The Collar She Cast

Her fingers left him in one slow draw, and the loss was obscene. The ring tried to follow, clutching at nothing, fluttering shut around air that still felt shaped like her. A wet sound broke from him, small and helpless, and then the cold of the studio found the slick she had left behind. He clenched on emptiness. The muscle seized, failed, seized again, and each failed close made his cock jump and spill another hot thread onto the floor between his spread knees.

Leather answered him. Not the cuff already biting his wrist. New leather. The dry slide of a strap through a buckle, the soft punch of a prong finding a hole, a second buckle drawn tight against a body that was not his. He knew the sound the way he knew a tray being set. She was arming herself. Sightless, cheek mashed to the pad, collar snug under the lead she had not let go of for more than the length of a breath, he understood exactly what was coming for him, and the understanding went through his hole like a fist. It clamped on nothing and would not stop clamping. His cock throbbed so hard the denial hurt, a thick pulse that had nowhere to go, and the leak thickened, shame-hot, tapping his own shin.

He heard her gather the lubricant. The jar lid. Then the wet, unhurried work of her hand on silicone, stroke after stroke, slicking a length he could not see and could already feel in the clench of his gut. Seven inches lived in his mind because she had told him, once, in that low voice that never needed to rise. Modest girth. Blunt. A slight curve meant for the place her fingers had already ruined him against. Hearing her prepare it was worse than seeing it would have been. The surgeon in him tried to measure, to predict the diameter against the stretch she had already given him, and the measuring failed. There was only the sound of her fist working the shaft until it shone, and the lead tugging once, a reminder that even his waiting ran through her hand.

"Stay open," she said.

He tried. The ring betrayed him anyway, drawing tight in a reflex that had nothing left to do with choice. Pride, or what was left of it, lived in that muscle now. Everything else had already gone. His shoulders were down. His voice was gone rough. He was leaking onto her floor because she had decided he would, and the decision was still hers.

The blunt head found him without warning he could use. Cool silicone, thick with the same slick that had shocked him earlier, pressed to the glistening rim and stayed there. Not a jab. A placement. She set it the way she set a tool against hot metal, exact, and held. The crown was wider than her three fingers. He felt the difference at once, a broader insistence flattening the tight ring, asking it to become a mouth. His body answered with refusal. The muscle cinched, burning, a bright line of no that his mind had not authorized and could not cancel. The head nudged, seated against the clamp, and did not enter. Pressure built. His thighs shook in the cuffs' reach. Pre-cum swung from him in a strand he could feel cooling as it lengthened.

Her hands closed on his hips. Callused palms. Foundry strength. Thumbs dug into the hollows above his ass and held him still so he could not flinch off the pressure or chase it.

"Breathe out for me." The same low order she had used on his pride all night, stripped of everything but the next inch. "Push back onto me. Don't take it. Give it."

He dragged air in through his teeth and let it go in a broken rush, and on the exhale he did what she had said. He bore down and pushed his hips back into her grip, offering the ring she was already splitting. The head breached on that push. Not all at once. The rim stretched over the blunt crown in a hot, stubborn crawl, millimeter by millimeter, the burn flaring wider than her hand had ever made it. He made a sound he did not recognize, low in his chest, and the collar held the sound against his throat. She did not rush the widest part. She kept the pressure even, her hips answering his push with a patient forward lean, and the ring fought, fluttered, then yielded around the flare with a deep muscular give he felt in his spine and his cock at the same time.

The head popped through. The burn peaked and changed, becoming a thick internal occupation, the shaft following into heat that gripped and dragged. She sank by fractions. He felt each one: the ring cinched behind the crown, the slick length feeding in, the slight upward curve beginning to ride the front wall where her fingers had kept him ruined and denied. His knees tried to buckle. The bench took his weight. His wrists pulled once against the rings and found no hiding in them. Fullness climbed past what a hand could be. Past knuckles, past the scissoring ache, into something that occupied him, that had weight and intention and did not pause to let him perform competence at it.

She did not stop until the curve seated. He felt the moment it did — a deep, blunt pressure against the gland, heavier than her fingertips, inescapable — and then the base of the harness met him, leather and her body flush to his ass, buried to the hilt. All of it. Inside.

Both of them went still.

He was split. Shaking. The shaft held him open in a way her hand never had, a continuous fullness from the burning rim to the place the curve pressed, and every involuntary clench only confirmed how completely he had taken her. Pride had nowhere left to stand. He could not measure this. He could not direct it. He could only shake around the length she had put in him and leak, cock untouched, swinging, throbbing in time with the pulse he could feel in his own stretched hole. The blindfold was wet against the pad. The lead was taut in her fist. He was kept, filled, and the decision was still not his.

She felt all of it from the other side. The harness ground the base hard against her clit, a thick, living pressure every time his body clenched and dragged on the shaft seated in him. Heat came up through the silicone in pulses — his pulse — and the grip of him was not passive. It worked. It fluttered and seized and softened and seized again, a muscular truth she could read better than any word he might have managed. Her forearms stayed corded where she held his hips. She did not thrust. She let the stillness teach them both the depth.

"All of me," she said, and the praise was quiet, exact, the voice she used when a form had opened without cracking. "You took all of me. Stay there. Feel how full you are. You don't get to move until I say the muscle can."

He answered with a broken sound and another helpless clench, and she held him at the hilt, unmoving, while the grind against her clit and the shake in his thighs became the only facts either of them was allowed to know.

She drew back the first inch and his body tried to keep her. The ring, already burned open around the shaft, tightened in a reflex that had nothing left of choice in it, gripping silicone as if pride could still close what she had claimed. Marcus felt the drag in his gut, a slick hot pull along the swollen muscle, the slight upward curve riding the front wall on the way out so that the pressure on his prostate did not leave him even as she withdrew. When she stopped with the blunt head lodged just inside the ring, he made a sound that would have ended him in any other room — thin, open, stripped of the clipped voice that gave orders all day.

Sabine read the clench through the harness. Not by looking. By the way the living grip seized the shaft and the way his thighs shook against the leather pad. The lead stayed in her fist against his hip. She pushed back in, slow, the full length returning in one continuous press until the base met him and she was buried again. The grind of the harness against her clit was immediate, a mean bright shock she did not chase yet. She stayed a moment, feeling him flutter and clamp, then drew out longer, until he felt emptied and then split all over again on the return.

“There,” she said, low, when the curve seated and his cock jumped, untouched, spilling another thread onto the floor. “That. I feel you take it.”

He could not answer with words. The blindfold had already taken the room; now the stroke took the rest. Each slow drive shoved the air out of him in a rough rush. Each withdrawal dragged a helpless clench up his spine and into his throat. His wrists pulled once against the cuffs and found the iron rings unmoved, so the shame of being held open had nowhere to go but deeper into the heat of being filled. He was a man who decided for other people where to cut. Here his hole decided for him, gripping, yielding, gripping again, and the decision was hers.

She set a pace that was not gentle and not cruel yet — deep, unhurried, the whole length every time, the head nudging his prostate on the inward stroke and the curve milking it on the way back out. His channel burned around her in pulses. She felt each one through the harness, a living squeeze that traveled into the base and ground her clit harder against the leather. Heat gathered low in her belly, mean and rising, and she let it build without hurrying her hips. Bronze dust was still on her forearms. Her palms stayed sure on his hips, thumbs pressing the hollows above the bone so he could not rock back and steal the rhythm.

“Don’t help me,” she said. “You don’t get to work for it. You take what I give.”

The order landed in the place he had been starving to be useless. His shoulders, locked all day under other people’s fear, tried to drop and found the chest pad already holding them down. He stopped pushing back. The next stroke went deeper for it, or felt deeper, the blunt head finding the end of him and staying until his thighs trembled and pre-cum swung from the tip of his cock in a shining string.

She reached under him with one slick hand.

The lubricant on her palm was still cool against the fever of his shaft. He jerked, a full-body flinch that clenched him so hard around the cock inside him that she had to pause, buried, and breathe through the sudden grind against her clit. Her fingers closed around him — not a stroke yet, just a hold, callused palm to hot skin, thumb resting under the head where he was wet and oversensitive. His cock throbbed in her fist, thick, humiliatingly eager, leaking over her knuckles.

“Look at you,” she said, though he could not look at anything. “Hard from being opened. Dripping because I haven’t even touched you until now.”

She stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, in time with a deep thrust that drove the curve over his prostate. The two sensations collided low in his groin — external glide and internal pressure — and his voice broke into a raw sound that was almost her name and almost nothing. His hips tried to fuck her hand. She took the hand away at once.

“No.”

The denial was quiet. It wrecked him more than a shout would have. His cock kicked in the empty air, the almost-pleasure snapping back into ache, and the strap-on stayed seated so the ache had a center. She waited until the frantic clench eased into a shaky grip, then gave him the hand again, two strokes, three, slicking him with his own leak, thumb circling the head until his knees threatened to buckle against the bench and his breath came in broken pulls.

She stopped again.

“Please,” he said, and the word was already fraying. “Sabine. Please.”

“Not yet.” She fucked him through the plea, deeper, the pace picking up now — not frantic, relentless, each stroke long enough to empty and fill him, the curved shaft riding that swollen gland until his stomach clenched and more pre-cum spilled over her waiting fingers. “You feel that? That’s mine. You don’t come until I say the muscle can.”

Praise and depth traded places in him until he could not tell them apart. Good, she murmured, when he took a harder thrust without bracing. Open. Hers. Then she drove in to the hilt and held, grinding the base in small circles so the head pressed his prostate without mercy, and her hand returned to edge him — tight, slick, three strokes that dragged him to the brink where his balls drew up and his hole fluttered wildly around her — and then gone again, leaving him shaking, cock pulsing, denied.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked into sound with no shape. The surgeon was gone. What was left begged. “Please let me. Please, I need— I can’t hold it, I can’t—”

“You can,” she said, and her own voice had gone rough. The harness was grinding her clit on every stroke now, a steady mean pressure that had climbed from shock into something that owned her hips. Heat sat low and tight behind her pubic bone. Her thighs burned from the pace. She felt herself getting close in the way she trusted: not a thought, a gathering, the base of the cock slick with his body and her own wetness soaking the leather where it pressed her. She read him the same way she read metal near the point of opening — the tremor that meant yield, the clamp that meant he was about to break, the ragged exhale that was no longer performance.

She locked the angle.

Short thrusts now, ruthless, not pulling out past the widest part, just working the curve over his prostate in tight, grinding drives that never let the pressure leave him. Her hand left his cock entirely. He sobbed at the loss and then the milking took him somewhere past it, a deep internal stroke that made his untouched shaft jump and leak in thick pulses onto the floor without her fingers. The ring gripped and released, gripped and released, no pride left in the muscle, only the reflex of being used exactly where he was most open.

“Now,” she said, buried, hips locked, grinding through the rise of her own climax. “Come. Don’t touch it. Shatter for me. You don’t decide anything. You just break.”

The command hit the gland and his cock at the same time. His orgasm tore out of him untouched, violent, a full-body seizure that started where she was pressed inside him and ripped forward. Thick pulses stripe the floor and the inside of his thigh, his shaft jerking in the air, each spurt dragged out of him by the short ruthless thrusts she did not stop. His hole clamped down so hard around the silicone that she felt it in her clit, a living squeeze that shoved her over. She came with her forehead against his shoulder blade, grinding, staying buried, the pleasure mean and bright and shaking through her thighs while she kept the angle and milked him through every pulse.

“Good,” she said, voice broken open against his skin, still moving in those small deep grinds as her climax rolled and his kept tearing out of him. “Good. You’re mine. You didn’t have to decide a single thing.”

He came until it hurt, until the pulses turned thin and his voice was only breath and wrecked sound, until his arms shook in the cuffs and his chest stuck to the pad with sweat. She stayed inside him through all of it, the harness base pressed hard to her clit, riding the aftershocks by not leaving, feeling him flutter and clench around the shaft in helpless after-grips. Her own pleasure ebbed in slow waves that still ground her against him. Neither of them moved to separate. The lead was still in her fist. He was still full, split, shaking, leaking the last of it, and she was still seated to the hilt in the heat she had opened, both of them wrecked and joined, the only fact left in either body the weight of her staying exactly where she had put herself.