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syoddeye · 1 month ago

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kinktober - day 23 - breeding & cnc

price x f!reader | 2.6k words cw: cnc, piv, breeding, abduction, gun mention, piss mention (not depicted), spanking, aftercare, implied kink negotiation a/n: the aftercare is fairly glossed over due to the word count. jsyk. summary: welcome home, sweetheart. banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

“Turn right—here. Good girl.”

The hand kneading your shoulder squeezes in approval. John mutters the next instructions so low you barely hear them over the gravel road and the radio static. You keep straightening in your seat to maintain perfect posture, pressing your skull into the headrest just to hear him. He warned you against him finding reason to doubt your compliance.

You met John roughly two hours ago, and he’s had a gun trained on you for the last hour and fifty-five minutes. Wherever he’s taking you, you assume it’s either the end of the line or for keeps. With every curve and bend you take, your heart sinks further and further.

The shape of a cabin eventually appears between the trees. He leans over the shoulder of your seat, the smile in his voice clearer than the view outside.

“Can’t wait for you to see it in the daylight. Old, old growth. Dense. Sound doesn’t carry quite right.”

Subtle, you think bitterly, fighting off the tears needling behind your eyes. You can’t afford to break down again, not with what must be your prison in the headlights.

You park, kill the engine, and hand him your keys. The drill is the same as when he stopped to piss on the side of the highway. Stand, clear the door, and do not move five feet beyond him. The sound of his stream hitting the dirt next to your foot will haunt you.

The muzzle juts into your mid-back as he marches you up a footpath. You try to commit the details to memory. If you escape and somehow navigate the forest long enough to find help, every piece of information will help catch this psycho.

All pine with burgundy trim and shutters. Hand-painted house numbers. A wooden wind chime. Picturesque if not for the circumstances.

He crowds you against the door to unlock it, bullying you through it once it opens.

“Shoes and coat, off.”

The switch flips as you toe off your boots. It’s nothing like you expected. There are no shackles on the wall. No standing cross in the corner. The table isn’t stained with blood, but covered in a gingham cloth. There’s a stack of wood waiting to be fed into the fireplace. Quilts on the couch.

Somehow, the normalcy—the coziness—is worse.

John’s hand curves around your nape, and he stoops to kiss your head. “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

He’s fucking with you.

Making you sit like this, the door ten steps away.

The fire roars, blanketing the cabin with its heat. You split time between watching the flames and the deadbolt on the entrance. Your eyes are puffy and stinging with tears. They slip out in bursts, riding the waves of panic and nausea roiling your gut. You started crying into your dinner and haven’t stopped. The spanking he gave you for refusing to eat didn’t help.

A breeze catches the chime out front. It beckons. You need to get out of here.

Behind you, another page turns.

“Face me.”

The thin, worn cushion beneath your knees is the only mercy he’s shown so far. You’re sure he thinks otherwise. You stiffly do as he says, grimacing from the dull ache of your rear and at the angle. From the ground between his spread legs, he appears even bigger. He’s relaxed, unworried by the woman kneeling at his feet. His broad chest rises and falls steadily, the cheap readers perching on his nose. His thick forearms slightly flex where they extend from his rolled sleeves, and his hands dwarf the book they hold.

He licks the pad of his thumb, staring at you over the book’s edge, and turns another page with an expectant look.

“Take it out.”

Acid blots the back of your tongue. It twists and untwists, apoplectic and souring.

You’re suddenly too aware of it, the bulge testing the tailoring of his jeans mere inches from your face. It’s in your periphery, like a shadow on the edge of the light. If you look, it gives it form. Makes it real. Makes all of this somehow more real.

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

Although the rational part of you knew this nightmare would eventually escalate and spiral to a point where you couldn’t strategize or disassociate your way through it, something compels you to refuse. You ignore the soreness under your skirt.

“No.”

John lowers the book, revealing the grim flat line of his mouth, then claps it shut. Disappointment rolls off him as he sets the text aside, plucks the glasses from his face, and folds them.

As he gingerly places them atop the book, he sighs, exasperated. “Maybe you need something firmer than an open palm.”

The second he reaches for his belt buckle, you bolt.

Surging up from the floor as if on springs, knees be damned, you launch toward the door. The entire couch scrapes on its feet as he propels himself after you. In an instant, hearing him laugh, you know it’s all for naught.

A hand curls in your shirt, yanking you backward. You collide into his solid chest and stumble over your feet to burst away, only for a foot to hook yours.

“No!” You barely catch yourself before John’s all over you.

The wrestling match is quick, brutal, and humiliating. You’re a mess of limbs running off of adrenaline, but every punch you throw and kick you lash out is easily deflected. From the blurred glimpses of his face in the tussle, he looks almost bored, so calm in subduing you.

“Special forces, love,” he grunts as he pins you on your belly. “You’re not gettin’ away, so save your energy for what matters.” He grinds against your ass, chuckling breathlessly at your pitiful attempts to twist away.

“Stop—stop!”

He wrangles your wrists with one big hand at the small of your back and sinks his weight into securing your legs. You yowl in pain, his kneecap digging into your thigh, and it spirals higher when he starts to rip your skirt off. The fabric gives with a few firm tugs, shredding in two over your ass. Your panties follow suit.

You sob and shake beneath him. Spit and tears commingle under your chin and cheek.

Hands as rough as sandpaper descend upon your ass once more. Gone is the perfunctory nature of his earlier discipline. Any measure of restraint. He cracks his palms over your cheeks wildly, with no pattern or predictability. “That hurt?” He asks in a low rumble, patronizing, the way you’d talk to a frightened animal that didn’t understand. His hands smoothing briefly between strikes like he’s doing you a favor by even trying to soothe.

At the sound of his belt loosening, you thrash. A thumb slides right over your puckered hole and taps the ring.

“Stay fuckin’ still, or I’ll take this dry.”

The prospect of him fucking your ass unprepped has its intended effect. You sniffle and seethe as he slips off his belt, a single distressed wail breaking through your lips when the leather touches your wrists. He mutters about your poor behavior while he fastens makeshift cuffs.

John drags you back to the fireplace, half-walking you on your knees when they catch the floor. There might as well be a scorching trail in your wake from the heat of your humiliation. He maneuvers you over the rug in front of the hearth.

Fear bubbles like an unchecked pot seconds from boiling over. You can’t keep a lid on it.

“John, please–please don’t do this! I won’t tell anyone, just–just let me go!”

Your babbled pleas bounce off him like bugs on a window. Flatten against his resolve. He sits his body weight on you again, ignoring your cries, and his shirt lands in a pile beside your head. Then the pressure lifts completely, and you watch his silhouette cast by the firelight yank his jeans and pants down. A gasp sputters out at the bobbing shape of his cock.

He chuckles, clearly amused, and shifts to better show his shadow. He fists the base of his cock. “All for you, sweetheart.”

Lowering to a knee, he lets his cock slap against you as he guides your ass into the air, deepening your arch to his liking. He hums, keeping one hand busy on himself while the other pries a cheek open. Mortification snaps your eyes shut. You practically feel his gaze drilling into you.

“Look…at…that…” His hand slides, and his thumb strokes through your lips. You barely gasp an inhale before it probes, dipping into where you’re shamefully wet. The discovery surprises the both of you, though while you freeze in terror, John moans. “Knew I picked a good one. Too pretty to not be desperate for it.”

He nudges your knees further apart and spreads your cheek wider to the point where it starts to hurt.

“Nonono–no please!” You screech.

His knuckles bump against your cunt as he guides his cock through your exposed folds, coating himself in what moisture’s there. It doesn’t feel like enough when the head of his cock notches at your hole. You know it’s not enough when he pushes in, stretching you over his length, and every inch burns. Pain and heat radiate from the inside out. Blunt and heavy like one of the iron pokers hanging out of reach on their rack.

He tuts at your crying and squeezes one of your clenched fists twice. “Hurts doesn’t it? If you had only listened, been a good girl, you could’ve wet my cock and made it easier on yourself.”

John snaps his hips forward, claiming the last few inches of space and bludgeoning your cervix. It knocks a scream from your lungs and another when he starts to move. His grip remains on your hands, forcing two of his fingers into the tight curl of your fist. “You’ll come to learn, I don’t speak to hear my own voice.” The slap of his hips on your ass hurts almost as much as the drag of his cock along your walls. A punishment twice over. “When I give an order, you fuckin’ follow it. Understood?”

“Yes, yes, I-I understa–fuck, it hurts–”

“What was that? Do you understand or not?”

He accelerates briefly, jackhammering into you so hard you’re afraid you’ll tear. Your knees scrape the rug.

“I understand! I understand!” You shriek, face mashing into the rug. Your fist reflexively pulses around his fingers, drawing a breathy chuckle from above. He slows and snakes his other hand around to play with your clit.

“Good girl. Earned yourself some comfort.”

You blubber, and one pathetic sound bleeds into the next. The ‘comfort’ he coaxes out of you gradually builds. You grow wetter and more ashamed, both relieved and horrified that the push and pull of his cock starts to feel better. Feel good. He winds your stomach tight through the title circles he draws, stealing involuntary gasps from you as he thrusts.

“Feels good, hmm? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Just as the first sparks of an orgasm burst, his attention diverts to your swinging tits. He tries to grab them both in one hand, pinching the skin meanly before settling for one. He presses it in on itself, rolling the nipple over his damp thumb. “I’ve seen you strugglin’ for a while, love. I knew the moment I saw you that you needed someone like me. Knew I could give you somethin’ better.”

He releases your tit, slowing to grind his hips in a circle, deep and slow. A new rush of fear shoots down your spine, threatening to claw out of your chest when his hand cups your stomach. He hums the first few notes of a lullaby.

“W-What?”

“Told you to not play dumb.” He kneads your belly, then glides his palm to your waist. “Gonna knock you up. Take you just like this,” He thrusts harder, patting your flank for emphasis. “‘Til it takes. You’re gonna be stuffed by the time I’m done.”

The last pieces of your dignity grind to dust beneath your cheekbone. The new wave of tears is like vinegar in a cut.

“J-John, I can’t–w-won’t–”

You shudder and yip from another harsh and bruising snap of his hips. He speaks with chilling certainty. “Yeah, you will. If you’re on those silly pills, I’ll dump ’em. You got an implant or one of those rings?” He laughs low in his throat. “Well, I hope you don’t.”

He finds your clit again, groaning at the sopping mess of your cunt. A pinch makes you whimper, the sound seemingly fuelling him to return to that steady, unforgiving pace. “My pussy,” he declares with each punishing drive. “My lovely cunt that will bear my children.”

Deep down, you know it isn’t a conscious thing. The twinges of pleasure amidst the fear. Emotion competes with chemical. He banishes the words from your mouth and purges them entirely from your mind with a slight shift and a renewed effort from his fingers.

“Yeah, yeah–come f’me–”

The warmth that builds is insidious, a pressure demanding release. A coil tightens, winding further with every plunge until it’s unbearable, and you feel nothing but your impending unraveling.

“C’mon, make it take–”

It breaks. With a scream, a shattering orgasm tears through your body. Your walls flutter and spasm around his cock.

“Yesss, that’s a good girl–good fuckin’–” John swears loudly, squeezing your fist. He abruptly shudders, following suit so quickly you don’t realize what’s happening until it’s dribbling out from around him and down your thigh. His hips move uncontrollably, shallowly rocking into you as the last of his cum spills.

Your whimpering fades into shaky breaths as he stills.

A moment of silence passes. He wiggles the fingers locked in your fist.

“Sweetheart?”

You squeeze the digits, releasing them as you quietly slur. “‘M’okay.”

You lose time after John carefully pulls out, frees your hands, and helps you slump belly-down entirely on the rug. You were down deep, fully immersed that now it feels as though you’re surfacing from a dive. You register a shiver from a cold, damp cloth and then the sweeping warmth of a quilt. You promptly stick your feet out, given the fire burning mere steps away.

“Thought once or twice you’d end it,” John finally speaks, rolling you to your back once he’s dressed. He peers through his cheap glasses, inspecting your wrists and elbows. The faint irritation on your face from the rug. You’ll remind him of your knees later.

“I squeezed your fingers, didn’t I? I’d’ve tapped out if I wanted to.”

The smile John gives you brims with affection. He kisses the backs of your knuckles. “Yeah, you did. Good girl, checking in like that.”

“The lullaby bit was insane, though. God, you missed your calling as a horror actor.”

“Don’t encourage me.”

He helps transfer you to the couch with a couple of more questions, then sets your water and phone within reach.

“Solid? I’m going to unpack the car while your food heats up, alright?”

“Yeah, okay…” You mumble sleepily and doze. You’re dimly aware of John in the kitchen fixing you a new plate, your body and consciousness taking their time to fully come down. But your reentry is interrupted by the sudden memory of what inspired all this. You sit up, eyes wide as you glance around the cabin. John’s in the kitchen, fixing up a new plate. “John?”

He swivels.

“This place is perfect! God, I can’t believe I was upset with you for buying this place! The shutters, the house numbers…That chime has got to go, though.”

He grins. “I was wondering when you’d realize. Now stay put. I’ll take you on a tour once you’ve rested and we’ve debriefed.”

You ease back down into the cushion and languidly stretch. On the edge of sleep, you watch John bring in your things and start to unpack. Big lug’s smiling to himself, oh-so pleased. You suppose that makes two of you.

#tw rape #tw noncon #sy kinktober #kinktober #price x f!reader #price x reader #john price x f!reader #john price x reader

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