His to Command

6 - Initiation Night

The scent in the lab is a physical thing, a third presence in the room. It smells of power. Of possession. It’s his signature, written in molecules of my own design. His question is a dare, a final exam.

“It says you’re losing control,” I pant, my cheek pressed against the cool marble, my body achingly open and ready for him. “It says you want to f*****g ruin me.”

A low, dark laugh vibrates through him into me. “A perfect analysis.”

He drives into me.

There’s no slow build, no gentle stretching. He fills me in one brutal, perfect thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A shocked, guttural cry is ripped from my throat. The sensation is absolute. It’s a claiming. The cold, hard table beneath me, the heat of him inside me, the crushing weight of his desire—it’s overwhelming. My fingers scramble for purchase on the smooth stone.

He sets a punishing rhythm instantly, his grip on my hips like iron, holding me in place for every deep, devastating plunge. Each thrust jolts me forward, my naked skin sliding against the polished marble. The sounds are obscene, wet and slapping, a filthy symphony underscoring his ragged grunts and my helpless moans.

“This is what ruin feels like, Solange,” he snarls, his voice strained with the effort of his f*****g. “This is me, taking what’s mine. Your brilliant mind. Your perfect cunt. It all belongs to me.”

I can only take it, my body shaking with the force of him, my mind blissfully, terrifyingly empty of everything but sensation. The pleasure is a sharp, bright pain that blossoms into something so profound it borders on agony. He’s hitting a place so deep inside me I feel possessed.

He leans over me, his chest a hot, sweaty weight on my back, his mouth at my ear. “Tell me what you feel.”

“I feel… your c**k,” I gasp, the words broken by his thrusts. “So deep. So f*****g hard. I feel you… everywhere.”

“What else?”

“I feel… owned.” The admission is a surrender as potent as the first time I said ‘Sir’.

He groans, a sound of pure, desperate need, and his pace becomes frantic, unhinged. His control is shattering. I can feel it in the tremor of his muscles, hear it in the wrecked sound of his breathing. The Velvet Accord blooms around us, a scent of unleashed hunger, of a dam breaking.

He wraps one arm around my waist, pulling me up, my back flush against his chest. His other hand snakes down, his fingers finding my c**t, rubbing rough, frantic circles. The dual assault is too much. I dissolve, my orgasm tearing through me with a silent, screaming intensity. My body clenches around him, milking his c**k, and that’s all it takes.

With a guttural roar that seems to shake the very air, he comes. His thrusts become shallow, jerky pulses as he empties himself inside me, his whole body shuddering against mine. He holds me impossibly tight, his forehead pressed against my shoulder, his breath hot on my skin.

We stay like that for long moments, connected, breathing in the scent of our mutual devastation. The fragrance is different now. Softer. Almost… tender. It terrifies me more than the scent of his dominance.

Slowly, he pulls out. The loss is physical. He turns me in his arms, his expression unreadable, a mask carefully back in place. But his eyes… they hold a shadow I haven’t seen before. Something raw.

He doesn’t speak. He simply scoops me up and carries me from the lab, through the silent, opulent rooms, and into the cool night air of a private garage. A sleek black car awaits. He bundles me into the passenger seat, wrapping a soft blanket around my nakedness. His touch is efficient, impersonal. The drive is silent. The world outside is a blur of light and shadow.

He directs the driver to stop not at the club’s main entrance, but in a dimly lit service alley beside it. The air is cool, smelling of damp concrete and distant city life. The spell of the lab, of his bed, is broken. Reality, cold and sharp, begins to seep back in.

He comes around to open my door, his form a tall, dark silhouette against the brick wall. He offers his hand to help me out. My legs are still weak, my body humming with the echoes of his possession. I take it, my smaller hand disappearing in his.

I stand before him on unsteady feet, the blanket pulled tight around my shoulders. The tension between us is a live wire. The contract hangs in the air—no affection, no tenderness, no love. But the scent on my skin, our scent, tells a different story. It whispers of something deeper, something dangerous.

He reaches out, not to pull me closer, but to tuck a stray curl behind my ear. His fingertips brush my cheek. It’s the lightest touch, but it feels more intimate than anything that happened on the cross or the lab table. My breath catches. His eyes search mine, and for a fraction of a second, the mask slips. I see it—a flicker of something vulnerable, something haunted. An emotion he would never name.

Driven by a impulse I don’t understand, I lean forward, rising on my toes. I move slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. I want to bridge the distance, to taste that vulnerability on his lips, to see if the man matches the monster.

My lips are a breath from his. I can feel the heat of him, smell the unique spice of his breath mingling with the Velvet Accord.

He freezes.

Every muscle in his body goes rigid. The vulnerability in his eyes is instantly, violently, smothered by pure, undiluted panic. It’s not anger. It’s fear.

He recoils as if burned, snatching his hand back from my face. The movement is swift, sharp. The air between us turns to ice.

“The rules, Solange,” he says, his voice a cold, sharp blade, utterly devoid of the heat that had been there moments before. “They are not a suggestion.”