“I’ve missed your tight little hole,” Killian drawls, reaching up under my skirt and pulling down my panties. He drags a finger through the crack between my cheeks. “Has it missed me too?”
I stiffen, but behind the tightly coiled distress, there’s a slight hum. A desire for him to strip me bare and reduce me to his toy.
“Has it?” he urges, pulling me closer.
I close my eyes, reeling from the proximity as he leans close, fear and lust going off in all directions. Despite the trauma he’s brought on, he’s also the source of my first and only true pleasure. That experience was so strong that not even the blow of the following events could fully wipe out the profound effect, and my reaction to him reflects it. I hate it. Vehemently. But that learned desire is also the only thing that will get me through this. That and Ian.
I glance up, finding stability in Ian’s steady presence. Calm but uncompromising.
“Yes,” I admit, letting Ian hold my gaze as I slump in defeat.
“I thought so.” Killian steers me to stand between the bench and the piano, and I keep my eyes trained on Ian while Killian lifts my skirt and smears lube around my tight opening. It’s all I can do to stay afloat. Letting Ian see the shame and desire warring in my eyes has humiliation crawling through me. I want to hide, but I know that if I do, I’ll spiral.
The sound of snapping latex tells me Killian is removing the glove. Then he grabs my arms again and slowly lowers me toward the bench.
My lips quiver, and I want to scream when the tip of the wooden dildo touches my tight opening. But Ian gives me a slow nod of approval, and it lends me the determination I need to hold myself together.
Getting the dildo inside is a slow process. No matter how many deep breaths I take, I remain tense. Killian makes me work my ass against the horrible thing to loosen my muscles; it takes so long that my legs start shaking from the bent position.
“Stop fighting,” Ian says when I whimper, straining my arms to support my weight. “Killian won’t suddenly push you down. You can lean into him.”
As if to prove just that, Killian wraps an arm around my chest to support my weight. His hot breath tickles my ear, sending bursts of sensation down my arm. “Go ahead, princess. I’m the one controlling this show. There’s no use trying to pretend otherwise.”
With a defeated whimper, I give in and lean into him. Killian easily holds my weight, and the process goes a little easier from then on. At least physically. The tip finally breaches my opening, and the wooden length slowly goes inside me. It’s not big as such—thinner than a normal cock—but to my ass, it feels like a monstrosity. And it’ssodamn long—almost as long as Ian’s—and it takes forever for Killian to lower me onto it. The rigid feeling is oppressive, and it goes straight to my mind, wipingout myself and my dignity—just like Ian promised. I feel like an empty vessel, no longer my own. Theirs to fill. And they do fill me. To the brim. By the time I finally sink into place on the bench, the dildo rooted deep inside me, stiff and unrelenting, I’m sniffling and constantly wiping at my eyes.
Ian comes to stand at my side, taking a tissue from a box and holding it in front of my face. “Blow your nose.”
I reach for the tissue, but Ian swats my hands away. “Blow.”
The humiliations just keep coming. Screwing my eyes shut, I blow my nose in the paper. The movement goes straight to my ass, making me clench around the horrible intrusion. Shame coils tight. I want to crumble and curl in on myself. I’m about to do so, but when Ian places a warm hand on top of my head and speaks in a soft voice, I can’t deny the effect. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying; I lap up his warped praise like a starved kitten.
“Good girl,” he croons. “Now we don’t have to worry about you soiling my bench anymore. Let’s see how well you play on your new one.”
Killian sits on the padded bench at my right and grabs my face between his long fingers, staring deep into my eyes. He doesn’t speak, but the message is crystal clear in his hard gaze that bores into me, demanding entrance past my defenses.You’re mine.
A need so hot it scorches my insides flares. I hate myself for it. But when he releases me and orders, “Play,” I forget the shame and the conflicting emotions as I sink into the music, right alongside him. The wooden thing stuck inside me still dominates my mind, but I don’t need my mind to play. I have already learned the first few pages of “Die Moldau” by heart. But as Ian makes us repeat several times, I grow increasingly flustered and still more aware of my locked-up position and restrained movements.
Desire hums in my lower body when I inadvertently move against the dildo, but despite the rousing effect, the unforgiving stiffness is brutal. I start squirming, drawing ragged breaths as pleasure and distress war inside me.
“Are you wet?” Killian asks at one point when we stop playing. Without preamble, he shoves a hand between my legs and slides his fingers through my slit.
My whimper sounds more like a moan as new sensations burst to life, making my whole lower body pulse and clench, grabbing onto the phallus with a strength that hurts. He rubs my clit, and when he pulls away after only a few seconds, I’m so hot I can’t stop panting.
“Shit, you really do love having your ass stuffed.” Killian smears his wet finger across my cheek. The humiliation squashes my desire, and my throat closes up, making it hard to breathe.
From then on, my playing only gets worse. I can’t ignore the desire that keeps pulsing between my legs. And Ihateit. I don’t want to like any of this. Not Killian, his mockery, or this horrible, horrible bench they have me fixed on.
Ian must sense my growing discomfort, because he stops the lesson mid-playing.
“That’s enough.” He places a hand on Killian’s shoulder. “We’re done for today.”
Getting up, Killian leans close to my ear. “Soon, it will be my cock inside that tight ass of yours.” Then he’s gone.
The whiff of his cologne lingers—fresh air and eucalyptus—dragging up an unwanted sense of longing. It nearly breaks me. I’m so wrought and overwhelmed that I’m hovering on the brink of a breakdown, just waiting for a tiny nudge to push me over.
Ian steps behind me and gently grabs my arms. “Thank me for your gift, then I’ll help you off.”
“Thank you,” I say, but there’s no sincerity or emotion. I’m obeying on autopilot. I can’t focus on anything but the rigid length stuck inside me, trapping me. I barely even dare to push up, remembering how long it is and realizing how much it will take to get it out.