I scream.
There’s no build-up. No tenderness. Just claiming.
He grabs the back of the collar, yanking me upright by the neck with one hand while he pounds into me from behind. His other hand comes around to slap my clit, sharp, rhythmic, devastating.
“You want the monster?” he growls in my ear, each word punctuated by a savage thrust. “Then scream for him.”
I do.
I scream his name, my body jerking with each brutal snap of his hips. The collar keeps me upright. The restraints keep mehelpless.
And he uses all of it.
He fucks me like I’m not a woman but a possession, a ritual, something sacred and profane all at once.
And when I come, it’s violent. Messy. Shocking.
It rips through me like a shuddering collapse, everything tightening at once before I unravel around him. My voice breaks. My knees buckle. I cry out until the sound disappears into silence.
But he’s not finished.
Aslanov doesn’t move for a moment.
He just watches me; collared, restrained, kneeling, flushed with tears and spit and the wreckage of my own want. Then, slowly, his eyes drop… not to me. Past me.
To the door.
He turns, strides to it, and cracks it open just wide enough to reach out. I don’t see what he grabs. Only hear the sound of something heavy being dragged, metal against floor.
Then the door shuts again with a definitive, echoing thud.
He locked us in.
When he steps back into my line of sight, he’s carrying a steel bar. About three feet long. Matte black. Minimalist. Sinister.
My heart stutters.
He sets it beside me on the mattress, kneels, and brushes my sweat-slicked hair from my cheek. His touch is almost gentle.
“You’ve been so good,solnyshko,” he says, voice low, almost admiring. “Took the collar without crying. Took my cock down your throat like it belonged there. You ache so pretty.”
I shake under the weight of his words.
“You beg so honestly,” he adds, brushing a knuckle along my bottom lip. “It’s almost a shame I’m going to ruin you worse.”
I whimper, and he smiles.
Then he lifts the bar.
I feel the weight of it before he even attaches it to me. It’s a spreader bar. He locks one cuff to my right ankle. Then the other. The bar forces my legs wide—obscenely wide—and I gasp, heat blooming in my cheeks, between my thighs, everywhere.
He takes his time adjusting it, checking the angle, the strain on my muscles, the full exposure of me. He doesn’t rush. This is an art form.
Then he circles me.
Stalks around my trembling, collared, kneeling form like a beast deciding where to bite first. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts.
“You wanted the Devil,” he murmurs, stalking. “You asked for him. So don’t fucking squirm when he claims his due.”
