The Sting of Her Nails Pt. 02

Chapter 5: Arrival at the Threshold

Before Michael looms a large manor, an imposing structure etched against the reddening evening sky. He stands at the door, a disheveled wreck, his navy jacket streaked with grime and perspiration. His hands hold the black card quivering in his grip. His thumb traces the address he's praying he found, ink blurred from his relentless rubbing. The doorbell's chime reverberates, a mournful note lost in the expanse, and his breath grows jagged with anticipation as he waits.

The door groans open, revealing a man in a pristine black suit, dark hair swept back, with a stance as rigid as iron. Michael's gut twists. He's an unmitigated mess, rumpled and unraveling, nothing like this polished figure. Panic surges, doubt exploding in his mind. Has he misjudged? Stumbled into the wrong place?

But before his doubt can bloom any further, the man speaks. "Ah, Michael. Right on time," he says, voice sleek and laced with expectation. "Of course," he adds, almost to himself. His keen eyes scan Michael, narrowing at the chaos before him. Before Michael can choke out an excuse, the man advances, hands brusquely reaching out to wrestle with his jacket, brushing off grit, tugging the collar, smoothing creases in a frantic, futile dance. He grimaces at the meager results of his efforts and pivots sharply. "Quickly now," he says, gesturing inward. "It's bad enough you've turned up like a stray. Let's not keep Mystic waiting too."

Mystic. The name strikes a spark in his chest. Obsession flares, twisting with fear, reverence, dread, a tempest he can't tame threatening to take him over. His vision swims as the grand hall engulfs him, marble floors shimmering beneath a chandelier's icy gleam. A sudden jab to his ribs yanks him back. The man scowls, impatience hardening his features. "I know, I know, her effects can be quite overwhelming," he says tersely, "but I'm not risking punishment because you're mooning like some overgrown pup."

Punishment. The word sinks into him like a lead weight in his stomach. The bus, the world leaching into gray, her disapproval. If she could do that, what else might she be capable of? His pulse hammering in his ears, he lurches after the man, legs unsteady, down a corridor where countless doors seem to murmur secrets as he passes.

They enter a chamber, cloaked in deep reds and blacks. His gaze locks on her instantly. Mystic stands by a towering window, peering into the twilight grounds, her form a sharp cutout against the fading light. She pours a dark liquid, wine perhaps, from a crystal decanter, her motions languid and precise. The black sweater hugs her frame and her nails, red and black as before but featuring brand new designs, clink softly against the glass, a sound like tiny bells. Turning, the air grows dense, charged. He's here, she thinks to herself, a flicker of satisfaction warming her core, right where I want him.

Michael doesn't think. His knees buckle, slamming into the floor, his body quaking like a storm-tossed branch. "I'm here," he croaks, voice rough, barely more than a whisper.

Her boots tap out a steady cadence as she approaches, each step ringing in his head. "Oh, for pity's sake, get up," she says, exasperation heavy in her tone. "I didn't tell you to grovel, did I? And look at you, filthy and frayed. You're so easily undone. Have you even washed or slept since last we met?" She presses fingers to her temples, hair spilling like ink over her knuckles, and calls out, eyes on him with a look that makes him want to evaporate, "Grayson, get him cleaned up and to his room, will you?" Hmmmm, he seems more fragile than I remember him, she muses to herself.

The man, Grayson, seizes Michael's arm, hustling him down a series of hallways and shoving him into a tiled bath where steam already hangs in the air from a hissing shower. The water flows, relentless, washing over him as his mind spins. I'm here. What's her game? He can't help but wonder. The old prick on his neck stings faintly, a ghost of her mark. The robe Grayson tosses him is thick and dry, rough against his raw nerves, and he trails after him through halls that hum with her essence. They reach a modest room, the door creaking open.

And again, there she is. Perched on a narrow bed's edge, legs crossed, nails scoring faint lines into the quilt. "Get in," she says, voice implying no room for argument. He sinks onto the mattress, heart pounding. She leans in, her scent slicing through the air, as she presses a nail, cool as glass, onto his forehead. He passes out immediately. His large frame collapses as tension from the long days of anguish is expelled. "Sleep now, you'll need it for what's coming," she says to the slumbering form.

Chapter 6: Echoes of Dominion

Michael jolts awake, breaths heaving, the urge to bolt clawing at him before he can stop it. He braces for the gray despair, the crushing weight, but it doesn't descend. Confusion replaces it, muddy and thick, but there's no time to unravel it. Grayson's at the door, crisp and curt. "Come on." The halls twist, a maze of stone and shadow, cool air brushing his skin as they weave through until they reach a sunlit breakfast room. Mystic sits at a long table's head, a plate of fruit and pastries before her, nails drumming a faint tune on the wood.

"Sleep well?" she asks, a smirk teasing her lips as she skewers a strawberry. Her tone's light, taunting, but her eyes cut deep, watching. She thinks, He's still soft, pliant, good.

"Yeah," Michael mutters, easing into a chair, still foggy. The world feels steady, no gloom, no punishment for the defiance flickering in his mind. He thinks, I could leave. He waits. Nothing. Just her fork's clink, Grayson's rustle at a curtain. Has her effect been lifted, or worn off? He wants to ask but fears the return of that oppressive power more than he is curious.

They chat, trivial things, the weather, the manor's age, the coffee's blend. Michael relaxes, bit by bit, until Mystic sets her cup down with a sharp clink. "Finally," she says, standing. "We can start the tour. You're steady enough to see it now." She thinks, Let's peel back the layers, see what I'm working with.

She guides him through arched doors, up curling stairs, her voice spinning tales, old owners, vanished wealth, hints of shadow beneath. He follows, half-caught in her rhythm, the echo of her words lulling him as they pass tapestries frayed with time and banisters worn smooth. They halt at a plain wooden door, unremarkable amid the rest. She's speaking, something about the east wing's renewal, when her nails, sharp as a blade, graze the wood, a careless scrape. A male scream erupts, quiet and dull through the door, but it rips through Michael's mind nevertheless.

Michael stiffens, blood fleeing his face. Mystic doesn't falter. Her voice rolls on, unbroken, praising the doorframes' craft as if the cry never sounded. Her nails lift, hovering, then fall away. She thinks, Let him wonder, a quiet thrill at his frozen stare. The scream dies, smothered by the manor's hush, but it gnaws at Michael's mind like a living beast. He pieces it together, the bus's gray shroud, Grayson's dread of punishment, this unheeded wail. She's not just his puppetmaster. Someone else suffers, a price for defiance in all likelihood. His neck flares, the old mark burning, and he knows this is her domain, her will, and he's only scratched its surface.

Chapter 7: The Inspection

The tour drifts on, a haze of dim halls and lavish rooms, Mystic's voice weaving through, calm and commanding, a lifeline Michael grips as his thoughts tangle. The scream echoes, a barb in his brain, but she glides ahead, boots tapping the floor, nails flashing like embers as she points to worn tapestries or carved rails. He trails her, swept along, the air thick with her presence, until they reach wide double doors. She pauses, a sly smile curling her lips. "Well, since we're here, I guess it's time to inspect my new toy," she says, her tone playful yet edged, tightening his chest. She thinks, I've been looking forward to seeing what my latest find has to reveal, her anticipation growing.

The doors part, unveiling a circular room awash in warm, trembling light from a chandelier. Couches ring the center, their burgundy velvet complementing the glow. The air buzzes as Mystic strides in, claiming the grandest seat with effortless poise. Michael lingers at the edge, but her gaze, keen and expectant, draws him in. Silent men, servants, slip from places unseen, one placing a silver tray beside her, glasses, sliced fruit, another pouring with a quiver in his hands. She ignores them, eyes on Michael.

"Stand there," she says, pointing to the ring's center, her voice smooth as silk, unyielding. He shuffles forward, pulse hammering, keenly aware of the stares pressing close.

"Strip."

The command hits, blunt and forceful. His breath comes quick and shallow, face rapidly heating. He fumbles the robe's tie, fingers slow, stalling. "Now, Michael," she presses, impatience sharpening her tone. The robe pools at his feet, and he stands bare, skin prickling in the cool air, her stare relentless. His hands twitch to shield himself, shoulders hunching.

"Stop that," she snaps, leaning in. "Stand tall. No hiding, no dawdling. I want you standing tall and proud like when I first saw you." Her nails, hard as iron, tap the armrest. He straightens, arms dropping, but shame sears, uncontainable. The servants hover, a mute chorus stoking his exposure.

She reclines, sipping her drink, eyes roving him with a slow, claiming sweep. She motions for him to turn as her appreciative eye wanders the mountains and valleys of his muscles. "Not bad," she murmurs, a pleased hum rising. "But I want more. Get hard for me."

His stomach plummets. The order looms, unyielding. He's too raw, too frayed, nerves shattered, dread stifling any spark of arousal. He wills it, but nothing stirs. Sweat beads, breath thinning as her eyes tighten.

"Really?" she says, brow arching, amusement tinged with pique. "Come here." She beckons, a nail gleaming. He stumbles near, legs shaky, halting before her. She rises, closing in, and her hand darts, a nail pricks his chest.

Heat surges, wild and untamed, a flood crashing his senses. His mind spins, swamped, dissolving into a sticky haze of want. His body obeys, hardening fast, at a speed that rips a gasp from him. Mystic steps back, eyes flaring briefly, then softening with delight. "Oh," she breathes, a note of discovery. "Well, well. You're fortunate, Michael. More than you know, perhaps." She muses, A rare find, ripe for shaping.

Her stare lingers, possessive, mapping him like a prize. She feels his heft, broad shoulders, firm frame, quivering under her sway, and it stirs her, a quiet rush. She circles, boots clicking a measured beat, nails grazing the air near his skin, sparking it. The servants shift, coughs, tense jaws, envy tinging the room. She doesn't notice. Her focus is him.

But Michael's bliss cracks. Her effect blazes too hot, pleasure twisting into discomfort. His cock pulses, the pressure mounting past joy into an ache. His breath becomes uneven, a sweat sheen catching light. He sways, fingers flexing, a faint whimper escaping, signaling his growing panic. Her venom overwhelms, teetering him toward ruin.

Mystic halts, her reverie unfolding. She savors it, the power. She thinks, He's divine like this, stripped bare, mine to mold. Her lips twitch as she envisions it, nights bending him, coaxing every shiver, every plea, until he's her tool. She sees him kneeling by her will, eyes alight with worship, body hers to command. She could hold him rigid for hours, tease him to breaking, or deny him, leaving him raw, yearning. The visions cascade, lush and endless, a tapestry she'll craft.

Her trance deepens, the room fading to a hum. She sees him bound in the cellar's damp dark, iron cuffs biting his wrists, those thick, taut arms she admired, her nails etching jagged runes across his chest, red lines blooming like the wine she poured. His gasps echo, sharp and broken, a sound she'll twist until he fractures, then mend with a touch, forging him into hers alone, a beast tamed to her rhythm. She reflects, He's far stronger than most, yet so brittle. Perfect. I'll forge him into a marvel. Satisfaction coils through her, pulse quickening as she dwells on her plans.

His whimper cuts through, reeling her back to reality. She refocuses, seeing him, pale, shaking, near collapse. The pressure's turned cruel, her gift a blade, and his eyes dart, terror carving his face. She tilts her head, surprise she barely manages to hide. She chides herself, Too much. She glides closer and presses a nail to the base of his over-hard erection. Relief washes him, cool and swift, as the strain eases. He gasps, a shuddering exhale, body slumping yet upright. She thinks, So fragile, I'll need to take more care with this one.

He slips into a softer bliss, pain receding, his cock steady but gentled, humming with her trace. His chest heaves, slowing, a faint "Thank you" slipping out. But fear creeps in, a shadow in his mind. If she can soothe him, could she bind him, arousal locked no matter his need? And for how long? Forever? The notion chills, snapping him alert. He meets her stare, her nail still in place, eyes deep and unreadable.

She smirks, slow and sure, and traces her nail upward, millimeter by millimeter. Pleasure flares, crashing over him. His knees give, body teetering over, threatening to fall, but attendants' hands, firm and rough, catch him and hold him secure. "Punishments aren't all I wield," she purrs, words dripping promise. "Pleasure is my weapon too." Her nail climbs, slow and deliberate, driving him wild.

It nears the head, pulsing from excess, and dread once again spikes within him. Surely transitioning her nail to that more delicate flesh will flip pleasure to pain. He feels the shift, her nail poised to turn bliss to torment. His breath shallows, eyes pleading, too scared to speak, begging for mercy. She holds there, letting his fear fill him, his despair a subtle flavor that brings her joy. Seconds drag on eternally, her reign absolute and unquestionable.

She flicks her nail away. The rush vanishes, the relief swallowing him whole. His legs fold again, but attendants yank him back up, propping him before Mystic can turn to notice. She slinks back, languid, to the couch. The heat lingers on his skin as he stands, sweat-slick, trembling in her wake. She leans back into the velvet and waves a hand. An attendant steps up, bearing clothes, dark trousers, white shirt, leather shoes, placing them at his feet, retreating with a bow.

"Dress," she says, amusement in her command. She sinks deeper, boot glinting, watching. Michael bends, hands unsteady, the shirt slipping once before he pulls it on, crisp against his skin. She thinks, Those arms, thick and taut, mine to enjoy. She pictures them straining under her, pinned. The shirt pulls tight across his shoulders, hinting at power. She muses, A brute I've bridled, to break or ride slow as I please. Trousers cling to his thighs, and she lingers, a thrill pulsing as he zips, blind to her hunger.

He stands, clothed but frail, breath slowly calming as he awaits her next move.

Chapter 8: Burden of Her Will

Mystic lets silence press, watching Michael shift under her scrutiny. Then, exhaling, she rises, boots striking a final note, closing in until her scent, smoldering and electric, enwraps him again. Her eyes linger on his arms, a hum rising. "The tour continues," she declares, playful yet firm. She stretches, sweater clinging, nails sparking light. "That fun's tired me," she says, feigning frailty, smile sly. She thinks, Time to feel his strength.

She leans close, breath grazing his cheek, voice a purr. "Would you like to carry me, Michael?" A question, but in her eyes it's clear, a demand in fact. She waits, savoring his nod, small and faltering, then steps back, arms rising, nails like blades. "Go on," she urges. He lifts her, arms curling, and she settles, light as mist.

She feels delicate, a whisper in his embrace, barely there. His breath evens, joy swelling, holding her, serving her, a balm drowning out the fear. Her warmth seeps into his chest, soft beneath the sweater, and he's lost, steps matching his heart's thud. Her nails graze his neck, a whisper-touch he misses, their faint scrape unnoticed as her will seeps deeper. The tour flows, halls stretching, her voice fading. He moves, guided by her silent pull, the air cooling as they weave through shadow and stone.

They reach a sunlit room, a table heaped, roasted meat, glistening fruit, dark wine in crystal. Michael blinks, trance breaking, unaware of the journey, the manor's hush still clinging to his skin. He sets her down, boots clicking, and pulls her chair, instinct-driven. She sits, regal, beckoning. "Sit," she says, and he does, dwarfing her, yet her presence burning beside him.

Chapter 9: Weight of Command

The meal hums, plates clatter, attendants murmur, refilling glasses. Mystic rolls a grape, popping it between her blood-red lips, eyes flicking to Michael as they talk, weather, the wine's balance. Then her tone shifts, gleaming. "My new toy's so big and strong," she tells the table, leaning in, recalling his ease. "You carried me like I was a puff of air." A single nail comes to rest on the back of his hand, light, a breath, and yet the weight of it seems to crash down, pinning him. He gasps, muscles taut, immobile.

"All that strength," she continues. "Lifting me so easy. Pure power." She thinks, He's an exquisite titan I've chained, relishing it. He stares, her touch, light and unyielding, binding him. "I'll enjoy commanding it," she hums, eyes locked, intent dripping. She lingers, letting him absorb the situation, then lifts her nail, the weight with it. His hand jerks free as he reels.

The meal ends too soon, table bare but for empty plates and glasses. Mystic leans back, sated, and turns to Grayson, poised as always. "Grayson," she says, voice bending the air, "take my toy, show him his chores." She thinks, Time to work him, hopefully some work will settle him. Grayson nods. "Of course, ma'am." Mystic sweeps out, boots clicking, two attendants trailing.

Her absence hits Michael, a void, her warmth fleeing. His hand, tingling from her touch, flexes. He stares at her chair, its faint mark, her scent fading, pulling at him. Grayson's voice snaps through. "Alright, let's settle you in." Michael nods, slow and reluctant. He follows, steps heavy, the joy of her presence fading, as Grayson leads him through a smaller door, the manor's hush swallowing him again.

Chapter 10: Toil and Yearning

The side door Grayson leads him through opens to a narrow hall, its stone walls cool and damp, the air carrying a faint whiff of earth and rust. Michael's steps echo, heavy with the weight of Mystic's absence as Grayson's brisk stride pulls him onward. They emerge into a sprawling courtyard, the late morning sun harsh against his eyes, glinting off a rusted mower parked beside a shed. Grayson stops, hands clasped behind his back, dark hair catching the light as he turns. "Your work starts here," he says, voice clipped and efficient. "Mowing, firewood, repairs, whatever needs doing. She expects it done well. Don't dawdle."

Michael nods, throat tight, still reeling from her departure. Grayson points to the mower and gestures toward a stretch of overgrown lawn rolling out toward the manor's shadowed wings. "Start there," he says, then pivots, disappearing back inside without another word. Michael grips the handle, cool under his palm, and pulls the cord, a stuttering roar filling the air as he begins, shoulders hunching against the vibration. The grass falls steadily, sweat beading on his brow, the sun slowly moving across the sky as he works.

Next was the firewood. A pile of logs waits by the shed, axe propped against a stump, its edge gleaming faintly. He hefts it, the weight grounding him, and swings, slow at first, tentative, then harder as the rhythm takes hold. Wood splinters with each strike, the crack echoing across the yard, his arms straining, muscles flexing under the damp cling of his shirt. Time blurs, the labor a relentless drumbeat, his body aching, sweat slicking his skin, the sun baking the earth beneath his boots. He pauses, wiping his forehead, and catches a glimpse of her. Mystic sits in the shade of a sprawling oak, bent over a laptop, her nails clicking softly against the keys. She doesn't look up, but the sight of her, silk-clad and poised, sets his pulse racing.

Weeks slip by, a haze of toil and longing. Each day mirrors the last, dawn breaking over the mower's growl, midday splintering logs, afternoons hauling debris or patching fences under Grayson's curt instruction. His hands harden, calluses growing, his frame leaner yet even stronger, sweat a constant sheen as he works the manor's sprawling grounds. Mystic remains a distant figure, a specter he glimpses through windows or across lawns, always untouchable, always watching. She perches on a balcony, dark hair spilling over her shoulder, or leans against a tree, eyes tracking him as he swings the axe, his shirt clinging, glistening in the heat. He wonders, Does she see me? The thought is a spark that flares and fades, swallowed by fear.

His obsession festers, a quiet ache threading through the labor. In the shed's dim coolness, stacking split logs, his hands raw from the axe, he slips into her pull. Her voice purrs his name, low and taunting, her nails scrape his chest, leaving trails that burn hotter than the sun on his back. He sees her beneath him, fierce and yielding, her dark hair fanned out, her scent, bitter, intoxicating, drowning the pine and sweat, a balm for the ache of watching that scar-knuckled bastard follow her up the stairs. His grip tightens, wood creaking, as he wonders if she'd ever let him close. The axe falters mid-swing, his breath catching as the fantasy coils tighter. At night, in the narrow room she gave him, he lies awake, the mattress creaking under his restless weight, her image burning behind his eyes, those boots clicking, that smirk curling, her power a leash he can't shake.

He notices others, men like him but not, vanishing with her into the manor's depths. A tall one with sharp cheekbones follows her through a side door one dusk, her hand on his arm, a laugh drifting back. Another, broader, with a scar across his knuckles, trails her up the stairs, her nails glinting as she beckons. Michael watches from the yard, axe paused mid-air, envy clawing his gut, hot and bitter, a sting he can't quell. He thinks, Why them? Why not me? Why keep him at arm's length, a tool for her grounds, not her bed? The fear holds him. Leaving means losing her or worse, and that's a fate he can't face.

Days bleed into weeks, the routine unyielding, mowing under a relentless sun, splitting logs until his hands throb, her gaze a distant weight he feels but can't meet. He's splitting firewood one afternoon, shirt discarded, skin glistening as the axe bites deep, when he senses her again, closer this time, under the oak, laptop shut, eyes fixed on him. His heart stutters, the rhythm of his swings faltering, and he dares a glance. Her lips part slightly, a gleam in her stare, assessing, wanting. He thinks, She's watching, really watching. The thought ignites him, a desperate ache to close the gap, but terror roots him, her power, her will, the unknown of what she'd do if he dared.

Weeks of this, of toil, of yearning, of watching her take others, stretch his nerves taut, a wire ready to snap. He's hers, he knows it, obsessed, tethered, too afraid to flee, and yet she dangles him, a toy unplayed, until that night when she finally calls him to her room, the air thick with her intent, leading into the unraveling of their first union.

Chapter 11: Unleashed Ecstasy

The room glows dimly, a sanctum of shadow pierced by amber flickers from sconces along the walls. Mystic's essence is a sting that hums in the air, alive with promise. Michael stands at the foot of a sprawling bed, his breath quick with anticipation. She's chosen him. After weeks of her taunts, her distant stares, her nails flashing from afar, she's called him here to please her, to serve her directly. His chest lifts with a trembling thrill, a spark of pride that she's deemed him worthy, but beneath it coils a quiet fear. He thinks, She's so slight and so fierce. What if I crush her?

Mystic lounges against a heap of pillows, her black sweater cast aside, replaced by a slip of dark silk that drapes her like liquid night. Her boots are off, bare legs stretched long, nails shining like polished jet, tapping a lazy beat on the sheet. She watches him, eyes deep pools of intent, and beckons with a finger. "Come here," she says, voice a soft growl, heavy with desire. He climbs onto the bed, hands unsteady as he settles between her thighs, her warmth seeping through the silk, a lure that sets his pulse racing. She draws him down, lips meeting his in a gentle kiss. Her kiss is a slow dance, coaxing rather than commanding, a rare softness he clings to.

Her hands glide along her possession, nails tracing his shoulders, leaving faint trails that tingle his skin. She presses closer against his chest, her breasts a soft tease beneath the thin fabric, their subtle weight brushing him with each breath she takes. At her hips' urging, he enters her, slow and careful, a gentle slide that barely stirs the sheets, his hands resting light on her hips, afraid to leave a mark on her delicate frame. She hums into his mouth, a sound of quiet pleasure, savoring the tenderness. The warmth of him, the careful way he fills her, is a promising start. She thinks, He's gentle, sweet almost. Let's see how long it lasts. Her fingers drift up, threading through his hair, tugging lightly, not a demand, just an invitation, as she shifts beneath him, hips rocking in a slow, lazy rhythm to match his.

Minutes stretch, the air growing warm with their mingled breath, and she lets it linger, indulging the softness a little longer. Her legs brush his sides, bare skin grazing his, contact that sends a light shiver through her. She tilts her head, deepening the kiss, her tongue tracing his with a languid tease, urging him to take more, but he doesn't. His thrusts stay soft and shallow, a maddeningly consistent pace that hums without building, his hands skimming her thighs like he's handling glass. She pulls back slightly, lips hovering next to his, and murmurs, "Harder," her voice a velvet nudge, hips lifting to guide him deeper. His excitement flares, and he adjusts, barely, a touch more depth, still feather-light, as if he's afraid she'll shatter. She thinks, He's holding back, too much care, not enough fire. Come on!

She waits, giving him a beat, then another, the room filling with the faint rustle of silk and the steady creak of the bed under his cautious rhythm. Her hands slide down his back, nails, smooth as river stones, drawing slow circles over his spine, a tease to rouse him. He shivers under her touch, a ripple of muscle she feels but doesn't see the flames she desires ignite, and she presses her chest closer, silk catching on his skin, her nipples hardening beneath it, grazing him with intent. "Harder, Michael," she says again, firmer now, a thread of impatience now unmistakable in her voice. He swallows, pulse thudding against her lips as she bites his neck, and tries, a fraction deeper, a whisper more force, but it's still so gentle, so restrained, his fingers hovering over her hips like they're forbidden to touch.

The pace drags on, a slow burn that refuses to flare up, and Mystic's patience thins, a slow simmer beneath her skin. She shifts, wrapping her legs loosely around his waist, pulling him closer, her breath warm against his ear as she grinds up, slow and deliberate, a promise of heat if he'll just meet her. His response is a faint nudge, a timid echo of her motion, and she groans, a mix of lust and frustration, the sound muffled against his neck. She thinks, He's a wall, solid and stubborn. Why won't he move? Her nails trace lower, skimming the curve of his ass, urging him with a gentle press, but he persists, soft and steady, a rhythm that lulls when she craves chaos. The air thickens, heavy with their heat, and she's teetering, half-lost in the feel of him, half-aching for the passion he won't indulge.

"Harder," she snaps, voice cutting through the haze, exasperation cresting as she pulls back to glare at him. He flinches, eyes wide, and adjusts again, a little more, still nowhere near enough, his hands trembling as they ghost over her skin. She huffs, "I'm not going to break, for fuck's sake!" She thinks, He's driving me mad, all that power locked away. I'll rip it out myself. She tightens her legs, pulling him in, and grinds harder, a desperate bid to spark him, but he resists still, a gentle thrust that leaves her stranded, teetering on the brink of fury.

Her hand darts to his neck, nails, chill as stone, digging in. A jolt surges through him, sharp and electric, and his body locks, hers to wield. She puppets him, bending his will, and drives him into her with a force that rips a gasp from his throat. His hips crash forward, deep and fierce, now at a rhythm she commands, brutal and unrelenting, shaking the bed. Dismay floods him. He thinks, Too much, too hard, but her head falls back, a moan spilling free, raw and victorious. She thinks, Yes, there's the fire. Give it all to me. Ecstasy floods her, lips parted, eyes tight shut as she drinks in the ecstasy, bathes in the power she's torn loose. Her nails rake his shoulders, reveling in his shudder as she meets each thrust, her body arching to claim every ounce of him.

He's reeling, caught between shock and awe, when instinct flickers. His hand drifts toward her hair, dark strands spilled across the pillow tempting him to grasp it. He hesitates. He thinks, Will she like it? What if she doesn't? What if she inflicts that gray abyss on me? His mind churns with doubt. She's been sharp with his caution, her patience a frayed thread now, and he feels it, a lash of her ire prickling his skin. She watches, amusement glinting as he wrestles, panic etching his face, his hand hovering, caught in limbo. She thinks, Look at him, a beast tripping over his own chains, adorable and infuriating at the same time. She savors it, the slow twist of his indecision, letting it drag as his breath quickens, his rhythm still maddeningly soft.

The air grows heavy, her impatience cresting, and she acts, hips rolling slow and deliberate, swirling around him in a teasing spiral that coils tight. His hand jerks, grasping her hair, sharp and unintended, a tug that snaps the tension. She gasps, delight flaring, head arching into his grip, scalp buzzing with the sting. She thinks, Good boy, cracking at last. The pull sends a shiver racing through her, her body tightening around him, stoking the heat. He freezes, startled. He wonders, Did I overstep? But she hums, pleased, and presses into it, nails tracing his chest, teasing the flush of his skin. "More," she purrs, voice a velvet prod, and he tries, a stilted thrust, still shadowed by doubt, dragging the pace back to that infuriating crawl.

With an exasperated sigh, she tires of it, his overthinking, his bridled strength, a leash she's done dragging him along by. She decides, Enough, I'll strip him to the core. Her nails press deeper into his neck, a faint scrape like flint on steel, and a switch flips. His mind blanks, higher reasoning extinguished, leaving only instinct, primal and free. His eyes glaze, pupils dilating, and he shifts, a sex beast, raw and unbound. He surges into her, thrusts deep and merciless, hands roaming, one knotted in her hair, pulling taut, the other clamping to her hip with bruising force. She laughs, a wild, exultant sound, as he ravages her, the bed creaking, headboard thudding. She thinks, This is it, the animal unleashed, mine to ride.

Her thoughts shatter into sensation, his heat branding her, his weight anchoring her, the relentless drive filling her completely. She revels in it, the power she's freed, the way he bends to her whim, a tempest she commands. His breath growls, rough and fierce, and she matches it, hips bucking, nails carving lines down his back, not to guide, but to mark with her lust. She gushes inwardly, He's nearly perfect like this. She tilts her pelvis, drawing him deeper, and the pressure builds, the flames of that hot core being fanned brighter and hotter with each thrust. Her hands grip his ass, pulling him in, sweat slicking their skin as she writhes, the air thick with their mingled fire.

It builds, a crescendo she set in motion and he barrels toward like an unstoppable bull charging, her moans rising, sharp and untamed, as he hits that spot, sparking white behind her eyes. It breaks, a wave crashing, and she shatters, climax tearing free in a cry that echoes down the halls. Her body arches, taut and trembling, pulsating around him, claiming every shred of the moment. She chants in her mind, Mine, all mine, nails sinking deeper as she rides it out, vision splintering into light, ecstasy flooding her veins. She collapses, chest heaving, a sated grin curling her lips, the beast still churning above, lost in the haze she's spun. She reaches a hand up to caress his wild face and utters one word, "Sleep."