When the Queen Kneels Pt. 02

When the Queen Kneels part 2

Stephanie had hoped that a few days of giving compliments would take some of the humiliating sting out of the experience. But, here we were, on day three, and Stephanie could already feel the sickness curling in her gut like spoiled wine. Every time she gave Leon a compliment it felt like she was handing out a tiny piece of her dignity and she hated how much that thrilled her on some base level.

That day, she stood in his doorway again, arms crossed tight under her chest, jaw flexing, not noticing how she was unintentionally lifting her huge breasts towards Leon as if she was offering them for his appraisal. Today's compliment was "I like that band too" as she gestured to his Nirvana t-shirt. Leon accepted his compliment, just like he did before, smugly and with this sense of totally undeserved entitlement. Women like her, do NOT compliment pieces of human garbage like Leon and yet he seemed to sincerely believe he deserved it. Stephanie found this deeply troubling. And even more troubling was how much this entitlement turned her on.

Leon lived for these moments--not the praise itself, which meant little to him, but how the praise was delivered. Stephanie delivered each compliment like it was a surrender, and he drank her surrender in. The way her voice dipped despite her false front that her pride was intact. He saw them: every flinch, every twitch, every flicker of eye. She wanted to punch him, strangle him, throw him down and mount him like some victorious queen reclaiming the throne. And yet, she would have to show up again tomorrow, whispering a grudging truth into his ear. To see this kind of vulnerability, in a woman who acted untouchable, was intoxicating. And to know that he did it? Fantastic.

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The next week was a parade of shame. Seven days into the arrangement, and what she'd thought might dull with repetition only grew sharper. Each compliment felt like a little stab wound to her dignity. And his look... that oily, insufferable calm with which he received her compliments--always looking directly into her eyes like he was reading a script she hadn't meant to show him. Stephanie loathed the way he smirked. It made her want to slap him and go home and fuck her husband.

That night, curled up on the couch with Bryce her legs draped over his lap, wine glass in hand, she finally cracked.

"This is insane," she said. "I can't do this for a month. I'm going to lose my mind."

Bryce, ever the supportive husband squeezed her hand gently.

"You're strong," he said. "You've handled worse."

She snorted. "No. No I haven't. Not like this. It's not the challenge--it's him. He's disgusting. The way he looks at me, like he's... winning."

Bryce responded patiently. "But he's not, though. It's just words. A dumb game."

Stephanie leaned forward, voice low, sharp. "It doesn't feel dumb. It feels like... I'm submitting to something beneath me. Like I'm kneeling in the dirt for a worm."

Bryce's fingers slid idly across her thigh. He was good at this being the calm, grounding, soothing masculine presence she needed to balance out her fiery competitiveness. But inside, every one of her complaints lit a match in him. He didn't fully understand it, but something about the image of his wife, that tower of icy intellect and Amazonian strength, muttering admiration to a man she openly despised. It really turned him on.

Stephanie groaned into her hands. "God. Every time I say something nice to him it's like I'm peeling off a layer of myself. He just takes it. Like he thinks I mean it. I can't--twenty-three more days? No way."

"You could renegotiate," Bryce offered mildly, carefully. "Say it's interfering with your work."

She looked at him, eyes hard, searching. "Would that make me look weak?"

He hesitated, and in that pause she saw something. Not disapproval. Not concern. Something darker. Something she wasn't ready to name.

"You wouldn't be weak," Bryce said, a little too slowly. "But... maybe he'd think you are."

Stephanie's eyes narrowed. "That's what he wants. To make me break the deal. To show I can't handle it."

She stood suddenly, pacing now. "It's psychological warfare. I know what he's doing. It's basic predator psychology--pushing boundaries, seeing what gets a rise. If I walk away, he wins."

Bryce swallowed. "Then don't walk away." He shifted on the couch to hide his erection. "Maybe you need to take back control."

"How?" she asked, exasperated.

"Let him think he's baiting you into taking another foolhardy bet. But this time, you keep your cool, prepare and crush him " Bryce said confidently.

"You really think that's a good idea?" Stephanie asked innocently as Bryce nodded affirmatively.

"Yes. He's not nearly as smart as he thinks." Bryce said assertively as Stephanie nodded.

"You underestimated him," Bryce murmured, his mouth brushing against her neck as he gently nibbled on her neck in the way that he knew drove him crazy. "You won't make that mistake again."

"Mmm." Stephanie said as she arched her neck to allow him better access. She attributed her near instant arousal to Bryce's touch, but in reality, a significant part of it was a buildup of arousal all week.

Bryce pulled Stephanie in close and kissed her passionately, roughly, almost awkwardly because of how aroused he was. Skipping their usual leisurely foreplay his hands went straight to her waist as he grabbed the bottom of the light pink tank-top she was wearing and began to pull it up inch by inch, exposing her flat of her stomach, firm and smooth, then the faint lines of her abdomen. He hesitated as an unbidden image of Leon watching in the corner popped into his head. Shaking the intrusive thought away, Bryce pulled the tank-top over his sexy wife's chest. Even after all these years, he found her breasts stupendous and they routinely took his breath away. Even restrained in an industrial strength-bra with four claps that left deep groove marks in Stephanie's shoulders, they pushed outwards, weighty, defiant, as if they would shatter the bra. He quickly reached back and undid the bra to free her glorious breasts. They bounced forth, heavy, majestic, and shockingly firm with just the right enough of sway to let you know that they are unequivocally real.

Her nipples were perfect. Large areolas, slightly darker than her pale skin, and large nipples already stiff with arousal. Bryce reached up, cupped one breast in both his large hands and squeezed firmly. Stephanie moaned with pleasure as she quickly slid down her shorts to reveal her black lace panties soaked through at the crotch. Bryce could see the hint of her glistening sex as he got down on his knees and pulled down her panties. Her quads flexed at his touch pure muscle beneath her soft skin. Her legs were built for domination, the kind of legs that could squat double her weight and still keep a man caged beneath them. His lips moved closer to her shaven sex with her labia already parted from arousal.

One long, slow stroke from base to tip, flat of the tongue, tasting her. Stephanie's hand snapped forward and grabbed the back of his head--not shoving, just there, firm, as if to steady herself. He moaned against her. She was soaked. Slippery and hot and so goddamn responsive. Bryce didn't hesitate. He dove in, tongue flicking over her clit, then back down to swirl around her entrance. He fed on her like he was starving, like this was the only way he could survive the storm she'd been carrying all week.

He knew what she liked, knew the rhythm that built her into a trembling knot of tension and release. But tonight was different and he was relentless, as he pressed his mouth harder against her, his tongue dancing in tight, purposeful circles over her clit, then switching up to broad strokes that made her hips twitch forward. She groaned and grabbed his hair pressing him even harder against his sex. She moaned, low and guttural, her fingers tightening in his hair.

"Fuck," she hissed through her teeth, her voice tight, almost angry. Bryce smiled against her pussy, then sucked her clit between his lips, gently at first, then with more pressure, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud while his hands gripped her ass hard enough to bruise. Stephanie's thighs began to tremble in earnest now, her muscles tensing and relaxing in waves, her body no longer under full command. Stephanie came fast and hard. No warning, no escalation. Just a sudden, body-wracking shudder that made her cry out.

"Stop. Fuck--stop," she gasped, yanking him back.

He obeyed, panting, mouth wet with her, chin glistening.

She stood there, chest heaving, hair wild around her face, her breasts bouncing slightly with each breath. Her eyes were wild and feral like she was some warrior queen. He had never seen anything so sexy.

Stephanie's fingers curled into Bryce's belt quickly unbuttoning it. She shoved his pants down freeing his average-sized cock that sprang free, already hard with a shiny purple tip. She didn't even look at it. Her eyes stayed locked on his. "Lie down."

Bryce obeyed instantly, scrambling back onto the bed. He barely had time to settle before she was climbing on top of him. he reached down, grabbed his cock, and lined it up with the soaked heat of her pussy. No teasing. No easing down slowly. She slammed herself onto him in a single brutal thrust, impaling herself with a guttural grunt, her head thrown back, her hair cascading over her shoulders in a curtain of gold.

This wasn't lovemaking. This was Stephanie using his cock like a tool like a means to a very specific, very selfish end. She began to ride him with feral rhythm, her thighs slapping down onto his lap with wet, obscene smacks, her breasts bouncing violently with every thrust. Her hands planted on his back to steady herself with her fingernails digging in. Her walls clenched around him, hot and pulsing, slick with her own arousal and still-wet from the orgasm he'd licked out of her minutes before.

She rode him harder now, grinding in tight circles between thrusts, her clit dragging against the base of his cock, the pressure relentless. Her muscles were flexed, her abs tightening with each rise and fall, the sheen of sweat on her chest catching the low light. Her breasts--so full, so perfect--bounced and jiggled and slapped softly against her own ribs, flushed and beautiful and completely untouchable.

She wasn't trying to please him. In fact, she hadn't once checked if he was close, hadn't altered her rhythm to match his pace, hadn't looked at his face since she mounted him. And fuck, that made it hotter.

Bryce's cock pulsed inside her, dangerously close, but he forced himself to hold back. This wasn't about him. He didn't want to steal the moment. He wanted to see her fall apart again.

And then she did. With a low, furious groan, Stephanie slammed down hard, grinding in place, her whole body seizing around him. Her thighs clamped tight. Her pussy convulsed, wet and furious, milking him. She came hard, one hand slapping flat against his chest, the other gripping the headboard above him. Her jaw clenched, her neck muscles stood out like cords, her breath caught in her throat.

Bryce came undone just seconds later his orgasm ripping through him like a tremor, hips jerking, cum spilling deep inside her as his hands fisted the sheets, his back arching helplessly beneath her.

Stephanie climbed off him slowly, his cock slipping from her with a wet sound that made them both flinch. She stood at the edge of the bed, chest still rising and falling, not looking back. Bryce watched her walk toward the bathroom tall, strong, bare-assed and dripping with sweat and sex and authority. It was intoxicating to think about how someone as odious as Leon could somehow get under this woman's skin.

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After that spectacular lovemaking session, Stephanie was in a much better mood the next day and she was almost able to give the next compliment with good cheer. That good cheer went away when Leon called out as she was about to leave.

"You know," he said, unfolding himself from a tattered chair with maddening calm, "if you really want this to end, all you have to do is beat me."

She froze, shoulders drawing back like blades locking into place. She didn't turn, not yet. He closed the space slowly, that voice dipped low, coaxing and smug. "One more match. One more game. I'll even raise the stakes. You win and I disappear just like before and we cancel the rest of your... compliments."

"But if I win..." he let it dangle, syrup-slow and venomous. Her knuckles curled impatiently. "If I win, you have to wear our beloved school's cheerleading uniform while filming me a little video about the excellence of yours truly--LEON." He grinned devilishly.

"Absolutely NOT," Stephanie snapped, turning now, blue eyes glinting like icicles. "Are you insane?"

Leon raised his palms in mock surrender. "I thought you might say that, which is why I didn't finish."

She crossed her arms under her chest, irritation practically steaming off her skin.

"Well? Spit it out."

"You pick the activity, I pick the format. Fair's fair. You want chess? I choose speed chess or bullet. You want pool? I choose eight-ball or nine-ball." He smiled as the hook sank deeper.

While Stephanie's initial thought was to avoid any future bets with him, she remembered what Bryce said about taking advantage of Leon's overconfidence.

"I've got this vicious little nerd now." Stephanie crowed to herself privately as she seized what she thought was her opportunity to reverse the scales and seize the initiative.

"I choose basketball you diminutive goblin." Stephanie cackled. "Did you somehow miss that I was the MVP of my team as a freshman?"

Leon pretended to be upset, but he was thrilled that Stephanie had fallen into his trap. He had suspected a woman like her would want the opportunity to defeat him and he knew she would turn to her comfort sport basketball. What she didn't know is that for the past several days he had been paying an actual ex-pro trick shot coach--some ex-NBA journeyman with nothing better to do--to help him train specifically for HORSE, the one basketball format that required absolutely no endurance, speed, or vertical leap.

That night Stephanie eagerly told Bryce about how she would finally get her revenge and Bryce made the expected encouraging comments. She went to bed confident that she would finally end this humiliating charade with Leon. Or, at least, that was the plan. But as she lay in bed, she couldn't sleep. She never got worried like this usually, but she had felt so confident the last time and still lost. And deep within her mind was that wicked low, seductive whisper in her mind telling her "Would it be so bad to lose? Don't you enjoy feeling this way?"

Despite sleeping like shit all night, and being plagued by weirdly erotic nightmares, Stephanie strode arrogantly onto the court wearing a simple t-shirt and shorts combination that she somehow made look sexy.

Leon was already at center court holding a basketball. He looked just as greasy and unthreatening as ever, in saggy gray sweats and a faded t-shirt that read Body by Evolution. Stephanie's lip curled at the sight of him. He had no business on this court, and she would dominate him. Her confidence flooded back and she said "how we doing this?" Making it clear from her tone she would trounce him at anything on the court.

"HORSE?" Leon suggested and Stephanie nodded. The rules were simple. Each player had to replicate the other person's shot. If they could not, they got a letter. The first person to make their opponent spell out H-O-R-S-E wins.

Stephanie started with easy shots--layups, a free throw, a casual mid-range jumper to get her flow going. She knocked them all down with mechanical precision, her body still wired from years of muscle memory. Leon missed two easy shots as Stephanie went up to an early lead. But then things changed.

Leon stepped back toward the corner of the court, adjusted his stance, and without a word, launched the ball one-handed, underhanded and hit a perfect bankshot. Stephanie stood there shocked as Leon just shrugged and said "lucky shot, I guess."

Stephanie did her best, but couldn't replicate the non-traditional shot. Leon took the initiative again and hit another similarly wild underhanded shot. Suddenly, they were tied at H-O.

For Leon's next shock, he flipped the ball backward over his head like he was tossing it into a carnival bucket. The arc was too high, too slow but dropped in. Stephanie scoffed, trying not to let the heat rise in her face. She copied the movement, bit her lip to focus, bent her knees, let it fly and groaned as it bounced off the front rim and skidded across the court.

"H-O-R." Leon crowed as he whispered just loud enough for her to hear "that's what you're going to look like in your cheerleader outfit"

Bryce watched from the bleachers, arms still crossed, but his expression had shifted from amused too wary. Stephanie could feel his eyes on her, and worse, she could feel the tingle starting to creep up the back of her neck--that same insidious feeling she felt towards the conclusion of their initial chess game.

Leon didn't hesitate. He dribbled once, then did some sort of weird hook shot over the back of one shoulder, which somehow went in.

"What the FUCK." Stephanie shouted, as she let some of her competitive rage out. "You are so fucking lucky."

Her rage did not help her make the shot as she missed the backboard altogether. "H-O-R-S," Leon said as he smiled. She was one letter from defeat. From a cheer skirt. From chanting his name while he watched.

"FOCUS." Stephanie screamed at herself. She was always the best under pressure and somehow she managed to knock down the next trick shot. Seizing the initiative, Stephanie backed out to the three-point line and didn't hesitate. No trick. Just a clean jumper off the dribble--swish.

Leon mirrored her. The ball left his hands like a dying duck and hit back iron hard enough to echo. H-O-R Stephanie thought to herself.

Stephanie went to the block, planted her foot, and spun to sink a one-footed Dirk style fade-away with the grace that only a former D1 athlete could muster. Leon tried but tripped so badly that he ended up falling on his ass. Suddenly it was tied and Stephanie had all the momentum in the world. She chose her running fadeaway from the left corner, a move she could do it in her sleep. She'd once sunk twenty-seven in a row during warmups back in college. But the ball left her hands just a breath too soon as if she was just a little too eager to end this--or as if her subconscious betrayed her.

"Fuck," she hissed under her breath.

Leon picked up the ball and stepped behind the backboard. He then shot it up and over in a perfect arc as it went through nothing but net. Bryce gasped with shock as he knew how difficult a shot that would be.

She took the ball from him without a word. Her fingers were suddenly too dry, her throat too tight. She walked to the exact same spot, right heel brushing the out-of-bounds line, and bent her knees.

And there it was. That voice again.

Wouldn't it feel better to stop fighting?

To lose, just once more?

To wear that outfit, feel the sting of your own voice chanting his name?

To submit and be wetter than you've ever felt before?

Shoving the voice down Stephanie gathered to shoot and she put her everything into it. She was a winner god-dammit and she believed in her ability to do anything. When the ball released it felt wonderful and it looked perfect until it hit the back rim and then ricocheted to the floor.

She had lost. Again. And beneath the fury, the disbelief... was heat. Shame-curdled, breathless, sickening heat.

Screaming with fury, Stephanie kicked the ball and yelled "you cheated, you little vermin, you planned this." Her verbal assault was in danger of becoming physical assault as she began angrily poking the much smaller man until Bryce had come down to physically pull her away from him, worried that she would cross a line.

As Bryce held her back, he said "it's fine baby. It's fine" and Stephanie calmed down enough to leave the gym.

Throughout the outburst, Leon had just stood there and smiled, as if he was enjoying her rage on some sick level. This was, because, of course he was. Her anger, her hatred, only made her submission more sexual.. more of an aphrodisiac to Leon.

When they got home, Stephanie told Bryce she needed some alone time, which left Bryce alone with his thoughts. He knew that he should be angry about what Stephanie had promised if she lost, but he wasn't upset. He knew that she was utterly confident that she would win and that he was just as surprised as she was. Sure, she should have asked for his input before she agreed.. but after all, he had encouraged her down this path. He didn't expect it to go so far so quickly, but if this was anyone's fault it was his. What worried Bryce was that he was rock hard. Harder than he had been in years thinking about how his gorgeous, loyal, sexy wife was going to wear a skimpy outfit and prance around for another man. A man she hated.

He didn't want to be hard. That's what he told himself. He shouldn't want to. He'd always worshiped her strength. Her dominance, her intelligence, the way she could eviscerate a man with a single look. She was the alpha in every room, the war goddess with a doctorate. And he'd married her for that. Wanted her because of that.

But what thrilled him wasn't the clothing, but what it represented. Someone had broken through the armor Bryce had never dared challenge that intimidated every man including himself. Bryce was seeing his wife weak and submissive for once and it thrilled him. And, to have that be taken from her by a lesser man... someone she hated. That only made it hotter.

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The next morning, Stephanie sat at the edge of their bed, hunched forward with her elbows digging into her knees, face buried in her hands. The bedroom was quiet, save for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the soft rustle of cotton sheets as Bryce stirred behind her.

"I can't believe I actually lost," she muttered, her voice muffled but venomous. "Again."

Bryce leaned up on one elbow, watching her back. The way her shoulder blades flexed with tension. The taut line of her spine. He could still see the anger simmering under her skin like heat waves off asphalt.

"He set me up," she said, finally turning. Her eyes were bloodshot--not from tears, but from the sheer exhaustion of fury left unresolved. "He knew I'd pick basketball. He picked HORSE because it was the only way he had a chance. He trained for this nonsense."

Bryce rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to think. "Yeah... I mean, you're not wrong. He clearly planned it. I think he even said as much--just not in words."

Stephanie stood, pacing the room in her tight workout shorts and one of Bryce's old T-shirts, bare feet slapping the hardwood with every furious turn. "I'm not doing it. I mean it. Fuck the bet. I'm not prancing around in some polyester porn skirt chanting his name like a goddamn--"

Bryce's eyes were unavoidably drawn to the fantastic sight of Stephanie's breasts bouncing beneath his shirt enticingly as she vibrated with anger. Not really listening to her rant, Bryce realized she was still talking when she said.

"You agree with me, right?" she pressed. "It's bullshit. I don't owe him anything."

"Yeah," he said slowly. "It was absolutely a setup." His voice was even, supportive. He nodded. "I mean, he's a snake. The guy's... something else."

Stephanie narrowed her eyes. "But?"

"No but," Bryce said quickly. Too quickly.

She studied him. Then turned and sat again, legs crossed, arms folded. "You're not upset enough."

"I am upset. Believe me," he said. But the truth was, he wasn't. Not even close.

And he saw it then, in her posture--the uncertainty. The hesitation. The part of her that wanted an excuse not to go through with it. She was looking for a lifeline. A way out that didn't look like surrender. And for a moment, Bryce hovered on the edge of giving it to her.

But then the vision returned, unbidden: her tall, powerful frame squeezed into that ludicrous skirt, arms forced high, lips mouthing a cheer with venom in every syllable. That look of cold fury melting into forced performance. His cock twitched beneath the covers again, and he swallowed hard.

"But the Stephanie I know," he said, voice carefully pitched between gentle and firm, "doesn't ever back down from a bet."

Her head jerked up.

"What?" she said, narrowing her eyes.

He shrugged casually, as if he hadn't just cracked the whip gently across her pride. "You hate losing. But you hate breaking your word even more. That's who you are. You made a deal."

She stared at him, lips slightly parted. Her chest rose and fell with slower breaths now, like she was parsing the insult buried in the praise.

Bryce leaned in just a little, voice softer now, more intimate. "You're right--Leon manipulated the game. He absolutely set you up. But you agreed to it. And if you don't follow through, then..." He trailed off, watching her react.

"Then what?" she snapped.

"Then he wins in a different way," Bryce said quietly.

Stephanie clenched her jaw, glaring toward the wall like she could punch through it. But Bryce could see the gears turning, the rage twisted around principle, the pressure building in her spine.

Throwing up her arms and growling Stephanie stalked off.

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Stephanie didn't give in at first. She was too stubborn at first. She kept trying to think of a way out of it, but she was unable to think of anything. She thought perhaps Leon wouldn't make her follow through with it, but the next day the first and only thing he said to her was that the video should be in his inbox by 5PM.

Stephanie tried to murder him with her gaze unsuccessfully. Bryce's words echoed in her head and against her will she found herself in the school gym stealing a spare cheerleading uniform from the supply room.

That evening, she told Bryce she was going through with it and needed him to help set up the camera on a tripod. It took a few minutes to get the outfit onto her body, as it was simply not meant for a woman of her height or bust to wear.

After struggling to get it on, Stephanie called in Bryce and gesturing to herself said "I can't do this. This looks obscene."

It did. Bryce marveled at the site before him. The halter top was white with maroon trim and was utterly distorted by her massive 34H size chest. The uniform was supposed to spell MUSTANGS, but the letters were unrecognizably stretched out. Stephanie's perfectly toned abdomen was completely revealed and... her legs. Well, the skirt was meant for a typical girl who was about 5'6. What would usually go to mid-thigh barely covered her ass and revealed her long, powerful thighs. She could feel the backs of her legs exposed to the air, the tight little shorts underneath--maroon, clingy, barely concealing anything--riding up every time she shifted her weight. The socks were knee-high, with stripes and she held yellow pom-poms in each hand.

There was no universe in which Bryce was going to let Stephanie back down, so he simply adjusted the camera and ignored her comment.

"Ready when you are." He said, adjusting himself in his pants when she wasn't looking.

Stephanie stood in the center of her living room, hardwood floor gleaming under her sneakers, posture rigid, fists white-knuckled around the metallic frizz of the pom-poms.

Her jaw clenched. Her teeth ground. But she'd made the bet. And Stephanie Dahlstrom--valedictorian, D1 athlete, PhD in Political History, undefeated queen of every room--didn't break her word.

Not even when it meant filming a cheer for the one man on Earth she hated more than traffic and group projects combined. She inhaled. Plastered on a smile that looked more like a threat. And spoke in that forced, sugary cadence she remembered from pep rallies she used to roll her eyes at.

"Give me an L!" she barked, her voice cutting the air, cheerfully venomous.

She thrust her pom-poms up into the air, the forced bounce making her tits jiggle obscenely beneath the uniform. Her face burned as she spelled it out, louder this time.

"L!"

"Give me an E!"

She turned slightly, striking a pose she remembered from some long-ago halftime show. The skirt flicked up in the back and she felt it rise, knew the camera would catch the full, tight outline of her ass beneath the clingy shorts.

"E!"

"Give me an O!"

Stephanie spun on the ball of her foot, ponytails whipping across her shoulders, pom-poms snapping in sync. Her voice wavered just slightly--not from nerves, but something else. A spark in her belly, cruel and low.

"O!"

"Give me an N!"

Her final pose had her legs wide, one arm up, one down, pom-poms shaking just as much as her breasts. Her voice dipped, the tone dragging out into something dangerously close to sultry.

"N!"

She swallowed.

"What's that spell?" she forced out. She hesitated. One second. Two. The silence screamed louder than anything. Then, quietly, through clenched teeth that curved into a fake little grin:

"... Leon."

And then again, louder.

"Leon!"

And finally, bouncing in place, cheeks hot and heart thundering:

"Go Leon!"

She wanted to scream, punch a wall, and kill Leon in that order. But since she couldn't do any of those things she grabbed Bryce and took him to the bedroom.

The tension between them was molten, stretched tight over the last twenty-four hours of repressed lust, humiliation, and barely contained fantasy. As he moved beside her, she felt the hard press of his cock through his sweats, thick and twitching, pressed to the bare strip of skin between her top and skirt.

His tongue pushed into her mouth, devouring her resistance, his hands already roaming--palming her ass through the clingy shorts, fingers sliding up under the skirt, dragging against the seam of her soaked panties.

"Jesus, Steph..." he groaned against her lips. "You don't even know what that did to me."

She moaned into him, pulling him closer, grinding against his hardness like she wanted to fuse them together. Her body was on fire--anger, shame, arousal all braided into something primal. When his fingers pushed the fabric of her panties aside and slipped through her wet folds, she gasped--sharp, guttural.

"I hate him," she growled. "I hate that I had to do that."

But her hips rolled into his palm anyway, her legs already trembling. "Yeah?" Bryce whispered, dragging her backwards toward the couch. "Then let me remind you who you actually belong to."

He shoved her down, and she landed sprawled across the cushions, skirt flipped up, legs parted. Her panties were soaked through, and he yanked them off with one quick tug, tossing them somewhere behind him. He didn't even bother stripping. He just freed his cock from his waistband, already rock-hard, already leaking, and lined himself up between her legs.

"Say it," he growled, rubbing the head of his cock against her entrance, spreading slick heat across her folds but not pushing in.

"Say what?" she panted, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded

.

"Say you're mine."

She didn't say it. She snarled it. "I'm yours."

Then he slammed into her--hard, deep, all at once--and she cried out, head thrown back, ponytails whipping. Her nails dug into the cushions as he pounded into her, hips crashing against hers, cock hitting deep with a rhythm that was all hunger and no mercy.

"Fucking--fuck, Bryce--oh my God," she gasped, every breath ragged.

He grabbed her by the waist and yanked her closer, changing the angle, making her back arch as he drilled into her. Her walls clenched around him like a vice, slick and hot and desperate. His mouth found her collarbone, then her throat, biting just hard enough to mark her. His other hand slipped beneath her top, yanked it up over her chest, and her breasts spilled free, bouncing with every thrust.

"You're so fucking wet," he growled. "Did humiliating yourself for that little creep do this to you?"

She hissed, slapped him hard across the chest--but her cunt clenched around him like it agreed.

"Shut up," she spat.

"You want me to fuck the shame out of you?" he rasped, thrusting harder. "Make you forget his name?"

"Yes!" she gasped. "Yes, fuck me--make it go away--fuck--"

He obeyed. With everything he had. Her body bounced beneath him as he drove into her harder, faster, every thrust slick and loud, her moans raw and unfiltered. Her thighs were quivering. Her arms shaking. She was going to come. "Come for me," he growled. "Come on my cock. Let him hear it."

She screamed, high and vicious, her orgasm ripping through her like a snapped wire--legs locking around him, nails dragging down his back, cunt spasming around his cock. Bryce lost it.

He buried himself deep, cursed into her neck, and spilled into her in thick, hot pulses, cock twitching inside her, holding her like he'd never let her go. They collapsed together, tangled, soaked in sweat and sex and everything they'd kept pent up. And somewhere in the back of her mind--hidden behind the afterglow, buried under the satisfaction--Stephanie realized she hadn't hated it nearly as much as she wanted to.