The Tyrant's Secret fetish-Chapter 65

Ye Jun

Si-woo didn’t waste a single second on foreplay. One second I was smirking at him like an idiot saying "your move, asshole," and the next my shirt was in pieces on the floor, buttons pinging off the wall like they were trying to escape the mess I’d started, and that stupid belt from his suit pants was already wrapped tight around both my wrists, yanked up and looped around the headboard so fast I barely had time to register the cold leather digging in. Ten seconds, tops. Guy moved like he’d rehearsed this in his head all damn day, every motion sharp and practiced, fingers quick, no hesitation.

Yeah, part of me wanted to laugh because come on, who the hell treats their stepbrother like a damn home-improvement project, tying him up like he’s fixing a loose shelf, but the other part the one that was already half-hard and hating itself knew I’d opened this door and now I was stuck. No going back. The room smelled like his cologne and the faint whiskey from dinner, and my heart was slamming so loud I thought he could hear it.

He flipped me onto my back first, knees pinning my hips down so I couldn’t even wiggle away, weight heavy and solid, trapping me against the mattress. Then it was just hands and teeth and that low laugh he kept letting out every time my body decided to betray me, hips jerking up even when I told them to stop. No talking for the first ten minutes, just the sound of skin sliding against skin, sheets twisting under us, my stupid breathing getting all ragged and loud while he worked me over like he was checking off a list in his head. Rough fingers, sharp bites on my collarbone, then lower, then back up. Every time I got close he’d stop cold, flat of his hand smacking down hard on my thigh or the buckle of the belt pressing just right against my wrists and I’d gasp out "fuck you" like it was the only word I still owned, voice cracking on the edges.

"You already did that when you stole my files," he’d answer every single time, voice all calm and smug like we were discussing the weather over breakfast, and then he’d laugh again, that quiet one that made my stomach flip because it wasn’t funny, it was mean, cold, and I still wanted to hear it more.

We went like that for what felt like forever. maybe an hour, maybe longer, I don’t know, time got blurry with my wrists burning from the leather, raw and hot, and my thighs shaking from holding still when every instinct said move. I’d snap "fuck you" again, louder this time, he’d hit the brakes right when I was right there on the edge, I’d curse him out even louder, he’d lean in close enough that I could smell the whiskey still on his breath from dinner and say the exact same line back, word for word. Back and forth, back and forth, like we were arguing in the middle of screwing, which I guess we were. Every cycle made the room feel smaller, hotter, the air thicker.

At some point he flipped me face-down, mattress dipping under us, one hand fisted hard in my hair yanking my head back so my neck arched tight, the pull stinging my scalp. The other hand... well, elsewhere, doing things that made my brain short-circuit, fingers slick and sure, pressing in ways that stole my breath. That’s when he cracked. Not the angry crack I expected, the kind where he’d yell or hit harder, but something worse. His rhythm stuttered, hips losing their steady beat for a second, and his voice came out all raw, like the words were ripping out of him whether he wanted them to or not.

"You think I’m mad about the pitch?" he muttered, fingers tightening in my hair until it hurt in that way that made everything else feel sharper, brighter. "I’m mad you’re this one thing I can’t get rid of. You make me want to propose and spend the rest of my life with you, you absolute piece of shit."

I laughed, I actually laughed, even though it came out more like a wheeze because he was still moving, still deep, still relentless and managed to choke out, "What the hell kind of confession is that while you’re literally killing me you sick piece of shit? You’re insane, you know that?" My voice sounded wrecked, my throat dry from gasping.

He didn’t stop. Just kept going, voice cracking worse now, breaking on some words. "I’ll let that slide tonight, but you honestly need to step aside from the project. From everything about me. Just... back off, Ye Jun. I can’t keep doing this if you’re gonna keep winning."

"Make me," I snapped back, because what else was I supposed to say when my stepbrother was pouring his messed-up heart out and still punishing me at the same time, still driving into me like he wanted to break something? "You gonna tie me to the desk at work next? Or just keep showing up here at eleven like a creep?"

He yanked my hair harder and growled something I couldn’t even make out, low and rough in his throat, but the rhythm picked up again, messy now, frantic, like he was mad at himself for saying any of it, mad at me for hearing it. We kept arguing right through it, me throwing crap at him between gasps and moans I couldn’t hold back, him interrupting with half-threats and that stupid proposal line again like he couldn’t shut up about it.

Then I decided to end it his way because I was dying at this point. Stopped everything cold when I finally broke and whispered "please" first time that word had ever come out of my mouth like that, soft and desperate, and yeah, it tasted like defeat but my body didn’t care, it was screaming for release. He leaned down, breath hot against my ear, lips brushing skin. "Too late. You wanted to play big boy today. Now you finish the game silently." And he made sure I did choked me just hard enough, hand firm around my throat, while he kept rocking me until I came untouched, the whole thing hurting more than it felt good, waves crashing hard and painful, like my body was punishing me for enjoying any of it. I bit the pillow so I wouldn’t make a sound, teeth sinking deep into cotton, because screw him, I wasn’t giving him that satisfaction twice.

Afterward he just untied the belt, leather sliding free with a soft scrape, wrists throbbing in the sudden air. He wiped his hands on my ruined shirt like it was a napkin, casual, careless. Whispered, "Next time you take something from me, I’ll make sure you can’t walk for three days." Not just lightly, so rough you’ll hate ever living, no "you okay," nothing soft. Just stood up, fixed his pants with quick movements, and left. The door clicked shut at exactly 3 a.m. I checked the clock like an idiot and the sound hit me like a gunshot in the quiet house. The room went still. My pulse was still racing. The belt marks burned. And I lay there, staring at the ceiling again, wondering how the hell we got here and why it still felt like the only real thing in my life.