Dangerous Control (Dark Dominance 3)

I was supposed to be submissive to him, and I tried, but I couldn’t stay perfectly still as he pushed into me. I tensed and moved my ass to one side, but he made a scolding sound and pressed a little deeper. Now it really hurt. We had anal on a pretty frequent basis, so I was learning to deal with his size, but I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the aching stretch and feeling of lost control at the beginning.

“Oh, please,” I whispered, even though the gag made it impossible for him to hear me. “Please stop hurting.”

As always, just when I thought I couldn’t bear the pressure a moment longer, my muscles relaxed enough to let him slide in. It went from an ache to a deep, shivering surrender, and the deeper he entered, the more subjugated I felt. My legs strained and spread wider, and my back arched to let him drive deeper. He growled in approval, holding the tails of his tie so the gag dug into the sides of my mouth.

“Unh, unh, unh.” I made desperate sounds, arousal taking over any civilized words. He arched over me from behind, taking my ass, thrusting steadily inside me. His fingers found the tips of my breasts and tugged on my sore nipples, reviving that pain, but making it more exciting. I was glad for the generous lube when he started pounding me faster, shoving me forward until I collapsed, legs spread, arms splayed to the sides. He grabbed my wrists and held me so I was pinned down completely, unable to escape.

I don’t want to escape, though. I never want to escape.

His thrusting hips banged into my welted butt cheeks, another layer of masochistic sensation that had me speeding toward orgasm. I hadn’t developed the ability to come yet from anal alone, but if I tilted my hips, I could grind my pussy against the floor, enough that my clit would send me over the edge. His hand moved from my nipples to my neck, squeezing, taking the last layer of my control, my own breath.

“Oh God,” I cried against the sodden tie in my mouth.

“I’m fucking you, baby. You’re all mine. Do I feel good in your ass?”

“Yes, Sir. Ow.” I tried to squirm away from his grip, tried to get the words out past the gag. “I want to come.”

As distorted as my plea was, he understood it from my desperation. “You have to come with me in your ass, Alice, and my hand on your throat. I control you. I own you. You’re mine.”

With every squeeze of his fingers, my ass clenched tighter. His own breath hissed out behind my ear. He was driving me against the floor, causing my splayed legs to tense with each thrust. I wasn’t me anymore, I was his body, his vessel. He loved me and I loved him. You’re mine. How many years had I dreamed of him saying that? I’d known it would be this way, a violent, passionate possession, not the polite love of other boyfriends.

Milo was more than a boyfriend. He was my soul.

The lust and fear inside me transformed into the edge of an orgasm, and my swollen clit sliding against the floor gave me the rest of the impetus I needed. I started to climax, my legs trembling and pulling in their bonds, my ass arching as I contracted around his pounding length. He collapsed over top of me, driving deep, his fingers nearly choking me in the process. The edges of my vision went black and I turned my head, whining. He released my neck and hugged my shoulders instead as he came in me with hard thrusts.

He went still on top of me, post-orgasm. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his hair tickling my cheek. “That was too hard.”

“No,” I said through the gag. He removed it for me, so I could take unobstructed breaths. I wiggled my tongue and said it again. “No, it wasn’t too hard. I loved it.”

“I could have hurt you that time.”

“You’ll never hurt me. You took care of me. But I might be a little sore tomorrow.”

He pulled out of me and patted my welted ass as he sprawled beside me on the floor. “More than a little sore tomorrow. I have to take things slower. We can build to these kinds of sessions over time. Maybe we can even build to The Gallery.” He frowned at me, his head propped on his hand. “I’m sorry I flipped out and dragged you out of there tonight.”

I stroked his cheek. “You can’t do this every time things get intense. You can’t feel guilty for the things you do to me. You’re not a monster or a predator. You’re the man I love, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than here on…on your dungeon floor.” I looked down at my wrecked, exhausted limbs and laughed. “With my ankles bound and my chin full of gag drool, and my neck full of bruises.”

“There won’t be bruises,” he said quickly. “I’ll never choke you that hard.”

We both laughed then. How many lovers had these kinds of conversations?

“Just don’t worry so much,” I told him. “I have a great time with you in this dungeon, even when things get intense. I’ve always wanted to be close to you, crazy close, even when we were kids and I didn’t know what my feelings meant.” I took his face and made him look at me. “So I love your roughness now. I love your edge, your passion. I love that you want to hurt me.”

“You little pervert.”

“I love it all, because I know you’ll never hurt me too much. I want you to teach me, to train me to do even harder sessions than these. You started, and I want you to keep going. I want us to do this together, violent sexual urges and everything. It makes me feel very…well…very wanted and desired.”

“You are very wanted and desired.” He traced the lines of my Gallery uniform, over the garter belt lace and beading, and down the suspenders to the silk tops of my stockings. “And I love you for doing these things with me, Alice. I never would have thought you’d allow me to…” He gave a rueful laugh. “I’ll get used to it. I’ll get over the guilt thing.” He sobered and kissed me, lingering over my lips. “I never thought I’d be able to debase you this way, and have you enjoy it, but you’re full of mystery and surprises, Lala Nyquist. You’ve always accepted me as I am. Why would this be any different?”

“It’s possible there was a secret masochist inside me, waiting to be let out.”

He laughed, one of the loud, raucous laughs he rarely shared with the world. “I’m sure there was some masochist inside you. Otherwise you would have run far away from me by now.” He traced my leg, down to my ankle, his beautiful lips pursed with a combination of embarrassment and joy. “I guess I should let you go.”

“Maybe. As much as I enjoy playing in here with you, the floor gets kind of hard.”

“We’ll have some soft carpets installed,” he joked, leaning to unbuckle the cuffs around my ankles. “Anything for my masochist’s comfort.” He took off one of my shoes with a whistle. “You did a number on these, baby.”

The toes and sides of my patent leather stilettos were scuffed to the point of disaster. “I may have kicked around a little while you were riding my ass. I’m surprised the stockings made it through intact.”

He took off the other shoe and looked at them together as I stretched my legs and sat up. “Well, we can get you another pair of stilettos if we ever want to go back to The Gallery.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. Or…” I forced the words out, out of love for him. “If you had to go with someone else, you know, to do your sharing thing without me.”

He was already shaking his head. “I don’t have to go to The Gallery. You’re more important in my mind.”

“I just don’t want you to feel like you’re missing out.”

“How could I feel that with you?” he asked, cupping my chin. His fingers strayed down to my neck, where he’d gripped me so possessively. “We’ll be away next weekend anyway.”

“I’m so excited for Italy,” she said, her eyes shining. “And seeing the Fierro castle again.”

“It’s not a castle.”

“I like to think of it as a castle. It’s so stony and rocky and rugged.” I took his hand as he helped me up. “Like you.”

He held me against him and I buried my face in his neck, reveling in his warmth and scent, and the closeness I’d dreamed of for so long. “And I’m excited to play my violin for everyo

ne,” I added. “The violin with your heart.”

He probably thought I meant the heart he’d hidden in the wood grain and varnish, and I did, but I also meant the heart of his efforts, building it to fit me perfectly. Everything about us fit perfectly, and the violin would always stand as a symbol of our love, even if we fell out of love, or didn’t stay together.

But that wouldn’t happen. I held him tighter, drifting in his protective embrace, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

Chapter Nineteen: Milo

I went to The Gallery on my Monday lunch break to meet with Fort about the clock. He claimed he could fix it, even though it had stubbornly resisted working for years. It was strange to walk through the rococo lobby during daylight, without Rene manning the door. I let myself into the inner sanctum, winding up the stairs, hearing only silence rather than the screams and moans of normal Gallery operation.

“I’m over here,” Fort called as I appeared. He was doing pull-ups on the square rack I’d attempted to use over the weekend. He jumped down and crossed the empty dungeon floor. “Just checking the racks for stability.”

“It’d take an earthquake to bring those down. The clock, on the other hand…”

“It’s going to work this time. I’m sure I figured out the problem, and I measured the part twice. More like seventeen times. Those hands are about to move, brother.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait for you to work your Sinclair magic.” I looked up at the scaffolding structure Fort had erected to reach the clock. “You’re sure that’ll hold you?”

“If it doesn’t, it’s your job to catch me.” He held out a small cardboard box and opened the lid. “This is the piece, man. This is the part you needed all this time. Once it’s in there, that clock’s going to keep perfect time.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.” It was one of my mother’s favorite sayings, an incantation for when you really wanted things to work out. “Do you need me to hold the bottom of the scaffolding to keep it steady?”

“I borrowed it from a friend in construction, and he helped me put it together. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Because The Gallery doesn’t carry workplace-accident insurance.”

“Why the fuck not?” He laughed and shoved the cardboard box in his pocket, and started scaling the outside of the scaffold structure. True to his word, it seemed sturdy, barely swaying under Fort’s muscular bulk.

“That toolbelt’s pretty sexy, man,” I said, looking up at him. “What do you have in there? Your engraver? Your needle punches? A petite metal solder?”