Unbroken Promises

Unbroken Promises

It had started innocently enough. A message in a group chat, a casual conversation that quickly turned into something more. He was from another country, his accent thick in the voice messages he sent, his words dripping with desire. You had never met him in person, but that didn’t stop the nights spent sexting, the fantasies you shared, the dark, twisted things you both craved.

You told him about your submission, your need to be controlled, to be owned. He listened, always listened, and then he told you what he would do to you if he ever got the chance. And you believed him. Every word.

But when the messages stopped a week ago, you assumed he had moved on, lost interest. You hadn’t expected him to show up— hadn’t expected him to be standing outside your apartment building, watching, waiting.

You didn’t see him until it was too late. Until you were walking down the street, headphones in, oblivious. Until a hand clamped over your mouth, and the world went dark.

You woke up in this room. The hotel room. The walls were a soft beige, the carpet thick beneath your feet. But you weren’t on your feet. You were on the bed, naked, bound, and he was there, standing over you, his dark eyes fixed on yours.

“No one’s going to find you here,” he said, his voice calm, almost soothing, as he adjusted the rope around your wrists. “We have all the time in the world.”

You tried to scream, tried to fight, but the gag muffled any sound, and the ropes kept you in place. He was strong, stronger than you had imagined, his hands rough as they moved over your body, claiming you, marking you as his.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “My pet. And I’m going to make sure you never forget that.”

“Do you remember what you said to me last Tuesday?” His voice was low, almost a growl, as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, the gag in your mouth silencing any protest. Your wrists were bound above your head, the coarse rope digging into your skin, and your legs were spread wide, exposed, vulnerable.

You blinked up at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. You had been exchanging messages for months, fantasies, dark desires, but this… this was real. He was real. And he was here.

“You said,” he continued, his hand trailing down your body, fingers skimming over your stomach, “that you wanted me to slap your cunt until it was red and puffy. Until you couldn’t sit for days. Remember that?”

You nodded, almost involuntarily, your body betraying you as a shiver ran down your spine. His touch was electric, but the fear—the fear was there too, pulsing in your chest like a second heartbeat.

“Good,” he murmured, his fingers now resting on your inner thigh, teasing, tormenting. “Because I’m going to give you exactly what you asked for.”

His hand came down hard on your cunt, the sound sharp, echoing in the room. You cried out, the gag reducing it to a muffled whimper, but the pain was electric, sending shockwaves through your body.

“That’s one,” he said, his voice calm, almost clinical. “How many did you ask for?”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. You didn’t remember, couldn’t think. All you could feel was the sting, the heat, the way your body trembled beneath his touch.

“You said ten,” he reminded you, his hand coming down again, harder this time. “We’re just getting started.”

Each slap was worse than the last, the pain building, your cunt throbbing, swollen, red. You could feel it, the heat, the ache, and still he didn’t stop. Didn’t let up.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured, his fingers slipping between your folds, teasing, taunting. “Do you like this? Does it turn you on, knowing how much pain you can take? How much I can give you?”

You couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak, but your body did, your hips arching into his touch, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

“Good girl,” he purred, his fingers now inside you, stretching, filling you as his thumb circled your clit. “You’re going to come for me. You’re going to scream.”

And you did, your body trembling, shaking as the orgasm ripped through you, wave after wave of pleasure-pain, leaving you gasping, sobbing, as he watched, a smirk playing on his lips.

He didn’t stop. Not for hours. He used you, every inch of you, his hands, his mouth, his cock. He slapped your cunt until it was raw, until you could barely stand the touch of his fingers. He tied you in new positions, each one more degrading than the last, forcing you to look at him, to see the pleasure in his eyes as he took you, owned you.

He whispered filth in your ear, dark, twisted things that made your stomach churn and your body burn. He made you beg, made you cry, and then he made you come again, and again, until you were nothing but a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, over and over, as if he needed to convince you, as if you could ever forget. “Mine.”

And when he finally untied you, when he finally let you rest, you knew it wasn’t over. He was leaving soon, flying back to his country, but this… this was just the beginning.

Because he had made you his plaything. And he wasn’t going to let you go.

“Rest,” he said, his hand stroking your hair as you lay on the bed, your body aching, your mind reeling. “Because tomorrow, we’re going to do it all over again.”

You closed your eyes, not because you wanted to, but because you had no choice. And as you drifted off, his hands still on your body, his words still in your ears, you knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t lying.

@beuclair inspired :3