The warehouse door slammed shut behind him, the echo swallowed by the vast, echoing space. Marcus stood frozen, wrists already bound behind his back with coarse rope that bit into his skin. The man who had taken him—taller, broader, with eyes like polished obsidian—circled slowly, each footstep deliberate. No words yet. Only the heavy press of presence, the promise of control that thickened the air.
He shoved Marcus against a stack of crates, one large hand gripping the back of his neck, forcing his chest down. Fabric tore. Cold air hit bare skin. The stranger’s palm slid down Marcus’s spine, rough and possessive, mapping every inch as if claiming territory. Marcus twisted, breath ragged, but the grip only tightened. “Fight if you want,” the low voice rumbled. “It changes nothing.”
Fingers hooked into his waistband and yanked downward. Exposed, vulnerable, Marcus felt the first real surge of heat despite the fear—a traitor’s pulse between his legs. The stranger noticed. A dark chuckle vibrated against his ear. “Already stirring. Good. This will be easier than you think.”
The first strike landed across his ass, sharp and stinging, followed by another. Each slap jolted through him, blending pain with an unwanted spark that traveled straight to his cock. Marcus bit his lip to stay silent, but a groan escaped when the man’s hand wrapped around his hardening length, stroking once, twice, with cruel slowness. “You’ll take what I give,” the voice said, “and you’ll thank me for it before we’re done.”
Lubricant, cold and slick, was applied without ceremony. A thick finger pushed inside, twisting, stretching, preparing him with mechanical efficiency that still managed to ignite nerves Marcus had never acknowledged. He bucked, trying to dislodge the intrusion, but the stranger’s free hand pinned his hips.
A second finger joined, scissoring deeper, brushing that hidden spot that made Marcus’s vision blur. His cock twitched, leaking against the crate.
The fingers withdrew. The blunt head of the man’s cock pressed against him, larger than anything Marcus had imagined. No warning. One relentless thrust buried him halfway. Pain flared white-hot, followed by the slow burn of being filled. Marcus cried out, the sound raw and involuntary. The stranger didn’t pause. He drove deeper with each roll of his hips until he was seated fully, balls pressed tight against Marcus’s skin.
He set a punishing rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that forced Marcus’s body to yield. Every withdrawal dragged over sensitive flesh; every return punched the air from his lungs. The stranger’s hand found Marcus’s cock again, pumping in time with the invasion, twisting at the head until pleasure and pain braided into something unbearable. Marcus’s protests melted into choked moans. His hips began to move, not in escape but in shameful seeking.
Sweat slicked their bodies. The stranger leaned over him, chest to back, teeth grazing the nape of his neck. “You’re opening for me,” he growled. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.” He shifted angle, striking that same spot inside over and over until Marcus’s legs shook. Release built despite himself, coiling tight and hot at the base of his spine.
When it hit, it tore through him—pulse after pulse spilling over the stranger’s fist while his ass clenched around the thick cock still pounding into him. The stranger followed moments later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural sound, flooding Marcus with heat. He stayed inside, rocking gently through the aftershocks, letting Marcus feel every throb.
Only then did he pull free. Marcus slumped, trembling, ropes still holding him. The stranger untied him with surprising care, then pressed a palm between his shoulder blades, guiding him upright. “Next time,” he murmured, voice dark with promise, “you’ll beg first.”
Marcus met those obsidian eyes and felt the power shift settle deep in his bones—unwanted, undeniable, and already pulling him under again.
