𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

TW: non-con, blood play, gun play, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, choking / breath play, ass slapping, physical assault and violence, face slapping

A sugar daddy arrangement spirals into a twisted nightmare as a calculating, sadistic older man grows dangerously possessive. Luxury becomes a gilded cage, and love is warped by jealousy, manipulation, and obsession. Can you escape his grasp, or will his dark devotion consume you?

Yandere! Sugar Daddy : Bye, Bye, Bye – Part 5

Word Count: 4,254 words

He dragged you through the penthouse, his grip tangled in your hair like a steel trap, unyielding and merciless. The door slammed behind you, the sound reverberating through the opulent space like a gunshot. You stumbled, your feet barely keeping up as he all but hauled you into the bedroom. His breathing was heavy, uneven, and you could feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

The moment you crossed the threshold, he let go only to shove you forward, watching as you fell onto the massive bed with a graceless thud. Before you could scramble away, his weight descended on you, pinning you to the mattress like a predator with its prey.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled, his voice low and venomous, laced with something dark and unrelenting.

Your composure, the icy mask you always wore so effortlessly, cracked. For the first time, you squirmed beneath him, your hands pushing against his chest, your nails digging into his skin in a frantic attempt to shove him off. But he didn’t budge.

“Stop,” you said, your voice unsteady, the usual calm replaced by a sharp edge of panic.

He laughed, low and humorless, his face inches from yours. “Stop?” he mocked, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “You didn’t stop when you let him put his filthy hands all over you.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear as he hissed, “You didn’t stop when you kissed him like you fucking meant it.”

You twisted beneath him, your body writhing in a desperate attempt to escape, but his hands were everywhere—pinning your wrists, gripping your hips, holding you down with an unrelenting force that stole the air from your lungs.

“Kiss me back,” he demanded, his voice sharp and commanding, a thin veneer of control barely concealing the raw, frenzied need beneath. “Stop squirming and kiss me back.”

Your head turned to the side, your lips pressed into a defiant line as you refused him, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

He snarled, grabbing your chin with a bruising grip and forcing you to face him. “Look at me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Look at me and tell me you didn’t mean it. Tell me he meant nothing.”

You met his gaze, your eyes wide and glistening with something he couldn’t bear to name. Fear? Defiance? He didn’t know, and it made him furious. He needed you to submit, to stop fighting, to give in to him completely.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice breaking on the edges of desperation. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

When you didn’t respond, his lips crashed against yours, brutal and punishing, his teeth grazing your skin as if he wanted to devour you whole. You tried to turn away, your nails raking down his arms and leaving red trails in their wake, but he didn’t flinch.

“Stop fighting me,” he snarled, his hands tightening around your wrists until you whimpered. “You think you can run? Think you can fucking leave me? I’ll kill anyone who touches you, anyone who even looks at you. Do you understand me?”

Your breaths came in short, panicked gasps, your chest rising and falling beneath him as you shook your head, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Please…”

But he wasn’t listening.

The memory of seeing you with that man burned behind his eyes, a searing image that refused to fade. It was madness, this feeling tearing him apart from the inside out, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

“You don’t get to walk away,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender, though the steel in his grip never wavered. “You’re mine. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

His hands roamed over your body, rough and claiming, leaving no inch untouched. You struggled against him, your movements frantic, but it only seemed to fuel him further.

“You can fight all you want,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw, trailing down your neck. “But you’ll always come back to me. You’ll always be mine.”

The weight of his body pressed you deeper into the mattress, his presence suffocating, inescapable. You bit down on your lip, hard enough to draw blood, but the pain was a small defiance in the face of his overwhelming dominance.

And yet, as much as you fought, as much as you resisted, he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

Because to him, you weren’t just a person.

You were an obsession. A possession.

And he would tear the world apart before he let you go.

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Your heart raced as his free hand roamed over your body, ripping away the fabric of your dress with the ease of tearing through paper. His touch was like fire, leaving a trail of agony and revulsion in its wake. “Please,” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper, “please, don’t do this.”

But he was lost in his own fury, deaf to your pleas. He yanked your wrists above your head, securing them with the cold metal of the cuffs. The pain was stark and immediate, grounding you in the horror of the moment.

“Call me ‘Master’,” he barked, his voice low and menacing.

“You’re going to beg for me to touch you, to use you.” The words were a knife to your soul, a twisted game that made bile rise in your throat. Yet, you knew resistance was futile; his grip was ironclad, his resolve unshakeable.

The gun hovered at the side of your face, a silent, chilling reminder of his power. He traced the barrel along your cheek, the metal cold and unforgiving against your skin. “Call me ‘Master’,” he repeated, his voice a serpent’s hiss.

“Say it, or I’ll show you how much your ‘no’ really means.” The word stuck in your throat, a vile taste you didn’t want to give life to. But the cold, hard reality of the weapon against your flesh made the decision for you.

You swallowed hard and forced the hated word from your lips. “Master,” you murmured, the sound a betrayal to your very being.

A twisted smile curled his lips. “Good girl,” he praised, the malice in his tone as clear as the gleaming gun. He leaned down, the weight of his body pressing into you, his breath hot against your ear.

“Now, beg for it,” he whispered, the gun moving to press against your neck. His hand found its way between your legs, his touch as unwelcome as the metal of the cuffs biting into your wrists.

You clenched your teeth, willing yourself to find some semblance of strength.

“Please,” you choked out, the word tasting like ash. “Please, Master, touch me.”

His grin grew wider, a predatory glint in his eyes as he began to unbuckle his belt. The leather slithered through the loops with a sinister sound, the anticipation of what was to come making your stomach churn. He pulled his erection free, stroking it with a casual cruelty that made you want to retch.

“You want this, don’t you?” he taunted, the gun digging into your skin. “You want me to fuck you with it.” The words were a vile incantation, a spell you didn’t want to be under.

But the fear of what he would do if you didn’t comply was stronger than your pride.

“Yes,” you whispered, the lie burning like acid. “I want you to fuck me with it.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “Good girl,” he said again, the nickname a whip that stung your soul. He took the gun and placed it on the bedside table, reaching for a bottle of lube instead.

“But first,” he said, his voice dropping to a growl, “we’re going to get you nice and ready.” He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and brought them to your sex, his touch as unwelcome as a serpent’s embrace.

Despite your mind’s protest, your body, traitorous and responsive to fear, began to betray you, growing wet and vulnerable. He noticed and laughed, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re just as much a whore as I knew you were.”

With a rough thumb, he spread the lube over your folds, the coldness of it sending a shiver through you. “Master,” you whispered, trying to keep the defiance out of your voice. “Please, no more.”

But he was beyond listening to pleas.

He inserted two fingers into you, the intrusion feeling like a violation, a desecration of your most sacred space. He pumped them in and out, his gaze locked on yours, watching the play of emotions across your face as he worked to loosen you up. The sensation was a mix of pain and humiliation, your body responding despite your mind’s rejection.

“See,” he said, his tone smug, “you can’t resist me. You’re going to take me, every inch.”

He withdrew his hand and positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. He paused for a moment, savoring the power he had over you.

Then, with one brutal thrust, he claimed you, your body arching off the bed in a silent scream.

The pain was intense, your muscles clenching around him despite your will to resist. His eyes bore into yours, a challenge and a threat all rolled into one.

“Beg for more,” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper. “Beg for your master to fuck you harder.”

Through gritted teeth, you forced out the words. “Please, Master, fuck me harder,” your voice a broken echo of the strong woman you once were.

He didn’t need further encouragement, his hips slamming into you with the force of a hammer on an anvil. Each thrust sent a bolt of pain through your body, but he didn’t care. He was in control now, and he reveled in it. You felt your will slipping away, the fight draining from your limbs like sand through an hourglass.

Yet, somewhere in the depths of your soul, a spark of rebellion remained, a stubborn ember that refused to die.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice a toxic caress. “Mine to use, mine to break, mine to rebuild.”

His hand reached up to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a mockery of tenderness. “Say it,” he ordered. “Say you’re mine.”

Your eyes searched the room for an escape, for anything that would take you out of this nightmare. But the walls were just as cold and unyielding as he was.

With a tremble in your voice, you whispered, “I’m yours, Master.”

It was the hardest thing you’ve ever said, the most profane lie that had ever left your lips.

He took the gun from the bedside table, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of his skin. “Open your mouth,” he said, and you knew better than to refuse.

The barrel of the gun was placed on your tongue, the taste of oil and steel filling your mouth. He began to fuck you with it, the gun moving in and out in time with his thrusts, the taste of metal making you gag.

“You’re going to swallow this,” he told you, his voice a mix of amusement and malice.

“You’re going to choke on it like you’re choking on your pride.” Each movement of the gun was a violation, a degradation that made you want to scream.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

The only sound that left you was a muffled whimper.

He watched your eyes water and your face contort in discomfort, his own arousal growing with every twitch of your body.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with pleasure. “You’re so beautiful when you’re suffering for me.” His grip on your hair tightened, his other hand now gripping the gun as he pushed it deeper into your mouth.

You could feel your throat closing around the barrel, the panic rising in your chest like a tide.

“Swallow,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. “Swallow it all.”

Your body tensed, your throat working involuntarily as you tried to refuse, but the pressure of his hand on the back of your head was relentless. The gun slid deeper, and you had no choice but to obey.

The cold metal filled your mouth, the taste of it coating your throat as you swallowed around it, gagging on your own saliva. His thrusts grew more erratic, his breaths coming in harsh pants.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice strained with effort. “Take it all.” The gun slid back out, leaving you gasping for air, tears streaming down your face.

He laughed, the sound echoing through the room.

He withdrew from you and stood up, the smugness in his stance a stark contrast to your vulnerability.

“Now, let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson,” he said, grabbing the gun and pointing it at you again.

“Beg for it. Beg for your master to fill you up.” Your voice was barely a rasp, your eyes never leaving the weapon.

“P-please, M-Master,” you stuttered, the word still feeling like a knife in your heart. “Please, fill me up.”

Your sugar daddy’s hand cracks across your cheek, the sound of the slap echoing through the room like a gunshot.

Pain explodes in your face, your vision momentarily swimming. You feel the sting of his palm, the heat of his anger branding your skin. The gun, still in his other hand, wobbles slightly with the motion, a reminder of the power he holds over you.

“You think you can lie to me?” he snarls, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“You think you can pretend to submit?” He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“I want the real you,” he says, his voice low and dangerous.

“I want the part of you that’s screaming, that’s fighting, that’s hating every second of this.” His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“I want to hear it. I want to see it.”

You struggle against the handcuffs, your eyes flashing with defiance.

“Fuck you,” you spit out, the words raw and unfiltered.

The slap comes again, this time even harder, sending stars dancing in your vision.

“Wrong answer,” he says, his voice cold as ice.

He straddles you, the gun now pointed at your forehead. “Again,” he demands. “Beg me to fill you up.”

Your cheek throbs, the taste of blood in your mouth a grim reminder of your situation. You swallow hard, trying to find the words that will satisfy his sadistic craving.

“Please, Master,” you murmur, your voice cracking, “please fill me up.”

The words feel like acid on your tongue, but the fear of the gun keeps them coming. “I’ll do anything,” you whimper, your eyes never leaving the barrel. “Just…please.”

He leans in, his breath hot on your face, his eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit.

For a moment, it seems like he’s going to believe you, to take the bait.

But then his gaze hardens, and you know you’ve failed to convince him. “No,” he says, the word a knife twisting in your gut.

“You’re not ready.” He stands up, the gun still pointed at you.

“You’re going to take this,” he says, his voice a low growl, “and you’re going to love it. You’re going to beg for more.”

With a sadistic smirk, the billionaire withdraws the gun from your mouth and lines it up with your exposed, trembling sex.

He slicks the barrel with the excess lube from earlier, the cold metal gliding against your sensitive flesh.

With a merciless shove, he begins to penetrate you with the gun, the pain and humiliation overwhelming as he uses you like a toy, his eyes never leaving yours. Each thrust is accompanied by the sickening sound of the metal sliding in and out of you, leaving you feeling more and more defiled.

Your body jerks and tenses against the invasive, foreign object, the pain a stark contrast to the wetness between your legs, a betrayal of your fear-induced arousal.

He watches your every move, the power in his eyes growing with every gasp and whimper you emit. He takes his time, driving the gun in deeper and harder with each pass, the barrel stretching you beyond your limits.

“Look at you,” he sneers, “so desperate, so needy. You’re pathetic.” His voice is like a whip, cutting through the haze of pain and degradation.

“But you’re going to love it, aren’t you?” He leans down, his breath hot on your cheek as he whispers in your ear, “You’re going to cum for me, like a good little slut.”

His thumb finds your clit, pressing down hard, his cruel touch igniting a firestorm of sensations.

You want to scream, to beg him to stop, but your body responds to the mix of pain and pleasure, the hatred and fear warring with an unwelcome arousal. The room spins around you, the pressure building, your mind screaming for relief.

You feel his hand tighten on the gun, the barrel digging into you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “Beg for it,” he demands, his voice a growl.

“Beg to cum for me.” You want to tell him no, to spit in his face and defy him, but the need is too much.

“P-please,” you stutter, “please let me cum.”

His laughter is like a gunshot in the quiet room, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Not yet,” he says, his thumb moving in merciless circles.

“Not until you’re begging for it like a dog.”

The gun slams into you, the pain a crescendo that threatens to shatter you. Each thrust feels like a declaration of war, a battle you’re losing more with every second.

But your body is a traitor, responding to his cruel touch, building towards something you know you should hate but can’t help craving.

“P-please,” you whisper again, the word a desperate prayer. “Please, let me cum.” He smirks, the gun still moving inside you.

“Beg,” he says, his voice a demand.

With a sob and breathless gasp, you do as he asks. “I’m begging you, Master,” you whine, the word a curse that feels like it’s burning your tongue. “Please, I’m begging you to let me cum.”

His eyes light up with satisfaction, the sadistic gleam in them making you feel even dirtier than the act itself. He leans down, his breath hot against your cheek.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb pressing down even harder on your clit.

“You’re learning.” And with that, he gives you what you’ve been begging for, pushing you over the edge with a final, brutal thrust.

Your body convulses, pleasure and pain melding into a white-hot agony that consumes you.

You scream his name, the sound torn from your throat against your will, a declaration of your defeat.

As the tremors subside, he pulls out the gun, his expression one of triumph. He wipes the barrel on the bed sheet, leaving a dark, oily stain. “You see?” he says, his voice smug.

“You enjoyed it.” The words are a knife in your gut, a truth you refuse to accept. You turn your face away, the tears falling freely now.

“No,” you murmur, the word a feeble protest.

“I didn’t.” But deep down, you know that right now, in this moment, you are.

Your sugar daddy discards the gun with a clatter, his lust-driven eyes never leaving yours. He leans in, capturing your bruised and trembling mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss.

His teeth graze your bottom lip, drawing blood and leaving a mark that stings as much as his earlier slaps. His tongue invades your mouth, tasting of your fear and submission.

He grinds his erection against your thigh, the heat of it a stark contrast to the cold metal that was just inside you.

He releases your wrists from the handcuffs, his grip shifting to your arms as he flips you over onto your stomach. His hands move to your hips, his breath hot on your neck as he lines up his cock with your sore and abused entrance.

The older man, fueled by your whimpers and the marks of his possession on your skin, enters you roughly from behind. His movements are punishing, his cock sliding in and out of you without mercy.

Each thrust is a declaration of his power, each stroke a punishment for your earlier defiance. You feel the heat of his grip on your hips, his fingers digging in, leaving bruises that will linger for days.

Despite the pain, your body reacts to his dominance, your traitorous arousal building again. He notices and smirks, his hips moving faster, pushing you closer to the edge of another forced climax.

You grit your teeth, trying to hold back, but his relentless pace and the sting of his fingers on your clit overwhelm you. You cum, your body arching against his, the sound of your muffled screams filling the room.

He doesn’t stop, his rhythm unbroken as he uses your body for his own pleasure, bringing you to peak after peak of unwanted ecstasy.

Each orgasm is a new level of hell, each spasm of pleasure a twisted form of punishment that leaves you feeling more and more degraded.

With each slap, your cheek stings and your body jolts, the pain and humiliation mixing with the overwhelming sensations of his relentless assault.

Your moans become louder, more desperate, as your body succumbs to his will, each slap pushing you closer to the edge of another unwanted climax. The sound of your own voice, begging and pleading, echoes in your ears, a symphony of degradation that fuels his desire.

His thrusts become more punishing, his grip on your hips tightening as he uses you, his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends a bolt of pain through you.

The hand that’s not holding onto you snakes around to your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes water, to remind you who’s in control.

You feel yourself slipping away, your resistance crumbling like sand in a storm, as he fucks you into submission.

“That’s it,” he grunts, his voice a harsh rasp in your ear. “You’re mine. You’re going to scream my name until you can’t even remember your own.”

His strokes become erratic, his breathing ragged, as he feels his own orgasm building. He slaps you again, the sting of his palm sending you spiraling over the edge, your body convulsing in pleasure against your will.

The hand around your throat tightens, cutting off your air, as he slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt. You feel the warmth of his release inside you, a disgusting mix of pleasure and despair that makes you want to retch.

But instead, you moan, the sound torn from your chest, your body betraying your mind once more.

He pulls out, the emptiness inside you feeling like a void. He flips you over again, his eyes scanning your tear-stained face, the marks of his possession branded on your skin.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice a low growl. You raise your gaze to meet his, the hatred and fear in your eyes clear as day. He slaps you again, the sting a stark reminder of who’s in control.

“Say it,” he says, his voice a mix of demand and need. “Say you’re mine.” The words stick in your throat, but the fear of what he’ll do if you don’t is too great.

“I’m yours,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. “I belong to you.”

His hand moves to your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, a gesture that would be tender if it weren’t for the bruises he’s already left.

“Good girl,” he whispers, the praise a knife to your soul. He leans in, his breath hot and ragged. His cock, still hard and gleaming with your arousal, presses against your stomach.

“But we’re not done yet,” he says, his eyes gleaming with a new form of sadism. “I want you to scream my name until you can’t even think.”

He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat to the ravenous hunger in his gaze. His hand moves between your legs, his fingers finding your clit, still swollen from his earlier torment. He begins to rub it, the sensation a mix of pleasure and pain that sends a fresh wave of arousal through your trembling body.

You want to fight, to resist, but the feeling is too intense, too overwhelming. Your body betrays you once more, arching into his touch, begging for more even as your mind recoils in horror.

“P-please,” you whine, the word a desperate plea. “I-I can’t.” His grip on your hair tightens, his smile a cruel parody of affection.

“You can,” he says, his voice a command.

“You will.” And with that, he slams his cock into you, the force making you scream.