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Coryo’s private apartment is the pinnacle of old luxury. Marble flooring, crown molding and curved, delicate arches. Gleaming wooden furniture and hand-crafted, detailed upholstery. Each appliance is updated, each piece of décor specially chosen to complement each space. You’re certain Tigris deserves the credit, although she doesn’t live there—she and Coryo’s grandmother still live in the Snow penthouse nearby, adjoined with the Plinth family.
Just the thought of it makes you sick. You’ve seen the Plinth family once since your arrival, catching a quick glimpse of Sejanus’ mother hurriedly trailing Grandma’am down the sidewalk from your window perch high above the street. You’re not allowed outside, of course—other than Coryo, you’ve had barely any human contact in over a month.
You stare at the lonely, well-furnished library where you’ve spent most of your imprisonment. Over a thousand books stare back, their stories a paltry replacement for companionship. At least, while hiding in the forest near District 12, you had the wildlife—living and free, just like you.
But you’re far from District 12, and far from living and free. Since being kidnapped and taken to the Capitol, you’ve been nothing but Coryo’s little pet.
With him at work, you’re left alone. As a precaution, any staff he has is only allowed in while he’s home. Even when he’s home, they’re not permitted to speak to you. Each day, you drift from room to room—looking for a weakness, searching for a way out.
The apartment is massive; expanding two and a half stories, more than a dozen private rooms are between them. The library is on the second floor, nearest to the staircase. The upper half-story is all Coryo’s master suite.
You know it’s futile. Even if you do manage to escape, there’s no corner in the world where Coryo can’t find you. He’s made that very clear.
Looking around the lavish library, a self-deprecating laugh escapes your throat. At least I have a pretty cage, you think. The prettiest cage in the birdhouse.
It’s hardly any consolation.
From far, far below, you hear the front door open. He’s home, then. Although you can’t hear it, you imagine him locking the door neatly behind him—as he does every evening.
You grab your book from the coffee table and curl up tighter on the loveseat, your chosen reading spot for the afternoon. You try to look so wholly engaged in it that you didn’t notice his homecoming.
But Coryo doesn’t make for the library like he usually does, knowing it’s become the closest thing to a haven you have here. No, you hear him bypass the second floor entirely to go straight to his bedroom.
Something stupidly like disappointment settles in your chest. It’s easily replaced by anger, a much easier emotion to process and execute when thinking of Coryo.
He’s been playing out his little domestic fantasy the last month—seeking you out immediately after coming home, kissing you on the forehead, and spending the evening with you. You have your own sleeping space on the second floor, but it’s so depersonalized that you hesitate to call it your bedroom. Nothing here is yours—except maybe Coryo, for better or for worse.
During the first week, you had locked yourself in “your” room until he removed the door, leaving you with absolutely no privacy. When you tried locking yourself in the library, he had every internal door in the damn apartment removed except for the one to his bedroom.
You’ll have to win back your door privileges, he had said. Petty bastard. Even the swinging door to the kitchen pantry hadn’t been spared. It’s a vicious cycle, contemplating the next move the other will make and how to counter it.
You stare at the empty doorway now, wondering what’s happened to make Coryo go so far off routine. After kissing you hello, he usually goes to change into more comfortable clothes. Maybe he’s changing early this evening.
When Coryo does make his way down to you, he’s still wearing his work clothes—a neat white button-down with a black vest, matching his black slacks.
He looks a little haggard. His once slick-back hair is tousled and wild, relaxed after a long day. You look down at your book immediately and pretend not to have noticed him at all. He makes his way toward you.
“Hello, dove,” he sighs sweetly. Coryo brings a quick hand up to brush the hair from your face, leaning down to drop a short kiss on your forehead.
“You’re still dressed,” you note, ignoring his greeting entirely. The heat of his lips on your forehead leaves your cheeks red, so you avoid looking up.
Another sigh, not nearly as sweet. “I’ve got to go out again.”
He pulls a drawer out from the desk in the corner, pocketing something—his checkbook. When he turns back around, he acknowledges your questioning stare.
“Banquet,” he offers, but no further explanation. He leaves, and you hear him head back to his bedroom.
Ludicrously, you feel miffed. Where does he think he’s going? You snap your book shut and follow him.
He’s left his bedroom door open, which is about as much of an invitation as you’ll get. It still makes you nervous entering, and you hover just in the doorway. You haven’t been in here since your first night. When he had…
You physically shake yourself from the memory, face flushed. You try your best not to think about that night very often. When Coryo told you he wanted you caged willing, he meant it—meaning he hasn’t touched you since then, other than brief kisses when he comes home. No, you’ve had nothing from him; he wants you to beg for him, to lay yourself out willingly under his hands and mouth. You’re not weak-willed enough to give in just yet.
And if you finger fuck yourself silly to the thought of him every other night, that’s your business—not his.
You hear him in his private bathroom, the faucet running. You take a moment to examine the room—red sheets still perpetually unmade, warm lighting just low enough to strain your eyes.
Across from you are a half-dozen floor-to-ceiling windows. With the curtains open, Panem stretches out before you—sky on fire with the evening sunset, the glow of street lamps just beginning to emerge. It’s probably a beautiful view, but you get little pleasure from it. You’re from District 12, after all—a beautiful view to you is green grass, golden wheat, miles and miles of trees and mountains stretched out at your fingertips.
You don’t trust Capitol citizens who stand at the top of a tall building and call the surrounding tall buildings a “beautiful view.” You’re beginning to think that they just like the feeling of being in the tallest building.
Coryo emerges from the bathroom, having switched his black slacks and vest for a pair such a dark purple that they almost look the same, if not for the ordinate gold detailing on the vest. His hair is combed back again, a few strands falling over his forehead in a practiced, rakish way.
The saliva goes tacky in your mouth, and you turn away quickly before he can notice.
If he’s surprised to see you in his room, he doesn’t show it—only moves to the dresser, where a mirror is braced. He chooses a golden tie from the drawer to match the embroidery.
As he starts to work it around his neck, you take a moment to acknowledge how handsome he is. Not too long, though—you only have so much strength. “You never mentioned a banquet.”
“Am I required to?” It’s sharp, and it makes your lips drop—but he’s quick to soothe it. “I didn’t plan on attending, but something’s come up. I have to go.”
You examine him for a moment, looking for any trace of dishonesty. The purple vest hangs unbuttoned around his waist as he focuses on his tie. “All by yourself?”
He pauses for a moment, not looking at you—but glancing down from the corner of his eye in such a way that indicates he is looking at you, just trying to hide it. Slowly, he replies, “This time.” With his tie secure, he moves to the vest. “Maybe I’ll take you one day.”
It startles a laugh from you, but it’s pointed and ugly. “Oh? When?” You take a step closer, eyes drawn to the nimble movements of his fingers as he dresses. “Tell me… when am I off parole, jailer?”
Coryo continues buttoning his vest, not even sparing you a glance. “That’s up to you.”
“You mean it’s up to me to give in. To submit myself to your ridiculous and controlling degradation.”
He turns to you then, giving you a look that’s knowing and somewhat seductive—lashes low and eyes icy-fire. “To accept the truth, actually.” He takes a step closer, and you resist the urge to step back. “To learn how to accept all the comfort and pleasure I plan on giving you.”
Your next breath is shuddery, a pang of arousal hitting you low in the gut. “You’re desperate and delusional.”
“And yours,” he smiles, but it’s sharp—all teeth. “Just like you’re mine.”
It’s bait, but you won’t fall for it. You know there’s nothing you can say to change his mind. You know that, deep down, you may even agree with him—and he takes an unhealthy pleasure in taunting you with it.
You turn around, facing the window again. You can see his reflection in the glass coming up behind you, until you feel the heat of his body against your back. Slowly, more gentle than a feather, he brushes his hand down the bare skin of your arm, from the bottom of your sleeve to your wrist. You feel his lips barely press against your shoulder through the material of your t-shirt.
It makes your gut clench, seeing him behind you like this—his broad shoulders bracketing your own, blond hair half-hidden behind your head as he ducks down to kiss your shoulder again, more firmly. You can’t bear the sight, closing your eyes at the onslaught of his teasing touch.
You feel his breath on your ear, skirting down your neck when he whispers, “I’ll only be an hour, dove. Cook’s staying to make you dinner.” His lips hover tantalizingly against the bare skin of your neck… until he’s gone, backing away without another word. Eyes still closed, you listen as his footsteps fade further and further down the staircase.
Standing in the hollow bedroom, you’re left with nothing but the dull realization of how much colder you feel without his presence.
~~~
Another two weeks pass uneventfully. The monotony of it is truly starting to drive you insane. You’ve taken to watching Capitol citizens from the living room window, critiquing their garish clothes and creating fake lives for them in your head.
It’s hard to describe the type of crazy you’re going. You spent a year alone outside of District 12, not seeing or talking to a soul—and yet, here, the loneliness is ten times more unbearable. Maybe it’s being so close to the civilized world, but still being kept from it. Maybe it’s the fact that your isolation is no longer self-imposed.
Likely it’s linked to Coryo—getting used to depending on his presence, only to have it yanked away when you need it most… having his limited companionship toy with the edge of your resistance. Whatever it is, you’re miserable. You’re more miserable than you’ve ever been.
Every evening since that first banquet, Coryo’s had some type of meeting or event. You’ve only snagged an hour or two with him over the last week. You feel like you’re on the edge of some type of precipice, arms waving back and forth in a desperate attempt to keep balanced.
That evening, when you finally hear someone outside the door, you’re already idling in the sitting room right off the front hallway. It’s a pleasant space, with a fireplace and long couch, beautifully crafted and upholstered. You play with the edge of the blanket thrown over the back of it, waiting for that familiar sound—jumping up when you finally hear it.
But when the door swings open, you realize it’s only Coryo’s cook. She gives you a neutral glance, but is it your imagination that it’s only to hide her pity?
“Master Snow will be late again this evening,” she tells you. “I’ll be starting dinner, then.”
She locks the door behind her and leaves, not allowed to say anything else to you. Hollow and destitute, you sink back down on the couch.
You’re hardly one for destitution, though. The more your mind races, the angrier you get. How dare he bring you all the way to the Capitol just to neglect you. Are you not even his pet now—just another piece of his expensive furniture? Is he not missing you the same way you’re missing him? How is he not already half-out of his mind with it?
You pace as you think, again falling into your usual habit of walking around the apartment. You venture in and out of every room, not really looking at anything—just thinking, lost in your own head. Naturally, almost against your will, you find yourself sneaking up to the one room you never usually dare to visit.
You crack open the door, almost afraid you’ll find him materialized on the other side. But no—his bedroom’s just as empty as you are, forlorn and left behind. You flick on the nearest lamp, again greeted with his familiar dresser, unmade bed, the thick-paneled windows.
It’s humiliating for you to find yourself back here, finally having nowhere else to go that gives you a modicum of comfort. Is this all part of his plan to break you? Making you so desperate for human contact that you decide to submit? Isolating you until another day trapped in his apartment is more torturous than giving in and staying willingly? You almost hope it is, because it’s working so well that you’d be embarrassed if he’s somehow managed to do it on accident.
You’re not sure how much you lament, pacing back and forth in his bedroom until the twilight passes and plunges the city into darkness. Sometimes you lounge on his bed, chasing his scent—sometimes you stare out the window with a somber expression. Hours must go by. Cook comes and goes, but you’re too tense to eat.
It feels like an eternity before you hear the front door open, and it’s only until you hear his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs that you allow yourself to relax.
“Dove?” he calls. You realize he’s on the second floor, having checked the library first. Of course. You’re never in his room. Ludicrously, you hear him head back downstairs—maybe to check the kitchen. His ignorance only makes you even more irrationally angry. By the time he finally moves to come up to his room, you’re pacing again. Coryo just makes it inside the bedroom before you turn on him.
“Where have you been?”
You know your voice is accusatory, but you can’t help it. Coryo stops where he stands, bedroom door still ajar behind him.
He contemplates you, stoking the fire of your anger. You hate it when he stares at you like that—like you’re a problem he’s trying to solve. “I had a meeting after work.”
“And you couldn’t call?”
Mildly, he replies, “I didn’t have the opportunity. I sent Cook—,”
“I don’t care about Cook,” you snap. “She’s not the one wearing the keys to my cage.” Then, slightly quieter, “She’s not even allowed to talk to me.”
Realization dawns across his face, and you hate being understood so easily. Tossing his blazer onto his dresser, Coryo relaxes with a sigh. “I’m sorry, dove. I know I’ve been neglecting you.”
You let out a derisive laugh. “What an irresponsible pet owner you are, hmm?”
He ignores your barb, continuing, “Next week should be better. The new Dean of the Academy—,”
“I don’t care about the new Dean of the Academy,” you interrupt, voice mocking. “I don’t care about the Academy. I don’t care about your job, and I certainly don’t care about this ugly, wretched city.” Your voice raises with every sentence, until it’s something resembling a shout. “Let me go and get me out of this apartment now.”
Your final word almost seems to echo in the air between the two of you, resolute and tense. Coryo’s throat bobs, and he cocks his head like he’s considering his next words very, very carefully. He asks, “Why should I?”
It’s his patronizing tone that does it.
“Because I can’t stand it here!” you explode. “I hate it. I hate the Capitol, I hate the Hunger Games, I hate this apartment and everything in it. I hate watching people below me on the street and I hate waiting for you to come home every fucking evening.” Finally, just to hurt him, you add, “And I hate you.”
Coryo stares at you, observing your tantrum with ease—eyes sharp and shadowed in his stern, calculating way. You haven’t hurt him, that much you can see. You both know it’s a lie. However, you seem to have inspired him. After a beat, the hint of a cold smile curls his lips. He opens his arms, gesturing broadly around him.
“Make it out the front door, then.”
For a moment, the only sound that fills the room is your heavy breathing. He watches you absorb the offer, mind already racing. “What?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Make it out the front door, and I’ll let you go. You can fly all the way back to District 12 if you’d like. I won’t stop you.”
Suddenly, the entire room is reoriented in your mind. It shrinks, and you become hyper-aware of the distance between yourself and the bed, the dresser, the door still half-open across the room. Coryo’s presence in front of it looms like a heavy weight, an insurmountable barrier.
He takes a step closer.
It’s amazing how such a simple motion immediately flushes every inch of your skin. The room is sweltering. Goosebumps erupt along your neck, and you take a step back before you realize what you’re doing. You try to hide it beneath an awkward shuffle, but you know he isn’t that easily fooled.
Coryo’s gaze turns into something visceral, both low-lidded and molten. It’s predatory. Your pulse flutters in response, frantic as a hummingbird’s wing.
“Not interested in my offer?”
You let the silence hang for a moment more before muttering, “Not confident in my odds.” He doesn’t reply, merely cocking an eyebrow. “What do you get if I’m caught?”
The knowing smile that graces his lips is half genuine, half mocking. “You already know the answer to that, dove. Don’t play dumb.”
Be smart about this. You’ve got to look at the facts. Coryo’s bigger than you, he’s stronger than you, and despite his size, he’s still trim—and likely faster than you, too. This is a man with thorough Peacekeeper training. You don’t think for a split second that you can make it past him and to the front door without being caught. Unless… unless you get creative. Unless you get clever.
And you can be clever.
Despite it all, you feel a competitiveness rising within you—even though it’s suicide. Maybe because it’s suicide.
You’re not only prey, after all; you’re a victor.
This time, when Coryo takes a step forward, you do the same—putting yourself closer to the bed. You can’t let him back you into a corner. Coryo’s eyes light up with manic glee when he sees the move, taking it for the consent it is. Do your best, they seem to say.
Yours echo a similar sentiment. Do your worst.
He steps again, and so do you. It’s a dance. Your heart races, and you fight to control your pulse as fear and excitement build in your chest. A few paces more and you’re both on either side of the bed, it being the only thing separating the two of you. Coryo watches you like he wants to eat you alive, and a sick part of yourself wants to let him. You’re hyper-aware of his every move, from the subtle shifting of his feet to the rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to measure his breathing.
Suddenly, he lunges across the bed—but you grip the blanket and yank, sending him off-balance. You don’t stick around long enough to hear him curse, momentarily wrapped up in his own sheets; you’re already darting out the bedroom door, slamming it shut behind you.
You dash down the staircase, not stopping long enough to watch him untangled himself. When you do pause, it’s only to dart onto the 2nd floor. You slip into the open library without a sound.
Not a split second later, you hear Coryo tear open his bedroom door and rush down the staircase—all the way to the first floor.
The library is painfully quiet. You pant, riding the high of adrenaline. You’ve had nearly two months to map this apartment, and you know it like the back of your hand—could probably draw a diagram of it in your sleep.
Somewhere below, Coryo must realize that you’ve alluded him. The silence is haunting. You pause, listening for him—knowing he’s listening for you.
“Little dove,” you hear him call. Still downstairs. “Where have you flown to, hmm?”
A shiver runs down your spine at his sing-song tone. God, if he catches you…
You take a second to calculate your path to the front door. The library is connected to an adjoining den, which has a private bathroom. There’s another bathroom across the hall, accessible by each bedroom on either side.
Logically, Coryo could just wait for you at the bottom of the staircase—but you know him too well to expect that. He’ll want the thrill of chasing you, too impatient to wait for you to creep out of your hiding spot.
As if having heard your thought, you hear the first heavy footstep of him coming back up the staircase.
You shift to the den, dark and only illuminated by the city light streaming in from the open window. You wait to see which he’ll check first—the den or the library.
“Little dove,” he coos again. Second floor, still by the staircase. “You can come out. It’s alright.”
Alright, my ass. You stay frozen, listening to his footsteps. He pauses by the library door, like he’s contemplating—and goes inside.
You tip-toe further into the den, toward the doorway to the hallway.
You hear him checking the library, so you sneak into the hall. You’ll have to pass the library door again. If he goes into the den, you’ll be able to dart by—but what if he comes back out? Your heartbeat races, contemplating the risk. The fear in your gut is just on the edge of pleasure, pulling tightly in your groin. You fight to ignore it.
Finally, Coryo shifts to the den—giving you a chance to sneak back to the staircase, heading to the first floor. You’ll have to get through the living and dining room to make it to the front hallway leading to the door.
It’s probably locked from the outside, you think. Cheating bastard.
But what other hope do you have? You have to make it there—even if it kills you.
Suddenly, you stumble, only just catching yourself on the stair’s railing. A loud thud echoes. You’ve accidentally knocked over a boot strategically hidden right by the bottom step. A signal. A warning. A trap.
You throw a terrified look over your shoulder just in time to see Coryo dart out of the library, pausing momentarily at the top of the staircase to stare at you.
His hair is wild, like he’s been running a tense hand through it. The expression on his face is near frantic. When he catches your eye, it turns into something steely and determined. Darkening in anticipation.
You run.
Darting through the living room, knowing Coryo’s hot on your heels, you round the loveseat and hurtle the slim coffee table in your haste. Then the dining area. He’s close enough that you can hear him panting, beyond taunting—no, he’s honed in. Laser-focused like a predator on the hunt. The thrill of the chase rushes through you. Past the dining area, you finally lay eyes on the front door.
The ordinate hallway runner rug bunches beneath your feet as you dash down the front hallway, almost flailing in your desperation. Coryo is right fucking behind you, and the heavy slap of his feet against the floor echoes in your chest.
You don’t realize until you turn the lock and feel the handle twist in your hand that you truly expected it to be locked from the outside—but it’s too late. You get the door open barely an inch before he’s behind you, using his body weight to slam it back shut. The sudden heat of his body enveloping you is intoxicating, almost distracting—until Coryo yanks you against his chest and away from the haven you felt for only a split second beneath your fingertips.
You scream, trying to twist and kick out of his grip—but Coryo’s strong, so much stronger than you remember. He easily wrenches you away from the door. Your feet flail out, hands clawing at the arms wrapped tightly around your middle.
Unexpectedly, you let your body go lax. The sudden weight makes Coryo stumble enough for you to slip underneath his grip and onto the floor. He follows you, hissing as you kick out and dig your heel painfully into his side.
The runner rug slides against the marble floor as you scramble away from him, but he’s too quick—jerking you back by the ankle. You curse and turn to hit him wherever you can. Coryo crowds against you, pushing until you’re flat on your back and trying to work his hips between your thighs.
Something about the position is so intimate and vulnerable that it makes your chest quiver with the instinctual need to buck and squirm and kick. You do so as if you have any chance of dislodging him. All it does is press you that much harder against him, rubbing your body up as the weight of his pins you to the floor.
Coryo pants hotly above you, and your cunt is so desperately wet that it’s embarrassing. The sudden, overwhelming feeling of helplessness washing over you inflames both your fear and arousal, which mix together like a hand slowly closing around your throat.
You manage to dislodge a knee and twist your body around until Coryo’s pressed against your back, clawing desperately at the runner rug as you try to pry your way out from underneath him. You can feel the firm press of his pelvis against the curve of your ass, the swell of his cock thick and achingly hard. Still, in your struggle, you can’t avoid rubbing back against him—and, with a tortured groan, Coryo digs his teeth into the sensitive spot where the back of your neck meets your shoulder.
You yelp and jerk once before going still, shuddering as Coryo keeps nipping at the spot. He succeeds in getting a leg between your own, one hand pinning you at the hip while the other comes up to grip your nearest wrist, pressing it tightly against the rug. He leaves your other arm free, chest pressing firmly enough to your back to keep you almost completely immobilized.
Coryo nudges his knee up until your hips lift, slipping his hand between you and the rug. He shoves his hand into your panties before you even register his intent. With a shriek, you come back to life and start twisting again—but it’s too late. You’re too thoroughly pinned, the fight too bled out of you to do any good.
He cups your mound, toying with the seam of your pussy before dipping further down to wet his fingers. The knee braced between your thighs keeps you from trapping his hand, and you gasp brokenly when his fingers come up to stroke your clit.
The pleasure is too sharp, your body immediately submitting to the rough circles against your sensitive flesh. You’re too pinned to even shift your hips, although your fingers still grip weakly at the runner rug beneath you. Only a few feet away, the front door looms—a mocking reminder of how close you came to freedom.
“So fucking wet,” Coryo snarls, still nipping at the skin of your shoulder. “All for me.”
Not dignifying him with a response, you try to muffle the grunts forced from your throat. His hold on your wrist tightens, bruises blooming underneath his fingers. Coryo doesn’t comment on your silence, only shifts until he can maneuver the hand pleasuring you further down to tease the entrance of your cunt. Panic and excitement fight for dominance in your throat.
“Coryo.” A sob builds in your chest. “Fuck, wait—,”
He tuts, not unkindly—but he slips a finger in anyway, slow and methodical against the frantic bucking of your hips. He brings his chin up to whisper in your ear, “S’alright, dove. I’ve got you.”
The feeling of him inside of you is startling in its newness, but it sends a bolt of heat so filthy up your spine that you can’t help but moan. Instinctively, you widen your thighs to ease the pressure—making it easier for him to press even deeper.
“That’s it,” he breathes, tone soothing and nearly reverent. “You’re doing such a good job for me.”
The praise makes you clench around his finger, and he muffles his laughter against your skin while slowly thrusting in and out.
It’s sinful how right it feels to be full of him. Coryo works in a second finger, and while the initial stretch makes you wince, he presses wet kisses against the nape of your neck until you relax again. His fingers are slender but long, reaching as far as they can in the awkward position. They feel so much better than your own.
Your thighs start to tremble, the pleasure of clenching around his deft fingers slicking your cunt more than ever before. You know he can tell, murmuring more encouragement right into the shell of your ear. “Is that good? You like me stuffing your pussy?”
Shut up, you want to say, hating the way his filthy mouth makes the heat in your cunt even more unbearable.
Coryo slips in a third finger without missing a beat, making you groan and bite at your lips. The addition makes it easier for him to press the heel of his palm against your clit, adding to your pleasure. Your hips grind against his hand without permission, jerking when he starts to pick up the pace. The grunts leaving your lips turn into whines and whimpers as the pleasure starts to build.
“Greedy little thing. Let it all out.” Coryo presses his nose against your cheek, and you’re filled with the insane urge to turn your head, to press your lips against his—but luckily, you still have the mind to resist.
Instead, you press one cheek flat against the runner rug and try to avoid the inevitable. It’s no use, of course; Coryo takes to your body like it’s a test he’s determined to ace, and he’s nothing but a thorough student. The added stretch of his fingers filling your pussy get you there quicker, until your cries turn desperate and high-pitched. Unable to resist, you start struggling again—and it makes Coryo moan, loving the chance to pin you to the floor even harder, sink his fingers into you even deeper.
“That’s it,” he pants. “I can tell you’re so fucking close.”
“No,” you sob, trembling in his hold. “No—fuck!”
But the heat building in your stomach burns hotter and hotter, until your entire body trembles. It’s a pleasure that goes bone-deep, skirting along your spine and weakening you at the knees. Coryo keeps grinding the heel of his palm against your clit, and the rhythmic pressure continues to push you further and further toward the abyss.
You feel tears start to build, crying out as he finally pushes you over the edge. The noise you make is that of a wounded animal, head going fuzzy at the force of your orgasm. You feel Coryo’s lips against your ear, sensitive and shivery all at once.
“That’s it,” he rasps, voice sounding almost more wrecked than your own. “Keep clenching around my fingers—fuck.”
It goes on forever, Coryo dragging it out until you’re struggling again in sensitivity. After a long minute, he relaxes above you and slips his hand out of your panties, bracing it near your head to avoid putting his full weight on you.
Only the sound of your mutual panting fills the space. Then, standing, Coryo gathers you up and off the floor, semi-supporting you.
You’re too disoriented to put up another fight, but Coryo doesn’t take you far—only into the adjoining sitting room, where the couch is nuzzled in the corner nearest to the fireplace. He lays you out, immediately draping himself across your body and slotting his hips between your thighs. The plush upholstery is a welcome change to the rough runner rug, feeling almost silky against your skin.
He kisses you, hard and firm against your lips. He’s pressed so close that you can feel his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. He tears it off and exposes his bare skin. Mindlessly, you can’t help but admire him. He takes a moment to ruck your shirt up until he’s able to slip it over your head, throwing it some unknown place behind him. Your bottoms and panties go next, until you’re completely bare.
It’s not the technically first time he’s seen you naked, but you’re never used to it—never used to the feral glint in his eyes, the intense way they drag across your skin like a physical weight. You bring an arm up to cover your exposed chest, but he reaches down to pin it above your head. After a moment of hesitation, he does the same to the other arm—turning to press the backs of your hands against the couch, he intertwines your fingers.
The intimacy of it makes you want to cover your face and hide, but Coryo’s made that impossible. No, he’s carved open a space inside of you for himself, and nothing you do will ever close it. He’s made sure of that.
He kisses you again. You can feel the drag of his chest against your achingly hard nipples, shuddering at the strange sensitivity that only he can bring out in you. He leaves your hands to cup your jaw, sliding a hand down your neck until he’s cupping your breast.
He squeezes, brushing his thumb against your nipple. The jolt makes you pull your head back far enough to moan. Coryo chases the sound with his mouth, reconnecting your lips— pinching your nipple in punishment. This time, you arch and cry out against his mouth.
His takes his hand away, but you’re too preoccupied with kissing him to notice or care. You’re stretched out on the long couch completely, Coryo hovering just above you. He’s braced up on his knee, one foot still planted on the floor.
You don’t realize Coryo’s been pushing his slacks down until you feel his cock hot and stiff against the skin of your inner thigh. Looking down, you catch sight of it—thick in his hand, pulsing swollen and red at the tip. It’s a cock as pretty as he is, base nuzzled in a patch of curly, dark blond hair. But the size of it—surely that can’t all be going inside of you. It’s girth nearly dwarfs that of his three slender fingers.
“That’s not going in,” you find the strength to mutter, and Coryo has the audacity to laugh at your completely serious declaration.
“It is,” he coos. A bead of pre-cum drips and catches on the rim of his cock head, and Coryo uses it to help slick himself. “And you’ll love every second of it.”
Shuffling closer, he braces himself on the arm rest of the couch as he presses flush against you. His cock bobs and nudges your pussy, making you shudder at the overstimulation. Smiling with malicious intent, Coryo takes the base of his cock in hand to rub it along your swollen, wet pussy.
“Wait,” you gasp, pushing weakly at his shoulder. “I’m so sensitive, please—,”
He hums, ignoring you. His cock head presses harder against your clit, shaft rubbing up and down your cunt as he gets himself nice and slick. The sound it makes is obscene, and your gut twists. You feel the tip of his cock nudge your entrance, and it sends shivers down your spine—it makes your legs shake, trembling as he starts pushing in to you inch by inch.
The breath is punched out of your lungs, jaw hanging open as he fills you. The burning stretch is so good that you feel delirious, stuffed full of his fat fucking cock. Even clenching around it sends you reeling, slick walls gripping the rock hard stretch of his shaft as he works himself deeper. It feels like a lifetime until his hips press flush against your skin. He lets out a pained groan at how hot and tight you are, bringing one hand down to grip your hip and keep you steady.
“S’too much,” you mumble, pussy pulsing helplessly around him. You twitch in his grasp, and each time his pelvis brushes your clit, a bolt of electricity goes up your spine. Then, he starts to thrust.
Nothing prepares you for the torturous drag in and out as Coryo moves, almost slipping out before pushing forward again.
“I wish you could see yourself right now,” he moans, fighting for composure. “Such a good little slut for me, wrapped around my cock so tight.”
Coryo fucks you like he’s devoted to you, like he wants your pleasure painted on his skin. The rhythm he builds is sinful, one arm still braced on the armrest, the other touching you in any place he can reach. The heat of it claws through you until all you can do is wrap your arms around his neck, dragging him as close as possible.
Coryo submits to the new position, mouthing at your shoulder as his thrusts become more violent. He’s plastered completely to your front, hips starting a filthy grind as you wrap your legs around his waist.
It’s then that his thrusts start angling against your upper walls, dragging across a spot inside of you that makes your eyes cross. The cry you let out is nearly manic, so overwhelmed by the intense pleasure that it borders on pain. Your thighs clench around his waist, desperate to slow him down.
His hips stutter for a moment before Coryo resumes, angling for that spot again and again. “Is that it? Right fucking there?”
You can only whimper, jaw hanging open. You clutch at him desperately, keeping him pressed flush against you just as an anchor for the overwhelming pleasure. This close, his pelvis can grind deliciously against your clit.
It’s so hot that your body feels molten, slick with sweat. It should be disgusting, but something about it only multiplies your arousal. Your nails dig into the bare skin of Coryo’s back, and he hisses at the sudden pain. He presses his face into your neck and starts mouthing at your damp skin, too dazed to nip and bite.
You squirm weakly underneath him in a way that does nothing more than rub your clit harder, developing a bit of a rhythm. The two of you move together like animals, all slick heat and feral need. When the pleasure starts to really build, a pulse of fear jolts your chest. You can’t cum like this—you can’t cum with his cock spearing you open, so thick that pulsing around it almost feels impossible.
“I can’t,” you gasp. “Please, don’t make me—,”
You’re cut off by a particularly hard thrust, whining into his neck as he keeps fucking into you like a machine. You try to push him back, to claw your way up and away from his hips—but he’s too heavy above you, teeth dragging along your skin as a dangerous reminder against your throat.
“Take it,” he hisses. “Just fucking take it, yes—that’s it.”
Coryo manages to shift until he can slip a hand down your stomach, using his thumb to flick and rub at your clit. He takes advantage of how spread his cock has you, leaving your clit vulnerably exposed. Spots begin to gather in your vision. Every stroke pushes you closer to the edge, until you’re jerking uncontrollably and creaming his cock.
“Please,” you sob. “Coryo—please, please.”
The pleasure building in your stomach snaps. You lurch forward, straining against him with all your might—but he does nothing except press you more firmly into the cushion. It’s kaleidoscopic, how you can feel the pleasure of clenching around his thick cock everywhere—in your throat, in your knees, skating along your sensitive nipples. The grunt you let out is rough enough to hurt your throat. At first, that’s all you’re able to do—until, after a ragged breath, you’re finally able to let out a hoarse scream.
“That’s it,” you hear him say over the blood rushing in your ears. “Good fucking girl.”
The waves crash into you relentlessly, and that’s exactly how Coryo fucks you through it—thoroughly, lips pressed tight against your neck. Your entrance is so sensitive that you’re close to shaking apart, feet kicking out helplessly as you cum, tremble, and clench around him.
Mercifully, he stops rubbing your clit—but it’s only to balance himself better as he fucks you harder, chasing his own high. It leaves your slick clit open to the rough press of his pelvis, becoming feral and manic as your pussy milks him.
You’re beyond speech, lips pitifully tracing his name as he pounds you. His thrusts turn erratic, and the tears balancing on your waterline finally break free as he muffles harsh grunts against your skin.
He cums a handful of thrusts later, and you go shivery with the hot feeling of it. He grinds himself into you, buried as deep as he can be. Your clit throbs to the hammering of your pulse, so oversensitive that it sends more tears cascading down your cheeks. After a long minute, Coryo finally stills and goes lax.
It’s a strange sensation, feeling him soften inside of you. The full weight of his body crushes you to the couch, but it’s a welcome pressure—it grounds you, keeping you from floating away entirely. Clumsily, Coryo brings a hand up to stroke gently at your hair, face still buried in your neck. You still twitch underneath him, occasionally wracked by aftershocks of your orgasm. Your thighs stay tight against his hips, nothing less than the Jaws of Life necessary to pry them apart.
In that moment, the two of you can do nothing but pant wetly against each other’s skin. You don’t know how long you lie there intertwined on the most intimate level. Definitely too long, if your sore muscles and tacky skin are an indicator.
Coryo comes back to himself slowly, nuzzling your neck. It turns into sweet kisses, soothing over the bruised skin. “I need a shower,” he mutters, nosing under your ear.
“I need an ambulance,” you croak back, voice raw with overuse. “I can’t feel my legs.”
He laughs, and the sudden puff of air sends goosebumps across your skin. Without the heat of exertion filling your body, the parts of you not covered by Coryo start to feel the chill of the room.
He shifts, pawing at the throw blanket folded stylishly across the back of the couch. When he finally grabs hold of it, he does what he can to drape it over you both. His motions shift his softening cock inside of you, and that shivery feeling comes back. The vulnerable pleasure is almost too much, sweet in a quiet, muted way.
Coryo settles back, humming in content. The exhaustion of the evening is too much for the both of you—it overcomes the cooling sweat on your skin, the cum threatening to leak onto the expensive upholstery.
You don’t want to move; you just want him to hold you exactly as he is. You want to stay there forever, surrounded by him—invaded by him, in every delicious way. Pressing his lips against your collarbone, he whispers, “I love you.”
And he does, in his strange, disjointed, obsessive way. There’s a cavern in your chest, wide and dark around your heart. His space, the one you deny him—the one he’ll never let you close without a fight.
“I…” you breathe, words catching in your throat. He goes still above you, waiting and listening. “I want… to go with you to your next banquet.”
You can’t say it—not yet. I love you; I’ve loved you all this time. I’ll love you for as long as you’ll have me.
But Coryo recognizes what you do say as the concession it is. A promise to behave. An acknowledgement of submission.
Maybe you’ll actually win back your door privileges.
“I’d like that,” he replies, holding you that much tighter. And, for the first time, you allow yourself to melt into his touch. “I’d like that a lot.”