Page 127 of Jax
“Say it,” he said, voice low and lethal.
I blinked, wrecked. “What?”
His hand wrapped around my throat, not to choke, just to hold. To claim.
“Say who this cunt belongs to.”
My breath caught. My legs twitched.
“You,” I gasped. “Fuck… You. It’s yours.”
“That’s right.” His mouth curved, not in a smile, but with something darker. “It’s mine. And I’ll take it again and again until it’s written in your bones.”
He thrust inside me, one thick, brutal stretch that emptied my lungs and sent fire through my spine. My scream caught, trapped by the shock of being filled that fast, that deeply. He bottomed out like he’d mapped my body and knew exactly how to break me open without giving me time to breathe.
He held there, breath hot over my cheek. “You feel that?” he murmured, voice curling low like a velvet threat. “That stretch, that ache, that burn you’re swallowing like you think you’ve earned it?”
I whimpered and nodded, too wrecked to speak.
“That’s yourcuntlearning who it belongs to.”
Then he moved, slow, deep, and devastating. Each thrust was exact. Each drag engineered to destroy. His hips rolled like he wasn’t just fucking me, but building something out of my ruin.
“You begged for this,” he said, voice filthy and cold. “Showed up soaked and shaking. Begged to be hung. Tied. Denied. And now?”
He thrust deeper.
“Now I’m going to fuck you like the good little exhibit you are. You wanted to be the art, Stella? This is how I display you—open, exposed, and dripping down my cock.”
My scream shattered the air. He shifted, angled up, and hit something sharp and blinding.
“Right there,” he said, voice tight. “Anterior wall. Two inches in. Slight tilt left. That flutter? That’s your cervix. That’s the trigger.”
He fucked me into it.
Again. Again.
“You’re going to cum so hard you forget what air tastes like.”
And I did.
My orgasm detonated, a brutal wave that tore through muscle and thought. I screamed as I clenched around him, body breaking apart and flooding heat through every inch of me. He didn’t stop. He drove straight through it, into the next, voice rough with possession.
“Such a responsive little toy. Rope slows you down. Makes you feel every inch I give you.” He shifted, running his thumb over my clit like a warning. “You’re not done.”
“Jax—fuck… I can’t?—”
“You can. You will. I’m not stopping until this tight little pussy forgets how to do anything but obey.” His thrusts turned brutal, never cruel, just absolute.
I broke again, messy and wet, sobbing his name as my body convulsed in the ropes, tears spilling from the overload. And only then, when I was limp and wrecked, did he slow.
He exhaled and kissed me, deep, deliberate, like he was branding me with breath instead of fire. Like his mouth knew exactly where I belonged. Like I’d just been etched into the heat of him, not written but claimed.
And I was.
Everything pulsed, not with pain, but in a soft, echoing throb, like sound waves long after the music faded. My cunt ached, stretched and tender, still leaking from where he’d taken me so fully I couldn’t remember saying his name, only that it lingered like smoke in my throat. My arms burned from suspension, chest tight in the harness, legs boneless and beautifully wrecked.
And underneath it all, there was warmth. Not heat. Not friction. Just warmth.
