Page 58 of Stalked
I adjust the suspension rope, lowering her until she's at the perfect height to align her cunt with my cock. She's helpless, completely at my mercy—exactly where I've always wanted her.
“Do you feel it, wildflower?” I ask, running my palm along the curve of her ass. “The rope holding you, controlling you? This is what surrender feels like.”
Her skin flushes where I touch her, goosebumps rising. I slide my hand between her thighs, finding her wet and ready.
“Your resistance was always fiction,” I growl, circling my finger against her. I grip the central knot at her back, using it to control her movements as I position myself behind her. With my free hand, I unzip my pants, freeing myself from the confines of the fabric.
“I've waited long enough,” I tell her, pressing myself against her entrance. “Every night since prom, this is what I've thought about.”
I grip the central knot at her back with one hand, controlling her suspended body like a puppet on strings. With my other hand, I guide my cock between her thighs, sliding it along her slick folds without entering her. The contact makes her whimper, a sound that sends fire through my veins.
“Look at you,” I whisper, pressing my chest against her bound back. “So wet for me already.”
I rock my hips, letting my length glide between her thighs, coating myself in her arousal but never giving her what she truly wants. Each movement of my hips makes the rope harness shift slightly, the friction against her skin intensifying every sensation.
“You pretend to be so controlled,” I murmur, nipping at her earlobe. “The perfect gallery curator with her expensive clothes and sophisticated taste.” I slide my cock against her clit in slow, deliberate strokes. “But underneath it all, you're desperate to let go, aren't you?”
Her breathing quickens as I continue teasing her entrance, circling but never pushing inside.
“Tell me, wildflower—did those pretentious New York dominants ever make you feel like this?” I press just the tip inside her before withdrawing completely. “Did they know how to make your pussy drip just by looking at you? Or is that just for me?“
She tries to push back against me, seeking more contact, but the ropes hold her firmly in place. I chuckle against her neck.
“That's it. I love watching you struggle to get my dick inside you.” I reach around to pinch her nipple, twisting just enough to make her gasp. “Your body's honest even when your mouth lies. Look how hard your nipples are, how wet your cunt is for me.”
I position myself at her entrance again, pushing in just enough to stretch her before pulling out completely.
“Ask for it,” I demand, my voice rough with need. “Tell me what you want.”
She hesitates, fighting the vulnerability of voicing her desire. Her throat works as she swallows her pride, the internal battle visible in the tension of her jaw.
“Please,” she finally whispers, the word catching on her exhale. “I want you inside me.” Her voice strengthens with each syllable, as if admitting her need aloud breaks some final barrier. “I need you, Vane. Now.”
I watch as Lia's head drops forward slightly, and I recognize the signs immediately—she's beginning to slip into subspace, that beautiful mental state where all control transfers to me.
“Look up, wildflower,” I command, but her eyes remain downcast, lost in the sensation.
The large mirror mounted on the wall directly in front of us is perfect. She hasn't seen it yet, her gaze still fixed on the floor as she sinks deeper into that hazy surrender.
I grip the central knot of the harness, adjusting her suspended body so that she faces the mirror fully. With my other hand, I cup her chin from behind, lifting her face.
“Open your eyes,” I growl against her ear. “Look at yourself in the mirror.”
Her eyelids flutter open, glazed with desire as she registers our reflection. The sight is breathtaking—her body bound in intricate patterns of green rope, skin flushed and glistening, me positioned behind her.
“I want to see your eyes when I claim you,” I tell her, positioning myself at her entrance again. “Fifteen years I've waited to see that look on your face as I enter you. Don't you dare look away.”
Her lips part in a silent gasp as I press against her, the head of my cock stretching her entrance. In the mirror, I watch her pupils dilate, her expression transforming into one of raw need.
“That's it,” I whisper, slowly pushing forward. “Watch in the mirror. See what I see. See how perfectly you take me.”
Her eyes lock with mine in the reflection as I begin to enter her, inch by agonizing inch. The mirror captures everything—the slight parting of her lips, the flush spreading across her chest, the way her eyes glaze over with pleasure.
“Don't close your eyes,” I command when I see her lids threatening to flutter shut. “I want to see them.”
I grip the central knot of the harness with both hands now, my control slipping away like sand through fingers. The careful, methodical Dom is gone. In his place stands the feral, possessive animal I've kept caged for fifteen fucking years.
“Mine,” I growl, yanking the ropes backward and pulling her suspended body hard onto my cock. The impact forces a shocked cry from her lips, her body taking all of me in one brutal thrust.
