Chapter Ten

Sebastian

I have a fucking boyfriend. The thought spins around in my mind like a whirling dervish, obliterating any sense of clarity. The gorgeous Viking bastard and Dungeon Master Jackson Maguire is mine. And I am his. And now I'm in bed with him, sucking on his beautiful cock for the second time in one night!

His pierced beast begins to harden in my grasp, finding its strength again as I lavish it with the ardent love of my lips and tongue. Before long it's as hard as forged steel, and I can't help myself. With a mischievous wink at my moaning brute, I mount him—taking control. With his cock in my hungry mouth, and my needy ass hovering above his face, I foresee an early act four.

"What's this?" Jack asks.

And I thrill, careful not to bite down as a resounding smack sings across my inked ass.

"I didn't know you were serving hors d'oeuvres."

I moan as my Master spreads my cheeks and buries his face between, his hot tongue seeking the very depths of me as he penetrates and loves my quivering hole. Is there anything he can't do? I wonder, lost to the sensation of a mouthful of cock, and an assful of tongue.

It's not long before my master's fingers find their way inside of me, pumping my prostate with wicked precision as his free hand cups and massages my achingly firm sac.

I groan around his cock, the words "oh my God" sounding like nothing more than a pack-raped jumble of syllables.

My knees feel like they're going to buckle under me as wave after delicious wave of pleasure assaults me. But I can't bow or break. Or I'll be impaled, spit-roasted between his cock down my throat and his hand up my ass.

"That's it, pet," he soothes, another two fingers working their way inside me.

I gasp around his cock, driven to double my efforts and deep-throat him, allowing him to butcher my throat until he reaches his own ecstasy. At this angle his thick eight inches hits my gag reflex repeatedly, but I force it down, bending it to my will with trained prowess. You don't learn to be a true submissive without knowing how to take a big cock and relax your throat for a pounding.

"Yes. Fucking Jesus," Jackson swears as he raises his hips to slam me harder.

But I can take the abuse. And I love it.

Soon his huge bloody tattooed fist is silent ducking its way up my ass, and it's been so long that it feels like I'm being split in two. I feel so full. There's just so much inside me, it's almost too much to bear. Tears leak from my eyes as I'm ravaged by a sickening combination of pain and pleasure.

Our conversation from earlier comes roaring back. There's a fine line between pleasure and pain. And it's so abundantly true. Every inch of me wants to escape the deluge of torment against my body, and yet in the very same breath is pushing back, begging like a slut for more.

"Fuck!" I scream around him, as his hot cream fills my throat—forcing me to swallow like a demon on speed just to combat gravity—and the deepest, most horrific orgasm I've ever experienced steamrolls me. Mind, body, and spirit. I'm fucking floored.

Somewhere in the distance I can hear Jackson's voice—it sounds concerned and insistent, but I can't make out what he's saying. There's just darkness. Nothing but darkness, and a shrill, piercing, yet deafening silence that suffocates me, leaving me breathless and panicking within myself. It's Heaven and Hell all at once. I'm trapped, seemingly frozen between one heartbeat and the next. I've never felt anything like it in my life and I'm scared.

****

When I open my eyes next, the room is bright, the red glow gone, and every fucking inch of me feels so used that I don't know where I begin or where I end.

"Sebastian."

I blink again as my eyes adjust to the light. My throat feels dry. "Jackson?"

Then he's there, raising me up carefully, cradling me against his body, an open bottle of water pressed to my lips. "Drink," he says. "You gave me a fucking heart attack."

Without thought, I obey, sipping at the cool, refreshing liquid, before raising my hand to wipe my mouth. "What happened?" I ask, a strange and elusive lightheadedness still clouding my thoughts.

"More," he commands, without answering my question.

Again, I drink. Each small sip revitalizing me. I sigh and lick my lips when a third of the bottle is gone.

Jackson tosses the still mostly full bottle off the bed. No shits given. "How do you feel?" he asks, his brilliant baby blues searching mine.

I shrug in his arms. "I guess … dizzy. Not all here yet," I answer. "I feel light and heavy at the same time. It's bizarre."

"You had some kind of fucking seizure," says Jackson, worry etched on his features. "You came like a fucking firehose, bucking and gagging all at once. Then you went all fucking rag doll on me. You just collapsed, floppy as shit, like a broken doll. I called the fucking ambulance. They're on the way."

"Jesus Christ," I breathe, laying my palm against my forehead. "What the fuck? I'm in perfect health."

"Apparently not," says Jackson, brushing my black locks from my eyes.

Swallowing against the pain in my throat, I smile weakly. "I really wish you hadn't called the ambulance.

And then the Dungeon Master is back, his unmistakable brand of authority and dominance fills the room. "We take no chances here, love. This wasn't your run-of-the-mill subspace zone-out. Something's wrong, and I won't have any patron of The Dungeon not properly cared for, especially my damn boyfriend."

A chuckle bubbles out of me as I reach up to touch his face. "You called me your boyfriend," I tease.

"Watch it, brat," says Jackon, humor lightening his tone. "I'm still your damn master. Don't fuck with me."

I almost laugh at that, at the playfulness hidden behind my Jack's brutish exterior. But then the door to our private room bursts open and a team of trained paramedics storm in, swarming me like crazed ants fighting over a sugar-glazed donut.