Our Dark Fantasies

Chapter 5: The First Rule

Sofia

The clock on his nightstand reads 11:47 p.m.

Thirty-six hours left.

We have spent the day pretending to be civilized.

He cooked eggs, toast, strong coffee and watched me eat every bite like it was a contract. We walked the harbor in the cold, my hand in his coat pocket, his thumb tracing the inside of my wrist every time my pulse spiked. He took me to a quiet bookstore, bought me a worn copy of Anaïs Nin, and read lines aloud in the poetry aisle until my knees shook. We came home, showered separately, his rule and now the apartment is dark except for the low amber lamp beside the bed.

I stand in the doorway of his bedroom wearing nothing but one of his white shirts, sleeves rolled to my elbows, hem brushing mid-thigh. My hair is still damp. My skin feels too tight.

Damien sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, black sweatpants riding low on his hips. His eyes track me like a predator deciding whether prey is worth the chase.

I stop three feet away.

“You said there were rules,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I want another one.”

His eyebrow lifts. “You’re negotiating now?”

“I want you to hurt me tonight,” I tell him. “Not play-acting. Not gentle. I want to feel it tomorrow when I’m on that plane, or not on that plane. I want proof this was real.”

Something dangerous flashes across his face. He stands slowly, all controlled power, and circles me until he’s at my back. His heat radiates against my spine.

“Safe word?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Red,” I answer instantly. “Yellow to slow down. I’m not fragile, Damien.”

He makes a low sound of approval, warning, hunger and then his hand is in my hair, wrenching my head back so fast my breath catches.

“On your knees.”

The carpet is soft under my knees as I drop. He keeps that brutal grip, forcing me to look up at him. The angle makes my neck ache already. Perfect.

“Hands behind your back. Wrists crossed.”

I obey. He releases my hair only long enough to yank his leather belt free of the loops. The sound of it snapping open makes me clench involuntarily. He loops the belt around my wrists, cinching tight enough that the edges bite. My shoulders pull back, breasts straining against the shirt buttons.

He steps in front of me again, tilts my chin up with two fingers.

“Open.”

I part my lips. He doesn’t ease in he thrusts, thick and sudden, filling my mouth until my eyes water. I gag once, twice, then breathe through my nose and take him deeper. He sets a punishing rhythm, hand fisted in my hair again, using my mouth exactly how he wants. Saliva drips down my chin, onto my chest, soaking the shirt translucent.

“Look at you,” he growls. “So f*****g pretty when you stop pretending you’re in control.”

I moan around him, the vibration making his hips stutter. He pulls out abruptly, leaving me gasping, lips swollen, and hauls me up by the belt binding my wrists. The buttons of the shirt rip as he tears it open, baring me completely.

He spins me, shoves me face-down over the foot of the bed. My cheek presses into cool sheets; my bound arms are trapped beneath me. I hear the drawer open, the clink of metal. My heart slams against my ribs.

Cold steel kisses the base of my spine, a knife. Not his letter opener this time. Something heavier, sharper. He drags the flat side slowly up my back, between my shoulder blades, letting me feel how easily it could cut.

“Color?” he asks, voice rough.

“Green,” I breathe. “So f*****g green.”

He flips the blade, trailing the edge, not cutting, just the promise down the curve of my ass. I’m trembling, dripping, aching for more. When the knife leaves my skin, the loss is physical.

The first slap lands hard across both cheeks. No warm-up. The sting blooms instant and vicious. I cry out into the mattress. Another, harder, on the other side. He alternates, relentless, until my ass is on fire and tears soak the sheets beneath me.

Only then does he spread my thighs wide, fingers digging bruises into tender skin.

“Look how wet you are,” he says, sliding two fingers through my folds, spreading the slickness up to my c**t and circling once, twice, never enough. “You get off on pain, don’t you, Sofia?”

“Yes please—”

He thrusts three fingers into me without warning, stretching, curling, ruthless. His other hand comes down again on my burning skin in perfect sync with every stroke inside me. I’m sobbing now, pushing back shamelessly, chasing the edge.

He pulls out just as I’m about to come and flips me onto my back. My bound arms are crushed beneath me, the angle forcing my back to arch, breasts thrust up. He looms over me, eyes black with lust.

“Beg.”

“Please, Damien! f**k me, hurt me, use me please—”

He drives into me in one brutal stroke, bottoming out so hard the headboard slams the wall. I scream. He doesn’t pause—sets a punishing pace, hips snapping, hand wrapping around my throat just tight enough to make my vision spark.

Every thrust shoves me up the mattress; every slap of his skin against my sore ass is fresh agony and ecstasy. He shifts his angle, hitting that spot inside that makes me see stars, and bites down on my collarbone hard enough to mark.

I come without warning, clenching around him so violently he curses. He doesn’t stop f*****g me through it, dragging it out until I’m shaking, oversensitive, begging in broken fragments.

He pulls out, flips me again, yanks my hips up so I’m on my knees, face still pressed to the bed. Then he’s back inside me, deeper from this angle, one hand fisted in my hair, the other coming down on my ass in rapid, stinging blows that match his thrusts.

I lose track of how many times I come only that each one is harder, rawer, until I’m hoarse and limp and tears stream freely.

When he finally lets himself go, it’s with my name ripped from his throat, his fingers bruising my hips as he spills deep inside me, pulse after pulse.

He collapses over me, both of us shaking. After a moment he gently unbinds my wrists, massaging the red marks, kissing each one like penance. He pulls me into his arms, my back to his chest, and wraps around me so tightly I can barely breathe.

I feel his lips against the bite mark on my shoulder.

“Still green?” he whispers, voice wrecked.

I turn in his arms, press my forehead to his.

“Greener than ever,” I manage.

His arms tighten. Outside, the city keeps moving, indifferent.

Inside this bed, thirty-five hours and fifty-three minutes remain.

And for the first time in my life, I’m not counting down to an escape.

I’m counting the seconds until he breaks me again.