𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

Your wrists are raw.

Not from the rope itself—he’s too good for that. He knows exactly how to knot it so the skin doesn’t tear, so the mark lasts longer. He likes the permanence of things. The permanence of you, tied here, under him. The permanence of his hand on the back of your neck, forcing your head down into the mattress until the sound of your own breath is muffled into fabric.

“You don’t even realize how pathetic you look right now,” he says, voice almost bored, but the weight behind it is unmistakable. He’s watching you with that too-wide smile, the one that always feels like he’s a little too amused for the situation. “Well— pathetic and perfect.”

You try not to look at him, which only makes him tilt your chin up between two fingers. His hands are long. Everything about him is long. And it’s not just his height—it’s the way he moves, the way he crowds the room without touching anything except you.

His eyes are too bright. They catch the low light like glass. You don’t like being this close to them—being close enough to see yourself reflected in them like some kind of pinned insect.

He leans in, his lips close enough to your ear for his breath to ghost over it. “Do you know the best part about you, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

He laughs softly. “That you keep thinking you can hide how much you’re shaking. But I feel it. Every time you breathe. Every time you try to pull away, it’s like your body’s reminding you you’ve already lost.”

The mattress dips as he shifts his weight. His hand trails lazily down your back, not tender, not soothing—just measuring. He stops at your hips, gripping them with sudden force, dragging you toward him until your knees scrape against the sheets.

“You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?” His tone sharpens, like a hook catching. “Don’t lie. Don’t bother. You’ve been thinking about how big I am. How you can’t take it. How it won’t fit. And you’re right.”

You flinch when his thumb brushes against the inside of your thigh. It’s not even the contact—it’s the fact that he’s taking his time, dragging out the anticipation like he’s savoring your discomfort. “You should see your face right now,” he murmurs. “Wide eyes. Lips parted. Like you’re about to cry. You’re scared, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, bending you forward, forcing your spine into an arch that feels more like submission than anything else. “Good. You should be.”

He leans over you, chest against your back, his height dwarfing you completely. You can feel the heat of him, the deliberate press against your skin that makes your stomach twist. When he shifts his hips, you feel the full length of him against you.

It’s obscene. You know it. He knows it. And he knows you know it.

“Biggest you’ve ever seen, isn’t it?” he says casually, but there’s a dark curl of satisfaction in his voice. He drags himself against you once, slow enough for you to feel every inch through the thin barrier of fabric between you. “Bigger than you can handle. But that’s not really your decision, is it?”

You can’t help the way your hands pull against the rope when he says it. He notices, of course. He always notices.

“Don’t fight it,” he says softly, almost kindly—though it’s not kindness at all. “You’ll just make it worse for yourself.”

He shifts again, and this time there’s no mistaking the deliberate way he’s pressing against you, letting you feel the weight, the thickness, the impossibility of it. You can feel the pulse of him—steady, unyielding.

“You’re already too small for me,” he says, his words low, almost a growl. “And that’s the point.”

The rope digs into your wrists as you tense. He can feel every twitch, every tiny movement. He thrives on it. His fingers grip your hips harder, pulling you back until you’re flush against him.

“I’ll break you if I want to,” he says, like it’s a promise and not a threat. “And you’ll let me.”

Your heart is pounding. You try to focus on the sound of your own breathing, but even that is interrupted by the way his hips roll against you, the way he uses your body like it’s already his.

“You think you can’t take it now,” he murmurs, mouth brushing against the curve of your jaw. “Wait until I’m inside you. Wait until you’re crying so hard you can’t even breathe. And I’ll still keep going. Because I can.”

The words sink into you like a weight. Heavy. Inescapable.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again. His expression is almost lazy, but his eyes—those bright, unblinking eyes—are fixed on you like you’re prey.

“Say it,” he says.

You don’t move.

His fingers dig into your jaw, forcing your mouth open. “Say you’re too small for me.”

The words stick in your throat.

He leans in closer. “Say it, or I’ll make you regret it.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “I’m too small for you.”

The grin that spreads across his face is nothing short of cruel. “That’s right. And you’ll remember that every time you try to walk tomorrow.”

He shifts forward, the full weight of him pressing against you, and your breath catches in your throat. He’s too much. Too big. Too certain of his control.

He keeps you bent forward, his hands a vice on your hips, forcing you to feel just how easily he could destroy you if he wanted. His voice is low, dangerous. “I could split you open right now, and there’s nothing you could do to stop me. Nothing.”

You can feel the tension in his grip, the way his body is coiled like he’s holding back only because he wants to. Not because he has to.

“You’d scream,” he says. “You’d beg. And I’d just keep going until you forgot your own name.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. You can feel every inch of him pressed against you, the length, the thickness, the impossible reality of what he’s threatening.

He chuckles softly. “Scared, sweetheart?”

You nod, barely.

“Good,” he says, almost tender. “You look prettier that way.”

His hand slips up your spine, fingers dragging over each vertebra until he reaches the back of your neck again. He pushes down, keeping you pinned, making sure you know you’re not going anywhere.

“Remember this,” he says, his voice low enough to almost be a whisper. “Remember how it feels. Because the next time, I won’t hold back.”

The words settle over you like a shadow. Heavy. Suffocating. Permanent.

And he’s still smiling.