Chapter 39 : A Singer Skill and Submission
New York, Manhattan, Greenwich village – Alex's POV
The silence in the studio stretched, a taut wire between us, vibrating with the echo of my challenge. Her green eyes, wide and shimmering with a conflict I could taste in the air, held mine. I saw the war within her—propriety against desire, friendship against a darker, more compelling need. My own pulse was a steady, controlled drumbeat. I had laid the terms bare. The next move was hers, and I would wait.
A shallow tremor ran through her. I watched it travel from her shoulders down her arms to the hands that were clenched at her sides. Her gaze dropped from my face, down my chest, lower, and then flicked back up, a flash of pure, unvarnished hunger there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. But I didn't imagine things. My memory was perfect.
Her fingers, pale and trembling slightly, rose to the hem of her faded band tee. She didn't look at me as she gripped the soft fabric and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid, almost resigned motion. It fell to the dusty stage with a whisper. The air caught in my throat, not at the sight of her breasts, lush and pale and tipped with rosy peaks that were already hardening in the cool air, but at the sheer, breathtaking surrender of the gesture. She stood before me in just her jeans, her skin glowing in the dim light, a sacrifice laid upon an altar she'd built herself.
She didn't stop. Her fingers went to the button of her jeans, fumbling for a second before it gave way. The rasp of the zipper was obscenely loud. She pushed the denim down over her hips, her thighs, letting them pool around her ankles before she stepped out of them, kicking them aside with a small, determined motion. Now she was bare, standing in the center of the stage, her fiery hair a stark contrast to her milky skin. She was perfection. And she was mine for the taking.
Her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. She still wouldn't look at me.
"Look at me, Mary Jane," I commanded, my voice low but absolute.
Her eyes, dark with a mix of fear and fierce want, snapped to mine.
"Now kneel."
A soft, almost imperceptible sound escaped her lips. It wasn't a protest. It was acceptance. She sank to her knees on the worn floorboards, the position making her back arch slightly, pushing her chest forward. She was presenting herself. Offering herself. The submission was so complete it was like a physical blow.
I closed the distance between us, my boots scuffing softly on the wood. I stood over her, looking down at the crown of her red hair. The scent of her, a mix of nervous sweat and her faint, sweet perfume, filled my lungs. I cupped her chin, forcing her head to tilt back further, her neck exposed and vulnerable. Her eyes were glistening, her lips parted.
"Please," she whispered, the word ragged and raw. "Alex… please use me for your pleasure. I'm yours. However you want."
A dark satisfaction coiled in my gut. "However I want?" I repeated, letting the promise of it hang heavy in the air.
"However you want," she breathed, her voice gaining a sliver of strength, of conviction. "My mouth. My body. It's all for you."
I let my thumb stroke the line of her jaw. "Such a pretty, willing thing. My pretty thing." I saw her shudder at the possessiveness in my tone. "Open your mouth."
She obeyed instantly, her lips parting. I traced the pad of my thumb over her lower lip, feeling the soft, wet heat within. A low moan vibrated against my skin. I withdrew my thumb and unbuckled my belt, the metallic clink sounding like a gunshot in the silent room. I didn't hurry. I made her watch, made her wait, her eyes fixed on my every movement with a kind of rapt fascination.
When I freed myself, her gaze dropped, and a sharp, choked gasp tore from her throat. Her eyes widened, not in fear, but in awe. Yes. She understood the challenge. She saw the sheer, impossible size of me, and the flicker in her eyes was pure, unadulterated lust.
"Do you see what you asked for?" I murmured, fisting my hand around my aching length, giving her a slow, explicit preview. "This is what you beg for. This is what will ruin you for anyone else."
"I want it," she moaned, her voice already sounding wrecked. "God, Alex, I want it so much. Please. Let me taste you."
I stepped closer, the head of my cock brushing against her parted lips. She flinched at the contact, a tiny, involuntary reaction, but didn't pull away. Her tongue darted out, a shy, tentative lick at the tip. The sensation was electric. Her eyes fluttered closed.
"Eyes on me," I growled, my control tightening like a vise. "You look at me while you do this. You watch what you do to me."
Her green eyes snapped open, locking onto mine with difficult focus. She leaned forward, her mouth opening wider, struggling to take me in. The heat of her mouth was an incredible, wet pressure. She managed just the head, her lips stretching around me. A ragged groan was torn from my chest. Her tongue swirled, tasting me, and her muffled whimper of pleasure was the most erotic sound I'd ever heard.
"That's it," I praised, my voice rough and commanding. "Just like hitting that high note in your songs, my pet. You know how to use that perfect, filthy mouth of yours. Take more of me. Swallow me deeper."
Her green eyes locked onto mine, wide with a mix of effort and desire. She pushed further, her lips stretching around me, trembling with the strain but refusing to back down. Her gag reflex fought her, but she held firm, just as she did when she pushed her voice to its limits on stage. A low moan escaped her, muffled but unmistakable, the sound vibrating through me like a chord struck at just the right pitch. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, one escaping to trace a path down her cheek.
The sight of her—her struggle, her unwavering obedience—was almost enough to shatter my control. "Look at you," I growled, my hand tightening in her hair. "My perfect singer, my perfect whore. You were made for this." She whimpered, the sound caught between pain and pleasure, but she didn't stop. Her mouth worked harder, taking more of me, her tongue swirling with practiced precision. I could feel her body shaking, her determination as fierce as her surrender.
"Good girl," I murmured, my tone dark with approval. "Just like that. Show me how much you want it. How much you need it." And she did. With every movement, every muffled sound, she proved herself to be everything I knew she could be.
I let her work, let her find a rhythm, her head bobbing slowly, her saliva making a wet, messy sound each time she moved. The pleasure was a white-hot coil in my gut, but I held it back, a dam against a torrent. I reached down and tangled my fingers in her thick red hair, not pushing, just holding. Guiding.
"You were made for this, Mary Jane," I told her, watching her lips stretch obscenely around me. "Born to suck my cock. Look at you. You can't even take half of me and you're already drowning in it."
She whimpered, the sound trapped in her throat, her eyes pleading. For what? More? Mercy? It didn't matter.
I felt the end approaching, an unstoppable tide. I tightened my grip in her hair, just a fraction, a warning. "I'm going to come now. You're going to swallow every last drop. And you're going to keep your eyes on me while you do it. You don't get to look away from what you've done."
Her eyes widened, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. But she didn't close them. She held my burning gaze, her submission absolute.
I decided to use Pleasure Lock to make sure she wouldn't orgasm before swallowing my cum. Her body jolted as she felt the invisible restraint seize her, a desperate, confused sound escaping her. The denial would make the eventual reward so much sweeter. For both of us.
The moment hung in the air, electric and charged, like the silence before a storm. She was on her knees before me, trembling, her green eyes locked onto mine with a mix of fear and raw need. My hand tightened in her hair, a silent command, a reminder of who held the power here. Her lips parted, trembling as she took me into her mouth, her jaw straining against the sheer size of me. I watched her struggle, her body quivering with the effort, and I felt a dark, possessive satisfaction coil in my gut.
I wanted to test her. To see how far she'd go.
She gagged, her throat constricting around me, but she didn't pull away. Her eyes watered, tears spilling down her cheeks as she pushed herself further, taking more of me than I thought she could handle. The sight of her—so desperate, so willing to please—was almost enough to break my control. Almost.
"Take it all, Mary Jane," I murmured, my voice low and commanding. "Show me how much you want it."
Her whimper was muffled, the sound vibrating against me, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to my core. She pushed forward, forcing herself to take me deeper, her lips stretching obscenely around me. I could feel her trembling, her body fighting against the instinct to pull away, but she didn't. She stayed there, obedient and willing, choking on me as if it were the only thing that mattered.
She was mine.
Her throat opened for me, and I felt the tight, wet heat of her swallow me whole. Her body jerked, a choked gag escaping her, but I didn't stop. I wouldn't. Not when she was so close. Not when she was giving me everything.
"That's it," I growled, my voice rough with approval. "Take it all, my pretty whore."
Her eyes widened at the words, but she didn't falter. If anything, she seemed to thrive on them, her lips working harder, her tongue swirling with practiced precision. She was lost in it, consumed by the need to please me, and I reveled in it. In her.
I could feel the end approaching, an unstoppable tide. My grip tightened in her hair, a warning, a promise. "I'm going to come now," I told her, my voice dripping with dark intent. "And you're going to swallow every last drop."
Her eyes stayed locked on mine, wide and pleading, as I let go. My release hit the back of her throat in thick, hot bursts, overwhelming her with the sheer volume of it. She gagged, struggling to swallow, her body shaking with the effort. But she didn't pull away. She stayed there, trembling and choking, as I claimed her completely.
This was what she had chosen. What she had begged for.
And as I looked down at her, her face streaked with tears, her body still trembling in the aftermath, I knew one thing for certain: she was mine. Completely and utterly mine.
She never broke eye contact. Not once. Even as my release filled her mouth, spilled past her lips onto her chin, even as her body shook with the effort and the denied pleasure I could feel screaming through her veins, she held my gaze. She was swallowing my claim, my ownership, and she was watching me give it to her.
The final pulses were weaker, but no less potent. I held myself there for a long moment, spent, watching her. Her lips were smeared, her chin glistening. She was a mess. My mess.
Finally, I withdrew with a soft, wet sound. She gasped for air, her body slumping forward, her hands braced on the floor. The invisible restraint dissolved in an instant, and with it, the dam holding back her pleasure shattered. Her body convulsed, a sharp, keening cry tearing from her throat as the denied orgasm surged through her like a tidal wave. She trembled violently, her fingers clawing at the floorboards as the intensity of it consumed her. Her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps, her chest heaving as she rode the wave of ecstasy I had held back for so long.
Her eyes fluttered shut, tears streaming down her cheeks, but this time they weren't tears of strain or submission. They were tears of release, of surrender to the overwhelming pleasure that had been building inside her since the moment she knelt before me. Her body jerked again, a low, guttural moan escaping her as the aftershocks rolled through her, leaving her weak and spent.
She stayed there, trembling and panting, her face flushed and glistening. She looked utterly destroyed—but also fulfilled. The sight of her, so broken yet so radiant in her release, was intoxicating. She had given everything, endured everything, and now she was reaping the reward of her obedience.
"That's my girl," I murmured, my voice low and possessive as I watched her shudder through the last echoes of her climax. "You took it all. Every last drop."
She didn't respond—couldn't respond. But the way her body still quivered, the way her breathing slowly steadied, told me everything I needed to know. She was mine. Completely and utterly mine. And she wouldn't have it any other way.
Tucked myself back into my jeans, my movements slow, deliberate. I looked down at her wrecked, beautiful form. The taste of me was still on her lips. The need for me was a living thing inside her, held at bay by my will alone.
I knelt down in front of her, my face level with hers. Her eyes, dazed and desperate, met mine.
"That," I said, my voice a low, intimate whisper that promised everything and nothing, "was just the beginning of what I'm going to do to you."