Page 39

Chapter 38

Seanna

The ropes hold me.

Not harshly. Not cruelly. But absolutely. Like their only purpose is to keep me upright so I don’t melt into the floor under the weight of everything Rule just promised to do to me.

And I want it. God help me, I want it all.

The space between my thighs throbs with need. The rope tight against my pussy presses in just right—relentless and teasing. Every breath makes it rub against my already slick folds, and I’m losing the war with my pride. Because even though I’m standing tall, even though I’m biting back whimpers and holding on to my fire, I know they see it.

They feel it.

Rule steps in front of me now, one gloved hand sliding along the length of the rope binding my chest. He stops when his fingers reach the valley between my breasts, brushing over the sensitive skin with maddening slowness.

“On your knees,” he says, his voice so cool and calm, a contrast to the rapid drum of my heart.

I hesitate. Not out of resistance. Not even out of pride.

Out of anticipation.

But then I drop.

The floor is hard and cold against my knees as they hit with a muted thud. The rope around my thighs pulls tight, controlling the width of my stance. There’s no modesty in this—I’m kneeling, bare, bound, open. And Ruin lets out a dark sound from the chair that makes my nipples pebble even harder.

Rule slides his thumb possessively over my cheek. His gloved fingers curling under my jaw, lifting my face toward him.

“Look at me,” he says.

He doesn’t need to raise his voice. The command slides down my spine like smoke. I lift my gaze, and he hums in pleasure at the sight—like seeing me there, bound and open, is the final piece of some puzzle only he understands.

Then he unzips his pants slowly, freeing his cock—thick, heavy, pierced. I’ve never had him in my mouth before, and the sight of him now makes heat punch low in my stomach.

“Open,” he orders.

I obey.

He presses in slow at first, filling my mouth in one long, possessive glide. The burn is instant. The stretch, deliberate. The piercings scrape against my tongue and the roof of my mouth—foreign, heavy, fucking perfect.

He holds me there. Doesn’t move. Just watches me breathe around him. Watches me submit.

Then he moves.

His hips snap forward, and I gag, the head of his cock punching into the back of my throat. My eyes water. My lungs scream. But I don’t pull away—I fucking lean into it.

He drags back slowly, the ridged metal scraping like a threat, then slams forward again. My throat convulses, spit spills down my chin, and the rope behind my back creaks with the strain of my restraint.

I flick my tongue along his underside between thrusts—every barbell, every ridge, every soft hiss of breath I can drag from him. He groans low, the sound primal, his fingers tightening around my jaw.

His breath stutters, his fingers tightening against my jaw in warning—or appreciation.

He pulls back.

“Switch,” he says darkly.

Ruin steps forward, his cock already hard and glistening with precum. He strokes it once, then guides it to my mouth. There’s a tenderness in the way he brushes his knuckles against my jaw first—a silent question. I part my lips in answer.

He pushes in, slower than Rule, but just as firm. The weight of him, the different piercings, the stretch, the taste—different. Deeper. His rhythm is slower, less brutal—but no less claiming.

“You're fucking addictive,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and reverence.

I moan around him.

He rolls his hips deeper, forcing air from my lungs and shame from my body. There’s no room for either anymore. Just them. Just the rhythm.

I swirl my tongue around the head, tasting him, teasing the piercings. He groans, thrusts a little deeper, letting his breath shudder through clenched teeth.

Then he pulls back.

Rule takes me again. His thrusts are harder now, more desperate, like the sight of Ruin using my mouth has stirred something primal. The piercings in his cock strike against the back of my tongue and drag on every exit.

They switch again.

And again.

I flick my tongue over each of them every time they press to my lips. Teasing. Worshipping. Demanding more. Their tastes blur together—dark, hot, endless.

My mouth is stretched, aching, flooded with their taste. My throat is raw, my jaw sore, but I take them both, again and again, until my lips are swollen. There is spit dripping down my chin, and my lungs are screaming for breath I refuse to ask for.

Everything else disappears. My mind goes blank.

The next several minutes blur into a rhythm of dominance and possession. They switch every time one of them gets too close, dragging my mouth from one cock to the other like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Rule brutal. Ruin controlled. Both hungry. Both relentless.

Time bends. My throat is their altar—shared, worshipped, wrecked. And I take it all because I want to, because this is mine. They don’t just switch—they orbit, a force of nature with me at the center, held together by rope, heat, and the kind of obsession that can’t be faked.

Tears stream down my cheeks. My spit coats my chest, my chin, the ropes—but I don’t stop. I don’t want to.

Rule finally pulls me up by the rope at my chest, breath ragged. Ruin catches me before I can sway. Lifts me like something sacred. My body is boneless, trembling, but I don’t feel weak—I feel claimed . Their hands are reverent, but there's nothing gentle about the hunger burning in the air.

They lay me on the bed like I’m something breakable.

But something they fully intend to break.

Ruin slides in behind me, his body warm and heavy as he spoons against my back. The bed dips beneath us. I feel the hardness of his cock pressing between my cheeks before he reaches past me—grabbing the little packet Rule passes him with steady fingers.

The sound of the packet tearing is sharp. Then, he brushes his masked face against my shoulder in some sort of imitation of a kiss.

Before he spreads my cheeks and I feel the coolness of lube on his gloved fingers. He pushes one finger in.

Slow. Measured. Unavoidable.

The stretch burns beautifully. Then comes the second. Stretching me further, coaxing breathless little gasps from my throat. And the third. I whimper, breath catching on the edge of a moan as he fucks my ass open with his fingers. The ropes dig into my thighs as I push back against him, desperate for more friction, more fill.

“You ready?” he murmurs.

“God, yes.”

His response is a gloved hand wrapping around my throat from behind—tight enough to still my breath, not enough to choke it out. Not yet.

His mouth brushes the shell of my ear, voice low and lethal. “Let’s make this clear, little storm—we are your gods now. And it’s only us you’ll ever worship again.”

The words brand themselves into me—hot and permanent and final.

Then Ruin pushes in.

Inch by thick, stretching, unrelenting inch.

The first push burns—deep and delicious—ripping a strangled cry from my throat, but I don’t pull away—I take it. I fucking feel every ridge of his cock, every cold brush of the piercings as they drag over my nerves and light them up.

I tip my head back against his shoulder, mouth parted, gasping. My ass tightens around him instinctively, trembling with every slow glide forward.

He groans.

He holds me, one arm moving to wrap under my ribs as he sinks deeper, slower, until he’s seated fully inside me.

And then Rule is in front of me again.

His hand lifts and shifts my thigh, opening me wider, moving the rope away from my clit and around my thigh to keep it higher. He doesn't rush—no, he watches. Watches as Ruin holds me still from behind, cock dragging, pushing in and out of my ass. Watches the way my body stretches around him, how my tits rise and fall with every labored breath.

And when Rule finally lines up with my pussy it’s a different kind of ache. I whimper at the first press of him. And then he pushes in.

Slow at first. Deliberate. But unrelenting. He doesn’t stop until I’m split open, completely full—Ruin in my ass, Rule in my pussy, both of them stretching me past the edge of anything I thought I could take.

“Fuck,” I choke, shaking. “Oh, fuck —”

Rule’s gloved hand wraps around my throat. Not tight. Not yet. Just resting. Waiting. Claiming.

Then they start to move.

Ruin rocks forward as Rule pulls back. Then Rule thrusts as Ruin withdraws. Their rhythm is slow at first, deliberate—like they’re syncing with each other through the conduit of me . Their cocks grind into me in perfect opposition, stretching me to the brink and then dragging me back again.

I’m moaning, begging, gone.

Each thrust stokes the fire higher, hotter. Rule’s cock drags along my soaked walls, his piercings hitting every sensitive nerve ending inside me, while Ruin’s girth stretches me wide, his piercings grinding against places I didn’t know existed.

The air is thick with sweat and filth and heat.

Ruin reaches around, two fingers finding my clit. He circles it firmly—no teasing, no patience—and my vision blurs.

I break.

My orgasm slams through me, sudden and savage, making me scream as my body convulses. They don’t stop. If anything, they fuck me harder —using the slick, the clench, the chaos.

Rule’s thrusts become frantic, his breath coming fast, his hand tightening on my throat until the lack of air turns everything to white-hot static. The pressure mounts again, and I feel him shift his angle, pressing down on the spot above my clit with terrifying accuracy. The tension shifts.

“Come again,” he snarls into my ear.

And I do. I don’t even have a choice.

The climax tears through me like a live wire, every muscle spasming.

My pussy squeezes them both so hard until they can’t keep their rhythm anymore. Until they can’t stay inside me. And then I feel it: the dam inside me snapping.

A gush of liquid erupts from between my thighs, and I scream again, not from pain or even pleasure—but from sheer release . From the fact that they did this to me, and I wanted every second.

The harsh pulsing of my climax hasn’t even subsided before they’re thrusting back inside me again. My body jerks, helpless in their grip. My mouth opens around a sob, but no sound comes out—just broken air and the feeling of too much .

“Please,” I choke. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can,” Rule growls, tightening his grip on my throat. “You were made for this. For us.”

They keep going. Hard. Brutal. Devouring.

My muscles cramp, my arms tremble inside the ropes, and my brain blanks .

Another orgasm builds fast. Violent . My clit is on fire. My body isn’t mine anymore—it’s theirs. Held. Used. Worshipped.

Rule comes first, buried deep, grinding into me with a groan that sounds like victory as it tears me apart. His hips still, cock twitching, spilling heat inside me as his breath stutters in my ear.

Then he slips out, and the absence is sharp. But Ruin is already pulling out and moving me.

He grabs a pillow—shoves it beneath my hips in one swift motion. The change in angle lifts my ass, puts me on display, and drives my bound arms deeper into the mattress behind me. It arches my chest up, tightens the ropes across my back, and sends a new wave of strain through my shoulders. My tits rise with every breath, nipples peaked and exposed as my body is contorted and offered up.

Then his gloved hands wrap around my thighs—and force them wider.

The grip is punishing. His fingers dig into the soft flesh like he owns it, bruising me without apology. Pain and pleasure blur. I cry out, but not in protest—because it only makes me wetter.

I’m open now. Stretched. Helpless.

And he fucking loves it.

Ruin kneels between my legs and doesn’t waste another second. He lines up, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, still slick from the wreckage Rule left behind.

Then he sinks into me.

Slow. Deep. Unforgiving.

The piercings drag along my inner walls, catching every nerve. My back arches harder against the ropes, my arms screaming with tension, but I can’t move. Can’t reach. Can’t take control.

I’m his . And he knows it.

His rhythm is brutal in its restraint. Each stroke calculated. Each thrust a study in control. He drives in deep and pulls out just far enough to make my breath hitch—then does it again. And again. And again .

It’s maddening.

Every time I get close—every time my body starts to tremble, my pussy starts to clench, my breath starts to break—he slows down. Edges away. Leaves me clawing at nothing.

“Fuck—please,” I gasp, trying to rock my hips. But the ropes won’t let me. My legs are spread, my wrists are useless, my voice is the only weapon I have left—and it’s barely holding.

He doesn’t answer.

Just shifts slightly. Hits that fucking spot. Then backs off again.

“Ruin—please—I need to come,” I sob, tears slipping from the corners of my eyes. My thighs tremble under his grip, already sore from how wide he’s forced them. “Let me. Let me —please—”

His gloved palm presses low on my belly, right above my clit, trapping me. Holding me still.

“Beg louder,” he says, voice low, even. Unmoved. “You want it that badly? Beg like it’s mine to give. ”

I’m falling apart.

“Please,” I cry. “Please, Ruin—I’m begging. I need to come. I need it—fuck, please—”

And he gives it to me.

He slams in deep—hard, precise, merciless. Again, and again until everything inside me explodes. The orgasm rips through me like a blade, sharp and savage, every nerve igniting under the weight of his cock and his control and the brutal, overwhelming pressure between my legs.

I scream. I convulse .

My pussy clenches around him in wild, pulsing waves. My chest is heaving, the ropes pulling tight as I writhe. I feel him shudder, feel when he comes with a snarl. He buries himself deep, cock pulsing as he fills me—thick, hot, and endless. His hands hold me open, locked wide around my trembling thighs. My vision goes white.

And I fall.

Down, down, down.

Into the kind of ruin that tastes like worship.

And I belong to it.