#sadomasochists

[gunksh1t]

Being edged over and over as they keep fucking into you and bringing you to the brink of cumming before suddenly pulling out and refusing to touch you just as you're about to cum. Giggling at your pathetic whines and watching you desperately hump the air.

All you can do is beg and sob as they repeat it over and over until your thighs are shaking and your face is mess of tears with your eyes rolled back and your head is fuzzy and you can't think about anything except how badly you need to cum and how achy your hole is yet it feels so good;

"Pleasepleasepleaseplease"

Letting out a squeal when they suddenly slap your hole, gasping with each slap until you're throbbing and squirming. A fresh rush of tears spilling onto your cheeks as you shake and moan.

"Pretty baby, don't you know that good little toys don't talk?"

[butchboy-sadist]

People will claim to have problamtic kinks and it's just like calling their partner mommy or freeuse. Like, OK, get back to me when you find murder to be the ultimate form of sexual expression and day dream about pulling out people's teeth while they cry.

[musclelat35]

Come here?

[deusa-astaroth666]

Seu Sirigueijo descobriu que o Bob Esponja pode ganhar dinheiro de outras maneiras

[neoprenedyke]

Tops and bottoms, subs and doms, are out of style. Hey urself a girl whose both a sadist and a masochist.

[mr-spotatohead]

Say 'Hi' to Lucid! She is a cinnamon roll... Trust me =)

Imagine a fusion of Chara. It ended up being this cannibal smiler. Summary of Lucid's life, she was killed by her brother by a huge cut in the chest. She came back from hell when the underworld came to earth. Now she wanders around, perhaps looking for a snack or even an adrenaline rush. Her family was the level of serial killers, who wear emoticon masks. Funny that alive, she wore a mask. Now dead, she is the mask.

[mojavebluez]

Russian roulette - the salesman x fem!reader (18)

Chapter 1

“Ah, there you are.” He says, a towering shadow standing before you. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.”

summary - he’d been following you for a while. When you finally find the courage to approach him, you wake up hours later in his apartment, tied up and completely at his mercy. He has one offer: a game of Russian roulette.

tags - gun play, age gap, kidnapping, bdsm, sub!reader, dom!salesman, sadomasochism, fingering, non-con, praise, degradation, forced insertion, no lube

a/n - I’m slightly ashamed but also not. There’s a bit of backstory so sorry to all you freaks that like skipping straight to the action.. I’ll do a part 2 if you guys enjoy it!!

Series masterlist

4.7k words

———————————————————————

You’d seen him before. Many times. This past month you’d noticed nearly 20 encounters. The first was on the subway a while back, when you had looked up to see him staring down at you with blank, empty eyes. An instant chill was sent down your spine. But he wasn’t like the usual subway perverts: he was put-together, well dressed and very, very handsome. He had an air of assurance about him and a strange sort of dominance that forced you to stare down at your feet - just to avoid meeting his eyes.

You’d barely given him another thought until, the next day, you saw him again. This time it was in a cafe. You had felt someone’s eyes on you and glanced around until you landed on him. He was sat across the room, a lonely white teacup in front of him. He had that same soulless look in his eyes, this time paired with a faint smile. It chilled you again. Was he following you? Or was it just coincidence?

It happened again. And again. Across the street, him standing there, or in supermarket aisles, or on subway cars. Always on subway cars. You debated approaching him, asking him why he was following you around. But sometimes, late at night, you would stare at the ceiling and think about him. His perfectly symmetrical features, crisp, laundered suits - you’d gotten lucky in the stalker lottery, that was for sure. The idea was ridiculous, anyway, people like you didn’t get stalkers. You were utterly normal, boring, even. Things like that only happened in movies.

It had finally come to a head when you went out one night with a couple friends. It was the end of the first semester, so you had all decided to go out and celebrate. Turns out, you may have celebrated too hard. You were somewhere between five and ten drinks (who was counting anyway?) when you caught sight of him across the bar. You slide off your stool, the faint protests of your friends drowned out by the thudding club music. You sway on your feet slightly as you approach him, which seemed to amuse him, a smirk playing on his lips.

Once you reach him he pats the stool in front of him with a wide palm. His eyes never leave yours. The drink in your system seems to swirl the features on his face slightly, but it was definitely him. He doesn’t have a glass beside him, but his briefcase is laid on the bar, its glossy surface reflecting the multicoloured club lights.

“I was waiting for you,” he says. His voice is thick and dark. You’d never heard it before. You had imagined what it sounded like, how he might’ve said your name. Or what it would be like if he whispered closely into your ear.

“Who- who are you?” You say clumsily, surprised at the sound of your own voice. It was a different you. Confident. Abrupt.

“You’ll know soon enough,” he replies, smiling faintly. His hand, very large and covered in spidering veins, is spread on his thigh. It’s an inviting gesture. You instinctively lean into him.

“I’ve seen you before,” you say, tilting your head, “on the subway. And in the coffee shop.”

“Correct,” he smirks, altering the symmetry of his features. But the smile never reaches his eyes.

“Are you stalking me?” You ask. You press a hand against the bar to steady yourself. Everything in the room, aside from him, mixes and bleeds into incoherent colours.

“You’re very drunk,” he states, the smile never leaving his face, “you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m fine,” you wave a floppy hand at his face, but he abruptly catches your wrist in the air, his fingers like a vice. Your breath is caught in your throat at the pressure of his grip, draining all the blood until his fingers leave thick white marks on your skin.

“What are you-“

“Just relax,” he says, his voice a smooth purr in your ears, “I’m going to order us a drink.”

He lowers your hand, never letting go, and calls the bartender over. You can’t quite hear what he orders, but he holds up two fingers before turning back to you. Your head swims with alarm bells. The pain that floods your arm, mixed with the cold look in his eyes and your clear lack of personal autonomy - you’re very close to fight or flight altogether. He can see this. His mouth presses into a tight line and his grip on you, somehow, becomes even more firm.

“Please,” he says, but there is no pleading in his voice, “try to calm down.”

“Let go of me,” you squirm, pulling at his hand in an attempt to free yourself from his hold. He doesn’t even shift. If it came to it, you would be entirely at his mercy once he got his hands on you. The thought makes you freeze in your chair.

“That’s it. Much better. You’re a fast learner,” he loosens his hand and you sigh in relief.

The drinks arrive and he slides one over to you. His glass sits, untouched, as he urges you to take a sip of yours. You aren’t sure why, but something in his eyes makes you obey. Maybe it’s the satisfaction once you do - it fills you with a strange sort of feeling. You quite like pleasing him.

A few moments later, you try to stand up. “I need the bathroom.”

“Hm,” he says, watching you with uncertainty, “I’m not sure. You don’t look very well.”

“Exactly,” you say, stepping away. The floor seems to rise and fall like a wave beneath your feet. You stumble, but he catches you, his fingers spread across your abdomen.

“Let me help you,” he suggests, as though you could even object.

He leads you through the weaving crowds, all dancing and throwing their bodies around like rag dolls. You stare up at him, the curve of his features haloed by the spotlights. He’d picked up his suit case in the process of helping you, and it swung at his side, his other arm looped around your waist. Even in heels he towers over you. When the cold air hits your face, you realise he is not, in fact, leading you to the bathroom. You open your mouth to say something, but find that the words die in your throat. Your face feels entirely numb and your feet begin to drag behind you. He makes a small noise of frustration as he lifts you up, hooking a hand beneath your arm to hold you higher off the ground.

Your vision grows blurrier once he opens a car door and sets you down inside, sliding in beside you. Then, you finally black out.

-

“Ah, there you are.” He says, a towering shadow standing before you. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.”

You blink your eyes open. Instantly, your head begins to pound and you groan at the pain. Your neck falls back against something solid, and you slowly glance around to find that your limbs are bound to some sort of chair. Your wrists are pulled behind your back as well as your feet, tied to either leg with thick cord. Memories of earlier that night fly past your eyes in an instant as you struggle against the binding. But the more you pull, the more it hurts, and he seems to enjoy this fact. You squint up at him to see his face a mask of utter satisfaction, clearly proud of his handiwork.

His empty, dead eyes, black despite the vibrancy of the lighting. His thick, rough fingers curled around your wrist. You taking a deep swig of whatever drink he had gotten you. And the sound of a car door slamming. Then nothing. He’d kidnapped you. He’d spiked your drink and fucking kidnapped you and now you were going to die here, in this dark apartment and left for dead. You were just another one of those sad murdered girls that die and end up on a podcast a decade later.

“Don’t squirm,” he says, moving to stand before you. You crane your neck to look up at him. Half of his face is shrouded in darkness, the other glowing from the dim red lighting of his apartment. Atmospheric.

“What the-“ you try to get a sense of your surroundings, but the after effects of the alcohol and whatever he had drugged you with made it difficult. Everything feels hazy and undefined. Aside from him. His figure is perfectly distinguishable. You recognise his same suit from earlier: jet black, and he must have fixed his hair, too.

“You’re quite small,” he says, watching you, amused, “I probably gave you too much. Took you a long while to wake up.”

You try to scream. Your voice wavers, a pathetic noise escaping. He chuckles darkly at your weak attempt.

“There’s really no point. No one can hear you.” His black eyes glitter as he says it. God. You’ve been kidnapped by a fucking sadist.

You try again but exhaustion overwhelms you. Your eyes fall to the window, which spans from floor to ceiling. The nighttime Seoul skyline stretches across - you’re in a high rise, presumably a penthouse. Is it his apartment? The air feels hot and close, even more so when you meet his eyes.

“We’re going to play a game,” he says. Your head whips around at the statement. A game?He doesn’t even have the mercy to make it quick.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of it,” he lifts his briefcase onto the low table before you, then clicks the latches and opens it slowly, as though savouring the moment. His every movement makes your skin prickle with uncertainty - everything about him is unpredictable. Bile rises in your throat once you see what sits inside the case. A gun.

“Russian roulette,” he takes it out carefully with two hands, the same way you would hold a precious gemstone. The steel barrel glints in the light like a winking eye.

“Oh god,” you whisper beneath your breath.

“You have heard of it. Good,” he smiles at you emptily, curling his fingers around the grip.

“Of course I have,” you say quietly.

“Then you know the rules,” he moves to sit in a chair opposite you, neatly two feet away. The table separates you, but it is low enough that he’s able to get a full view of you. His eyes rake you from head to toe, landing on the hem of your dress. It rides up slightly, but you’re unable to fix it with your hands bound. You try your best to squeeze your legs together and hide yourself.

He turns the case and lifts out a single bullet, slotting it into the barrel. Your gut twists with fear as he spins the barrel and clicks it in with a flourish that is sickeningly attractive. Everything about him is a juxtaposition. His clean suits that fit his frame perfectly, yet are eerily formal for every occasion. His hollow eyes that chill your bones but also draw you in with an odd curiosity you can’t resist. Every aspect of him leaves you wanting more. But you can’t think this way about him, can you? Not when he is so clearly dying to hurt you.

He leans forward, the gun hanging from his hand. “Your odds of survival are five in six. Nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to- are you some sort of serial killer?” You gasp helplessly.

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m a man of business.”

“And your business is murder?” You add sarcastically, watching his face closely.

He lets out a breathy chuckle. “You’re different. Most people would be begging for their life by now.”

“I’m obviously going to die here. What’s the point in begging?” The words are empty as you say them. You’d already accepted your fate by this point.

His eyes glitter. “Maybe you should beg.”

You press your lips together. The prospect is tempting. ��Did you still kill those other people? Even though they begged?”

“Now, now,” he twists the gun, watching his own reflection in the metal, “that would spoil the surprise.”

You don’t respond.

“Besides,” his teeth flash as he speaks, perfectly straight, “as I said, five in six. It’s more of a chance than I gave the ‘others’.”

The high odds must mean he’s holding out for you beg. For him. For your life. You watch, sickened, as he sets the gun on the table and places a large hand over it. “Now to decide who goes first.”

Your throat tightens when he grips the barrel and spins the gun on the table like a children’s toy. The sound of the metal on the glass surface sends needles over your skin. The sound of death being delivered. Round and round. Round and round. He watches it with a terrifying anticipation. The corners of his mouth curl upward, the smile finally reaching his eyes, which sparkle manically, following the gun’s movement. It slows to a halt. And It’s facing you.

You slump in your chair. He slowly looks up at you, unmistakably eager to see you squirm. But you don’t. You watch him with a steely gaze as he picks it up and points the barrel to your forehead.

“You first,” his voice sounds different. Finally, the reality of his nature seeps through. This is the real him.

“Just do it,” you mumbled, looking at your feet.

He leans towards you across the table. You glance up to watch the movement, then freeze. Utter terror jolts through you. Then something else. This is a different man.

“Are you scared?” He says so quietly you almost don’t hear it. He leans closer. And closer. The gun forms a barrier between the two of you, and you watch it steadily until it is barely millimetres from your forehead.

“I said,” you wince as you feel the heat of his breath on your face, “are you scared?”

The truth? Or not? “Yes,” you whisper, meeting his eyes. Something you can only describe as lust shines in them. God.

“You’re crying,” he says breathily. You flinch as he moves the tip of the gun, flicking away a tear on your cheekbone with it. You shiver when the cold metal meets your skin.

“Are you going to do it, or what?” You say distantly.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” his voice is almost a growl.

You debate satisfying his clear desire. Would he be merciful if you did? “Scared.” You whisper breathlessly.

He nods once. “Carry on.”

“I don’t-“

“Scared of me? Or this,” he traces the muzzle of the gun across your face, making you twitch with every movement. Tears begin to fall, thicker this time, and you fight back sobs that threaten to escape.

“Of you,” you say breathlessly. He exhales at the words, his mouth opening slightly.

“Really?” His eyes shimmer, then he pauses, bringing the gun to the center of your forehead once again.

You hold your breath, anticipating his finger pulling the trigger. Would you feel anything if it fired? He presses it down as slowly as possible, then - click. Nothing. You collapse back into your chair, chest heaving with the release of your bated breath. He leans back again, clearing his throat and adjusting himself in his chair. You don’t watch him, but you hear the click of the chamber and know that it’s his turn.

“See? Nothing to be scared of,” he says it with a cat-like smile, though you know the words hold no sympathy for you. He brings the gun to the side of his temple, his eyes never leaving yours. A strand of hair has escaped and hangs over his terrifyingly handsome features. A part of you wants to play into this fantasy - squirm around and scream for him. That part almost takes over when you see his mouth curve into a smirk as he presses the trigger down. And nothing. His self-assurance is painfully appealing.

“This is going well, isn’t it?” He stands up this time, stepping around the table and towards you.

“Please,” you can’t help the tears from falling this time, “no more, I’ll do anything. Anything.”

He tilts his head, pouting at you. “Now you decide to beg? It’s too late for that I’m afraid, sweetheart.”

The muzzle grazes the edge of your lips, cool but strangely relieving. At least it isn’t his lips. Kissing him would feel like sealing your fate.

Your eyes widen when you realise. “But you didn’t spin the barrel!”

He doesn’t stir at your realisation. “Makes the game more interesting, don’t you think?”

You tug against the cable at your wrists, not even caring about the pain of it scraping your skin. You feel small and pitiable beneath him, but you still struggle in your seat despite the futility. He just watches you squirm, the gun dangling from his hand, not even a smile on his face. You strain your voice to scream, and this time the noise carries. He tilts his head at you.

“Scream like that again and I might have to cover your mouth,” he bends down to be level with your eyes.

You open your mouth again to scream, but he grabs your chin, forcing it to stay open. You gasp at the forcefulness of his grip, and he parts his own lips. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly as the gun enters your line of sight. Teasingly, he brings it closer to your face, then slips it into your mouth. Your breath catches at how cold it feels against your tongue.

“Hmm,” he watches you curl the tip of your tongue over the muzzle, his fingers pressing tighter against your skin.

Something compels you to move, so you do. You lean forward, taking it deeper into your mouth until you feel the muzzle graze the back of your throat. You fight the urge to choke. A single tear falls from your eye, left over from your last outburst, and lands on his hand. His smile suddenly falls and something dark descends over him. He presses the trigger with no warning.

You cry out and he pulls the gun swiftly from your mouth, a string of saliva still connected. He examines the dampness that your mouth has left on the steel and inhales deeply, as if composing himself.

“That’s not fair,” you gasp, your hair falling around you as you lean forward.

He grabs a fistful of the hair at the back of your head, forcing you to look at him. He bends down to meet your eyes as he pulls your hair harder, making you yelp. “What isn’t fair, hm?” He prompts you to speak, though your heart beats so erratically you aren’t sure you can respond.

“Don’t feel like talking? That’s alright,” he brings the gun back into your eye line, but you squeeze your eyes shut, rejecting him.

He makes a frustrated noise in his throat. Then, suddenly, he forces you back against your chair, taking a hold of your throat. You choke as he presses tighter against your windpipe, forcing the air out of you until tears stream from your eyes. He takes the tears as an indication to loosen his grip, and you take in lungfuls of air when he does. He never lets go, though, keeping you flat against the chair and completely in control.

Your chest is open for him as he traces the muzzle from your neck to collarbone, ghosting over the protruding bones. You whimper slightly as he moves it even lower, the icy metal a shock against the curve of your breast. The dress you decided to wear earlier feels like a foolish decision now. The thin material is the only barrier that holds your dignity in place.

You are acutely aware of his movements. He watches the muzzle slide against your skin, making a noise almost like a purr when you react. He swallows when it runs over the bump of your nipple and you arch your back in response.

“You seemed so innocent back in that bar,” he says huskily, eyes flicking up to watch you. He continues running the gun over your nipple, the movements slow and torturous. “But you’re not anymore, are you?”

You don’t respond, too focused on the things that he is doing to you. This is his torture. He makes it so you can barely find the words to speak, then punishes you when you don’t.

He draws a cool, straight line to the flat of your lower stomach, then toward the hem of your dress. He lifts it ever so slightly with the tip of the muzzle and looks up at you. “If you’re going to beg, do it now.” The words are commanding, barely a suggestion. You watch as he pulls off his blazer, revealing his shirt which strains over his chest. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms, and you catch sight of roping veins bulging from his skin. Your skin prickles with anticipation.

“Please,” you gasp, barely registering the words, “please don’t. Please. I’m begging you. I’m begging.”

You nearly scream when he bends down and pulls your legs open with one hand. You struggle more against your bindings, rejecting his advances. He doesn’t stop. You whimper as he rips your underwear down to your ankles. Then, abruptly, he forces the gun inside you. You let out a strangled noise.

“Look at that,” he says, voice deeply amused, “already wet. Who would’ve guessed you were such a whore?”

You cry out at the feeling of the gun stretching you uncomfortably wide. He tuts arrogantly, pushing it in deeper until you arch against it. Then, he pulls it out and stands up, letting go of your throat. You gasp with relief, chest heaving, and he examines the gun in the low light. Your arousal paints it, making the metal glisten.

He moves closer to you, the plane of his hips obstructing your vision. A clear boner strains against the fabric of his trousers. You collapse in your chair hopelessly, the shock of the gun entering you still present in your mind. He grabs your jaw again, pulling your mouth open.

“Taste it,” his voice is empty. Lust clouds his eyes, a dark mist. More hair has escaped, hanging over his forehead, and sweat glistens on his brow. His dress shirt has been disturbed in all his vigorous movement. His tie lays off centre and slightly looser than before.

Obediently, you stick out your tongue, running it over the barrel. But you barely taste anything. The room spins around you like a carousel and your head feels light. It must be the adrenaline.

“Good girl,” his voice is deep and breathy. His chin inclines as he observes your tongue taking in your own arousal.

You hardly register it as he bends back down to one knee. Then, all at once, your senses return to you. He ghosts the gun over the hard bump of your clit, forcing a strangled noise to escape from your throat.

“There you are,” he hums, satisfied.

You can feel the wetness practically dripping out of you. He slips his index finger inside, almost experimentally, curling his finger. It enters too easily, so he pushes in his middle finger, and you gasp at the intrusion. He’s stretching you wider than the gun now - and he knows it. You’re still aware of the gun pressed against your clit, a cold, hard pressure that raises goosebumps on your skin.

Floaters dance past your vision. You let your neck fall back over the chair, keeping your eyes trained on the ceiling. Your heart hammers harder with every pull of his fingers. You hear him make small satisfied hums at the wet sound of his fingers pumping in and out of you, curling and uncurling. You feel heat pool in your stomach. You’re close, but he shows no mercy, still fingering you with ever-mounting speed. Then, he pulls out his fingers once more and swiftly replaces them with the gun.

“We’re two shots down,” he says feverishly, “what if I pulled the trigger now?”

He looks up at you to watch your expression. You open your mouth to beg for your life, but find that the words die in your mouth. He picks up speed, the gun reaching a spot inside you that makes your toes curl. The possibility that he could easily kill you now seems to make your orgasm arrive even more intensely. You hear him grunt as he pulses in and out, faster, faster-

You collapse in your chair. The release is gratifying, yet humbling. The reality of your situation dawns on you as the pressure leaves your gut, and he pulls the gun out. He stands to his full height, the shadow of his figure being cast over you. His boner strains even harder against his trousers, a clear outline now. He sets the gun on the table behind him and adjusts himself, clearing his throat and wiping his hands on his thighs.

You aren’t sure if you have an ounce of self preservation left inside you. He knows this, and revels in it. The room stops spinning, coming to a still and finally grounding you. The light reveals his whole face as he leans over you and tucks the hair behind your ears with both hands. The gesture is almost too affectionate that it feels pretend. You aren’t sure that he is capable of aftercare.

“Well done,” he says, though you don’t feel like you’ve done a good job at all. He used you, and somehow, you let him.

You can’t find any words to reply with. He leans closer, eyes on your lips, his mouth parted slightly. His breath warms your face. You suck in air as he grazes two fingers over the wetness between your legs in a final gesture. He slowly pulls your underwear back over you in a strangely gentlemanly manner. You frantically search his face as the realisation that you didn’t actually die descends over you. He let you live. Why?

“That was the most fun I’ve had in a while,” he chuckles, lips still millimetres from yours. He presses his middle and ring finger to your mouth and you taste the saltiness of his skin. Then he pulls away. Strangely, you lean forward, wanting more of him. But he doesn’t fulfill your wish. He turns his back to you and leans over the case, which is still open on the table. You crane your neck to try and catch a glimpse of what he’s doing but his back is too wide for you to see.

Then he turns to you, his previous empty smile back on his face. The pleasure you just felt is quickly replaced by fear. He stands over you once again and slips a square of card inside your dress and into the cup of your bra. You make a curious noise, attempting to move your arm and then stopping when you remember that you’re still bound to the chair. Finally, he makes an apologetic face, before slipping the needle into your skin.

Oh.

—

You wake up in your bedroom, curled up on your bed wearing last night’s clothes. The strap of your dress hangs off your shoulder, revealing the bare skin of your shoulder. You shiver. Was it really all a dream? How much did you drink last night? You have no memory of coming back to your flat. No memory of falling asleep. Only the memory of him - his perfect face, glistening with sweat and his fingers wet with your arousal. You feel sickened with yourself that you could conjure up such a dream.

Then, you sit up. Something falls from the front of your dress and flutters onto the bedding. A square of brown card. You pick it up, squinting closely to examine it. A number, written in thick black type. Your heart skips. It couldn’t have been a dream. It couldn’t. You remembered him slipping a piece of card into your bra. Where else would you have gotten this from?

Something compels you to pick up your phone. Something wrong. Something not like yourself at all. That night, what he did to you, flipped a switch inside you. That same part of you types in the number. Presses dial. Waits to hear it ring. Once. Twice.

“Hello?” You say, too eagerly. The line is silent.

Then, a voice. Painfully familiar. He pauses, then speaks: “This Friday. Ten. Be ready.”

He hangs up. You were ready before he picked up the phone.

[sludgevomit]

Let me get you stoned beyond your limits. Constantly handing you the pipe, even lighting it for you to take a hit when you can’t move anymore. I’ll be able to touch you in anyway I want. Stretch your holes. Create new ones. Carve words into your skin. Pierce your flesh. Use you to cum when I’m done.

[kresch]

[spyderslut]

Instructions unclear, im now a sadomasochist who still isnt getting any writing done

best advice i ever got as a writer was to pick a hobby that i hated more than writing and stick with it. i’m a runner now and it’s miserable and i Hate It and writing is so lovely in comparison. bonus: i’m in excellent shape and running gives you a lot of time to think about writing. i’ve solved a lot of plot complications while running.

This is such funny advice. Writing is so excruciating, you gotta take up Self Torture so that writing feels like a fun little break 😭

[supra-sensual]

"fakeboy" this, "i will never be a real man" that, how about i gag you with my boxers so that you can't say stupid shit like that anymore, then pound your ass while playing with your tiny cock until you come completely undone under me. i need you to learn that just because you're a faggot doesn't mean you're not a man

[gojonanami]

thinking about yakuza!gojo and yakuza!geto whose families have both issued proposals to your own yakuza family. and the two aren't very interested in marriage -- until you've gathered them both up and threaten them to convince their families to rescind the proposals. and suddenly, they're very interested in you.

and now you have two yakuza heirs fighting over who gets to marry you.

[mojavebluez]

Choke - the salesman x fem!reader

Chapter 3

“You can take it.”

summary - one week since your last arrangement, he finds you again. He offers you a game of ddakji that quickly turns into a fight for your life.

tags - choking, blowjob, non-con, age gap, 18 mdni, sadomasochism, crying kink, choking kink, sub!reader, dom!salesman, sadomasochism

a/n - guyssss thank u so much!! It’s been a little while but I’m back… and I’ve got some big plans for the rest of the series. I think you’re gonna LOVE the next part ;))

Series masterlist

4.6k words

———————————————————————

You hadn't heard from him since that night, when he called you and simply stated, "next week. Be ready." Then he hung up.

You were conflicted. On the one hand, now you had proof: you were practically coated with his DNA - inside and out. Going to the police was an easy solution to this whole ordeal. But it seemed too easy. He was far too thorough, far too careful not to have considered that possibility. Maybe it was simple. He knew you would never turn him in.

Aside from some aching in your limbs and a little mental scarring, you were relatively unscathed by what he did to you the last time you met. The clinical way in which he had cut you made it so they healed into clean lines within a week. You almost forgot they were there - though, when you caught a glimpse of your thigh in the mirror, your stomach still twisted. You just hoped that they wouldn't scar. You weren't sure that you'd like a permanent reminder of him on your body for the rest of your life. Perhaps that was his goal.

A week later, you are all-too aware of what is to come. You had spent the whole day with your eyes trained on the clock, counting down the minutes until the end of the day (partially out of anxiety, partially eagerness). He was just so unpredictable. You make a mental list of what he could possibly do to you this time. Every item on that list was a synonym of 'torture'.

Finally, it was time for you to leave. Class had ended for the day. You pack up your things and head outside, feeling yourself growing slightly faint. You almost fainted for certain when you step outside the building. Because there he is.

He stands, arms folded and legs crossed, leaning on the door of a car. He adorns his usual suit: jet black and paired with a dark red tie. The colour seems like a purposeful reminder of what he drew from your skin seven nights ago. His eyes don't exactly light up when he sees you, but his lips curl into his signature empty smile. You can barely distinguish his pupils from the black abyss that they swim in. They must be there, somewhere, though.

You contemplate avoiding him and walking in the opposite direction. Knowing that would just end in some sort of punishment, you steel yourself and walk towards him, barely feeling your feet hit the ground. You are painfully aware of the stares you're receiving. He doesn't seem to care though. His eyes are only trained on you, and the intensity of his gaze makes your skin crawl.

"Good afternoon," he says, straightening up to greet you, "how was your day?"

You don't reply. You stare ahead at his chest, fighting the urge to curse him out. The audacity of him to infiltrate your personal life like this. You were determined to keep him separate from all of this - yet he has wormed his way into the one place you thought you were safe from his influence.

He bends down slightly to catch your eyes. "Feeling a little non-verbal? That's alright. I'm sure I'll get you talking soon enough."

He waits for you to respond, then chuckles quietly when you don't. He turns to open the car door behind him, gesturing for you to enter. You pause for a brief moment. It would be so easy for you to turn on your heels and run. You don't. Instead, you slip inside and stare him down through the tinted window. He taps on the glass mockingly then moves around to the other side of the car, letting himself in.

You glance around the interior. It's sleek, entirely black and laden with real leather. The two back seats are separated from the front by a window, indicating to you that this is some sort of chauffeur car. It checks out. You can't picture him driving himself around - he's far too superior for that. He slides in beside you on the backseat, arranging his legs over his briefcase, which sits at his feet.

"Don't you have a job or something?" You say bitterly once he shuts the door, not meeting his eyes.

You can hear the smirk in his voice. "Yes, I do. My hours are... flexible, though."

"How fantastic for me," you reply, not able to keep the sarcasm from your voice.

"Indeed," you can feel his eyes on your profile.

It's silent for a moment before your gaze drifts to the briefcase at his feet. "What's in the case?"

Instead of responding, he bends down to lift it up and places it down in the space between you. You wince as he opens the latches, still remembering the last time you saw it. Instead of a gun, this time two squares of folded card sit inside. The shape is familiar to you.

"Ddakji?" You ask, tilting your head. Was this his plan for tonight? Another one of his games?

He nods once. "Left over from work today."

"You play ddakji for work? What, are you some kind of professional?"

He laughs dryly. "You could say that."

By day, a professional ddakji player. By night, a sadist. He just keeps surprising you. "But, last week you said..." you trail off, recalling your game last time the two of you met. You didn't manage to find the lie in his list of professions, but you knew he must work either in an office or as a recruiter. So which one is it?

He holds up a hand. "Something you'll learn in the future. Don't get ahead of yourself."

You sit back in your seat, slightly embarrassed. He was right, of course - you had misjudged your relationship with him. There was no way he would tell you something so incriminating as his profession. You couldn't help but laugh at the double standard; he is allowed to violate you in any way he pleases, but you can't even ask what his job is? You almost laugh, but decide against it. Instead, you stare out of the window to your right. The city flies past in a blend of grey hues. Normal people walk the streets, probably on their way home from work or school. You try to imagine yourself before all this, but struggle to, knowing that you can never have that life back now.

After several minutes of silence, the car slows to a halt. Stupidly, you hadn't concentrated on the journey. If something were to happen, you would have no idea how to get back home. This fear is further cemented when you look outside to see that the area is completely unfamiliar to you. It seems like an industrial neighbourhood. Huge building blocks, their windows either boarded or broken, close you in. The streets are empty as well as the roads - you seem to be the only people in a five mile radius. He's brought you to the middle of nowhere.

"Where are we?" You ask, concern evident in your voice.

He doesn't reply, just taps the window as if to thank the driver and picks up his briefcase. He opens the door to his left and steps outside. You stay sat in the car, utterly terrified. If he were to finally put an end to all this, this would be the perfect place to do it. He doesn't wait for you, instead opening your door and gesturing for you to exit the car.

"Out," he says, obstructing your view. As slowly as you can, you step out of the car and onto the street, barely having time to gather yourself before the car speeds away.

"Where did-"

"Too many questions," he interrupts, straightening his tie with one hand, "I thought you would trust me by now."

"How can I?" You raise your voice, the noise echoing through the empty street.

"Follow me," he walks away from you without checking to see if you'll follow. He seems to know every decision you make before you make them. You speed after him, jogging slightly to match his long stride.

You had never walked beside him like this. It seemed like an action too normal for your dynamic. He towers over you, his legs covering almost twice the distance you can with one step. His briefcase swings at his side. You feel a small reassurance knowing what sits inside.

Eventually, he stops in front of a door to one of the large redbrick buildings. It looks like a warehouse to you. He unlocks the door with a ring of keys, pushing it open and stepping aside to let you enter first. Always the gentleman.

You find yourself in a cavernous room. You crane your neck to look at the ceiling, but notice that it ascends several floors up into darkness. Every window is boarded, but natural light still seeps through the cracks in the wood. Your steps echo as you move further inside, shoes slapping against the concrete floor.

"What is this place?" You ask, but with anxiety instead of awe.

"I own the building," he replies, voice monotone. He overtakes you, walking past and deeper inside the building. It is practically devoid of furnishing aside from a few empty boxes or planks of wood here and there.

"Is this where you murder people then?" You say, remembering a sentence he spoke last time you saw each other. It was something along the lines of, 'I am a mass murderer'.

"No," he doesn't smile as he says it. You have the feeling that the time for jokes has passed. "I wouldn't kill you here anyway. You deserve something a bit more... dignified."

"Thanks, I guess?" The way he says the words must mean he's considered it before. You stand a few steps away from him, watching him cautiously.

You had many ideas about how this evening might play out. You certainly weren't expecting this. He lowers onto one knee, settling his briefcase on the floor and letting it open. Then, he lifts the two ddakji squares and holds them up with both hands, presenting them to you. A slow smile spreads over his features - though it never reaches his eyes. You have learned from experience he only smiles fully when he's about to make you either cum or cry.

"Red or blue?" He asks, still holding them in the air.

You'd had enough of the colour red for a while, and always felt a bit more partial to blue. "Blue, please."

"A good choice," he hands it to you, and you try your hardest to take it from him without making contact with his skin. "Do you know how to play?"

You knew the rules well enough. It was a common game played in school as the paper components were easy to make - you weren't exactly the greatest at it, though. "Yeah, I know the rules. I try to flip your tile. If I don't, it's your turn, but if you can flip mine then you win the point."

He nods, clearly pleased. "Clever girl."

You wait for him to initiate the game, flipping your tile in your hands anxiously. There has to be some sort of catch. It's completely out of his nature to suggest an innocent game like this with no consequences.

He sets his tile on the floor. The red square is the only colour amid the sea of grey stone beneath your feet. He looks up at you expectantly. "Ladies first."

You nod slowly, readying your tile in your hand. It's been years since you last played, but the general concept seems familiar to you. You're fairly assured with yourself. Gradually, you raise your arm and bring it down in the air, releasing the tile. Not enough power. It hits the edge of his red square, barely moving it an inch.

You slowly look up to meet his eyes. A shadow seems to have fallen over his features. You aren't sure if it's your imagination, but his expression alone makes your blood sing in your ears. There is something distinctly shark-like about him - black eyes, perfectly white teeth and his unending desire to make you bleed.

He picks up his tile and arranges himself to the correct stance. Something about his professionalism makes your gut twist with dread. You already know how this will turn out. Just as you guessed, he moves back his arm and slaps his tile against yours, perfectly in centre. Yours flips over to its flat face with ease. His lips curl into a small satisfied smirk, and he folds his arms before him, looking down at the tiles.

He makes no move to continue the next round, so you bend down to pick up his tile and hand it to him. Once you reach your full height, though, he catches your chin in his hand and holds you there with a vice grip. Ah. Here is the punishment for your loss.

Faster than you can register it, he brings his hand back, then strikes it across your face with terrifying force. The sound of his palm hitting your skin echoes throughout the building. Your breath catches in your throat and you recoil from the pain, bringing a hand to your face. The skin of your cheek already feels hot and angry, and you feel tears prick in the corners of your eyes. You can barely find the words to question him.

"What- why did you-"

"You lost," is all he says. His hands are clasped before him, weapons in their own right. In a way, his hands are far more terrifying than any knife or gun - he has complete control of them. And he uses them as he pleases.

"You didn't have to-!" You cut off, pressing your palm against your face to soothe the pain. There is no point in arguing the point with him. Now you have learned of the penalty for failure, and that is just how his games work. All you can do is hope that you won't lose again.

The next few games continue in silence, aside from the crack of his tile flipping yours and his palm against your face. Each time, you add a little more strength behind your throw, but each time you fail to flip his square completely. By the fourth round, tears flow in flick streams down your face, and your skin hums with the heat of his strikes. He remains stoic, a smirk on his lips the only sign of his enjoyment.

It's the fifth round and you can feel your hands twitch with frustration. This time, you go first, and throw your own tile down with enough force to make him flinch. His red square flips easily. You can't help but laugh at your triumph. As long as he fails his turn, you're free to slap him right back.

He picks up his red square and positions himself, then throws his ddakji. It strikes the ground nearly 5 inches from yours. You frown. He would never overlook or allow a loss like that - it must have been purposeful.

You meet his eyes and he smiles, clasping his hands before him. Something about his silence unnerves you. You step towards him, bridging the gap between you both, flexing your fingers. You'd been imagining the expression he might make. Gradually, you line up your palm with the side of his face and pull your arm back. Quicker than you can see, he grabs your wrist before it connects with his skin, digging in his fingers until you can barely move any further. You make a frustrated noise, trying to release yourself.

His eyes seem to twinkle as he watches you struggle. Then, with no warning, he crashes his lips against yours. You cry out, voice muffled by the force of his kiss. There is no affection, no softness in the way his mouth fights your own. You pull at your arm, but he keeps you there, not releasing until you both pull away to catch your breath.

"What the-" you start back, wrenching free from his grasp.

He swipes a thumb over his lips, examining the saliva you left on his mouth. "A reward for your win."

You stare at him, utterly baffled. The kiss felt more uncomfortable than loving. More of a punishment than an award. You search his eyes for an explanation - nothing. Two black abysses staring right into yours without a trace of humanity. Kissing him didn't even see like a possibility in your mind; it was far too affectionate.

You hold a hand to your mouth and stare down at your shoes, not ready to continue the game. The tiles sit, expectant, by your feet. After a moment of silence, you hear his voice. "Pick it up."

After a brief moment, you obey, lowering to one knee to pick up his red tile. On your way back onto your feet, though, you feel his hand press firmly on the crown of your head. You look up at him, eyes wide and questioning.

"Get on your knees," his voice is cool and commanding. It sends a strange dread through your bones that forces you to stay down. You bring your other knee to the floor, letting your skirt pool around you. You raise your chin to watch his expression. He seems completely passive; the situation has played out exactly as he desired.

"Let's get on with it, shall we?" You see his teeth flash white as he speaks.

You feel a small spark of defiance within you. You stare ahead at his knees, not daring to look up at him. He waits, silent, for you to respond, before he loses his patience and grabs a fistful of your hair. He yanks your head back, forcing you to look at him.

"Is this really how you want to do things?" He asks, condescending.

You don't speak. He slowly untangles his fingers from your hair, bringing them to the waist of his trousers. His hands diligently undo the button, then the zip, finally coming to rest on the waistband of his boxers.

"Open," his voice is dark. He reveals his cock to you, and you try not to gasp, despite knowing that you'd seen it before. You remember how it felt inside you. Impossibly big and impossibly perfect. You shiver.

You force your lips shut. He runs a veined hand from the tip to the base of his cock, tilting his head as he looks down at you. He slaps it against the skin of your cheek, which is still warm from your punishment. You can feel him get harder at the sight of you on his knees for him. Your face is still stained with tear-tracks, and your eyes are red-rimmed. All things he has done to you.

You part your lips in an attempt to catch your breath. He grabs your chin, forcing your mouth to open wider. You whimper in protest, pulling at his arm, but it’s no use. He forces his cock inside your mouth with no warning. You gasp around him, voice muffled by his girth. He makes a quiet noise at the damp heat of your mouth, forcing himself deeper.

You can’t control it. Your teeth graze his cock, harder than you mean to, and he makes a disgruntled noise in his throat. You nearly scream when he shoves his cock in even further until you feel it grazing the back of your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping his leg for support.

“You can take it,” he says, pressing a hand to the back of your head. His fingers twist into your hair and he controls your movements like a puppet. Your body goes limp, your throat relaxing just to save yourself from choking to death on his cock. It’s no use - he’s just too much. Even with your mouth full of him there’s still room at the base for you to run your hands across.

Your vision is blurry with tears, and he uses this as a sign to thrust harder. He guides your mouth over him with his hand, pulling your hair to move you back and forth over his length. With every thrust you feel him get harder, and he makes deep grunting noises when his tip touches your throat.

Eventually, it becomes too much. The room echoes with the sounds of your gagging and sobbing. Tears flow freely down your face, hot and thick, some landing on his cock. He sucks in his breath, head falling back, the curve of his neck illuminated by the faint light. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. You bristle slightly at the sight - you’re clearly pleasing him. It almost motivates you.

“Don’t- ah…” he trails off when you bring a hand to the base of his cock, curling your fingers around his thick girth. You bob your head, picking up momentum, trying to take his whole length. You twist your hand, moving it up when your head pulls backward. One hand still grips his leg for support, but you can feel him tense under your fingers when you pick up speed.

“S-such a whore,” he stutters, tilting his head to look down at you, “trying to make me cum, huh?” He takes in a shaky breath, pulling on your hair so hard that it makes you whimper with him still in your mouth. The vibration of your throat makes him shiver.

He doesn’t falter though, keeping himself buried in the heat of your mouth. You begin to tire, squeezing your eyes shut and dropping your hand to the ground. You pull backward, a string of salvia connecting your lips and his swollen tip. Your body wracks with your heaving breaths, hands trembling.

“Fuck-“ he starts, his eyes darting downward, “don’t you dare fucking stop.”

His voice is deep and commanding, and an incredible motivator. Your chest heaves with exhaustion as you bring up both hands this time, placing them side by side around his cock. He does the same, but to your head, taking fistfuls of your hair and holding you with extreme force. You cry out when he shoves his cock into you, harder than before, until you can basically feel it bruising your throat.

He grunts with the effort of forcing you over him, using his hold to face-fuck you until the tears flow hot and fast. The vibrations of your sobs don’t put him off, in fact, they make him thrust with more aggression. He sighs at the soft heat of your mouth against the stiffness of his erection. When he looks down at you, he nearly comes undone - the mark of where his fingers struck your cheek have settled into thick red lines. He is struck with the sudden overwhelming urge to hold your throat and press down until you choke on him. So he does.

You make a strangled noise as he releases one hand, curving his body so he can grip your neck. You look up to search his eyes. Utter terror chills you. A dark look has settled over his features, melting his face into a mask of serenity. His lips barely curl with the effort of holding you. He seems utterly at peace watching you choke, and his fingers press, one by one, around your neck with increasing pressure. His entire hand almost fits around your throat.

You try to pull away from his cock, but he doesn’t let you, using his neck to constrain you. You feel, quite suddenly, like you might die. Your vision swirls as you feel the lack of oxygen finally set in. He keeps thrusting, faster, faster, even when your body goes slack. His breath picks up, his cock twitching inside your mouth. You know he’s close. You fight for your breath, hoping that he will grace you with oxygen soon.

He curses as his orgasm finally arrives. He shoots warm, salty cum into your throat and you sob, nearly choking all over again. His body curls inward, his head hanging over you, and he finally releases his hand. He rests his core on the crown of your head, using you for support. You cry to yourself, taking in deep lungfuls of oxygen until your vision returns to normal. You feel his whole body tremble with the release.

After a moment, he moves back, standing to his full height. He swipes a thumb over the corner of your lip, flicking away a drop of his own cum that leaks out of your mouth. It is the extent of his affection. You hang your head, feeling exhaustion deep in your bones. He used you. Pushed you to your limits. And you almost died with his cock in your mouth.

You see him open his mouth to say something. Then, his back pocket vibrates. His eyes flicker with confusion. You watch expectantly, still on your knees and too tired to stand up.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, at the same time zipping his trousers up again. He looks just as he did before, though his hair flops messily over his forehead, slick with sweat.

His eyes scan the number on his phone. Then, to your complete astonishment, he answers. He turns away from you, mumbling a ‘hello’ into the phone. His voice is slightly broken, but still sickeningly professional.

Your mouth hangs open, hands limp in your lap. He has left you, tear-stained and on your knees, to answer the phone. He barely spoke a word of acknowledgment before walking away, speaking quickly into his phone.

Several feet away now, he turns back to you, holding a hand over the speaker. “There’s a car waiting outside,” he says, voice as regular as if he were talking to a work colleague. That’s it. He walks away, deeper into the building, until his voice becomes an incoherent mutter.

For a moment, you barely register what has just happened. Your entire body aches as the product of his aggression. He manipulated you to his will.

Gathering yourself, you wipe your cheeks with the heel of your hand, wincing at the soreness of your face. You can feel the heat of where he slapped you several times. How are you going to hide the marks?

You smooth your skirt and stand up, swaying on your feet slightly. Your throat feels sore and dry, breath raspy, and you press gently on your neck. It feels bruised. You’ll have to wear turtlenecks for a while, you think to yourself bitterly. You nearly marvel at the control he has over your life now, but decide not to. It will just make you hurt.

You cast one last downhearted glance at him. He is a distant figure across the floor of the warehouse. He stands, completely still, one hand holding his phone and the other in his pocket. You feel suddenly sick at the sight of him, and decide to leave.

True to his word, the same black car from earlier is parked on the street, waiting. You open the back door and slip inside, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You feel humiliated. The car speeds away and turns the corner, leaving the building, and him, behind.

On the drive home, the tears fall all over again, but this time you let them. You hold yourself as your body jerks with sobs. You keep holding yourself until fatigue sets in, and your eyes grow heavy.

You make a vow to yourself as the car slows to a halt outside your apartment: you are never, ever, going to see him again.

But, of course, you do.

[darkfantasyprincess23]

Run, baby, run, run for your life

[brviseslvt]

Sensory deprivation.... Blindfolded, gagged, limbs restrained, noise cancelling headphones on. Being driven to insanity with each touch. Loving someone so much you trust them to torture you like this. Completely at their mercy and loving every painful second. Ugh.

[implied-divinity]

MY DOMTOP THOUGHTS ARE BECOMING FREAKIER AND FREAKIER I SURE HOPE NO BOTTOMSUB ENCOURAGES ME TO GET ROUGHER AND GROSSER