Page 12 of Psycho Obsession
He hums against my flesh, the vibration rattling my very marrow, sending a fresh, unwanted spark of electricity through my core.
“You taste like a riot,” he murmurs against my labia, his breath hitching. “You taste like everything they’re afraid of.”
He licks my clit—just once, a long, agonisingly slow stroke from the base to the tip. It’s so soft it’s almost a ghost of a touch, but with the chemicals still screaming in my blood, it feels like a mountain falling on me. My hips jerk upward, the leather restraints straining against my weight, and a low, guttural moan escapes my lips.
“Do you like being worshipped, Hallow?” he asks, his fingers sliding back inside me, slick and effortless. He’s not thrusting; he’s just feeling the way I clench around him, the way my internal walls are still shivering in the aftermath. “Does it make the cage feel smaller when I’m the one holding the bars?”
He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth—not the one on my face, but the bruised, swollen flesh of my pussy. He tugs at it with his teeth, a tiny, possessive nip that makes me shriek, my head thrashing on the mattress.
He’s feasting on me, his hands moving up to grip my waist, his thumbs digging into the purple bruises Miller left, as if he can press them out of my skin and replace them with his own marks.
I’m so fucking wet again, a fresh surge of fluid slicking his chin and coating his fingers. It’s a biological nightmare. I want to kill him, I want to rip his eyes out,but under his tongue, I am nothing but a vibrating chord of Need.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, his composure finally shattering. He buries his face deep into me, inhaling my scent, his tongue flicking over my clit in a frantic, desperate rhythm that tells me he’s finally lost the doctor and found the man.
He’s worshipping the very thing he tried to medicate into silence. He’s worshiping the madness. And as he sucks the last of my resistance out of me, I realise that in this room, in this moment, the doctor is just as broken as the patient.
“Tell me,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye, his mouth smeared with my essence. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I look at him through the haze of my swelling eye, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven beat against the ribs he’s currently crushing.
“I’m… the thing… that’s going to burn… your world… down,” I whisper.
Aris isn’t just a doctor anymore; he’s a fucking addict. His eyes are blown wide, the pupils swallowing the blue until they’re just two black pits of fixation.
He stares at my pussy, at the way the skin is flushed a violent, beautiful pink from his tongue and the chemicals. He looks like he wants to eat me alive and sew me into his own skin.
“You’re a sickness, Hallow,” he breaths, his voice a jagged ruin of its former self. “And I think I finally want to catch it.”
He stands up, the stool screeching against the floor like a dying bird. His hands are shaking as he fumbleswith the belt of his charcoal slacks. The refined, clinical Dr. Aris is gone, replaced by a man who is coming apart at the seams. He shoves his trousers down, his breath hitching, and then I see it.
His cock is a thick, heavy vein-mapped weapon, standing rigid and angry against the sterile white of his lab coat. It’s a dark, flushed red, the head swollen and glistening with a bead of pre-cum that catches the clinical light.
It looks monstrous in this room—a raw, pulsing piece of biology in a world of plastic and steel. It’s thick, the skin stretched so tight it looks like it might snap, a deep ridge circling the head that looks designed to ruin whatever it touches.
He doesn’t dive in. He’s too obsessed with the torture of the wait.
He kneels back down between my splayed legs, his cock bobbing with every frantic breath he takes. He leans forward and licks me again, a long, wet swipe that starts at the base of my pussy and ends at the very tip of my clit, his tongue heavy and insistent.
“Look at it, Hallow,” he commands, his voice a dark snarl. “Look at what you’ve done to me.”
He takes his cock in his hand, his knuckles white as he grips himself, and he brings the head of it to my entrance. He doesn’t push inside. He just teases. He drags the hot, velvet head of his cock up and down my slit, painting himself in my wet nectar. The heat of him is a shock—a massive, throbbing weight that makes my internal walls clench in a desperate, involuntary rhythm.
“Please,” I gasp, my head thrashing on themattress. The chemical irritant is making the friction of his skin against mine feel like a lightning strike.
“Please what?” he whispers, his voice vibrating against my thighs.
He teases the head of his cock against my clit, circling the swollen, sensitive nub with the broad, blunt tip. He’s pushing just enough to make me think he’s going in, then pulling back, the suction of my own wetness making a filthy, squelching sound that echoes off the padded walls.
“You want it, don’t you?” he growls, his hand pumping his shaft as he continues to grind the head against my clit. “You want this clinical cage to finally have a purpose.”
He leans down and licks my pussy while he teases me with his cock, his tongue swirling around the base of my opening while his cock continues its slow, punishing friction against my hood. It’s too much.
My body is a live wire, the drug haze and the pain and the sheer, dark heat of him combining into a sensory overload that makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst.
I’m so fucking wet it’s dripping onto his thighs, a hot, steady stream of arousal and defiance. He’s obsessive, his eyes fixed on the way my skin stretches as he drags his cock across me, his breath coming in jagged, animalistic grunts.
“You’re so tight,” he mutters, his thumb finding my clit and pinning it against the head of his cock as he rubs them together. “I can feel you pulsing. You’re begging for me to break you open.”
