Chapter 168: Death by fucking r18

NOAH

I was barely conscious, my eyelids heavy as lead weights, fluttering open only to droop again in defeat.

My body felt utterly absent, every muscle screaming in protest as if I’d been pummeled by a freight train, not once, but twice for good measure.

My thighs quivered uncontrollably, my arms hung limp and detached, and my shoulders throbbed from being pinned in that unyielding position for far too long.

Down there, my hole was a raw, pulsing wreck, stretched beyond any sane limit, still leaking Cassian’s cum in warm, lazy rivulets that trailed down my inner thighs and seeped into the tangled sheets beneath us.

Is he ever going to be satisfied? The question floated through my mind like distant smoke, hazy and ephemeral. I feel wrung out, squeezed dry. There’s nothing left in me.

Terror gripped me then, a quiet panic that I might actually die like this, death by fucking, what a pathetic, absurd end.

My heart hammered erratically in my chest, my lungs still scorched from the sobs and gasps that had torn from me earlier.

My cock lay soft and spent against my stomach, twitching feebly with every subtle shift of him inside me, the oversensitivity bordering on agony.

I’d never experienced anything like this before, never, not with anyone. This wasn’t just sex; it was utter annihilation, a meticulous dismantling of my body and soul, rebuilt only to be shattered anew.

A whole fucking workout routine.

Next time, I’ll know better, my muddled brain offered up foolishly.

Next time? The thought sent my stomach twisting in knots. Did I really just think that?

But I was too far gone to unpack it, my mind a slurry of fragmented memories: the taste of his lips, the way he’d claimed every drop of my cum as if it were his divine right, and that relentless pounding that had melted my insides into liquid fire.

With effortless strength, Cassian shifted us both, his hands firm on my waist, repositioning without ever withdrawing.

I was limp as a rag doll, boneless and incapable of resistance even if I’d wanted to fight.

He propped himself against the headboard, back cushioned by pillows, one arm slung casually over the mattress’s edge, the other resting idly on his thigh, as if he were lounging in some upscale bar rather than buried balls-deep in my ruined ass.

His cock remained Impossibly hard, a heavy, intimidating presence slick with our mingled fluids.

He looked every inch the king on his throne: relaxed, utterly in command, patient as a predator. And me? I was nothing but the tribute laid bare before him.

How the hell am I supposed to do this? The thought swirled in my daze. I can barely hold myself up.

My thighs already burned from the previous rounds, muscles trembling with exhaustion, my arms weighed down like anchors.

But Cassian reached for his discarded tie, that sleek black silk from earlier, and looped it around my wrists in front of me, knotting it tight and forcing my arms ahead, hands dangling uselessly near his chest.

My shoulders curved inward, thrusting my chest out, my nipples still peaked and sore from the earlier torment.

His gaze raked over me, dark and ravenous, possessive in a way that made my skin prickle.

He took in everything: the flush staining my skin, the hardened buds of my nipples standing out red and abused, the slow drip of cum escaping where we joined and sliding down his shaft.

His voice emerged low and velvety, but laced with finality. “Sit.”

One word, no more needed. I knew exactly what he demanded.

Oh God. The realization hit like ice water. I have to do this myself. He’s going to make me, and he’s going to watch.

I swallowed against the rawness in my throat, my voice long since shredded by cries and moans. With trembling effort, I lifted myself just an inch, my thighs protesting fiercely.

My bound hands pressed against his chest for precarious balance, fingers curling into feeble fists. I aligned myself, feeling the blunt head of him nudge my entrance once more.

Please universe, give me the strength, I pleaded silently, desperately. To survive this. To survive him.

I lowered myself slowly, the breach immediate and searing, the burn familiar now but no less shocking. A gasp escaped me as my hips stuttered. Cassian offered no aid, no upward thrust, no guiding hand. He simply observed, his eyes fixed on our connection, forcing me to bear the weight of it all.

Inch by agonizing inch, I sank down, past the flared head, through the thickest girth. My thighs shook violently, my arms quivered, barely sustaining me. It was too much, too full, reopening me when I was already at my limit.

Whimpers slipped out, small and humiliated, impossible to contain.

At last, my ass met his pelvis, fully impaled, utterly filled.

A sharp inhale punched from my lungs, half in relief (I did it), half in overwhelming surrender (so full, too full). I trembled just from the stillness, the impossible depth pressing against every nerve, igniting spots I didn’t know existed. He was everywhere inside me, hot, throbbing, unyielding.

Yet Cassian remained motionless, content to watch, his eyes tracing every twitch on my face, savoring my silent struggle like a connoisseur.

I felt exposed, dissected under that gaze, with no shadows to hide in.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded, his tone firm and unyielding, brooking no argument.

I wanted to avert my gaze, to drop my eyes to our joined bodies or my own spent cock resting limp against my stomach. My lashes fluttered in resistance, clinging to some fragment of control.

But he was faster, his hand shot up, fingers gripping my jaw with unyielding control, tilting my face to meet his stare.

“I said eyes on me,” he repeated, the warning sharper now, a demand for total submission.

I swallowed hard, my pupils dilated, cheeks aflame. I held his gaze, battling the embarrassment that clawed at me, the urge to shrink away.

“Good boy,” he murmured, his voice softening with approval, his thumb grazing my lower lip in a gesture almost tender, jarring against the raw intensity of it all.

My breath caught, a confusing warmth blooming in my chest amid the storm.

“Now ride.”

The words were simple, direct, irrevocable.

The full weight crashed over me: I have to move. I have to fuck myself on him, while he watches every second.

Humiliation surged like a tidal wave, hot and suffocating.

I began with tentative lifts, small and testing, gauging the fire in my thighs and the drag inside me. My bound hands pressed harder against his chest, fingers digging in for leverage, though they offered little.

As I dropped deeper, the angle shifted, his cock grazing my prostate inescapably, too intense, too perfect. A whimper escaped, humiliated and raw.

I couldn’t stifle them.

Lifting higher, I slammed down harder, taking more of him each time. My thighs burned almost immediately, the exhaustion from before compounding, but I pushed on, my breaths turning ragged, chest heaving as if I’d run a marathon.

I can’t keep this up, I thought, panic edging in. Too tired, too raw.

Yet Cassian watched it all, the bite of my lip, the furrow in my brow, every unguarded expression. When pleasure spiked, my face betrayed me, and he noted it, filing away my vulnerabilities.

The whimpers grew louder, needy and unchecked.

My cock slapped wetly against my stomach, leaking pre-cum that smeared across his abs.

“Harder,” he ordered, his voice low and shadowed with demand. “I want to hear it, how wet that greedy hole of yours is.”

My face burned hotter; I knew the sounds he meant, the obscene squelch with every descent, the slick slap of skin on skin.

I obeyed, driving harder, faster, the room filling with those filthy echoes.

Then clarity pierced the haze: What am I doing? Riding him like this, impaling myself willingly?

The awareness stung, a slap of reality amid the lust, but it dissolved just as quickly. Thought evaporated, leaving only sensation, him too big, too deep, overwhelming everything.

I bounced faster, desperate now, my ass slapping down with wet, lewd abandon. Embarrassment twisted with the pleasure, but I couldn’t stop; it felt too good, too consuming.

My face contorted, conflict, shame, but need overriding all.

I was open, dripping, my cock weeping steadily onto him.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his tone dark and laced with appreciation. “Fucking yourself like you’re in heat. Can’t even pretend you’re innocent anymore, can you?”

His words stripped me bare, exposing the raw truth, and my rhythm faltered, thighs screaming in protest.

My eyes glazed over, tears pricking from the exertion, the overload.

I was teetering on the edge, the climax building inexorably.

Cassian sensed it, the tightening around him, the flutter of my body.

His hands clamped onto my hips like vises, halting me mid-motion, his cock buried to the hilt.

No movement. No release.

A broken, anguished cry ripped from my throat.

So close, yet denied, pure torment.

“Cassian, please—” I begged, my voice shattered, pleading.

His gaze met mine, soft but unyielding. “No. You don’t get to cum yet. You haven’t earned it.”

The denial was absolute, a test or punishment or both, stretching seconds into agonizing minutes.

I trembled, my body clenching helplessly around him in futile spasms, seeking any friction.

My tied hands flexed uselessly; I was trapped, aching, desperate.

A tear traced down my cheek, born of frustration and raw need.

Cassian tilted his head, studying me as if I were a masterpiece in decay, wrecked, desperate, beautifully broken.

“You’re crying already?” he taunted, his voice a velvet mockery, amusement glinting cruelly. “And yet you’re still so fucking hard.”

The contradiction burned; my body betrayed me utterly.

His thumb brushed the tear away, tender for a fleeting moment.

Then: “Pathetic.”

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