96. UNDER HIS CONTROL

96. UNDER HIS CONTROL
Arianna

The silence stretched between us, each second an eternity. I gulped, the sound loud in my ears, “Is…is it really safe?”

Feeling my unease, his gaze softened, or perhaps it was just a clever imitation of it. His voice drifted over me like a warm breeze, deceptively comforting.

“Yes, if used right. You know I will never put you at risk, never threaten your life.” The words were meant to be reassuring, but they felt like a carefully crafted lie. “I will never do something you don’t like,” he continued, leaning closer, his shadow falling over my eyelids, a mask of tenderness. “If you surrender, it will mean that you trust me. Can you do that? Can you give me all the control of your body?” His question wasn’t a plea, but a challenge, an invitation to the precipice of the unknown.

With a shaky breath, I closed my eyes, the darkness behind my lids a mirror to the dark thoughts swirling within me.

I believed his words, not with a naive faith, but with a desperate craving.

This time, he wasn’t being scary or funny. He was genuinely asking for my trust, my surrender. And I knew he had it all because I craved that darkness, that thrill, coming from him.

I wanted to feel like nothing else mattered but the moment, the present.

That’s why I loved dark art, the concept of it, the forbidden allure.

So I nodded, the movement small but decisive, “I trust you.”

Vincent grinned, but I didn’t see the true warmth of it, only a flicker of something predatory, as he backed away.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, the words a shiver down my spine, igniting something primal within me.

Putting the syringe on the altar, he moved to unzip my jeans, his touch lingering as he pulled them off, discarding them like unwanted skin.

Once they were on the pile somewhere, a discarded whisper of fabric, he grabbed the knife, the cold steel glinting in the dim light.

He sliced my underwear, the fabric giving way with a soft rip, his fingers playing a rhythm on my flesh, a promise of the pleasure to come, as he laid me bare to his hungry gaze.
My aching pussy already betrayed my mind, screaming that this was wrong, yet feeling so achingly right.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed, the words raw and guttural, a primal appreciation.

He toyed with the knife, the tip dangerously close to my folds, wedged between my legs, spreading my drenched slit with his fingers. He gathered the leaking juice from it, his touch both tender and brutal.

“So wet already,” he groaned, and I whimpered when one finger sank inside, hitting something deep within me, a chord of pure sensation.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his voice a dark caress, and withdrew his finger, returning to the syringe.

Sliding off the thin cover, he brought it to my arm, his eyes holding mine, a dark mirror to my own surrender.

“Lay still,” he warned, and then a piercing pain struck me as he sunk the needle into my skin, injecting the numbing serum.

Soon, the pain disappeared, replaced by a strange coldness, and he pulled the needle away, halfway, ensuring the dosage was just enough to numb my body for an hour, not longer.

He got rid of it, his fingers stroking the place where he had injected me, his touch gentle, a stark contrast to the storm in his eyes as he glanced at my ocean blue, his gaze a sandstorm.

“Feeling any pain?”

“No,” I whispered, the numbing sensation starting to take hold, a heavy curtain falling over my senses.

“It will take thirty seconds to kick in so don’t panic when you can’t move your limbs,” he whispered softly, and I just nodded, my eyes locked on him, all my trust placed in his hands.

My life was in his hands. A delicious terror filled me at that thought.

“You’re mine, aren’t you, baby?” He kept talking with a soft tenderness, a purr that made my insides melt. I nodded, helpless to do anything else.

Seeing my acceptance, his eyes crinkled in a smile, a genuine display of something that made my heart flutter, “My beautiful wife. So breakable. So mine.”

My words got stuck at the roof of my mouth, my tongue feeling numb, my body no longer listening to my will.

Seeing the effect taking hold, Vincent stepped away, removing his own pants. I couldn’t really see him well, my eyes focused on the old ceiling above me, I could only hear the rustle of clothing as he discarded his own garments.

Then I felt him spreading my legs, the chill of the air against my skin, as the devil of my heart knelt by the altar, pulling me to his mouth.

My surprised scream of pleasure died in my throat as his lips found me, a possessive latch that stole my breath.

He sucked at my flesh, a ravenous hunger in his touch, as if I were the sweetest, most forbidden fruit – his dessert, devoured on our honeymoon night.

His mouth was a hot, wet torment, teeth grazing where they shouldn’t, tongue delving deeper, pulling me apart seam by seam.

His fingers added to the delicious ruin, a counterpoint to his mouth’s hungry work.

Each grunt that rumbled from him was a victory, claimed on my trembling skin. The chilling air of this forgotten little church seemed to vibrate with the sounds of our sin.

I briefly wondered about the absent priest, a strange thought amidst the storm of sensation.

This was no ordinary wedding night, not in any sense of the word.

This was a desecration, a furious, messy offering to the dark gods.

Every gasp, every moan, every wet sound of flesh against flesh felt like a blasphemy, a wicked performance enacted under the pale, unforgiving gaze of some unseen power.

It was wrong, it was sinful, and yet… it was intoxicating.

I wanted to moan, to scream when Vincent managed to bring me to the edge, like a fast train hurtling towards its destination.

My cum dripped into his mouth like an offering, a sweet surrender.

The sound of him lapping it all up disturbed the silence, adding to the twisted game we were playing.