Page 115 of The Arbiter
"Deimos..." I wheeze, the sound barely a rasp, a broken vibration against his palm.
"Please... I can't..."
My chest heaves, a reflexive, desperate jerk for oxygen that hits the wall of his grip. I look up at him, my eyes wide and swimming with involuntary tears. I’m not just asking for air; I’m acknowledging the total, terrifying weight of his sovereignty over my very life.
He looks down at me, his expression unreadable, a mask of dark, clinical curiosity. He’s watching the way my lips turn a faint, ghostly pale, the way my pulse thrashes against his thumb like a trapped animal. To him, this isn't just a moment of intimacy, it's a demonstration of the physics of power.
"You want to breathe, Madeline?"
He whispers, his voice a low, gravelly hum that I feel more than hear.
"You want the world back?"
I nod frantically, a sob catching in my constricted throat. The defiance from moments ago has evaporated, replaced by a raw, primitive need to simply exist.
"Please," I choke out, my fingers digging into his skin.
He lingers for one more agonizing heartbeat, savoring the absolute vulnerability in my gaze. Then, with a slow, deliberate feline grace, he eases the pressure.
The air rushes into my lungs with a sharp, burning sting. I let out a jagged, racking gasp, my chest heaving as I greedily pull in the oxygen. It’s the sweetest, most violent sensation I’ve ever known. My head spins, the gray haze lifting to reveal the sharp lines of his face above mine.
He doesn't pull his hand away entirely. He keeps it there, his fingers loosely cradling my throat, a constant reminder of how easily he can close the door again.
"Better?"
He asks, his thumb tracing the column of my neck where the skin is already beginning to flush a deep, angry red.
"That’s the next lesson of our new design, Madeline. You only have what I allow you to have. Even the air in your lungs belongs to me."
He begins to move again, his rhythm more urgent as he watches the color return to my face.
I stop fighting the current and instead throw myself into it, my hips rising to meet his with a desperate, rhythmic urgency. I mirror his pace, my fingers digging into the muscles of his arms. I am no longer just a body being acted upon; I am a participant in my own undoing.
But Deimos doesn't want an equal. He wants a masterpiece that knows its place. Just as I find the flow, just as the pleasure starts to drown out the shame, he breaks the harmony. His hand, still hovering near my throat, shifts.
The second slap is harder than the first, a sharp, stinging rebuke that snaps my head to the side. The sound is loud in the sterile silence of the room, a violent reminder of the hierarchy he’s establishing.
"Did I tell you to fucking move, Madeline?"
He scoffs, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low-frequency growl.
I turn my face back to him, my breath hitching. I see the dark satisfaction in his gaze, the look of an artist correcting a flaw in his creation. He calls it a physical lecture, and he's right. My body hums a dissonant chord of terror and ravenous invitation. Every harsh word, every weighted movement strips away the burden of my own agency.
There is a sick, sweet relief in having the choice taken from me. I don't want to look away. At this moment, I want to be the canvas for his obsession, no matter how much it burns. I'm addicted to the way he carves his dominance into my very soul.
"You think because you’re enjoying this, you’re in control again?"
He leans down, his chest crushing mine.
"You don't get to set the pace. You don't get to 'play' with me. You are here because I allow it. And you will move only when I tell you to."
He doesn't stop his movement, but he changes the quality of it, making it deeper, more punishing, a physical lecture. He watches the way my expression fractures, the way the playful spark in my eyes is extinguished by the raw reality of his dominance.
"You're a brilliant woman, Doctor," he whispers, his thumb pressing firmly into the reddened skin of my cheek where he just struck me.
"But right now, you’re just a shivering, needy thing under my hand. Say it."
He thrusts again, a forceful, unyielding claim that leaves me breathless.
