His to Command

4 - The First Sample

The raw, ragged sound of my begging still hung in the air between us. My entire world was the sharp, stinging heat on my skin and the desperate, empty ache he’d carved inside me. I needed his c**k more than I needed my next breath.

Lucien’s eyes, stormy and intense, held mine for a heartbeat longer. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, with a speed that belied his controlled demeanor, his hands were at the leather cuffs. The buckles gave way with soft, definitive clicks. My wrists were free. My ankles were free. The sudden lack of tension made me sway, my knees threatening to buckle.

His arm snaked around my waist, catching me, pulling my sore, sensitized body flush against the hard, unyielding planes of his chest. The rough texture of his half-unbuttoned shirt abraded my punished skin, a fresh wave of sensation that made me gasp. He didn’t speak. He simply swept me into his arms, one behind my back, the other under my knees, and carried me.

I was too overwhelmed to protest, to even think. My head lolled against his shoulder. I inhaled the scent of him—ozone, clean sweat, and the dark, spicy bloom of Velvet Accord that was now uniquely, irrevocably ours. He carried me through an archway into an adjacent room, his steps sure and silent.

This space was different. Softer. The air was warmer, suffused with the same scent but layered with the aroma of beeswax and clean linen. He laid me down on a surface that yielded beneath me. A massive bed, draped in black silk and piled with pillows. Before I could even register the luxury, his hands were on my ankles.

He pulled my legs apart, stretching me out. My heart hammered anew. This wasn’t a release. It was a repositioning. A re-binding.

From the shadows at the edge of the bed, he produced four lengths of black silk rope, the fibers soft and heavy. He started with my right wrist. His movements were not hurried, but they were inexorable. He looped the rope around my wrist in a complex, efficient knot, then secured the other end to the ornate post of the bed. He did the same with my left wrist, pulling my arms taut above my head, stretching my body into a long, vulnerable line.

The scientific part of my brain, the part that always observed, noted the secure but non-abrasive bindings. The rest of me, the part he owned, could only feel the absolute exposure. He moved down the bed. My right ankle was next, tied with the same purposeful efficiency, opening me up. Then my left. I was spread-eagled on the silk, completely helpless. Utterly his to do with as he pleased.

He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark king surveying his territory. His gaze was a physical caress, roaming every inch of me—the faint, cross-hatched pink marks from the flogger on my breasts and thighs, the sheen of sweat on my stomach, the desperate, glistening proof of my arousal between my legs.

“You look like a feast, Solange,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated deep in my core. “And I am so very f*****g hungry.”

He finally, finally, began to undress. He shrugged off his shirt, revealing the sculpted perfection of his chest and abdomen. His skin was golden in the low light, stretched tight over defined muscle. My mouth watered. He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss. His trousers and boxers followed, pooling at his feet.

His c**k sprang free, thick and hard and curving upward against his stomach. It was a weapon. A promise. A f*****g masterpiece of male anatomy. A drop of moisture beaded at the tip. I whimpered, pulling uselessly against my bonds.

“Please,” I breathed, the word barely audible.

“What was that?” he asked, crawling onto the foot of the bed. He moved up the mattress on his knees, a predator stalking his prey. He settled between my splayed legs, his hands resting on my inner thighs, pushing them wider apart. “You’ll have to speak up, my brilliant chemist. Use that pretty mouth for something other than moaning.”

“Please, Sir. Lucien. I need you to f**k me. I can’t wait anymore.” The words tumbled out, raw and honest.

He leaned forward, bracing himself on one hand beside my head. The head of his c**k brushed against my soaked, swollen lips. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure need that made my entire body jerk against the silken ropes.

“You feel that, Solange?” he growled, his face inches from mine. His eyes were black with want. “That’s how much I want you. That’s how hard you make me. You did this. Your surrender. Your begging. Your perfect, f*****g body accepting every mark I give it.”

He rubbed the head of his c**k through my slick folds, circling my c**t slowly, torturously. I cried out, my back arching off the bed, but the ropes held me firm, forcing me to simply take the sensation.

“You asked for my c**k,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “Now you’re going to get it. Every. Last. Inch.”

With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside me.

The feeling was beyond anything I could have imagined. It was a filling, a claiming, a f*****g revelation. He was so big, stretching me to my absolute limit. A guttural scream was torn from my throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure-pain. He didn’t move, just held himself deep, letting me feel the full, overwhelming reality of him.

“f**k, Solange,” he groaned, the word ragged, his own control visibly splintering. “You’re so tight. So perfect. You feel like heaven wrapped around my cock.”

He began to move. Slowly at first, withdrawing almost completely before plunging back in with that same devastating fullness. Each thrust was a lesson in sensation, a deliberate, powerful stroke that hit a spot deep inside me that made me see stars. The silk ropes bit into my wrists and ankles with every drive of his hips, a constant reminder of my helplessness, my total surrender to his rhythm.

His pace quickened, becoming harder, faster, more frantic. The bed rocked with the force of his movements. The sound of our bodies meeting, skin slapping against slick skin, filled the room, underscored by my ragged cries and his low, animalistic grunts. He shifted angle slightly, and on the next thrust, I saw white. The pleasure was too intense, too sharp, too much.

“I’m… Sir, I’m going to…” I sobbed, barely able to form the words.

“Not yet,” he commanded, his voice strained with his own effort. He slammed into me, over and over, each stroke pushing me higher, closer to the edge without letting me fall. “You don’t come until I say you can come. You hold it for me. You take my f*****g c**k until I’m ready to give you your reward.”

He was everywhere. His scent. His weight. The feel of him pistoning in and out of me. The sight of his powerful body moving above mine, muscles straining, face a mask of fierce concentration and raw lust. I was completely unraveling, coming apart at the seams, held together only by the ropes and the sheer force of his will.

“Look at me, Solange,” he demanded.

My eyes, which had squeezed shut, flew open. I met his gaze. The storm there was overwhelming.

“This is mine,” he snarled, driving into me with a force that stole my breath. “This perfect, wet, tight p***y is mine. Your pleasure is mine. Your f*****g screams are mine. Do you understand?”

“Yes! God, yes, Sir! It’s yours! It’s all yours!” I chanted, my voice breaking.

He lowered his mouth to mine, his kiss a brutal, possessive claiming. His tongue mirrored the rhythm of his c**k, plunging deep, stealing my breath, my sanity. I kissed him back with everything I had, a messy, desperate clash of teeth and tongues.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine, our breath mingling in ragged gasps. His thrusts became shorter, harder, more urgent. I could feel the tension coiling in his body, the impending storm of his own release.

“Now, Solange,” he rasped, his voice thick and dark with promise. “Come for me now. Come all over my cock.”

The permission was the final key. The orgasm detonated through me, a silent, screaming convulsion that locked every muscle in my body. I clenched around him, milking his c**k, my cries muffled against his shoulder as wave after wave of pure ecstasy shattered me.

My climax triggered his. With a guttural roar that was pure, unfiltered need, he plunged deep and held there, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside me in hot, pulsing jets. I felt every single one, a claiming more profound than any contract.

We collapsed together, a tangled, sweaty, spent mess. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by our ragged, slowing breaths. The scent of s*x and Velvet Accord was so thick in the air it was almost tangible. He was heavy on top of me, his weight a comforting, possessive anchor.

After a long moment, he shifted, lifting himself up on his elbows to look down at me. His expression was unreadable, a complex mix of satiated hunger and something else, something darker and more vulnerable that he quickly shielded. He didn’t untie me. He just traced a path through the sweat on my collarbone.

“The contract has a new clause, Solange,” he murmured, his voice husky.