Chapter 7: Learning to Kneel
Chapter 7: Learning to Kneel
⚠️ Warning: Explicit content ahead
Elio's POV
I told myself I wouldn't go back to that room.
But by nightfall, I stood in the doorway again—barefoot, heart hammering, shame and desire twisting together like lovers in my throat.
The chain still sat where he left it. The silk ribbon too.
Luca leaned against the edge of the padded bench, black dress shirt open, his tattoos glowing like secrets under low amber light. A glass of whiskey in one hand. Power in the other.
He didn't smile.
"Close the door," he said.
I did.
"Take your clothes off. Slowly."
I froze.
"Here's the difference," he said calmly, sipping. "You can always say no. But if you choose to stay—if you choose this—you'll learn what it means to belong to me. Body first. Then everything else."
I swallowed.
And stripped.
Button by button. Breath by breath. Until I stood naked under the soft, decadent lights. I wasn't trembling this time. Not like before. I was burning.
He set the glass aside and stood.
"Come here."
I did.
He circled me, gaze dragging over every inch of skin. I'd never felt so bare. Not because I was undressed—but because he saw through me.
"On your knees."
My body obeyed before my mind could catch up. The velvet carpet was warm. My hands rested on my thighs. My pulse roared in my ears.
He stepped in front of me.
"Good boy."
The words cut through me like a drug.
Then, his fingers threaded into my hair.
He pulled my face toward the bulge in his trousers—slow, controlling, a silent promise. I exhaled, lips parting, spine arching instinctively.
"Look at me," he said, voice deep.
I did.
And in that moment, on my knees, eyes locked with his while I opened my mouth for him—I finally understood what surrender felt like.
He undid his zipper. No rush. No cruelty. Just absolute, terrifying control.
And I let him.
Because I wanted to.
Because I needed to.
He slid between my lips, thick, hard, claiming. I moaned around him, already dizzy from the weight, the heat, the stretch. My hands gripped his thighs.
"Don't use your hands," he growled. "Let me guide."
I dropped them immediately.
He moved.
Slow thrusts at first—testing my limits, then deeper. My throat burned. My eyes watered. But I didn't stop. I took him.
He groaned low, dark, possessive. "You were made for this."
I didn't know if it was praise or prophecy.
His fingers dug tighter into my hair. His hips moved with more force. My gag reflex flared but I breathed, anchored by the ache, by the way he groaned my name like a curse.
Then—he pulled out.
Spit and need coated my lips.
"Up."
I stood, legs unsteady.
"Over the bench. Hands down. Don't move."
I obeyed.
He reached between my thighs, brushing his fingers through my slick mess of arousal.
"So eager," he whispered. "You'd let me wreck you without question."
"Yes," I gasped.
"Good."
He pressed a lubed finger into me without warning. I hissed. He didn't stop. One finger. Then two. Curling, stretching, filling.
"More," I begged.
"You'll take more when I give you more."
He pushed deeper. My hips shook.
"Please—"
"Such a needy mouth," he growled. "And now your hole too?"
"Yes—yes—please—"
The sound of his zipper again.
The heavy heat of his cock pressing against me.
He slid inside.
I screamed into the velvet.
Pain and fullness crashed into pleasure like waves into rocks.
He held my hips tight. No gentleness now. Just power.
"You're mine," he grunted.
I moaned louder. "Yes—"
He thrust harder. Deeper. Bruising.
Each stroke stole my breath.
Each slap of skin echoed like sin.
My cock leaked helplessly against the bench.
He fucked me like I belonged to him.
Because I did.
And when I finally shattered—biting into my own arm, crying his name—he came too, with a broken groan, spilling deep inside me as he whispered:
"Good boy."
---
Later, he cleaned me with quiet care, laying me on the bed in that same room. The chain still rested at my throat. The bruises would bloom by morning.
I should've felt used.
But I only felt wanted.
And for the first time in years...
…I didn't want to leave.
---