incomprehensible system.

You click into one folder. You open the first item. It's another file of code. As are the second, seventh, and twentieth. You decide against opening all of them. It's clearly a work folder.

You find another one to open. It's all video games, roguelikes and team games and other nerdy bullshit. Low-hanging fruit. Not worth bullying him about. You close the folder and open another one, this time filled with spreadsheets. Budgets, you think. Whose budgets, you're not sure, but you don't really care.

You hit the jackpot on the next folder. It's full of pdfs of articles on ethical hacking and penetration testing, alongside a nested folder. Within that one, you find profiles on various hackers, and another nested folder. You follow this weird little trail until you reach the final folder, filled only with more files.

“You're a naughty boy, watching the cheerleaders change after practice~”

The dramatised, pornographic voice echoes through the silent floor, before you frantically manage to find the mute button. You take a moment to make sure no one's coming to find out what the noise was before settling in to watch in fascination. This is the perfect bullying material, you just need to know what exactly he's into.

It's a game.

They all seem to be games.

Everything from pixel art to hyper-realistic animation, and all highly, graphically erotic.

This one is simple, a group of cheerleaders surrounding a nerdy boy and taking turns degrading him while kneeing him in the crotch. The next one is more complicated, involving resource management and social climbing for the weakest man in the empress' harem. Another is an edging simulator, and yet another is about a man stuck in a wall and used as a dildo by passing women.

You're just about to open the next one when you hear Glitch's voice—that strained, hissing pitch he gets when he's upset—from the door to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” He's by the desk in a few quick strides, slamming the screen down almost on your fingers. “There's important things on there, I'm working. Just… fuck off.”

“Working?” You give a faux-innocent smile, turning on the bench to face him. “I didn't see any work on there. Just some… interesting games.”

His ears twitch in annoyance, long black tail swishing angrily behind him. “Bollocks. All that's on there is my code.”

You idly pull your lip gloss from where it's tucked into your bra, making a show of putting some on. You pop your lips and tuck it away. It's more fun when you give him time to squirm. And boy is he squirming right now, eyes flicking between you and his laptop, slowly starting to worry you actually managed to find something.

“Your code, sure,” you agree affably. “And also something called Ruling Her Harem. A charming little game, I was particularly fond of the animation where the Empress makes the player cum until nothing comes out. Truly an inspired work of art.”

There's that delightful flush of red, spreading from the tip of his nose right out to his cheeks. His brows furrow, angry and humiliated, fists clenching by his side. You're not worried about retaliation. He never fights back, verbally or physically. He only ever gets more and more worked up until he storms off.

“You can't just go through someone's computer like that! It's private!” He reaches for his laptop, but you rest a hand over it casually.

“Not so private when you leave it open in the middle of the library.”

“No one ever comes up here! Now I won't either.”

“Awww don't sulk,” you coo with a mocking pout.

“I'm not sulking, you—” he cuts himself off with another irate hiss. “Why are you even here?”

You shrug.

“Don't just shrug, you're here for a reason. No one comes up here for no reason.”

“No, they come up here to have a discreet shag behind the Britannicas.” You look him up and down. “Not that you'd know anything about that.”

“You're disgusting,” he rolls his eyes and scowls, grabbing for his laptop again. “Give me that, I'm leaving.”

Your hand presses more insistently down on the laptop. “No, I don't think I will. And I wouldn't recommend you leaving for a while, either.”

He pauses. His eyes narrow. You watch him try to figure out if you're bluffing or if you know something he doesn't. And all the while, you cross your legs and stare up at him with a grin. You have him right where you want him, and both of you know it.

“What does that mean?” He finally—slowly—asks.

“Oh, just that you keep your laptop unmuted. Who knew that Cheerleader CBT was such a loud game?”

The flush spreads down to his chest.

“See?” You hum in faux-sympathy. “If you leave now, well… Everyone's going to think you were up here playing your weird little pervy games! And we don't want that, do we?”

“They're not— I don't— I—” He stomps his foot petulantly. “Why are you always doing these things to me?”

“Doing what? You're the one with all these games on your computer. These,” a sadistic grin creeps across your face, “disgusting, objectifying games. I'm sure the other ladies in our building would love to hear about the sort of filth you get off to.”

“No.” It's a hollow sound, hand shaking as he realises the threat. “No, you can't.”

“I don't know… I mean, I think they should be aware that they're living with a pervert. Don't you?”

“No!” A strangled yelp. And then you hear a sound you've never heard come out of his mouth before. “Please…”

He can't meet your eye. His face set in a scowl, arms crossed, he looks towards the window. As if contemplating jumping out. But he stays rooted to the spot. You can see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes as he finally understands just how much control you have over him.

It's intoxicating.

“Well,” you lean forward, finger tapping thoughtfully on your cheek. “I suppose I could be persuaded not to. But you'll need to make a very compelling argument.”

He sighs hard through his nose, arms folding tighter across his chest. “F-fine. Please don't tell—“

”Oh, no.” You hold up a finger to stop him, stifling a laugh. “That's not even close to good enough. For one thing, you're not on your knees. What sort of person begs while standing up?”

He glowers at you. You can see him bite back a retort, swallowing it down like something bitter. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you.

He's closer than he thought he would be. Kneeling right by your legs. Your crossed foot bounces right at his eye level, and you remember the harem game scene selector—specifically a scene of the player worshipping the feet of the Empress. He seems to be remembering it as well, if the way his chest stutters with a missed breath is anything to go by.

“Well?” You wave a hand. “Go on then. Beg.”

His eyes flicker to your feet again, clad in some rather sharp heels. That rough, cat-like tongue comes out to lick his lips for just a moment, before he seems to come back to himself. He settles on his heels and huffs.

“Please don't tell anyone. I get enough of a bollocking from you all as it is. Just because the morons who sort out housing put me in the wrong dorm. And now I'm stuck with you.” His ear flicks in irritation. “Bloody diawl bach.”

There's a moment of silence. It stretches into two. Then three. Then four. The longer you stare down at him, the more his fight seems to wane. He'd forgotten his place for a moment, in his abject fury. But you're more than happy to remind him.

“Alright.” You reach out to pick up his laptop. “I'll just bring this to the dean then.”

“No!” A hand reaches out, grabs your thigh. “No, I'll… I'll beg proper like.”

You narrow your eyes thoughtfully. He looks genuinely scared. Eyes wide and wild with panic, breathing rough and ragged, lip quivering. Slowly, you uncross your legs. Spread them. Lean over and grab a fistful of his hair right between his ears.

“Beg.”

You pull his head between your thighs, forcing his face against the soft cotton of your underwear. Your legs wrap around his head, leaving him with nowhere to go but closer. His ears flatten to his head, tail arcing through the air behind him in an emotion you can't quite place.

A loud complaint comes from him, but it's completely muffled by your underwear and thighs. The movement of his lips, the buzzing of his words, they feel good. You cross your ankles behind his head, pulling him closer to grind against his face. It feels just like a scene from one of those games of his.

“I said, beg.” You tug harshly at his hair. “Go on, tell me every reason I shouldn't bring your laptop to the dean.”

You hear a low growl in his throat. And then his muffled voice starts up once more. He sounds more obedient this time, more like he's trying to beg. But you don't care what he's saying, as long as his words continue to vibrate against your clit.

Between sentences, you feel him take deep breaths, needing more air to keep begging. Each one has him inhaling your scent deeply, and each time he breathes in, he squirms a little too. Curious, you peek around your legs to look at his lap. Tented. Just as you thought. The little freak is getting off on this, as you knew he would.

“Aww, how can I believe you're really sorry when you're hard?” You sigh your disappointment. “Burying your face in my cunt like this. I can't believe you're such a pervert.”

A sharp, indignant exclamation sends another wave of heat through you. You can feel how damp your underwear's gotten, from his breath and your arousal. You rub against his face, making sure he can feel it too.

“Really, I can't believe you took advantage of my kindness. I let you beg for your dignity, and you force your face into my pussy like this? You should be ashamed!”

He swallows thickly, trying to pull away; but you lock your legs tighter, forcing him deeper between your thighs. Your nails scratch at his scalp. His cock twitches visibly through his trousers. You consider making yourself cum against his face, but you don't want to risk this being over too soon.

“Disgusting boy,” you release your legs suddenly, throwing him off balance and face first into your pussy. “Get off me! Ugh, pervy men like you can't help but force themselves on any woman they see, can they?”

You push him away with a foot on his chest, narrowing your eyes at him. He falls back with a whine. His pupils are dilated so wide, his eyes look black. He swallows thickly as he looks up at you, one hand coming to rest on the top of your foot. Between his legs, you're both very aware of his hard on.

“I— I didn't! You made me!” He's stammered and indignant, even as he pants with need. “W-why? Why are you doing this?“

“I made you?” You laugh, toe digging into his sternum. “And who would everyone believe, huh? You say I assaulted you, I say you assaulted me. Who are they going to trust? You're the pervert who's always playing peeping Tom on the whole building full of women you tricked your way into living with.”

“Peeping Tom? Are you serious? I haven't watched anyone do anything, you lot are always the ones harassing me!”

“Really? Because I've got a building full of girls willing to attest that you watch us shower and change.” You check your nails with a wicked grin. “And we can make the charges worse, if you don't do as you're told. How does a rape accusation or two sound?”

Glitch's breath hitches, tears welling in his eyes. You let your foot drift down, toeing at his bulge with an idle playfulness. It's hard under your heels, and with each downward stroke, you press down lightly on his balls. The discomfort and pleasure make him squirm beneath you, laying on the floor and looking up at you in pure fear.

“N-no… I never—!”

“You snuck into my room,” you begin to weave a tale, foot still teasing him through his trousers. “Locked the door behind yourself. You climbed on top of me. Took my shirt off. Pulled my tits out…”

You push up your breasts for emphasis, giving him a nice view of your cleavage. Beneath the toe of your heel, his cock twitches eagerly.

“I can tell them every detail about the way you licked them. Sucked them. Bit them. The way your fingers played with my nipples until they were hard. About how, despite not wanting it, I got wet for you.”

Your foot trails down to step lightly on his balls, trapping them between your shoe and the hard floor of the library. He gasps. Whimpers. Bucks his hips.

“Maybe I'll even tell them how ravenously you went down on me. Shoving your face into my cunt like you just did—” you cut off any protest of innocence with a harsh grinding of your toe, squishing his balls. To your delight, the sound he makes is equal parts sob and moan. “—and eating me out with that rough tongue until you forced me to cum all over your face.”

His nails dig into the floor, chest heaving with shuddering breaths, tears flowing. He looks terrified of you. It's a good look on him. A good reminder that he doesn't want this, no matter how much his body disagrees. It's hotter for you, knowing he wants you to stop, but is helpless to stop you.

“Then I'll tell them about you crawling on top of me, fingering me roughly. Two fingers, three fingers, maybe more. How many do you think I should go with?”

You wait for a response, foot idly stroking his cock once more. The only answer you get is another wretched sob.

“Hm, I'll workshop it with the girls. Either way, I'll make sure they know that you stuck that pathetic little cock inside me. That I begged you to use a condom at least, but you refused. That you held me down and raped me as I screamed and cried. That you filled my cunt with your cum, and then kept fucking it into me. That you raped me again and again, until you finally got tired and left me alone. That you threatened to kill me if I told anyone, but I'm being so brave and exposing you for the lying little pervert rapist you are.”

That seems to push him over the edge. He humps against your foot, stifling his tears with a hand over his mouth. With your final words, he grinds as hard against your foot as he can, and then goes limp. His fingers twitch. His tears spill over again. He's cum.

“Oh?” You can't help but laugh, standing to get a better view. You don't bother moving your foot from on top of his cock, sharp heel digging into his balls painfully as you loom over him. His breath falters, a low keen of pain coming from his throat as he writhes under you. You force the glee from your face, replacing it with outrage.

“What the fuck? Did you really just cum from thinking about raping me? Fucking disgusting. You owe me even more now, freak. I can't believe you got off to the thought of forcing yourself on me.”

He tries to protest, but it's little more than a wheeze as you rock on your heels. Despite the pain—or, more likely, because of the pain—he's still hard under you. Good. You're not done with him yet, and you'd be disappointed if you couldn't keep playing with your new toy.

Finally, with one last agonising grind of your foot, you step off him. His breath seems to come back to him, filling his lungs with low sobs. There's a damp spot on the front of his trousers, still tented by his hard dick.

“Get up and show me.” You nudge him with your foot and step back. “I want to see.”

His eyes are uncomprehending, but he scrambles to his feet, terrified to anger you any more. You give a sharp little gesture to his clothes. It takes a moment, but understanding dawns and the flush on his face turns scarlet. Shaking hands move to the button of his trousers, barely managing to undo it. Then comes the zipper. Then he hesitates.

“P-please, don't make me…”

“You don't have to if you don't want to.” You smile sweetly, and his shoulders relax as he moves to put his clothes back on. “I'll just take your laptop and we can both go!”

You see the fear strike him anew as he fumbles to rid himself of his trousers. A string of cum hangs for a moment between them and his boxers before he pushes them to his ankles. He stands in front of you, hands twitching to cover himself, but afraid of your response.

“All of it. Top stuff first, boxers last. I want to save the good bit for the end.“

You leer at him as he strips. His hoodie. His shirt. Underneath, he's soft and a little squishy, but stronger than you'd expected. He kicks off his shoes. Works his trousers past his ankles and tosses them aside too. Then come his socks. You hold a finger up to stop him as his thumbs hook in the waistband of his boxers.

“Let me look at you. Almost naked in the library, I wonder what the dean would say about that.” You grab your phone and snap a picture before he realises what's happening. “Good, this should be enough to keep you on a tight leash. Now be a good little kitty and show me just how hard you came in your pants, yeah?”

He gives a low yowling hiss at the petname, ears pinned back. It was the first thing you all learned to bully him with, way back when. He was always so sensitive about being part cat. None of you could figure out why, but it was an easy way to target him. And it still works, you're pleased to see.

“Pants. Down. Now.” You snap your fingers.

Glitch's fists clench for just a moment, knuckles stark white. Then they relax, just enough to push down his boxers and kick them away. It's a mess. The front of his boxers are sticky and white with his cum, and it slicks up his cock as well.

You almost miss it, with how much cum there is. But as you snap another picture and move closer for a better look, you realise that he's even more catlike than you'd first thought. The ears, the tail, the rough tongue… They're nothing compared to the blunt barbs that stud his cock like a textured condom. It sends a little shiver of delight through you, imagining how well the barbs would stimulate your cunt—if you ever let someone as disgusting as him put his cock in you.

“Good to know.” You reach out and grasp his shaft, pumping it slowly. “If I ever accuse you of rape, I'll make sure to mention just how violating those barbs felt inside me…”

He whimpers, cock twitching in your hands. The more you rub his cum into his skin, the more you can see of him, and you take your time to judge everything. A dark black happy trail dips from his belly button down to his pelvis, all of which is soft with downy pubes, feathery against your fingers. You can see the angry red patch where your heel had dug into his balls, and it fills you with a thrill.

“What a freak.” You flick the head of his cock playfully and it drips precum in return as he winces and whines. “I bet the girls will love hearing about how weird your dick is. If you ever thought they'd let you stick this thing in them before, they definitely won't once they know.”

His hands fold behind his back to stop himself from swatting your hand away. He clasps them hard, shaking with the effort. He opens his mouth to speak, but only a humiliated little squeak comes out. A mewl, befitting a kitten. It makes you laugh, which makes him whimper.

“You know, I wonder…” Your other hand dips down to grab his balls, giving a harsh squeeze that makes his cock throb. “Which made you cum? Thinking about raping me, or me stepping on your pathetic little cock and balls?”

He gives a shuddering whine.

“No, really. I want an answer. Which one was it?” You squeeze his balls harder, nails digging in.

His knees almost buckle beneath him and his hands shoot out to steady himself against the desk. “N-neither…”

“Well, that's just not true, is it? Because you did cum.“

“I— No. I mean, sure, I did, like. But… It wasn't…”

You squeeze his balls tighter, twist, stroke his cock faster. He wheezes again, like you've knocked the air out of his lungs. His nails sink into the wood of the desk, thighs shaking with the effort of keeping himself upright.

“B-both! It was both!” He relents with a cry, hot tears of humiliation rolling down his cheeks.

“See? Not so hard to be honest, is it?” You mock. “Disgusting perverts like you need to be honest, so people know to avoid you. Also, you might want to be quieter. This is the silent floor, and I don't think this is a position you want anyone catching you in.”

Glitch freezes. A breathy “fuck…” leaves his lips as he tries to regulate his breathing. He glances behind you both, towards the stairs. They're mercifully empty still. He turns to you with a broken look, eyes pleading.

“Haven't you done enough?” His voice is a strained whisper. “C-can we at least go to your dorm to finish this?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“F-fuck, no! I didn't mean it like—”

“What a creep. Inviting yourself to my room to get your dick stroked. No way, we're doing this here and now.”

You both know that it won't end here and now. That you'll bring all this back to the other women in the dorm. That everyone will soon learn that they can abuse him like this, and he won't do a single thing about it. Can't do a single thing, with the pictures you now have. He'll become the dorm's free use stress relief. And even if he doesn't want it, you know his cock will be more than happy to oblige.

You step forward, pin him up against the desk as you keep stroking his cock. “What other things make you cum, huh? What other pervy things are you into?”

His knees fully give out, letting you hold him up against the desk. His cock twitches in your hand, hips thrusting into your fist against his will. You fondle his balls, giving the occasional rough squeeze to hear him gasp and mewl.

“I…” He bites his lip and gives a shaky shrug. “I don't know…“

You laugh. “You don't know what gets you off, or you don't know what's pervy?”

He whines and nods.

“Well, getting your balls crushed is pervy. Getting your cock trampled is pervy. Sniffing my cunt is pervy. What else?”

He keens low in his throat. “I d-don't like any of this! You're making me do it!”

“Well, one of us has cum today, and it's not me.“

“You made me!”

“I didn't make you do anything. Just like I'm not making you fuck my hand with your pathetic little cock. You're doing that all on your own. Humping my hand like an animal. You've already cum once, gonna cum again?”

“N—” He gives a breathless moan, fucking into your hand. “No! No…”

He cums in your hand, sticky ropes shooting across your stomach and chest. He's still whimpering “no” over and over as he cums, sniffling and sobbing as you milk him through his orgasm. It's so desperately pathetic, it makes you wet.

“Ugh! Gross!” You give an affronted gasp and step back, hand rubbing the sensitive head of his cock as you inspect your sticky clothes. ”You came on me, freak!”

He's panting heavily, crying and twitching with every swipe of your palm over his cockhead. “S-stop! Stop! It's too much!”

“Typical man,” you roll your eyes. “You get to cum twice, and I get nothing. We're not done until I say so.”

Glitch sobs. “I'll make you cum! I'll… I can… I can eat you out! Please, I'll make you cum! But I c-can't anymore…”

You pretend to consider his offer, forcing your hand over his soft cock over and over. “See, I think you're lying. I think you can cum more for me.“

“No! No, I can't! I'm not being funny, I really can't!” He's babbling, bordering on incoherence.

You slap him.

It's harsh and raw, leaving his cheek stinging red. He gives a heaving sob before calming down enough to take some shuddering breaths. With a firm hand on his chest, you force him to sit on the bench. He sinks into it with a whine.

"Are you going to use your mouth?” His cock twitches at the thought, slowly starting to harden again as you kneel between his legs.

“My mouth? Ew, gross. I'd never put this disgusting thing in my mouth. I bet you don't even wash it.”

He sniffles and wipes at his eyes as you begin to stroke it again, forcing him back to hardness. The head is an angry purple, swollen from overstimulation. You know some of the girls won't be able to wait to get their mouths on it. Or their cunts. He'll be milked dry every day, if he's not careful.

Your thumb rolls at his foreskin as you pump his hard cock again. He has a good view down your cleavage from here, which he's desperately trying to avoid looking at. Trying and failing. He can't help but admire your tits, right in front of his cock. Can't help but wonder how good they'd feel around him.

“See? I knew you could get hard again.” You scoff, stroking him faster. “I bet you cum at least ten times a day, always gooning to your weird porn games in your room.”

He shudders, thighs trembling violently as his hips buck up into your hand. It's quicker this time, his cock eagerly coating your hand and face and tits with his cum. You get just the barest taste of it—oddly sweet and delicious—as you scrunch up your nose and scowl.

“Ugh, just can't help yourself, can you? Making me all gross and sticky. I bet you've been dying to cum on my tits since the day you met me.”

He shakes his head fast, trying to pull his hips away as you keep stroking his spent cock. “Stop! I've n-never thought about that! P-please, no more!”

Your thumb laves over the sensitive head, feeling how hot it is to the touch. “Where else have you imagined cumming? My ass? My feet? Deep in my cunt?”

He writhes under your touch, delicate and desperate. “Stop!”

“I bet you've imagined having a line of us to cum inside, one by one. Or maybe you're imagining it more like that cheerleader game. Each of us taking turns kicking you in the balls until you cum. Is that what you want?”

“No! No, please.”

“What about that Empress game? Want me to make you lick my toes one by one? Worship my feet, clean my heels with your mouth?”

“No!”

“Or maybe you want to be edged, forced to stroke your cock over and over until you're right about to cum, but we never give you permission. And then when we finally do, we make you cum over and over until your poor, spent little cock has nothing more to give.”

“No!”

“Or do you want us to turn you into a living dildo? Take turns riding you whenever we need to let out some frustration?”

He cums again, weaker this time. It dribbles over your fingers, oozing and watery. You wipe your hand on his chest, smearing it with his own cum, before you start to stroke him again.

“Looks like you've still got more to give, huh?”

He's sobbing, squirming, unable to do anything but beg for your mercy. It's the prettiest sound. His trembling voice, begging between sobs for you to leave his poor abused cock alone.

His pleas only convince you to keep going. Stroking his cock to unsatisfying orgasm after unsatisfying orgasm, until he's sobbing with the pain of overstimulation and his cock is barely leaking anything at all when he cums. He's babbling. Incoherent. A mess of cum and tears.

You don't take pity until his cock throbs with one final orgasm and nothing comes out. You've milked him dry, his cock a deep purple from the blood trapped there by your relentless stimulation. You watch the head try to push out cum that his balls don't have, twitching with every light breeze that brushes it.

Finally, you settle back on your heels and watch his cock soften, colour easing back to red, then pink, then white. He all but curls in on himself, sobbing and desperately trying to keep anything from touching his cock. You pull out your phone for one final picture, forcing his chin up to look at the camera.

“Say cheese!” You laugh, standing up and rubbing the ache from your knees. “Well, now that that's done, I'll send all of these to the dorm chat and we'll see what happens, huh? Get your clothes on, loser.”

Glitch shakes his head, trembling and unable to bear the thought of his clothes pressing against his overworked cock. You frown and reach down to grab his balls again, wondering if you didn't break him well enough.

“Wait! Stop!” His high squeaks are reassurance that you have. “I'll p-put them on…”

You watch him gingerly pull his clothes back on, wincing at the stickiness of his cum being pressed against his own skin. He gasps, shudders, sobs as he pulls up his underwear and then his trousers. Shaky hands pack away his laptop, grabbing his bag to leave.

You loop your arm in his, dragging him towards the stairs at a quick pace. “Come on, we haven't got all day, freak! Let's get you home to your new life.”

If you allowed yourself one complaint—and you don't, complaining would make you feel ungrateful—it would be that he's a little too interested in his experiments. In learning everything he can about the magical creatures he collects and displays in his freak show. He's always vivisecting and injecting and… you really don't know what else. You try to stay as far from his experimentation tent as possible. All the wet specimens in jars give you the creeps.

But you owe him everything. That's why you feel so guilty saying no when he asks for your help with an experiment.

“Come on, I haven't even t-t-t-said what it is yet!” Lin's hand is on your back, pushing you in the direction of the little red and gold tent. “You can't say no to something you don't know!”

“Lin,” you sigh, reluctantly letting him push you along, “you know I don't like going in there. And I don't like your experiments.”

“But I've got a n-n-different one today! I think you'll enjoy it!”

You stop outside the tent, not letting him push you any more. Rounding on him, you cross your arms, trying to look stern. You don't think it works. It never seems to where Lin is concerned. You adore your big brother far too much to be stern with him.

“Okay, fine. What is it? No promise I'll do it, but… I'll hear you out.”

Lin bounces on his toes, eyes shining with an excitement that you find a little infectious. “G-g-g-wonderful! Wonderful, you won't regret it!”

“I said no promises…”

“Right, yes, of course, right, yes. Have you met my newest creature?”

“Not yet.” You frown a little. “Why?”

“Well, he's big! Very very big. And he's, well, you know.” He gives a nervous giggle. “Big. In other ways. Too.”

Discomfort settles in your stomach and you shake your head. “I don't like where you're going with this…”

“Don't say no! Oh please don't say no!” Lin drops to his knees, hands clasped as he begs. “I need to know how f-f-deep he can go!”

“No. Lin, no.”

Your stomach twists in disgust, horrified that he'd ask such a thing of you. You knew he'd go too far with his experiments one day, and this is it. Asking you to… Just thinking about it makes you shudder.

“You have to!” Lin's up again, hands gripping your wrists as he pushes you backwards into the tent. “I've already prepared him for you.”

You stumble backwards, feet tripping against the rough ground under the fabric floor of the tent. Just as his metal exam table comes into view out of the corner of your eye, your back hits against something large and solid and warm. Your whole body tenses, muscles locking in fear.

“Here she is!” Lin gives another mincing giggle, speaking to whatever's behind you. “Remember I told you about h-h-my sister?”

You hear a snort. Warm air rushes down your back.

“Go on,” Lin urges, releasing your wrists.

Something large wraps around your waist. A hand. Fingers thicker and longer than your arms. Calloused, rough, wrinkled skin the colour of snow. Fingers curl around your back, thumb caging you in from the front. Its nails are thick and cracked, cut short by Lin no doubt. He never leaves his creatures capable of hurting anyone.

“Pick her up,” Lin's voice loses its nervous quiver, breathless excitement taking over.

The creature obeys. You feel the floor fall away under your feet, body turning as the creature's arm curls to bring you up for a proper look. The face that greets you is brutish and ugly, with a pig nose and great yellow fangs protruding from a curled maw. Bulging eyes stare at you with something approaching understanding.

“Pre…etty… p…ret…ty… g…ir…l…” It speaks in halting syllables, its voice almost as grotesquely misshapen as its face.

“Isn't she just?” Lin claps his hands excitedly. “I see you're e-e-eager to get started!”

Against your better judgement, you look down.

Your stomach drops.

Standing proud between the creature's legs, pointing up between you and its stomach, is the biggest cock you've ever seen. Not that you've seen many cocks. In fact, you've only ever seen Lin's up close. But this one is gargantuan. Almost as thick as your torso, and longer than it for sure. The bead of precum that glistens at its tip could fill a teacup all on its own.

“L-Lin, please…” Your voice wavers and cracks, eyes welling with tears. “Please, don't do this…”

“Shhh,” he shushes you like one of his creatures, reaching a hand up to pat your foot consolingly. “You still don't w-w-have any underwear on, right?”

You never do. He likes it when you don't.

“Good.”

He can see up your skirt, you realise. Can see just how small and unprepared your little cunt is compared to this beast's cock. His patting becomes a grip around your ankle, pulling your leg away from your body until you're nearly in a half split.

“Lin, no! Don't!”

“You can do it,” he's speaking to the creature, not you. “Just line up and push. It's s-s-s-easy.”

It's clumsy, free hand angling its cock towards your pussy. The head presses up between your legs, battering almost bruisingly at your pelvis. And then it pushes. And pushes. And pushes. Your lips part slowly, clit twitching as his head rubs insistently at it. His precum lubricates you, and your reluctantly stimulated cunt drips too.

“Just a little harder…”

Lin's eyes are wide, fascinated as he watches the enormous cock force your little cunt open. Push after push widens your hole until finally, excruciatingly, the head slides into you with a lewd pop. Your hole clenches around the underside of his cockhead, gripping him like a vice as your body tries to protest against being forced open like this. The creature grunts in frustration, precum filling you as his cock forms a plug to keep it from dripping out.

“See? You've got the h-h-tip inside you already! You can d-d-d-take him!” He pats the creature's thigh, dropping your leg now that the cock is forcing them apart anyway. “Go on, keep fucking her.”

“Lin,” your voice is a heaving sob, body wracked with shuddering breaths as you try to accommodate the painful stretch of your pussy. “Please, stop this! Please, I can't take any more! Stop!”

The monster stops. Tilts its head. Regards you as you cry. You think you might see a hint of concern in its eyes, though your watery vision.

“It's okay, you can take him!” He pats the creature again. “Ignore her, my little sister can take it. Her body is perfect. Just enjoy her soft, warm pussy.”

Your body shudders with another sob as the creature forces you down again. The stretch isn't quite so bad this time, its shaft squeezing into you inch by gruelling inch. The excessive precum that fills you is almost a mercy, easing the way as it pulls you down on its cock. The concern from earlier is gone as it focuses everything on stuffing you as full as it possibly can. To get its whole cock deep in the tight warmth of your body.

Lin encourages it with soothing words, promising the beast that you can take its whole dick. You want to protest more. To beg him. To beg it. But the head of its cock hits against your diaphragm, sending spasming gasps through your lungs between rough, heaving sobs. It doesn't hit it again on the second thrust, mercifully. But the more it manages to bury in you, the rougher it becomes.

“Pre…tty… gi…rl…” It's panting, groaning, animal grunts and snorts as it ravishes you. “Ti…ght… ho…le… goo…ood… hole…”

Its cock bulges inside of you, forming your body to its shape. Your cunt is stretched impossibly wide, legs forced apart to accommodate as it slides you further and further down towards its heavy balls. You're trembling now, body shaking with discomfort and desire in equal measure. It feels… good. And you hate that. You hate the way its cock ruts against parts of you that have you seeing stars.

“Go on, all the way through. You can do it.” Lin's breathless, watching everything closely with that scientific curiosity you find so frightening.

The creature obeys, both Lin and its own instincts telling it to bottom out in you. With one final, rough pull, it forces you all the way down onto its cock. A scream bubbles in your throat, pushed out and then cut short by the head of its cock forcing its way up your throat and finally popping out of your mouth. Tears well in your eyes, body stretched almost to its limits as the creature begins to use you like a fleshlight.

“Incredible!” Lin's rambling to himself now, jotting down notes in one of his leather-bound journals. “Right through the mouth… And her body, moulding to the shape of it… Skin stretched taut… Pushed out all the pre… I wonder how it will cum…”

He's right, of course. The force of the cock piercing through you has forced all the precum out of your mouth, coating your face and shoulders in thick slime. Your body feels tight and stuffed. You can feel its cock moving all the way through you as it works you up and down on its cock, stroking itself with your body. Its hips bump against your clit every time it draws you down, sending jolts of pleasure through you, your cunt clenching around the creature's cock in a way that makes it pant and growl.

And then it's pumping you faster, sliding you along its cock in time with desperate thrusts of its hips. One particularly hard thrust pushes you over the edge, cunt clenching around him as you cum on its monstrous cock. Almost in response, it pulls its cock back just enough for the head to be buried in you, giving a loud roar as it cums inside your cunt. The force of it filling you has you cumming again as well, body ballooning before the cum is forced up through your throat and out of your mouth once more.

As it forces the last of its load into you, you find yourself completely drenched with its hot, sticky cum. It drips off you in thick globs. Below you, Lin catches some in a beaker, presumably to experiment with later. The creature pulls you closer—its cock still buried deep inside you—and mashes its mouth into yours. A sickening facsimile of a kiss. One filled with hunger and adoration in equal parts.

“Well done!” Lin claps, holding his arms up towards the creature. “Let her go now. She needs to rest.”

The creature's hand releases you slowly, reluctantly. With a yelp, you slide down its length, caught before you hit the floor by the underside of its head catching on your abused hole once more. You dangle there for a moment, hanging upsidedown with the head of its cock anchoring you to it. And then Lin's arms are around your chest, tugging you insistently off until the head pops out with a lewd squelch and the two of you topple to the floor.

“There we go! See? It wasn't so b-b-b-terrible, was it?” Lin beams at you from where the two of you are sprawled on the floor, now both covered in the beast's sticky cum.

You want to swear at him. To yell. To tell him never to do anything like this to you again. But your throat is sore, your body aches, and you don't have it in you to be angry with him right now. Above you both, the beast continues to pant, looming over the two of you. Its cock is soft now, but it's still almost the size of you as it hangs between the creature's legs. You shudder a little at the memory of it filling you. Of cumming on it. The creature gives a soft grunt.

“Lo...ve… pret...ty… girl…”

“Hey!”

You turn to the voice behind you, finding yourself staring up at the blond man who'd tried to buy you a drink earlier. Johnny, you're pretty sure he'd called himself. He'd taken your rejection with a shocking amount of grace, apologising for wasting your time and heading to another part of the club. But now he's jogging over to you, holding up your phone. Thank fuck.

“You uh, you left this at the bar.”

You groan, shoulders slumping. “Thanks, I was losing my mind.”

“Yeah, I would be too if I lost mine,” Johnny smiles broadly. “But the bar tender saw you put it down and leave, apparently. When he saw me leaving, he recognised me from earlier and asked if I could give it to you. I think he thought I was your boyfriend.”

He gives a friendly laugh, and you find yourself more at ease. Your eyes track your phone in his hand, but he seems too caught up in chatting to remember to hand it over.

“Are you waiting for your friends?”

Your friend. Your mood sours at the reminder. “Waiting for a taxi.”

“Ah,” his smile is gentle and understanding. “Need a ride? My car's just down there and I was heading home anyway.”

You watch as he gestures—with your phone, your fingers itch to grab it—towards a flashy sports car parked in an alley down the street. Normally, you wouldn't take rides from strangers. Especially not ones who tried to pick you up at the bar. But there's not a taxi in sight and he's been a perfect gentleman so far…

“Fuck it, sure.” You sigh and wave for him to lead the way. “I live up north, is that too out of your way?”

“Not at all, don't worry about it.”

His car is nice. Even nicer on the inside. It smells like fresh leather seats and his cologne. Everything is perfectly clean and it even gives a pleasing little greeting jingle as he turns it on. He drops your phone into the little cup under the door handle, and you're tempted to reach across him to grab it. But you don't really need it until you get home, so you just remind yourself to ask him for it when you arrive.

“So, you got ditched?” The car doors lock automatically as he shifts into drive and eases out of the alley.

“Yeah.” You scowl and look out the window. “I didn't even want to come out with her tonight, but she begged me.”

“Oof,” he gives a sympathetic little grimace. “That's rough.”

The two of you make polite small talk—or, rather, he talks about the weather and work and the song playing on the radio—as you watch the city streets pass by. It's soothing, all the lights and steady movement. Almost hypnotic. With his smooth voice in the background, you find yourself zoning out.

“Uh, hey…” With a blink, you realise you don't recognise where you are. Another blink and you realise you never told him where you live. “Sorry, um, I think we're too far north? I live down by the big bowling alley…”

“No worries,” he smiles over at you. “I've got it.”

You nod and settle back in, uneasiness creeping into your chest. A few minutes pass and he makes no turns to head back towards your place. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, but he looks just the same as he did before. Calm, content, friendly.

“Can I have my phone back?” You shift uncomfortably. “Please?”

“Oh!” He laughs like he's forgotten, hand drifting over to your phone. “Thanks for reminding me.”

He rolls down the window. Dread settles like lead in your stomach as you watch him toss your phone out like it's nothing and roll the window back up again. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You're going to kill your friend. If you ever see her again. If this guy isn't some serial killer who's going to make you his next trophy.

“Hey!” It's a strangled little yelp, and your face burns in shame that you can't keep your voice steady.

He chuckles to himself but doesn't say a word. Your eyes flick to the lock on your door, and you realise there's no way for the passenger to open it without the driver unlocking it. Should you grab the wheel? Should you scream? Should you try to attack him? You feel frozen. No matter what you do, it doesn't seem like it'll end well for you.

Just as you resolve to pull the wheel and let whatever happens happen, he pulls into a parking lot. It's dark and nearly empty—a rarity in the city, and never a good sign. The flickering neon sign flashes “MOT L” and occasionally “MO L”, but you know what it is. The sketchy little motel on the east side that everyone avoids like the plague unless they want to get caught up in some shady business.

“Are you going to kill me?” Your mouth is dry, throat scratchy as you manage to breathlessly ask the question. If you're going to die, you'd at least like the courtesy of a heads up.

“Kill you?” Johnny laughs heartily. “God no, not unless you give me a good reason to. Do you want me to kill you?”

You stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking. “N-no…?”

“Good.”

He looks at you like you're the crazy one, but parks up and gets out of the car anyway. One touch of his hand to the handle and the door opens, letting you out of the car. He steps aside—ever the gentleman—and you wonder if you could make a bolt for it before he catches you. This isn't a part of town you want to be alone in without a phone, but you also don't want to be alone with him.

Reckless, with an empty head, you try to make a run for it. Springing out of the seat, you push off as fast as you can, hoping madly to find a place to hide so you can regroup and figure out how to get home from here. The asphalt is hard beneath your feet, and your steps echo loudly as you run.

You make it past him.

Past the back of the car.

Half way across the lot.

A hand wraps your wrist tight, holding you like an anchor as your momentum pulls you away from him. The pop is sickening, but you manage to twist just enough to keep it from dislocating entirely as he pulls you back to him. Your back to his chest, he dips his head down to whisper in your ear.

“That's not very nice. And after I gave you a ride and everything!” His breath is warm. You shudder. “Come on, time for you to show me how grateful you are.”

An arm around your middle hoists you up just enough to drag you, your feet stumbling uselessly along the ground as he bodily forces you towards the motel entrance. You thrash in his arms, nails clawing at his skin as you shriek desperately, hoping someone—anyone—will hear you.

A hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your cries to a weak yowl in your throat, animal and aggressive. Your teeth clack, trying to bite at the soft flesh of his palm, but he cups his hand and you can't quite reach. You even swing your feet back, hoping for your heel to catch his shins, anything to stop him in his tracks. Nothing works.

“Mr. Brandt,” the clerk behind the motel desk looks bored. “Your usual room is free.”

“A hand with the door, please?” Johnny's voice is downright conversational, even as he drags you down the hall after the clerk. “This one's a feisty one.”

The clerk gives a vague grunt of acknowledgement and unlocks the door at the end of the hall, letting Johnny drag you into the dim, grungy little room. The door locks behind you both, and you hear his footsteps retreat down the hallway as Johnny presses you up against the locked door.

Your hand fumbles for the knob, hoping to find the lock on this side. To turn it. To open the door somehow and escape. But it's a simple, smooth knob that doesn't budge when you twist it, and the feeling of Johnny's laughter against your back confirms for you that you're not escaping that way.

A warm hand slides up your shirt, sending a shudder through you. You feel disgusting already. Is it insane to wish he was a serial killer? That instead of forcing himself on you like this, he would just put you out of your misery? Insane or not, you find yourself imagining a better world where the hand groping you is holding a knife.

“Don't be so frigid,” his voice is a low groan as his hips press against your ass, grinding into you. “I just want to have a little fun…”

Fun? You snap your teeth, struggling against his weight as he pins you to the door, feet barely brushing the floor. Fun? You'll fucking kill him if you get the chance. All you need is a clear shot at his throat and you'll tear it out with your teeth. If he weren't so fucking strong.

The wandering hand slides down your pants, under your underwear, stroking and fondling like this is nothing more than a fun little fling for both of you. You hate the heat the his touch brings, struggling harder against him as though you can convince your own body to stop feeling good. As though struggling doesn't make his cock harder as it grinds against you. But you can't not struggle. You can't just let this happen.

“Fuck you.” You grit your teeth, throwing your elbow into his ribs.

He wheezes at the contact, winded for half a moment. Just long enough for you to feel triumphant. Maybe you can fight back. Maybe you can kick this creep's ass. Maybe you can even steal his keys and drive yourself back home or something. Maybe—

“You little bitch.”

It's a rough, animal growl.

And then his hand is in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough to make something in your neck twinge. He throws you toward the bed. The edge hits you just under the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs and spasming your diaphragm in a painful hiccup. You're just barely recovering your breath in short bursts as he grabs your ankles and pulls them up to force you onto the bed properly.

His knees dig harsh into your sides as he straddles you, forcing your hands down on either side of your head. His fingers lace with yours and squeeze painfully tight. An opportunity. One you won't pass up. With a quick turn of your head, you lunge for his wrist with your teeth, hoping to feel the soft give of flesh.

You don't.

He pulls your interlocked hands back. His eyes blaze. Then the back of your own hand comes down on your face, once, twice. Hard hits straight to the eye, leaving spots in your vision.

“Stupid cunt. Don't you fucking dare.”

He backhands you once for good measure, leaving your head spinning. You barely notice the way rough hands tug your clothes off. Shirt. Pants. Underwear. Each item pulled irreverently off you and tossed across the room. His clothes follow—not that you see them, you only feel the heat of his skin against yours as his cock falls to rest on your stomach, dripping precum against your skin as he ruts against you.

“Let's put that mouth to better use, huh?” He grabs your face, squishing your cheeks. “You'll be a good hole, won't you?”

He pulls your head back by your hair, forcing your mouth open with a strong grip on your jaw. Still dizzy, you can't do much more than try to push away his cock with your tongue as he forces himself into your mouth. It's less than useless. Precum drips across your tongue, sweet and tangy, as he pushes his cock into your mouth. With no care for your comfort, he continues to push past your gag reflex and deep into your throat.

“Fuck that's good. Go on, suck, whore.”

One hand comes up to hold your nose, his hips thrusting shallow in your throat. He never pulls back quite enough for you to breathe. It's not long before your lungs are burning, throat spasming around his cock as he fucks your mouth. Your vision spots, your fingers and toes twitch, but he doesn't pull back.

Rather, he fucks your throat brutally. Hard enough to bruise. You gag and retch around him, throat squeezing his shaft as your body tries to push him out. His low grunts and moans are muffled by his thighs on either side of your head. It hurts. It disgusts you. Tears wet your cheeks. You try to sob, but it only serves to tighten your throat around him.

“See? It's not hard to be a hole. It's all you're good for anyway. A quick fuck. If you'd just taken the drink I offered you, this could've been fun for you too, you know. I'd have made you cum first and everything. But bitches like you who play hard to get need to be treated rough, don't you? Reminded of your place. As a cocksleeve. A glorified sex doll. A toy.”

He pulls out just as your vision starts to dim. You gasp, taking in as much oxygen as you can. Your throat is raw and scratchy. It feels violated. Fucked like nothing more than a pocket pussy. A fleshlight for him to use and throw away once he's cum. Has he? Has he cum yet? Your addled brain scrambles to remember, desperately hoping the answer is yes. Hoping that he's done with you. But your mouth doesn't taste bitter and your throat doesn't feel sticky and you can feel his cock still hard against your ass as he flips you over roughly. His hands spread your cheeks, taking stock of you like a piece of meat as he decides exactly how he wants to fuck you. You don't dare squirm. You don't want that thick cock down your throat again.

“Let's get some use out of you, huh?”

He spits on your hole. It's warm. Violating. Dripping. And the feeling only intensifies as he works both of his thumbs into you, rough and uncaring. He spreads your hole, unrelenting against the tightness, until he's satisfied. You feel more spit, his thumbs working in and out of you. And your traitorous body heats up, arousal laying heavy in your gut. You hate how good it feels. Being treated like a worthless object. Being spread open and leered at like a piece of meat. Your hole being stretched with not nearly enough lubrication to keep it from hurting.

And then the blunt head of his cock is pressing against your hole between his thumbs. He all but stretches your hole around his cock, only withdrawing his hands once the head is firmly inside of you. For a moment he enjoys the heat of you around him. The near suffocating tightness of your unprepared hole. And then he's bullying his cock further into you, thrust after thrust forcing him in dry until he's balls deep inside of you.

“Fuck, baby, so tight,” he groans out, voice hot in your ear as he folds his body over yours. His arm holds your hips up, keeping you under him as he fucks you like a bitch in heat. “Such a worthless cunt, this is all you're good for. A set of tight warm holes for a guy like me to fuck. Can't believe I bagged such good rapebait.”

It can't feel good for him either. It's dry and tugging, his cock inside you, thrusting over and over. There's no way it feels good. But he's hard and rough, enjoying your pain and the feeling of violating your body more than actually fucking you. You think back on his words, wondering if this really would have gone better for you if you'd just said yes. You wouldn't be laying here, getting raped in a dingy motel room, if you'd just let him buy you a drink.

The thought wrenches a sob from somewhere deep inside you. The pain and fear welling until you can't hold it back anymore. It only draws an answering moan from him, low and visceral, as he fucks you harder. Your cheek presses against the scratchy sheets, tears soaking into the cloth until its wet against your face. And all the while he ruins your tight hole, getting off on raping you.

“Should I cum inside?” His breath is hot against your ear, fingers digging harsh into your stomach as he fucks you harder. “Should I cum deep inside my new fucktoy? I bet you'd like that. Say no all you want, we both know it means yes. Your body doesn't lie.”

Humiliation joins the pain and fear, tears almost as hot as the arousal washing over you. You burn and ache and throb, feeling your pulse in every inch of your body. He fucks you like you're nothing. Pulls your hips closer. Bottoms out. Holds you there as he groans curses in your ear and empties his load into you like you're nothing more than a cumdump. You dance so close to the edge. So fucking close.

And then he pulls out. His hand comes out from under you, letting you all but slide off his cock and back onto the bed. He rolls over to the other side, settling in with an arm behind his head, lighting up a cigarette like the two of you have just made love. He leaves you dripping with his cum, squirming with need, barely able to hold your tongue to keep from begging him to finish the job. To keep raping you until you cum.

“See?” That smug smirk. He knows what he's done to you. “Not so bad, was it? All that fuss over nothing.”

He takes a drag, idly watching the smoke curl up to the ceiling. He ashes the cigarette.

“Oh, thank the lord!” Fergal’s voice eases your return to the waking world, his hand coming to rest reassuringly on your shoulder. “Gave me a fright there. Wasn’t sure you’d wake up!”

It takes almost more effort than its worth to open your eyes. But you’re greeted with that familiar, beaming face, and the lingering anxiety fades away. He’s got you sat behind the bar, leaning back against it. Everything feels limp and lax and almost rubbery. Like you’re more doll than person. Even as you try to speak, to reassuring him that you’re alright, you can’t so much as shift your jaw or huff out a breath of acknowledgement.

“You’re alright,” his hand moves to cup your cheek, stroking it gently. “Don’t try to move too much. Seems like it took all the energy right out of you.”

You let yourself relax into the soothing touch, unable to so much as muster up the energy to struggle against the horrific cage that your body has become. It’s easier to just let Fergal sit down beside you and pull you into his arms, body collapsing against him. He’s warm, soft, safe. You’re grateful he managed to grab you before whoever did this. He’s always been such a comforting presence to you, and right now you need all the comfort you can get.

“I’m up to ninety about you, y’know.” His voice is quiet, earnest, sweet. “I see the way people in here look at you. Like you’re just some piece of meat. A… conquest. Or a prize. It’s disgusting. And… it makes me worry.”

It’s strange, not being able to smile. You feel the urge creep up on you, amused and endeared by his concern. But the muscles of your face simply won’t do it. A twitch at the corner of your lips is the best you get, and it quickly sinks back into laxity. All you can do is listen to him and do your best not to sink back into dreary, cloying unconsciousness.

“The people here want to take advantage of you. Not just Etienne and the others—though, I’ve no doubts they’d love to—but everyone. And I worry… I worry you’ll get used, hurt, raped.” His voice drops to a fearful whisper at the last word, but recovers quickly into a more even tone. “And I worry you might fall for the wrong person. That they’ll promise you everything, and then leave once you’ve given them what they want. I don’t want to see you hurt because of a few bad decisions.”

The anxiety you’d felt upon realising you’d been drugged is starting to creep back, held only at bay by Fergal’s tight embrace. You wish you could brush off his fears as irrational. But clearly they’re not quite as far fetched as you’d like to think. After all, someone here had roofied you, and you’d been too trusting and preoccupied to notice. Much as you hate to admit it, he’s right. You could easily find yourself taken advantage of. Hurt.

“It’s worse for people like us, you know. They see our purity as a prize. They don’t take it seriously, don’t see the value in preserving your virginity for the person you want to spend the rest of your life with. To them it’s all a game. I don’t want you caught up in all that. You’re too good for all that.” His voice is just a little frantic now, and you wish you could move enough to wrap your arms around him in turn. “You’re too good for them. No one here deserves you. No one does. You’re… You’re perfection. You deserve someone who sees that. Someone who can see how special you are. No one else can do that for you. No one else sees you the way I do.”

And there’s the anxiety again, spiking through you. Just a small shock of it at first, and then his hands are around you, hauling you up, and the fear fries at your nerves like a short circuit. You still can’t move. Your muscles are like jelly, weak and wobbly. It’s shamefully easy for him to manhandle you until you’re bent over the bar, hands hanging off the far edge and hips just barely over the top to keep you from falling when he stops supporting you with his whole strength.

“I’m sorry,” his voice is breathless, almost wondering as his hands trace along your body. “I just need to know what you feel like.”

He grabs at your thighs and hips, digs his fingers into the softness of your stomach, even lets his hands stray to the curve of your ass for a few seconds before pulling away sharply like he’s been burned. Through it all, you hear an occasional desperate sound that wells up in his throat. He wants more. You can tell.

“You know, it’s funny.” His breathless laugh makes you want to shudder, but your lax muscles can’t even do that. “This is the sort of situation I’d expect from one of Cal’s disgusting pornos. Not that I’d ever take advantage of you like that, of course! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, no! I’d never do that to you. Not until we were promised to each other. No, we won’t have sex until you’ve committed yourself to me. I just need to do this, you see. For your own good. For us. Please. Let me ruin you for everyone else.”

His hands are a little fumbling and unsteady—such a rarity, it almost scares you more than his words—as he tugs at your clothes. It’s only your trousers and pants that come down, just to your thighs. Discomfort twists in your gut and you find yourself half wishing he’d just tear all your clothes off, like a normal person would.

“To preserve your dignity.” He sounds so earnest, it sickens you. “Here, I’ll just warm you up first, so it’s not so bad. I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s an internal battle with your body to move your jaw, your tongue, your throat. To try to ask him what the fuck he means by that. It’s a battle that you lose. All you can do is hang limp across the bar as the cold metal tip of a bottle of bitters slides against your skin. Once again, you want to shudder, but nothing is able to move. Instead, you feel sick and cold with dread.

The tip presses against your virgin hole, Fergal’s other hand rubbing at your hip in what you can only assume he thinks is a soothing manner. It doesn’t soothe you at all. You want to scream, to kick, to fight back in any way. But your body—the drugs still in you—refuse to let you. All you can do is lay there in agony as he works the cold metal tip of the bitters into you, dry and painful.

“I know it can’t be me inside you, but sure I need to stake my claim somehow. I know I’m not doing it the way the rest of the degenerates in this place would, but… I need to ruin you. To keep you pure. You understand, don’t you? Of course you understand.”

He pulls the bottle out, only to force it back in deeper, alcohol sloshing from the tip and into you. It burns. You want to flinch and cry out. You want to beg him to stop. You can’t so much as wipe away the tears on your cheeks as you cry from the burning pain inside of you. All you can do is lay there and take it as he fucks you with the bitters, filling you with sharp alcohol.

“I hope this is helping. It’s meant to, you know. To warm you up, so it doesn’t hurt so bad when we get to the proper thing. N-not my… thing, of course. But… well, you’ll see.”

You almost hate that you get used to it. The pointed metal tip sliding against your soft, delicate insides. The sturdy glass stretching your hole. The burning alcohol that splashes into you with every clumsy thrust. It’s just not the sort of thing you should get used to. And yet, when he pulls it out and sets it on the counter a few minutes after starting, you find yourself able to cope with the pain just a little bit better than before. Everything feels just a bit dulled, muted, distant. Your body is absorbing the booze soaking into the softness inside you.

“That should be enough, right? You’ll be okay. You’ll probably be okay.” He sounds like he’s reassuring himself more than anything. “We don’t want it wearing off before we’re done, do we?”

We. Disgust shouts over the pain in your delicate, abused hole. How can he talk like you’re in this together? Like you want this too? You can’t bring yourself to believe he’s genuinely convinced of all the bullshit he’s saying. But… you also can’t bring yourself to believe he isn’t. This is Fergal you’re talking about. Kind, sweet, sensitive Fergal. Or so you thought. You’re not so sure now.

“This feels fitting!” He’s clattering around behind you now, and you hear the clinking of more glass. “Just right to celebrate everything. To celebrate us.”

What presses against your hole is a relatively small yet blunt cork, pressed into a glass bottle. Something to celebrate… Champagne. Your stomach twists as you try to remember how big a champagne bottle is. Too big is the only answer your brain supplies. Definitely too big to fit inside of you, even with his meagre “preparation”.

Not that you have much time to dwell on that. He’s surprisingly rough, shoving the bottle into you with both hands. Against all odds, perhaps only thanks to the roofie, he’s able to force it into you. Hands—more than two—help spread your legs, your hole, all for him to violate. Those shimmering red hands, extensions of his magic, hold you up on the bar as he works as much of the bottle into you as he can. Groping, squeezing, teasing hands.

“I asked my priest,” he begins, focusing on summoning and controlling them as he forces the bottle, “whether my magic… counts. If you know what I mean. H-he didn’t have an answer for me. So I think that means it’s okay, right? We won’t go to hell if I let my hands...”

His priest. Damn his priest. Always promising him absolution. Every Sunday, he brings a list of his sins to be forgiven. And every Sunday, he leaves church believing his soul to be clean and pure. And until tonight, so did you. Until tonight, you’d thought it laughable that he had to go at all, let alone once a week. Now, you only find yourself filled with dread at the thought that this would be another thing on his list of confessions. Right there between pouring a shot too many and forgetting to bring his nan some flowers. Raping you. Defiling you. How much detail would he go into? How much about what he’s doing will his priest know by next week?

His disembodied hands are all over you. You’re too dizzy to know just how many hands are on you, but they grope and squeeze and grab. One hand clumsily slides in front of the bottle to try to pleasure you, only succeeding in edging you horribly. Warm fingers slip into your mouth, playing with your tongue. They press on it, tug it, squeeze it gently as he memorises the feeling. More skirt around your gums and press against your teeth, two hands combining into one to thoroughly claim your mouth.

Your head spins, full of alcohol and magic hands and priests in cassocks. Your hole is stretched brutally around the neck of the bottle, and mercifully he decides it’s far enough. Far enough to claim you as his. Behind you, he watches as your hole clenches and flutters around the glass, aching to close. Something stirs in him. Aside from the throbbing hardness in his pants, his heart tightens at the sight, the sort of tears that accompany something beautiful welling up in him. You look perfect. He can’t help but wonder if your hole will look just as perfect stretching around his cock. Taking him all the way, letting him fill you…

“Let me just…”

He mutters to himself, pulling the bottle out of you with one swift tug. You try to cry out, but your lax body does nothing, held in place by drugs and those cold hands. Behind you, there’s a telltale, fizzy pop as Fergal uncorks the champagne.

“There we go.”

You want to tense, to brace yourself against what you know will feel terrible. But you can’t. You simply have to lay there and take it as he forces the bottle back into you, champagne filling your hole. It stings less than the bitters did. Or, perhaps, you’re too tipsy to care as much. But the fizz is a different sensation entirely. It’s certainly not a good sensation, but you’re not sure you can call it a strictly bad one, either. Not when compared to the pain of the bitters. It’s just strange and invasive and disconcerting.

The champagne spills into your hole, filling you up easily as he fucks you with the bottle. For half a moment, your brain manages to catch hold of a memory of Callum explaining the ways alcohol can be absorbed into your blood stream. Something about mucus membranes. But it slips away quickly into the haze. You’re dizzy and nauseous and everything seems to be wobbling and tilting.

Your fingers twitch as you try to grab on to the bar top for support, jaw clenching. You don’t even notice the little bits of movement, so caught up in trying to survive the brutal bottle fucking. Your hole clenches down around it, making it harder for him to push it in and pull it out. But that only serves to make him rougher, forcing it into you hard to see the way you stretch around it.

“It looks like you’re… enjoying it? I hope you are!”

“Of course I’m not, you bastard!”

You’re as shocked to hear your own voice as he is. You’d expected the words to echo around your head as they have been, trapped inside your brain the way you’re trapped inside your body. But they ring out around the glowing red fingers, albeit weak and slurred, for both of you to hear. His hand stills, the bottle neck filling your hole as he holds it there. You try to move, but find yourself still unable, the drugs only just starting to wear off.

“N-no! No, don’t… don’t say that,” it’s a pathetic sound that comes from him, the hand in your mouth retreating. “Please…”

“Get off me! Get that thing out of me!” Your voice is a little steadier, something between a croaky whisper and your normal speaking tone.

“I’m sorry, it w-wasn’t supposed to wear off so soon…”

“Just stop, let me go,” you find yourself exhausted with the effort of talking, but the rage inside you keeps you going. “You can’t just do this to people!”

A hitched breath. A sniffle. A hiccup. He speaks through tears.

“But don’t you see? I have to do this. I need you to understand, this has to happen. I need to ruin you for anyone else, so you’re mine. So we can be together.”

You have more to say, but you’re exhausted, breathing laboured as you try to recover from the exertion. The rest of your body is still limp and immovable. Only your hole reacts as Fergal starts to fuck it again, clamping down around the bottle. Tears well in your eyes, stinging as you’re violated. It’s all too much. Your tongue feels clumsy in your mouth when you try to speak again, only able to make vague sounds of anger.

“I promise it’s for the best. It’s for your own good, so no one else touches you like this. Isn’t… Isn’t it better this way? A friend doing this, instead of someone else? Please, I promise, I’m doing this for you.”

He’s crying openly now, fucking you desperately with the bottle as all his hands try desperately to make you feel good. As though he might be able to make you cum somehow. It’s an absurd thought, but you’re not sure he’s coherent enough to realise that. No, he’s far gone now. Sobbing, begging for forgiveness, rambling as he rapes you with the bottle. The champagne runs down your thighs into a puddle on the floor, and thankfully enough of the bottle is drained to stop it from sloshing into you with every thrust.

“I didn’t mean to do this. I really didn’t want it to come to this. Sure, I need you to know you’re mine. I need to make you mine. I just thought the drugs might make it nicer for you. That maybe you wouldn’t mind so much after I started. But… I’m sorry. I know you’re upset, but it still needs to be done. For your sake, see. I hope you can forgive me once you see that.”

The many-fingered hand finds its way into your mouth once more as he shoves the bottle into you as deep as he can. It’s not much further than he already has, but it’s enough to make your hole burn with pain. You scream around the fingers in your mouth, gagging as one of them hits the back of your throat. The heel of his hand grinds against the bottle, desperate to claim you as deeply as possible before anyone else has the chance.

“I-I wish I could… I know you won’t be able to… f-finish. Not like this. Not with what I put in your drink. But I promise, I’ll never let you go without again! When we finally do this for real, I’ll make sure you get to finish first every time. A-as many times as you want!”

He’s crying again. Or maybe he never stopped. His hands melt away only to cradle you gently, easing you off the bar and down to the floor. The same position you woke up in, however long ago that was. Back when things were still good. When the sight of Fergal filled you with comfort rather than fear. His real hands steady your hips as you’re lowered to the ground, teary eyes inspecting your face for any sort of expression through the laxness of the lingering drug.

As your body goes limp against the back of the bar, the glass bottle slides out of you with a lewd wet sound. Your aching hole is finally able to relax, sore and burning. It leaks a steady stream of fizzy champagne, oozing out in a pool around you until your whole lower half is wet from it. Humiliation and rage burn through you, eyes stinging and chest bubbling with anger. The bottle lays between your legs, angled like it could be pressed back into you at any moment. A gut-twisting reminder of what Fergal just did to you.

“H-hey, don’t cry,” warm fingers—Fergal’s actual fingers—brush tears from your cheeks. “It’s over now. It’s all over. A-and I’ll never have to do it again! Your purity is safe now. N-no one will ever try to… take advantage of you again.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he presses a glass to your lips before you can. The drink inside is cloudy and white, like he’s crushed something up into it. He shushes you gently, one hand petting your hair like an animal as he tips the drink into your mouth. You fight against your still-limp body to move. To push him away. To kick him. To even just close your lips or spit out the drink. But you used all your energy fighting. All you can do is let the bitter drink pool in your mouth and slide down the back of your throat.

“Drink that all down. Grand. This should help you forget all this unpleasantness. Then we can go back to normal. We can go back to how we were. You won’t remember a thing.”

He’s lucky you don’t choke on it. The whole thing goes down smoothly, the taste lingering in your mouth like a curse. The room starts to spin. You blink. And again. This time for a little longer. Everything is dim. Dimming. Darker. You can’t feel anything. Not your aching hole, not your burning insides, not even his hands still petting you sweetly.

His voice is the last thing you hear before you drift away into unconsciousness once again.

"I'm engaged," you begin in a slow, even tone. One that commands the attention of the table. "The wedding was mere months away when you arrived. They were to read the banns for the first time the next morning."

"A runaway bride?" Callum considers this, examining you as though looking for something he's missed.

"A kidnapped bride," Etienne corrects. "A man cannot be expected to keep an engagement to a woman who might never return. One who might even be dead. There's an appropriate amount of time to wait, of course, before he officially begins seeking another wife, but... The longer you stay, the more likely you are to return an unclaimed woman. One who cannot be blamed for breaking the promise."

There's no judgement in his tone—if anything, there's respect—but you still feel a wave of guilt shake your resolve. You know this man, whoever he is, wouldn't be happy with you. You're not made to be a wife. You're not made for motherhood. All you could ever do for him is disappoint. But still, you feel the cowardice of your decision. Staying here, among pirates, letting your family worry all for the sake of avoiding marriage. Avoiding one marriage, for there will surely be another once you've returned.

"Your fiancé...?" Zander looks reluctant to broach the subject, but unable to help itself.

"If the bastard—" You cut Lucky off before he can get the threat out, oddly desperate to clear the name of the mystery man.

"No! No, nothing of the sort. To the best of my knowledge, that is. You see, I don't quite know who it is that I am to marry. My parents wanted it kept from me until the banns were read, to avoid any potential for scandal. They feared that knowledge of our impending wedding might encourage us to..." You shift uncomfortably, cheeks flushed at the mere hint of impropriety. "So, you see, they did not want me to know until such a time as any... lapses in judgement could be reasonably overlooked. Only once our engagement was truly confirmed could I know who I am to marry."

"What sort of bullshit is that?" Glitch scoffs.

"He's right," Fergal looks horrified. "How can they expect you to marry a man you don't even know?"

"And he consented to remain hidden from you?" Ash looks simply curious, gold eyes boring into you. "That sounds inauspicious for a happy marriage."

Your hand drifts to your collarbone and then a little lower to the neck of your dress. "Not quite. I have a letter, sent by him on the day he and my parents began arranging our betrothal. He had a maid leave it upon my pillow. I think he was as unhappy with the secrecy as I was."

Everyone perks up at the mention of the letter, and a chorus of questions about its contents spill forth. Their curiosity mimics your own. From the moment you first laid eyes on the neatly sealed letter, you've been dying to know what it says. And yet, it has sat unopened and neatly nestled against your breast since the night it was delivered. Some unnameable fear has kept you from opening it. Instead, you let it settle like a weight bearing down on you, reminding you of your impending fate.

"I... have yet to open it," you confess, once the questions die down.

It's a silence the likes of which you haven't heard since you first woke up on the ship. Seven pairs of eyes bore into you, none willing to be the first to suggest you open it. Your fingers curl around the parchment, thin from months of pressing and rubbing against your skin. The seal remains intact, a soft red wax imprint of the head of a great roaring bear.

When you pull it from your bodice, it looks just as it always does. The parchment is of the highest quality, and your name is neatly penned in a deep red ink with flourishes. There's a subtle shift of bodies as everyone leans in to have a look. Etienne's eyebrow raises at the sight of the seal, but he says nothing.

"I..." You swallow down a lifetime of fear, heart pounding. The parchment feels damp in your sweating palms and you find your stiff fingers tossing it haphazardly into the centre of the table, "I don't think I can do this."

Mercifully, no one comments on the way your voice breaks half way through, the last few words coming out as nothing more than a breathless movement of your lips. Slowly, hesitantly, Callum reaches forward and picks up the letter. He looks at you for permission, and with a sharp little nod of your head, he grabs a knife and breaks the seal.

"You sure you're ready for this, hen?" He gives you one last out.

"Please."

"Alright..." He takes a deep breath as he unfolds the parchment. "My dearest betrothed-to-be, I know I should not be writing to you like this. Your parents made their wishes very clear to me. But I simply cannot help myself for excitement at our impending engagement! You have been welcomed many times to my family estate as a friend, but to welcome you as my bride will gladden my heart greatly—So, you know the lad?"

Your mind races with possibilities, thinking through every man whose estate your family has visited. It's not a short list by any means. You find yourself thinking of faces both old and young who have paid you attention, who have danced with you, who have shown any interest in you at all. None stand out.

You give a weak shrug, "I suppose I must."

"Well—I want more than anything in this world to see you immediately, both our reputations be—" Callum breaks off in a bark of laughter. "The wee bastard can't even bring himself to write damned!"

"I should think not!" You find yourself jumping to the defence of social mores rather than your unknown fiancé. "Such language should hardly be spoken by a man of good breeding, let alone written down!"

Attempts not to laugh are met with varying degrees of success. Etienne's face is schooled into only mild amusement, and he taps the letter to redirect everyone to the matter at hand. It's a mercy for your burning cheeks. The crude pirates may be slowly wearing down some of your ideas of propriety, but you still find yourself defensive of all you've been taught.

"Alright, alright. —However, your parents fear that any meeting before our engagement is made official could ruin you. As such, I must wait to enjoy your convivial society until our promise is known—"

Your face flushes hot and you try to make a grab for the letter to stop Callum reading it. Your body refuses to move. Petrified in mortification, you can do nothing but continue to listen as he reads more of the amorous words of your mysterious fiancé.

"—Before the church and before God, our engagement will be announced as soon as the matter of your dowry is settled. I have drafted a letter to be sent to the archbishop upon the first reading of the banns, begging of him a blessing upon our union— Looks like yer man's in good with the church then."

"More importantly," Etienne grins, "if there's money enough for a dowry, there's money enough to pay ransom."

"I don't reckon you're getting out of this one, hen," Callum's eyes scan the letter further. "He seems mad about you. Listen to this—I look forward more than I can say to the amorous congress of our marriage, and I will be to you the gentlest and most attentive of husbands. And you, I am sure, will be the truest wife any man could desire. You shall organise our household with a firm yet kind hand. You shall love me dearly. You shall take me as I am, faults and all. And, should I be even half the lucky man I believe myself to be, you shall ride a dragon upon St. George for me whensoever I require such bolstering—"

You catch Etienne's eye, another hot flush of embarrassment flooding you at his knowing look. Damn him, playing at nobility. More importantly, damn him for having learned so much. What use could he possibly have—? You decide you don't want to know.

"Who talks like this?" Glitch doesn't try to hide his disgust. "Organising his household? Is that what you rich women do all day?"

You push down the humiliation of the letter to stumble your way back towards more familiar ground. "Of course, it is a wife's job to manage household affairs. We don't sit around all day nattering and having tea. There's staff to command and social events to plan and all sorts of other duties besides."

"Sounds boring." Glitch returns to his half-eaten meal. "No wonder you're desperate to escape."

"I'm not desperate to escape!" Your temper flares, and you have to fight it down. "I simply... wish to stay away long enough for this man to find a new betrothed. One he will find more agreeable."

"Oi, Ferg," Callum barely glances up from the letter to address the gunner, "you're big on the bible. What's this about saints and dragons?"

Fergal bites back a snarky comment on Callum's heathen nature. "I was just wondering... It's odd. Saint George did slay a dragon. The people were trying to placate the dragon with sheep, and then human sacrifices. Right before they sacrificed their own princess, Saint George came in and killed it. Not too sure what he means by it, though."

"Pure baffling," Callum shrugs and returns to reading. "Apologies if I ramble on—aye, good of him to notice—I am so eager for our blessed union. For many years I have admired you; the grace with which you dance at balls, your masterful command of language, your knowledge of the classical arts. You are an accomplished and admirable young woman, and I fear I may be the most underwhelming of husbands, only by virtue of your own incomparable magnificence—Oh boke."

"Sound fulls of it," Lucky glowers at the letter.

"How much more must we listen to?" Ash's wings ruffle behind it in discontent.

"It'd be quicker if you lot stopped interrupting me," Callum clears his throat, "—Such reverent thoughts of you consume me so. I have found myself driven to distraction when the memory of your smile graces me. I fear I have become too lenient with my tenants in my joy. I find myself unable to read for excitement, and I have broken many an arrow upon fantasies of our future together. You, my beloved, have utterly ruined me. I promise you a marriage of love and respect. If I am David, you are my Bathsheba— Ferg?"

Fergal sighs, "really? You don't know King David?"

"He's your lad that killed the giant, aye?" Callum takes Fergal's scoff as assent. "Well who's this Bathsheba lass then?"

"His wife, you bloody eejit," Fergal's annoyance abates somewhat at Callum's helpless shrug. "Not exactly the best couple to model yourselves on, come to think of it."

"You know those rich types don't actually care, right?" Glitch's pessimism for once aligns with your own feelings on the matter. "So long as people see them at church on Sundays, they don't have to know Jesus from Adam."

"Bible aside, it sounds like your betrothed is an Earl. Listen to this: —You shall be to me as a queen (though, of course, Countess shall be your title)— That's something then, I reckon."

You've sunk as low as you dare in your seat, avoiding everyone's gaze. It's humiliating. Even as you halfheartedly run through the list of Earls you know—that cuts it down, but not by nearly as much as you would like—you pray that the rest of the letter is short.

"Almost done," Callum delivers the merciful news before continuing, "—We shall sit beside each other in church on holy days, and when the weather is agreeable we shall take the long walk back home through the fields. Vibrant conversation will accompany every meal we take together. Your presence will soothe the harshest of days and you will drive from my mind all worries. And on such occasions as I am called away from our estate, you will wait for me faithfully and be gladdened upon my return. I shall return to you, and the Pope shall return to Rome—"

"Well, he's... eager," Etienne raises an eyebrow and shoots you a smirk that's too knowing.

"Oh god..." The words are an unbidden groan from somewhere deep within you, and all sense of propriety leaves your mind as you slump over on the table and hide your face in your hands.

"—I beg forgiveness once more for sending you this letter. It is an act of great impatience and, perhaps, impertinence on my part. But, as I shall be your lawfully wedded husband within the year, it is a liberty I am allowing myself. From this moment until the banns are read, I swear to obey your parents' every wish. And from the moment I first steal your garter—" he pauses a moment to give a bawdy whistle "—until one of us is in the grave, I shall be loyal to you and your wishes. With eager anticipation, I remain faithfully, Lord Theodore Bentham."

You feel sick.

The room spins as the weight of the letter settles upon you.

It's a small mercy that only Etienne seems to have gleaned the full meaning of Lord Bentham's—Teddy's—words.

Even that is a thought you can't seem to dwell on for long without waves of nausea and dizziness battering you.

Eyes—too many eyes—watch you eagerly, waiting for your verdict.

Your vision pulses black and red.

> Swoon

You haven't seen each other since the party. No surprise there, you'd never met before it either. But you have just enough mutual friends to hear about him. To keep tabs on him. At first, you'd heard the odd murmuring of concern. About how he'd become withdrawn and quiet after the party. Then, someone had confided in you that he'd been assaulted—oh how you'd played the part of concerned, horrified, sympathetic listener—and no one knew who by. He's never told a soul, as far as you can tell.

Your pleasure upon hearing that he was in therapy wasn't feigned in the slightest. It was fuel for your fantasies. Your thoughts of him going over and over the details of that night, having to admit how powerless he had been to you, how violated he felt, they were bliss. You could imagine him having to get off after sessions, so humiliatingly hard from the memories of what you'd done.

All your thoughts were confirmed when more whispers came your way, concerned for his well-being. He'd taken to hookups at bars, always women who looked—not that your mutual friends seemed to notice—just like you. They went on and on about their concerns, that he was re-traumatising himself, reenacting the moments of his rape to cope. No matter how much he insisted it was helping, no one quite believed him. Least of all you.

All of this lead you to where you are now, nursing a drink in a booth at the bar you'd been told he frequents to find these concerning partners. Your eyes lazily scan the place, looking out for pink hair and pastel clothes. You don't know for sure that he'll be here tonight, but you're a patient woman. You'll be here as many nights as it takes.

It seems, however, that today is your lucky day. The dingy little door—glass obscured with grime and peeling flyers—opens to a familiar face. He looks much worse than when you last saw him, you note with a swell of pride. Oversized hoodie, sweatpants, deep purple eye bags, shrinking in on himself. Depression. It looks good on him. A predatory grin crosses your face as you take one last look before redirecting your gaze down to your drink.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his step falter. His eyes linger on you for a moment too long before he heads to the bar, pointedly pretending not to have noticed you. Perfect. You know how he's feeling right now. Heart pounding, ears ringing, desperately pushing down a panic attack. He's promising himself he won't let you spoil his night. That he's getting better—practically recovered, really—and he'll just find himself a partner to take home and reenact your last meeting in an empowering way that makes him feel in control. He's probably even trying to justify the fact that his cock is stirring—it wasn't you that caused it, he's just excited for tonight.

Oh, how you love watching him squirm. Ordering his drink, shifting in place, twitching his head slightly in your direction before snapping back to the bartender. He smiles at a woman down the other end of the bar, another who looks like you. Not enough, though. Never enough. But he's trying his best to pretend he's going home with her, when you both know the truth.

Your finger taps at the rim of your glass, counting the seconds before he snaps. You look away nonchalantly the moment you see him start to turn. He hastens towards you with a furtive glance around, as though worried someone might see the two of you together. Like the world's most twisted affair. The thought brings a soft smile to your lips as you pretend not to notice him.

You're rather proud of your acting, in all honesty. He slides into the seat across from you like you're making an illicit deal, and you look up at him in feigned surprise. Your mouth forms the perfect little o and you tilt your head quizzically. You even furrow your brows ever so slightly, as though trying to figure out why he looks familiar. You almost wish you could see the fear and disgust and distress he must be experiencing at the thought that you don't even recognise him. That the night which changed his whole life was barely memorable to you.

“What are you doing here?” It's hissed under his breath like a curse, eyes narrowed.

“Getting a drink,” you're chipper and bright as you raise your glass to him slightly. “Why else would I be at a bar?”

“You're here to torment me, aren't you? Haven't you ruined my life enough?” His knuckles are white, fists clenched in frustration aimed more inwards than at you.

“Oh, baby…” You let the pet name slip from your lips in a sigh and find yourself rewarded with a shudder as he remembers the way you'd called him that last time. “If I've ruined your life so much, why did you come over here? It's almost like you want more.”

“No,” it's a pathetic little whimper of a sound, his body stilling, eyes unfocusing slightly. “Please…”

You give a thoughtful hum, raising your glass to your lips and making a show of drinking. One heeled foot comes up, toe caressing his calf to feel him tense at the touch. And yet, he doesn't move. He doesn't get up. He doesn't even tell you to stop. He simply keeps those cow-like, pleading eyes locked on you.

“Why did you come here?” Like a lioness toying with her prey. You want to drag this out, make him suffer.

“I— That's— N-none of your business.” He's trying to be forceful, bless his soul.

“Hm, but I think it is. Besides, you asked me, it's only fair.”

“Fine,” confidence borrowed from many sessions of therapy are undermined by the wobble of his lip. “I was here to find a hookup, I was. If you really have to know.”

“Right, that girl over there?” You nod in your doppelganger’s direction with a grin.

“M-maybe, I don't know.”

“Oh, but you do. You wouldn't be happy with anyone else. They need to look like me, don't they?”

Cadfael flushes that pretty shade of pink and he shifts in his seat. You take the chance to press your foot higher, teasing at his inner thighs now. “W-what? No, I don't— That's not—”

“Of course they do. Your pretty little cock can't get hard if they don't look like me. I bet you try to find ones that sound like me too. Maybe even smell like me. Have you figured out which perfume I was wearing yet?”

He stammers out a few unconvincing objections, unable to look you in the eye. Finally, his shoulders slump a little and he mumbles something under his breath. Something you just barely manage to catch. The name of your perfume. He looks ashamed and humiliated, and you wish you could take a picture to savour it forever. But you've got better things to do right now.

“Good boy. Now tell me the truth, is it helping?”

You see the telltale shine of tears welling in his eyes as he shakes his head. “N-no. Nothing helps. They're not— It's not the same, like.”

“Not the same?” You arch an eyebrow.

“Not…” his voice lowers to an embarrassed whisper. “Not as good.”

You reward him for his honesty. Your foot finally presses up between his legs, gently teasing at his bulge. It's hot and hard through his sweatpants. He starts. Gasps. Whimpers. Finally rocks his hips into the gentle pressure of the glossy toe of your heels as a couple of tears spill over and leave glistening tracks on his cheek.

“How often do you think about it?” You want more—need more.

“All the time,” a whispered mumble, barely able to get the words out without hiccuping to hold back a sob. “E-every moment.”

“I heard you went to therapy.”

He nods, taking in a shuddering breath. “I t-told her all about it. She l-looks like you too. Sounds like you. C-calls me good boy sometimes even. I almost wanted her to take advantage of me. L-like you did. I kept t-telling her how much I think I enjoyed it. I h-hated it, but it felt so good. I told her that I secretly w-wanted to be raped again, wishing she'd be the one to d-do it…”

“Oh, poor baby.” It's a sympathetic sort of sigh as you tease his cock. “So desperate to be raped again, but she was too good. Too much of a professional. I bet you imagined she was me, huh? Imagined I was your therapist, lying to you about how if you just let me touch you it'll help you heal. Forcing myself on you over and over and calling it 'exposure therapy'.”

He nods quick and sharp, finally giving a stuttered sob. “I did, I d-did! I thought about you a-all the time. Wished you would c-come back and do it all over again.”

“How many times did you cum thinking about it? About me?”

He shakes his head this time, sniffling and wiping his tears with the sleeve of his hoodie. “A-always. I c-can't cum without th-thinking about it.”

The admission sends heat pooling in your stomach. Can't cum at all without thinking about you forcing yourself on him? The effect you've had on him, the control you have over his cock, it's intoxicating. And you can feel the proof of it pressing back against your foot, his hips rolling against you in something of a rhythm now.

“Good boy.“ You push your drink towards him. “You're shaking, have a drink. It'll take the edge off.”

His hands tremble as he takes your glass, raising it to his lips. You can see the thoughts racing through his mind. Is he really doing this? Is he really putting himself in a position to be taken advantage of again? Is he really going to get drunk to give himself plausible deniability that he's letting you molest him? He looks scared and miserable and a little sick, like he's on the verge of a panic attack. But he slowly drains the glass, squeezing his eyes shut tight and bucking his hips against your shoe.

You take the empty glass from him when he's finished, standing up and leaning over to whisper in his ear. “I'll get you some more, don't go anywhere.”

You take your time at the bar, flirting with the bar tender as he pours you a tray of shots. You want to give Cadfael more time to sit there and squirm. To question himself. To sink into self loathing and disgust and fear. To bring him right to the edge of escaping, only to reel him back in and make him complicit in his own abuse.

You time it perfectly. He's just moving to slide out of the booth when you return, setting the tray of shots down on the table. He slinks back into his seat like a chastised child in the principal's office. It's a thrill of authority and power. Not a single word nor look was needed. He simply knows he's not allowed to leave. That he can’t leave.

“Let's play a game,” your smile is anything but reassuring as you push the tray of shots towards him. “I ask you questions, and for each one you take a shot, and then you answer me.”

“Wh—? How is that a game?” He shrinks into his hoodie, eyeing the alcohol nervously.

A sharp little tut from you has him flinching. “I ask the questions, you take a shot and answer them. Understand?”

He gives a reluctant nod. You raise your eyebrows expectantly. It takes him a moment, but he finally seems to realise the game has begun. A shaky hand reaches for the nearest shot glass. He holds it up, hesitating. Finally, he downs it with a little grimace and sets the glass aside.

“Good boy.” Your foot goes back to its tame caress of his calf. “Let's start with an easy one. Do you remember the last time we met?”

He downs his shot much quicker this time, trying and failing to look you in the eye. “M-mostly.”

“Do you get flashbacks?”

Another shot. “Y-yes…“

“Do you get panic attacks when you think about it?”

Another shot. “Sometimes.”

“Do you get hard when you think about it?”

Another shot. “A-always.”

“Do you want me to do it again?”

He hesitates. He downs the last shot. “Y-yes? No? I don't know, maybe? I just— It's— I…”

“Yes?”

His eyes cast around the empty shot glasses as if they might hold an answer.

“I d-don't want it. It makes me feel sick just thinking about it. Thinking about what you did to me, how badly it's messed me up. I feel like I'm going to have another panic attack. Flashbacks. Something. But… I haven't been able to cum like that again. N-nothing is as satisfying. If I want to feel good, I… I h-have to. B-but… I don't want to. I don't want to let you do that to me again. But I need it, I do. I don't know what to do…”

“Aww, baby.” You laugh a little and stand, grabbing his hand to tug him up with you. “It doesn't matter anyway. This isn't about what you want. And if you wanted it with your whole heart, it wouldn't feel as good, would it? You need it to be forced on you.”

You pay your tab quickly and drag him out the door, pushing him up against the cold brick of the building the moment you're outside. He doesn't exactly let you kiss him, rather he freezes as your lips assault his. You're not gentle, nipping and sucking and forcing your tongue into his mouth as he trembles against you. It's just as good as the first time—better, even, for knowing just how badly you've fucked him up.

Your hands slide under his hoodie, splaying across the hot skin underneath. He whimpers against your lips, breathing heavy and sharp. On the verge of a panic attack once more. But you don't want that. Not yet. You're toying with him, keeping him on the edge. Playing with his trauma.

You pull away and let him calm himself. Some of those deep breathing techniques he half picked up from that therapist of his while imagining her raping him. You hail a cab, pulling him into it and giving your address with a smile. Cadfael looks nervous, but it's easy enough for the cabbie to brush it off as first date nerves. Especially with the way your hand creeps up his thigh in the back seat, promising more to come.

It's satisfying, the whole ride there. You watch him willing himself to speak. Mind begging his body to tell the cabbie to stop. To pull over and let him out. Maybe even to tell him what you are, what you plan to do to him. But his body is simple, chasing the high he hasn't managed to feel since you broke him. His tongue remains numb in his mouth, and he only manages to offer the cabbie a nod of thanks as he lets you both out in front of your apartment.

There's another pause long enough to make him question himself, as you lean in and pay the cabbie his fare. Once again his mind begs him to run while his body refuses to move. As you wave the cab off, he lets you grab his hand and pull him into your apartment building. His eyes are distant, barely taking in his surroundings. Drunk, scared, turned on. You doubt he'll be able to find the place again after tonight, even if he wants to. The upper hand will remain yours.

Once again, numb and malleable lips meet yours as you work your way up towards your apartment between hot kisses. It's easy to push him around, shove him against walls and doors, grope and tease him as much as you want. He's hard against you, and a squeeze to his bulge lets you feel the wet spot where his precum soaked through when you'd teased him with your foot. Or, perhaps, your verbal teasing was what did it. Or even the knowledge of what you're about to do to him.

You finally make it to your door, unlocking it and shoving him inside before closing it behind you both. You make a show of locking it once more, and you hear a breathless sound of fear from him as he watches. It's too late to back out now. Ironic, really, that this is the moment his brain finally wins over his body and he becomes sure he wants out.

“I don't—” He gives a hiccup that verges on a sob, words slurred, “I don't w-want to do this. Please…”

“Yes you do, baby.” Your hand bunches in his hoodie and you push him towards your bedroom. “You wouldn't be here otherwise.”

“I— I changed my mind, please, I r-really don't want this.”

“Changed your mind? After you approached me in the bar? After you told me all about your fantasies? After you drank all that alcohol, knowing it would make it easier for me to use you? After you got into the cab and into my apartment?” With each additional indictment, you take another step towards him, forcing him back towards the bed. “And now you're saying you don't want it?”

“I don't!” Another hiccup, this one accompanied by an indignant squeak. And then his voice lowers to a pathetic whisper. “Please, don't…”

You pause just as the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. For a lingering moment, you admire him. And then your hand slips down his sweatpants and cups his cock. Nothing underneath—he really was hoping to get raped. You give it a light squeeze and watch his eyes screw shut, lips pursed to swallow back a moan. Stroking his shaft in long, slow motions, your lips find their way to his neck to mark him up. Something to remember you by, if only for a little while. Something to run his fingers along as he wanks to the memory of you forcing yourself on him again.

“No, no, no, no,” it's whispered under his breath like a mantra, cut off only when your hands push his sweatpants down to his ankles.

“You keep saying no, but you're still hard.” You tease, hand pressing firmly to his chest to ease him down to sit on the bed.

“I— I c-can't help it, please. It d-doesn't mean I—”

He's cut off with a gasp as you sink to your knees in front of him and take his cock into your mouth slowly. He's thick and heavy on your tongue, the head salty and wet with precum. As you ease him into the warmth of your mouth, he clutches at your bedsheets and stifles a moan. He whimpers as you pull away, hips trying to follow your mouth. But all he can do is watch with baited breath as you pull your lipstick from your purse and apply a fresh coat. Pressing it into his hand, you lean back down and take him in once more.

He can't keep quiet for long. Your tongue runs along the underside of his shaft, catching beneath the head and flicking up in a wicked motion that has him sobbing for you. You leave faint streaks of lipstick, relishing in the knowledge that he’ll be addicted to your shade forever. Your nails dig into his thighs as you bob your head, loving the way he tries to beg in broken words for you to stop, first miserably and then desperately as his cock throbs in your mouth.

It's truly pathetic how quickly he cums. After so many unsatisfying orgasms with cheap imitations of you, he's finally got the real thing back. You pull away and pump your fist, watching as his cum leaves watery white streaks across your carpet. His breath is shaking, hips bucking up into your hands, tears rolling down his cheeks as he almost withers in shame.

“Good boy. See? You do want it!” You continue to pump his sensitive, softening cock.

“S-stop!” He yelps a little, unable to hold back a loud sob as he tries to pull his hips away from your unrelenting hand. “P-please, not again, it's t-too much! D-don't do it again…”

You laugh, leaning in to slowly lave your tongue around the head of his cock. It throbs in your hand, rewarding you with a leaking of precum again. Even as Cadfael whines and hisses through his teeth and cries from the overstimulation, his cock can't help but react to you. You suck lightly at the tip, focusing all your attention on the most sensitive part. It's one of your favourite things to give him. Pleasure so intense, so soon, it's painful.

“Please, please, please,” he begs, his voice taking on a distant tone, like he's repeating something he heard in a movie once.

One glance up at him and you see the fog in his eyes. He's trembling, chest rising and falling far too quick in ragged breaths, body rigid. A panic attack. Flashbacks, as well. To the last time you'd abused his poor, sensitive cock like this. You revel in the way his eyes can't focus as he looks down at you. His tears fall almost silently as he continues his senseless begging. Perfect.

You pull away, stand, strip yourself before him. His gaze doesn't move from where you were until you tilt his chin up with a finger and force him to look at you. The vagueness in his eyes clears ever so slightly, and you're rewarded with the knowledge that he's half here. Just enough to see you, to notice what's happening, to remember. Enough to add to his trauma. But still panicking, still paralysed by his own brain, fuzzy with alcohol and fear.

“Come on, baby. I need your cock in me, but it's gone all soft.” You sigh in feigned disappointment as you take one of his hands and wrap it around his own cock, helping him stroke himself. “It's only fair that you get yourself hard for me again.”

He whimpers, hips twitching as the overstimulation continues by his own hand. But he can't stop you. Can't even pull away. All he can do is beg for you to stop in that same breathless mumble, sounding just how you remembered. And fuck if he doesn't sound so pretty when he begs. So pretty and ruinable.

“There we go,” you pull his hand away as his cock is finally coaxed back to hardness. “Remember how good it felt when I made you cum inside me? You're going to feel that all over again, baby.”

You lower yourself onto him, cunt dripping already. You've been wet since you first laid eyes on him, and every moment since has only turned you on more. The feel of your heat around him, dripping down his shaft, clenching around him does something to him. He seems to almost snap back to himself, still panicking but no longer stuck in the memory of you.

“N-no! No, no, don't! I c-can't cum again, please! Please!” He sobs, voice breaking and words a barely-comprehensible series of sounds punctuated by sharp inhales.

“Of course you can, baby. You want to be a good boy for me, don't you?” You rock your hips, riding him slowly as you take in every hyperventilating breath of his. “You'll cum inside me again. You can't help it.”

He clutches tighter at the sheets, your lipstick digging into his palm, unable to keep from bucking up into you. The overstimulation barely subsides before he's sobbing again, begging you not to make him cum as he inches closer to another orgasm. You whisper hot praise and demands in his ear, reminding him that he asked for it, that he deserves it, that he wants it.

Once again, it's almost humiliatingly quick. His hips stutter and he gives a miserable, pathetic cry as he fills you with warm cum. Predictably, your hips don't stop. You clench around him, riding him faster, spurred on by his weak cries of pain. He's babbling, things that sound like words but are beyond comprehension by now. Thoroughly broken. But you know he's begging you to stop.

“Such a good boy,” you kiss him once again, sucking on his tongue before pulling away to look at him. “What's wrong? Why are you crying? This is what you wanted. My cunt around you. Me, taking advantage of you. You said it yourself, you can only cum if you think about me taking advantage of you. You wanted me to do it again. You said so yourself, remember? This is what you asked for.”

“Stop! Stop!” His words seem to come back to him, body shaking violently, seeming unable to catch his breath, a wild look in his eyes. “P-please, you have to stop!”

“How rude, I haven't cum yet!” You rock your hips faster, hand coming down to tease your clit. “What's wrong, baby?”

He can't talk through his staggered breaths, shaking hard enough that you have to brace against the bed to keep from being knocked off his lap. His hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat. His eyes are red and puffy with tears. He looks the perfect picture of ruin, pushed to the breaking point by you.

“Use your words. Go on. Ask me to stop again and I'll do it. Just one more time, baby. All you need to do is ask me one more time and I'll stop.” You're so close now, right on the edge.

He tries. He tries so hard. His mouth moves, heavy breaths in and out, whimpers on every inhale. His eyes shift between yours and the point where his cock disappears over and over into your cunt, willing himself to say that simple word just one more time. He's not sure he even believes you, but he's desperate to try. And incapable of it. Instead of begging you to stop, he stills for a moment. Then he curls in on himself in agony, and you feel more warm cum fill you.

“Good boy. I knew you wanted it, really. Couldn't even make yourself say no when you got the chance. All you can do is cum for me. Because I'm the only thing in this world that can really make you cum.”

He sobs silently as you push yourself over the edge, cunt milking his aching, spent, soft cock. His breathing mellows out to something slow and shaky, whole body relaxing into the pain of overstimulation finally. He's nearly catatonic as you lift yourself off him and push him back to lay on the bed.

You wind your thick tail under yourself, settling into the coils to try to conserve what little body heat you have left. One of the crew—you think their name is Sweetie, the one who skips everywhere—was kind enough to provide you with some thick blankets. But your body isn't made for heating itself. It's a meagre replacement for the heat of the sun.

Speaking of steps—steps, it seems you never stop hearing steps, above and below and near and far, they've driven you half mad by now—you draw yourself up a little at the sound of solid, thudding boots. Not the worst. No, that dubious honour is held by the mad captain of the ship. But certainly not someone you're keen to see. Gav. You'd made the mistake of forgetting their name once and had spent a night blinded by the searing light of a lamp for it. You won't make that mistake again.

There's something odd about the sound of their steps, though. With each thud of leather on wood, there's an accompanying heavy clink of thick metal. You tentatively flick your tongue, hoping for more information, but the smell of saltsea and rot are all that greet you. Same as always. That, and the slowly approaching light of a lamp that does nothing to illuminate the metaphorical darkness in which you find yourself.

“Good, you're awake.” No greeting, straight down to business in that gravel tone you've come to hate.

Your strong torso pushes your upper body higher, making sure you loom over their short frame. “Who could sleep in these conditions?”

They click their tongue in disapproval. “Master Lin got your collar.” Another heavy clink as they raise something red and gold into your eyeline. “Should help.”

“Help?” You hiss the word, sharp fangs bared.

“Help us domesticate you.” They lean in and you hear the thick new metal of the collar buckle make a dull sound against the rusted bars of the cage. “Can't put you on stage until we know you can follow simple instructions, can we? No, we gotta break you in. And that's my job. So how about we make this easy and you do what you're told, yeah?”

You lunge in their direction, pulling back just before you hit the bars, and you're rewarded with a low grunt as they recoil. “Fuck you.”

“Fine.” You hear their tongue run over their teeth as they pull out something jingly and rattle it against the cage. “I guess we're doing this the hard way then, freak.”

You slink back as the blurred form of the cage contorts and Gav approaches. The door—it takes you a moment to realise—is open. And then it's closed again. They turn their back on you to lock it from the inside, just another insult you can't bear. You slink back towards the corner, tightening every muscle to ready yourself for a struggle. Like hell are you letting them collar you without a fight.

“Let's get this over with,” Gav sighs, almost to themself as they turn back towards you and hold up the lantern. “Neck out.”

You bear your fangs once more, one small arm rising to try to shield your eyes. Not for the first time do you realise the scales across your eyes that are such an advantage in your own home put you at a serious disadvantage in this strange place. It's something you doubt they'll ever stop using against you. In the face of the searing light, you can't see Gav reach for you. You only feel their large, calloused hand wrap around your weak little wrist.

You lunge. There's no time to try to see your mark. You rely on your ears picking up their heartbeat, on your nostrils flaring to find the warmest part of them you can reach, on your tongue tasting the smell of years at sea on their skin. Sharp, curved fangs sink deep into flesh. The bulk of their forearm, muscles strong and flexing against your teeth. The sweet saltmetal smell filling your mouth warm and dripping, the first thing to drive off even a touch of the bone-deep chill since you got here.

“Fuck.” It's a deep grunt through gritted teeth, but not nearly injured enough for your liking. None of the panic you'd hoped to hear. Only an annoyance verging on violence.

Your fangs sink deeper, deeper into yielding meat, searching for bone. The win thrills in your chest. Leather nor metal have found their way around your neck, you remain free. You even manage, with a desperate flail of your vestigial arms, to knock away the lantern and extinguish its flame. Blissful darkness emboldens you to grope for the keys.

It's sharp. The pain that courses up your spine, radiating from the slender tip of your tail. It arcs electric, drawing a shudder from deep within you, loosing the tense muscles of your jaw. The heavy worn sole of their boot presses down on your tail, grinding it into the wooden boards below. Their arm yanks from between your teeth, ignoring the way your sharp fangs tear a deep gully through the muscle.

For a moment, you revel in your little act of rebellion. No matter the consequence, you feel its worth. You know the smell of their blood now, can learn their fear. Your tongue flicks out searchingly, inhaling the smell of their— Arousal? It's heady and thick, heart pounding with all the thrill of a hunter after their prey. Icy fear joins the shocks of pain prickling up your spine, tail still aching even as their foot moves away.

“You'll regret that, freak.”

It's neither threat nor posturing, simply a statement of fact as their heavy hand grabs the back of your head and pulls you to the ground. Your cheek hits the deck, wet and cold, between their feet. The earthy smell of worn leather overwhelms, made stronger by the feel of their boot pressing down on your face, heel resting against the floor in front of your eyes.

The victory has seeped from you in a tidal flood, replaced swiftly with the realisation that you're way out of your depths. You've never so much as play fought with the other echidna you grew up with. Why did you think you could beat a human on their own turf? What was your plan? To take them out and steal the keys, escape the cage, and then what? You're on a ship full of them. Full of people working for Master Lin, each with their own reason to do everything the madman tells them. You've got no chance of escape. And even less of making it home. Not unless one of your friends comes to find you.

“Kiss it.” They pull their boot off your face only to nudge at your mouth with the toe. “Go on, better act sorry too.”

The worn leather is warm—compared to everything down here, at least—and textured with deep lines. Your little arms wedge under yourself, pushing just enough away from the deck to properly press your mouth to the top of it. It disgusts you, being humiliated like this. You'd never thought of yourself as a prideful echidna before this, but your newly discovered ego is certainly bruised now.

Gav gives a thoughtful hum as they watch you, finally coming to a decision. “Not good enough. Lick it.”

You hesitate just a moment—a moment is more than long enough for them to bring their heel down on the back of your head, grinding your face into the softened, damp wood. It's only a moment's punishment. A promise of more, should you get any big ideas about rebelling again. Then their boot is wedging under you once more, pressing against your lips in anticipation.

Your tongue flicks out, forked tips catching in the cragged creases caused by years of wear and movement. Another small mercy, they seem to have been recently cleaned. Only salt water and tallow remain. You focus on the heat of their foot within, wondering whether the leather is thin enough to drive your fangs through once more. It's a bad idea, but bad ideas seem to be all you can come up with right now.

“Up.” Their toe presses against your forehead, pushing you back as they jingle the collar. “Now you know how to behave, let's get this on you.”

Behave, sure.

It takes some manoeuvring and a lot of strength from your torso to drag yourself upright, body shifting under you to hold you up while leaving your tail free for your newest bad idea. In the dark, you can see them better. You watch their shape approach you, trying to time things perfectly. They seem sturdy, sure, but they're still small. It's an advantage, and you have to take it.

As they get within range, your tail lashes back before swinging towards them, bludgeoning them full force in the chest. The sound they make is a wheeze, cough, groan, and even an almost animal growl, all at once. You feel the moment you make contact, their body soft and solid as you knock them back against the bars of the cell. Your tail pins them there, taller and thicker than them before it tapers to its thin tip, too heavy to easily move.

“No collar.” You hiss out the words, tasting the air to see if you've finally drawn some fear from them. Arousal still, headier than before.

Beneath your tail, you feel them shake. It's a slow, rhythmic heaving. Vomiting? Crying? Perhaps they're finally feeling the cold that you've been living in down here for the past… You can't think too hard about how long you've been down here. Not when you have them pinned. Not when you're so close to winning. They're shaking, they're—

Laughing. They're laughing, mocking you. It's a derisive sound that feeds the rage balled in your chest. You hiss once more, shifting towards them, ready to bite. This time, you'll go for somewhere vital. For their neck, perhaps. You'll relish the warmth of their blood. You'll prove yourself too dangerous to be kept like this. They'll be bringing you home in no time.

“The keys, give them.” You hold a small hand out with a clumsy grabbing motion.

“Or what?” They scoff, shifting against your tail to grab something.

“Or I'll kill you.”

“You'll kill me, will ya? That's a damned shame,” their voice is bland and unimpressed, “I thought we were getting along just fine, you and me. Well, if you don't want to be friends…”

You hear the click, the metallic ring, the crackle of your scales shifting as they drive a thin blade between to the delicate skin beneath. Your tail flinches, thrashes, twitches against your will as they neatly pinpoint a spot that makes your muscles feel like they're curling in on themselves. The pain claws at you, a scream dragging its nails along your throat as you desperately resist giving them the satisfaction. Their hands are skilled, precise, shifting the blade just so to make you writhe for them.

“So, you can dance. Good to know,” it's a cruel tone they take, mocking and boastful. “Maybe we can make that part of your act.”

You don't have energy left to worry about the looming threat of your display in the freak show. Not when their knife is jammed into the sensitive underside of your tail and they're slowly pushing you back towards the centre of the cage. It's easy for them to throw you off balance, to let your upper body tip back. Their hands—shockingly nimble for such large, veined, calloused things—wrestle with your long, lithe body, contorting you until you can hardly keep track of your own shape.

A sharp tug to your tail sends the knife skittering across the floor. Their arms haul your body around like thick rigging, one foot anchoring on your back as they move you about. You try to lash out at them, to whip them with your tail, but they simply loop you back in on yourself. They use your own momentum to neatly wrap your body into a knot, spine twisted around and through and under until you find yourself unable to move without tugging at another part of your own tail.

It's effective bondage to be sure, but it goes beyond effective.

It's humiliating.

“There we go,” they pat the gordian knot of your body, settling the heavy mass in their lap.

“Get off!” You hiss, tip of your tail just barely able to lash in annoyance.

You lunge for them, fangs bared, sinking into— it's not flesh that meets your teeth. A thick pad of leather is forced into your mouth, fastened around your head, effectively holding your fangs fast. Unable to move, unable to bite, all that's left to you are your useless little arms. You smack at their sturdy body, but they only laugh at you and reach out to grab their knife.

“You should watch yourself, freak.” They hold your head steady and you feel the cold metal blade smooth under your eye. “Don't want to lose anything we don't have to.”

The blade slides down your body, across the scales of your underbelly as they trace the intricate knot they've contorted you into. You hold your breath, body tense and still as you try desperately not to move a muscle. Your lung burns with the effort, arms shaking slightly. But the effort is for nothing, anyway. They find the spot they're looking for and wedge the knife between your scales once more, hitting an agonising pressure point so accurately that it's hard to believe they've never encountered an echidna before. You fold in on yourself around the point, trying to dislodge the knife, but they only push it in deeper and deeper until the hilt settles snugly against your scales.

“Just gonna leave that there. Can't punish you properly without both hands now, can I? You'll wanna stay still.” They sigh, and their breath is warm against your freezing body. “Gotta get you in shape for the Ringmaster. I'm in charge of that, you know. Discipline. He leaves it up to me, let's me punish the freaks however I want. Always get results, so he won't stop me. And you? You've been such a goddamned pain in my ass, I'm gonna enjoy this.”

Their hand wriggles its way into the knot of your body, searching for something. You try for just a moment to squirm away, but you only succeed in tightening the knot and digging the knife further into that horrible pressure point that has you gasping for breath against the pain. They laugh, giving the knife a slight wiggle before continuing their search.

“Told you to stay still, freak.”

You do as you're told, sinking your fangs deeper into the leather to temper your bubbling rage. How dare they do this to you. How dare they treat you like an object, like a creature. How dare their hands feel warm against you, their body heating you in a way you haven't felt since you were first taken. A heat that should feel nice, should feel comforting. It does feel nice and comforting. And that knowledge twists your stomach into the same shape as your body. That this is the price you have to pay for the heat your body desperately needs.

“Huh,” their hand slides against your cloaca and your heart jolts into your throat. “You know, I think I deserve this for all the trouble you've been.”

It's sickening. The way their fingers wriggle into your vent, violating you in a way you've never experienced before. Your body undulates, desperate to escape the sensation of them slowly working their hand into you even as the motion jostles the knife. Nausea presses thick in your throat, brain stalling as you try to process what they're doing to you. The feeling is so foreign, so horrifyingly intimate, so wrong.

The calloused pads of their fingers brush between your hemipenes, rough and groping against the sensitive soft tissue. You're dizzy, breathing far too quick and shallow. The nerves in your body are fried, shot, rewired by a touch you shouldn't be experiencing. It feels as though they're touching every inch of you from the inside, your organs cramping with a pain that's dangerously inching towards pleasure.

“Oh, you like this?” They're smug as their hand gropes around inside you, seemingly amused by your biology. “Never felt a hole this big, it's like your body wants me inside it. Fuck, how deep is it?”

Bile clings to your throat, thick and sticky. They explore your insides like they're looking for something. For a moment, they amuse themself seeing how deep they can go within you. When they shove their arm in up to the elbow, they seem to decide that's answer enough and pull back to examine your hemipenes with curious, rough hands again. You think for a moment—as they find themself elbow deep in your cloaca—that the lantern has somehow lit itself again. Your eyes flash bright with light at the sensation, and it dulls only slightly as they feel up your cocks.

Horrifyingly—perhaps worse than anything that has happened since they came down to see you—you feel a penis start to get hard at their haphazard groping. It pushes against their palm, trying to force them out of your vent so it can harden properly. They only grab it, fondling and pushing and squeezing in ways that send pain and pleasure singing through your nerves in equal measure. You cry out, muffled by the leather gag, tip of your tail flicking pathetically.

“Interesting,” they laugh a bit and squeeze again, admiring the way you squirm and whine in their lap, jumping with each shift of the knife. “Got two cocks in there, freak? Good to know. I think we'll have some fun, you and I. While I'm breaking you in and all that.”

At every moment you're on edge, waiting for them to bring a hand to their own belt buckle. But they never do. Rather, they continue to press your hard cock back into your cloaca, painfully urging you closer and closer to the edge with mocking promises of more “fun” next time you act up. When you finally cum, it's quite possibly the worst thing you've experienced since you got here. Their thick fingers violate you, pressing hard against your sensitive cock and filling your cloaca, and your whole body feels like it's turning itself inside out as you shake and cum, filling your own vent with the sticky fluid. Humiliation burns your body, finally warmed through by the horrifying assault.

“Well, that was fun.”

Gav laughs, tipping you unceremoniously off their lap and wiping their sticky hand across your scales. They pull their knife from you and grab the lantern, heading towards the cell door with a clinking of keys. They stop, door ajar, and look back at you for a moment. You hear a sound of mild annoyance and flinch on instinct, cloaca aching at the thought that they might come back and punish you more.

“Right, almost forgot what I came here to do,” they return to your side and grab the makeshift leather gag from your mouth, refastening it around your neck just tight enough to be uncomfortable. “There we go, now the boss can't say I didn't do my job.”

Swooping in and linking your arm with his, smiling kindly and bringing him over to a couch slightly away from the music and people dancing. It wasn't hard at all to convince him to sit beside you. So trusting, that cute dimpled smile as he thanked you. All you had to do was show a little concern and he was letting you move him around like a doll.

“What's your name, cutie?” You put your own drink to his mouth and tip it until the liquid laps at his lips.

He opens his mouth and lets you pour some in, swallowing it down before he answers, “Cadfael.”

You bring your thumb up to wipe a drop from the corner of his lips, pushing the digit lightly against them and giving an approving sound when he hesitantly opens his mouth. You press your thumb inside, enjoying his hot breath and the cautious lap of his tongue. His eyes are blown wide, black pupils swallowing brown irises.

“Good boy,” you all but purr, other hand stroking his warm cheek.

He flushes under your attention and looks away, breathing a sigh as you pull your hands back to yourself. He doesn't need your drink. You can tell he's already had more than enough. He looks dazed and clumsy and more than a little nervous. But the sight of those soft lips against your glass is a sight you needed to see.

“So, Cadfael,” you let his name leave your mouth in a sultry tone, and he squirms in his seat, “did you come here alone?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He flushes a little pinker and tries to stammer out some sort of apology for calling you ma'am, but he's silenced by a squeeze to his knee.

“Such a gentleman. I'm surprised you didn't bring your girlfriend with you!”

“No! No, I don't—” You have him hook, line, and sinker. “I don't have anyone like that.”

“Such a shame…” Your hand smooths up his thigh, tipping more of your drink into his mouth, “such a pretty boy, all alone? Anyone could take advantage of you.”

He tries to shift a little away from you, but he's pinned between your body and the arm of the couch. Instead, he makes himself as small as possible. You give his thigh a squeeze, tipping the last of the alcohol into his mouth and setting your cup on the side table. As you reach across him, you make sure to shift to your knees, letting your tits press against him. He jolts at the contact and gives a soft little whimper in the back of his throat.

“Relax, baby.” You dip your voice to a soothing sort of purr, the hand on his thigh massaging him gently. “I'm not going to eat you.”

He nods shakily and tries to relax into your touch. You can feel the pounding of his heart in his inner thigh, pulse hard and quick. It thrills you to know how nervous you make him. Your free hand winds its way into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp in just the right way to make him shiver.

“You're just the cutest little thing, aren't you?” You're teasing now, toying with your prey. “I think you're enjoying this.”

Cadfael shakes his head, nods, and shakes it again, fingers twitching nervously. “N-no, ma'am. I mean… I'm flattered I am, but—”

“But what?” The hand on his thigh snakes down the front of his trousers and into his pants to cup his cock. He yelps, thighs closing around your hand and eyes tearing up.

“P-please, don't!” His voice is high and hiccuping and squeaky as he clumsily tries to push you away. But he's uncoordinated from the drink, and can't seem to put up more of a fight.

“Oh, but you're enjoying it so much, baby! Your cock doesn't lie.” It's already hard in your hand, reacting beautifully to the way you slowly stroke it.

“Please,” his voice actually breaks this time, tearing up as his hands try to push at your arm. You hold firm. “Please, I don't w-want—”

“Aw, but you do want it, baby. Your pretty little cock is dripping all over my hand.” You thumb over the head of his cock to feel the precum, delighting in the way his hips buck and he whines. “See? It's not nice to lie, you know.”

“I, ah, I'm sorry, ma'am.” His voice is small, chastised. “B-but please, there's so many people here like, I— Please.”

“Oh, they're not paying attention to us.” Your other hand slides out of his hair to make quick work of unbuttoning his jeans and pulling his cock through the flap in his pants. “See? Not a single person's noticed your cock in my hand. I bet I could ride you here and now and no one would be any the wiser.”

“No!” It's another one of those indignant yelps that sends heat pooling in your cunt. His voice quickly drops to a whisper, eyes darting around to make sure he hasn't drawn any attention. “No, please. P-please, not in front of everyone.“

“Shhh,” you lean in to kiss his forehead, letting his face fall into your tits for a long moment. “Just relax. The more you whine and squirm, the more likely someone'll notice.”

He lets out another low whine, the sound muffled in your chest. His hips rock against your hand despite his best efforts not to react to your slow, teasing strokes. You almost want to get him off like this. To listen to him moan for you as he covers your hand in cum. Maybe even make him lick it off your fingers…

“Such a pretty boy.” You pull back and straddle his lap, hand still stroking him between you. “Can you guess what I'm wearing under my skirt?”

His eyes are wet, tears welling as he gives up on pushing you away. His voice shakes, torn between a moan and a sob as he answers you, “no, ma'am.“

“Let's find out, hm?”

You lift yourself onto your knees, holding his cock steady. You're already plenty wet from teasing him—the way his eyes water, the way he begs, the way he's too drunk and polite to stop you—so when you sink down onto him, you manage to take all of him in one go. His cock is the perfect size. Not too big, but just a little bit of a stretch.

“S-stop!” It's a gasping little sob as the tears begin to fall. “Please, please, d-don't do this! Don't make me do this…”

The way his voice trails off into a soft, pathetic sound of fear and distress makes you moan. Your fingers tangle in his hair, hips rocking as you start to ride him. His fingers dig into the upholstery, body trembling with the effort not to fuck up into you. He looks so cute, terrified and violated and desperate not to enjoy your warm cunt.

“Don't make a scene,” your voice is hot in his ear, teeth nipping at the soft spot on his neck just below it. “We don't want everyone seeing me use you like a cute little dildo, do we?”

He gives a strangled sob, hips bucking up into you and cock twitching. He begs in a low whisper, desperate for you to stop. Even as you mark up his neck, clench around him, tug at his hair. Even as each thing you do drives him closer and closer to orgasm, he still begs you to stop this, to leave him alone.

It's cute, at first. The pathetic begging for you to stop using his pretty little cock. But you quickly discover that it's even more fun to kiss him. To force your lips roughly against his, bite and nip at the pink skin, force your tongue into his mouth so he can't stifle his sounds of pleasure. The kisses are bitter with alcohol and salty from his tears, and you enjoy every second of it. Through it all, your hips move at a steady pace, one hand reaching between you both to tease your clit.

“Are you gonna be a good boy for me, baby? Gonna cum for me?” Your pull away from the kisses to admire how swollen his lips have gotten from your teeth. “I don't want you to ever forget my cunt. To ever forget you came inside me.”

“No, no, please!” He sobs again, thighs shaking as he tries to keep from fucking up into you. “D-don't make me cum!”

“Aw, I'm not making you cum, baby!” You coo, unable to keep the grin from your face. “It's your cock that's inside me. It's not my fault if you cum, it's yours. Now, be a good boy and cum for me.”

His whole body shudders, eyes screwing shut as he bucks up into you. The sound he makes is desperate and pathetic, repeating “no” and “please” in a broken sob as his body betrays him and he cums inside of you. It's warm and sticky and he fills you with a few desperate thrusts.

“Good boy,” you stumble over your words a bit, fingers working your clit quickly. “Such a good boy.”

“Ah!” His breath hitches and his voice gets higher, a yelp of pain as you keep riding him past the point of pleasure and into painful overstimulation. “Stop! Stop, please!”

“Fuck…” You groan in pleasure, tugging harshly at his hair and riding him harder. “Keep begging, keep fucking begging, baby.”

“Please, no! It hurts, please! Stop, stop!” His eyes meet yours, red and wet as he cries for you. “It hurts so much…”

“Fuck!”

You clench around him, orgasm rolling through you in blissful waves. Your cunt all but milks his sensitive, softening cock, drawing broken cries from the man beneath you. He's shivering, nails scratching at the couch, barely able to take in shuddering breaths. You make sure to ride out your orgasm for as long as you can, working your clit until no more pleasure can be wrung from your body.

You slump a little in his lap, finally letting his soft cock slip out of you. Cum drips from your cunt into his lap, and more coats his thigh where his abused cock has come to rest. He looks such a pretty picture of ruin. Lips bitten swollen and pink, cock flushed and soft and sore, face streaked with tears and eyes bloodshot.

“Good boy, you filled me up so nicely. See? I told you, you wanted it.”

All he can muster is a soft whine and a slight shrinking into himself. He can't meet your eye, blank gaze directed between the dancing people to the wall opposite. If he looked cute before, he definitely looks cuter now. Defiled and dissociating, cock still twitching slightly in pain and lingering pleasure. If you had the stamina, you'd climb right back on and ride him until he was well and truly broken. But you'll have to content yourself with this for now.

Your eyes scan the room, wondering if anyone would notice you bringing him home with you. Whether you could get away with the excuse of his drunkenness. Whether he'd even put up a fight. He wouldn't make a bad live-in toy at all. In fact…

“How would you like to come home with me, baby?”

You reluctantly let him pull away, grabbing his offered arm in both of your own and hugging it to your chest. He gives another laugh and leads you over to the company car, still lingering by the curb. It's sleek and black with tinted windows, and you feel almost guilty somehow for sitting on the pristine leather. But Johnny's by your side again, hand on your knee, and you feel better.

The drive is a long one, and he keeps you from looking out the window with long, slow kisses and wandering hands, making up for a week apart. His fingers toy at the edges of your clothes, desperate to pull them off you, but reluctant to start anything he knows he won't be able to finish. Instead, he takes his time enjoying the taste of you. His lips are hot against yours, hands groping and squeezing.

The car eventually pulls to a stop, and he exchanges a few words with the driver before offering you a hand. You barely have time to look around the expansive parking garage before your eyes are enveloped in a warm darkness. It's so dark that it almost hurts to keep your eyes open, so you close them. No use trying to peek anyway.

"You trust me, right?" His voice is low in your ear as he leads you across the parking lot.

You focus on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to trip. To his credit, he leads you rather deftly into what you realise is an elevator. He has to remove one hand from your eyes to press a button, but you don't catch which one before he's covering them again, shrouding you in darkness. You go up and up and up. You must be in the city, you realise. In one of the skyscrapers. It's taller than any building reasonably should be.

You finally settle to a stop. There's a ding and the whooshing of doors, and you're hit by a cold breeze. You're outside. He nudges you gently and you start to walk again, feet shuffling forward nervously as though worried the ground might fall out from under you at any minute. And then he stops you.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course," you don't even think before you speak. Of course you trust him.

He turns you around, removing his hands from your eyes. Before you can look around, he holds your face still, levelling your gaze with his own. It's cold. It's windy. It's that odd dark-yet-bright of the city at night. But you don't know anything more than that. He won't let you see anything more than that.

"Walk backwards. I'll watch you." His hands slide from your cheeks down your arms, hands taking yours. "Go on. I won't let you fall."

Your heart pounds, mouth dry. You're on the roof. You're pretty sure you're on the roof. You don't know how many stories up, but far higher than you'd ever willingly go. And he wants you to walk backwards. All because you trust him.

You do.

Step after shaky step, you let your feet drag you backwards. With each placing of your foot, your heart leaps, waiting for the moment when the concrete floor isn't there to catch you any more. But his eyes are soft and crinkled with a smile and he follows each of your steps with one of his own. You trust him. You have to trust him.

"You're doing great, baby." He takes a quick peek over your shoulder and his grin lights up just a touch more. "Keep going, don't stop until I tell you."

Your stomach drops with each step. Further and further back. How big is this roof? It's a safer question to dwell on than how far below the street is. Or it feels safer, at least. At some point you started counting your steps, and now you can't seem to stop.

"Stop."

You almost miss his warning. But you manage to stop yourself just in time. He lets go of your hands and you lean forward a little, feeling almost unbalanced without him there to hold you. He nods over your shoulder with a smile, hand reaching out to hold your arm instead, helping you turn around.

"Look."

You focus on your feet as you turn, shuffling slowly in place. Your heart drops for a second as you see how close to the edge you'd come. Your heels almost hanging over the lip of the roof. You take a lurching step towards him, but he stands firm, keeping you in place. Instead, he helps you finish spinning with an easy motion.

"Don't you trust me?" He laughs, arms winding around your waist even as you look down over the edge, at the street below.

It's so far away. Far enough that you think you might die of fright before you even hit the ground. Your toes hang over the lip now, but you can't move back in the slightest. He holds you too tight, stands too close. One hand comes up to cup your chin, forcing your eyes away from the edge and up towards the skyline.

"Look," his breath is warm against your ear.

It takes a moment to realise what you're looking at. The lights of the city are bright. But four rooftops seem to outshine all the rest. Each one lit in the brilliant glow of a neon sign. You squint against the bleeding colours and read each word in turn, heart pounding faster as your eyes hop from roof to roof.

Will you marry me?

You try to spin around, shoulder pushing back against him. He doesn't seem to get the hint, doesn't step back to allow you to turn and face him. Rather, his hand drops from your chin and allows your gaze to return to the street below, leaning down to rest his own chin on your shoulder. You can feel his smile against your cheek.

"So? What do you say?"

You're dizzy. The height, the proximity to danger, the overwhelming display of devotion after a week apart. It's a heady combination. Your breath catches in your throat painfully as you wonder at all the work he put in to this. To this proposal. He wants to marry you. It only sinks in as you watch a car swerve to avoid a pedestrian, laying on the horn as they do. You shudder, toes curling as though they might be able to cling hard enough to the edge of the roof to save you should you fall.

Johnny would never let you fall.

Johnny wants to marry you.

It's too many thoughts to keep in your head at once. The romance of it all, the fear, the overwhelming realisation that you couldn't live without him. That you're dependent on him.

You nod.

"Is that a yes?"

"Yes," it's barely a croak, but he hears it nonetheless.

He finally steps back, pulls you back with him. He turns you, kisses you, takes you into his arms firmly enough to finally beat back the looming fear of falling. Even as he twirls you around the roof, you know he won't let you fall. You feel safe with him.