Page 36 of Bottoms Up
It was enough to make me sick to my stomach if I thought about it, so I focused on getting my fist into Julian’s ass, pushing with an already tired shoulder. Four fingers, and then to get pastthe knuckles. Brute strength, because this wasn’t about finesse, so I drew on the kind of energy I sometimes need while climbing mountains, when there’s all that space between me and the ground and I have to pull myself up.
Finally, I pressed my entire fist into Julian. I held him in the palm of my hand.
He bellowed, but I didn’t let it slow me down — I immediately added the fingers of my left hand around my right wrist.
My left palm followed, my thumb tucked into it, then the joint of my thumb, and the second full fist was in four minutes later.
Both hands buried in his body, shoulders straining from the angle, while Julian bellowed beneath me.
Pain layered over pain — his ruined balls, his stretched asshole, his cock caged and throbbing against the unyielding titanium.
And still, he was hard.
Not just aroused — defiant. Radiating need and pride and fuck-me strength like it was carved into his bones.
“Look at me, slave.”
He met my gaze and I had to swallow to keep my eyes from going all watery. His face radiated naked emotions: adoration, agony, surrender.
I’ve been fisted before and I know what it does to you, how raw it makes you, how small and precious you feel — not because you’ve been made less, but because someone you trust is holding all of you, every piece. You aren’t drifting in the void. You areclaimed.
Part of me wanted to be where he was, craved it like air. But more than that, I was happy, and relieved, I’d been able to bring him to this place.
“Who owns you, Julian?”
“You do, Master.”
“Ask me to split you open.”
He hesitated. Eyes wet. Breathing ragged. He gave a little shake of his head, but said, “Please split my asshole open, Master. Slaves aren’t afforded such things as mercy. Show us both you won’t bestow mercy on your slave.”
I threaded my fingers together, deep inside him. Impossibly deep. Palms locked together.
And I pulled my elbows apart.
His body fought it. His hole stretched. And stretched. I went super-slow, drawing it out as long as possible, opening him millimeter by agonizing millimeter, the skin taut and trembling.
He was panting in ragged bursts, full-throated sobs between screams, his chest slick with tears and spit, but I had to be ruthless. I watched the flesh go pale and thin to the point of translucency.
And then it gave. A jagged rip split upward like a zipper tearing open flesh, and Julian howled, his whole body jerking in its bonds.
But slaves can’t be given mercy, and this was just the start.
“Good,” I whispered, knowing his vampire hearing would catch my words despite his screams. “Take it. Let it break you open.”
I pulled my fists out, blood-slick and shaking, only to drive them back in. I fucked him with my joined hands, elbow-deep and brutal, again and again. Pulling out to the knuckles, pressing in to the elbows. Every stroke was deliberate. A punishment. A promise.
My shoulders burned, and I was out of breath, gasping from the effort, but I didn’t stop.
Julian didn’t beg. He couldn’t. He just cried — steady, shuddering tears that streaked his face and throat and cascaded down his chest.
Pain and surrender in liquid form.
When Ifinallywithdrew, both of us were shaking.
I had to clean up before I could see to him. No way around it, but I moved fast, washing my hands and arms in the sink, scrubbing until the water ran clear. My dress shirt was ruined, dark with blood and sweat. Probably should’ve thought that through better, but it was fine. I’d at least thought it through enough to wear a short-sleeved dress shirt, but I hadn’t considered why pale indigo might not be the best choice.
I tossed it in the trash and put a black dress shirt on before I returned to him. The contrast mattered. He was naked and wrecked and wholly mine. I was composed, dressed, in control.
