He didn’t rush. Just steady rotation. Forcing my body to open around the unyielding glass.
My scream burst out, raw and uncontrolled, my hips straining with nowhere to go.
“Good girl,” he breathed, voice so close I felt the vibration in my bones. “Scream for me. Let me hear how fucking desperate you are.”
The width burned. Tears slid from my eyes into my hairline. The exposure of it—being wrenched open like this—only made everything sharper.
“Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open.
“You’re going to take the whole bottle.” Not a threat. A certainty.
My body believed him before I did.
He rocked the bottle back and forth, forcing the full girth to breach me. I felt every nerve catch fire, every cell scream.
“Luka—fuck—please!”
“That’s it.” His voice was low and rapturous. “Good girl. Take it.”
He didn’t slow, moving the bottle in a steady rhythm—push, twist, withdraw, press—forcing my body to split around the cold glass. The stretch climbed higher, pressure spreading through my belly while the harness carved valleys into my ribs. My thighs shuddered, caught between the urge to pull away and the need to drive down.
“I’m going to make you come in this bottle.”
Before I could brace for it, he popped the bottle halfway out, then drove it back in. Heat flashed through my pelvis, sharp and overwhelming.
He was merciless. He rubbed at my clit like he was trying to rub out a stubborn stain and sawed the neck of the bottle in and out, the ridge at its lip scraping every nerve. Sweat slicked the length of my spine. Each movement tightened the pressure coiling inside me.
The room narrowed.
Nothing existed but the bottle and Luka’s hand.
My body locked down, muscles rippling, trying to expel or devour the glass at once. Luka’s thumb never eased, never let me escape the pressure.
When the orgasm hit, it detonated like a grenade—violent, blinding, ripping screams from my throat.
I was still shaking when Luka pulled the bottle free.
The sudden vacuum—the cold absence—hit just as hard. I sobbed as liquid gushed from my body—mine, the bottle’s—I couldn’t tell. He pressed the rim against me, catching what poured out.
He lifted the bottle into the lamplight. The green glass was clouded, the neck streaked, marked with the proof of my body’s surrender. He held it above me for a moment. My warped reflection stared back at me.
Then he crouched and tipped my chin up, bringing the mouth of the bottle to my lips.
“Open.”
I obeyed. The glass touched my teeth. He tilted it, and the flavor spread across my tongue—salt, mineral, faintly metallic.
My throat worked. I swallowed.
Luka watched every movement, his gaze fixed on my mouth, on the slow rise and fall of my throat, as if each swallow mattered. When he pulled the bottle away, the taste lingered everywhere—on my tongue, my lips, inside my head.
He leaned in and dragged his tongue along my jaw, gathering sweat and salt. Not comfort. Not gentleness. Claim.
Then he stood.
Through the haze of endorphins, I watched him place the bottle on the mantle—a trophy in plain view, gleaming green and streaked with me.