He stepped closer, deliberately closing the space between us. My breath hitched—not because he touched me, but because he could. Every inch he moved was measured, precise, as if the air itself obeyed him.
"You know why you're here," he said softly, his voice low, almost a purr. "You can't stop thinking about me."
I tried to argue, tried to push the words out, but my throat tightened. I could feel his gaze tracing me from head to toe, calm, assessing, claiming.
His fingers brushed my shoulder—not enough to press, just enough to make my nerves sing. I shivered.
"You're trembling," he noted, his lips so close to my ear that his breath grazed my skin. "And yet, you didn't leave. That tells me everything I need to know."
My stomach twisted. I wanted to step back, to run, to remember the life I'd left behind. But I couldn't. Every instinct, every pulse in my body, screamed to stay.
He reached for my hand, slow, deliberate, just letting his fingers rest against mine. No pressure. No force. And yet, it was like a chain wrapped around me—soft, unyielding, undeniable.
"Good," he murmured, his thumb brushing along my knuckles. "That's the part you don't understand yet. I don't need to demand anything from you. I just need you to know… you already belong here. To me."
I swallowed hard, my fingers tingling where his touched mine. Every rational thought screamed that I should step away. My heart, my body, my mind—they all screamed for him anyway.
He leaned closer, and I could feel the weight of his presence pressing against me, making it impossible to think, impossible to resist.
"You see," he whispered, voice low and dangerous, "this isn't about touch. This is about control. And I already have it. You just haven't realized it yet."
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to breathe, trying to remind myself who I was supposed to be. But when I opened them again, his gaze held me—steady, unyielding, claiming.
And I knew, with a terrifying clarity, that I was lost.
He gave me a soft kiss, then took of my dress with the movement of his arms so elegant, he lifted me up and dropped me on a wooden table so slowly. He kissed me again going more lower to my breasts down to my thighs. I could feel a warm liquid building up in my pussy this was my first time experiencing such. The he pulled down his trousers and there it was - the huge cock, hard as a rock dripping with fluids. He spread my legs apart, rubbing his hard cock around my pussy.
"ahhhh" I let out a moan though his cock wasn't even in me yet.
"you're tight ease up for me" he was right although I've been in a relationship already, I've never had sex with anyone before and this was going to be my first time. He shoved his huge cock slowly in me, each time he went deeper my head went numb.
"ahhh ahhh yes yes yes" I said with tears flowing from my eyes not just because of the pain of being penetrated for the first time but because for the first time ever I felt loved and satisfied.
he came closer and began kissing me, while thrusting his huge cock in me. "yes fuck me more" I said no longer in control of my mind and body. "harder harder harder ahhhh" he continued thrusting more intensively.
"ahhh you're really tight it's so sexy" he said. I've never felt so beautiful and loved before. Hours went by and we were still going. Caressing and kissing me he continued, I could feel my body vibrating then- "ahhhh" I came for the first time ever. He lifted me from the wooden table my legs hanging on both of his arms, he continued fucking me so hard I screamed, it felt like my mind was leaving my body. increasing the motion, we moaned and moaned until we both came.
Afterward, we collapsed onto his bed, the world outside the room fading until it didn't exist at all. My body still hummed with his touch, every nerve alive, but it wasn't just the physical—it was the way he made me feel seen, claimed, like nothing else mattered.
He lay beside me, not pressing, not demanding, just there. His hand found mine again, fingers intertwining, and I realized I didn't want to pull away. My head rested against the pillow, every breath catching as I tried to steady myself.
"You feel that?" he murmured, voice low and smooth. "That's what it means to belong… even for a moment."
I nodded, words failing me. My heart was still racing, my skin still tingling, but the most intense part wasn't my body—it was the way he looked at me. Not hunger, not lust… something sharper, heavier, more consuming. Possession. Ownership. Control without force.
"You know," he said softly, brushing a stray hair from my face, "you can't go back to normal after this. You'll try, but your mind, your body… they'll remember me. You'll remember this. Every second."
I swallowed hard. He was right. I did remember. Every gasp, every whisper, every shiver. My thoughts wandered to my boyfriend, to the life I had outside this room, and a pang of guilt hit me. But just as fast, desire flared again, the memory of him pressing close, his hands guiding me, his presence everywhere, made it impossible to care.
He leaned closer, forehead brushing mine, letting silence fill the space between us. No words, no demands—just the weight of him, of Sebastian Crowe, and the undeniable truth that I was already his.
And in that quiet, lingering moment, I realized something terrifying: it wasn't the act that claimed me. It was him.