The Walnut Throne

The room was dim. Just warm lamplight and the hush of breath.

He was already spread and pliant, his skin tingling with anticipation. The kind of anticipation that hums in the chest and prickles under the skin like static electricity. The kind where every second stretches like an hour, every second she’s not touching him is a second he’s acutely aware of how much he needs her to.

She stood between his legs, calm and deliberate, with the glossy black shaft strapped to her hips catching a glint from the light. It looked severe. Unforgiving. It made him feel owned just by the way she wore it—like a promise.

Her right hand gripped him firmly, wrapping around his cock with purpose. Her strokes weren’t teasing—they were deliberate. Measured. Up, down. Not frantic or rushed. Just enough to make him squirm under her gaze, just enough to take his breath in little bursts.

Her left hand wandered.

He wasn’t used to this. Not the handjob. That alone was rare, a treat, a forgotten flavor on the tongue of memory. But what came with it—the exploring fingers pressing behind, insistent and thorough—this was newer. More intense. He couldn’t even see her face, but he could feel her smirking.

One finger, then another. Working slowly, twisting, searching. Not just probing—seeking.

Then she found it.

That spot.

That distinct, almost electric place deep inside him. His whole body clenched, eyes flying wide, lungs sucking in a sharp gasp. Her fingers stilled, just applying steady, unwavering pressure to that small, firm, walnut-shaped organ buried inside him.

“Oh,” he managed, or something like it. It wasn’t quite a word, more like a raw, unfiltered exhale.

And that was all it took.

Just that focused, unrelenting pressure on his prostate, the slick rhythm of her hand on his cock, the complete surrender to her control—and suddenly his body betrayed him in the most beautiful way. His thighs jerked. His hips bucked once. Then—

He began to cum.

No warning. No final desperate groan. Just the overwhelming, involuntary convulsion of his body releasing everything. Rope after rope erupted from him, white and hot, painting her strapon in thick stripes. It landed on the hard rubber with soft little slaps, sliding and pooling against the head of it.

She leaned in and watched it happen, smiling to herself.

When the last drop dribbled from the tip, she slowed her hand and let it rest at the base of his cock. Her fingers inside him still held him, cupped him like she owned every inch. He was breathing heavily, twitching, vulnerable.

“Good boy,” she whispered, like a spell.

He blinked up at her, glazed and open. There was something delicate in the moment, like a truth had been confessed just through his surrender.

Then she stepped closer.

She didn’t wipe the cum from her strapon. She didn’t clean it off or let it go to waste. No—she guided it between his legs, letting the wet, sticky mess smear across his skin.

“Lean back,” she instructed.

He obeyed.

She positioned herself carefully, angling the strapon, pressing the wet tip right against his slick, stretched entrance. His own cum, warm and still clinging to her cock, was now his lubricant. It clung to him. He felt it. Felt every inch as she pushed the tip in—just the head at first—slow, steady, maddening.

The idea wasn’t lost on either of them.

His cum. Her cock. His hole.

How fitting.

She moaned softly at the symbolism, not out of pleasure—though the power clearly thrilled her—but as a sound of satisfaction. A low, satisfied hum that vibrated between them like a purr.

And then she began to fuck him.

Not hurried. Not pounding. But deep. Purposeful. Pushing all the way in until the harness pressed flush against his ass, grinding against him, her hands firm on his hips as she began to move.

In and out.

Slow at first. Then deeper. Then harder.

The pressure inside him returned immediately, that same full, electrified spot inside him being nudged, teased, assaulted with every stroke. He whimpered, his fingers curling into the sheets beneath him, body jerking involuntarily every time her cock pushed in and pulled out. The slick sound of his own fluids being pushed deeper only made it more obscene. More intimate.

Every thrust made a wet sound now. A mixture of lube and cum and submission.

And then it happened again.

Without even touching his cock this time—just the relentless thrusting into that one, sweet, swollen point of pleasure—his whole body bucked again. Another orgasm overtook him. Weaker than the first, but no less powerful in sensation. His cock spasmed, twitching against his belly, spilling a pathetic dribble of leftover pleasure.

She looked down at him, victorious.

“Again,” she said softly. Not a question. Not even an order. Just an expectation. And maybe a promise.

He nodded, trembling.

She didn’t stop. She didn’t need to. His body had stopped belonging to him the moment she found that spot. It belonged to her now—just as the cock inside him was hers. Just as the messy, shining lube slicking her strap was his own body giving itself over.

And she used it.

Used him.

Her rhythm changed—faster, deeper. Now she was pounding. Not roughly, but relentlessly. The slap of her hips against him echoed in the quiet room. Her breath came in little gasps of effort, but her hands remained firm, steady. Holding him in place like he might try to squirm away from the pleasure. As if she’d let him.

He didn’t even know if he could cum again. But his body thought he could. His cock twitched again, sensitive and glistening. His ass gripped the strapon tighter with every thrust, begging and clenching and milking it like he didn’t know how to stop.

She leaned forward now, her hands pressing his thighs open wider as she leaned into each stroke. The weight of her dominance pressed on him like gravity—inescapable, grounding, real.

“You like this,” she murmured. “You like me using your cum to fuck you.”

He whimpered in response. A tiny, desperate nod.

She pulled almost all the way out, letting just the tip of the strapon sit right at the entrance again—slick, messy, teasing—and then slammed it back in with one hard thrust.

He cried out. It wasn’t pain. It was too close to pleasure to call it anything else.

She did it again.

Again.

Until the sound of skin on skin filled the room. Until his legs were shaking, his breath was sobbing through clenched teeth. Until her thighs were shining from where his mess had dripped down.

And then he came again.

No hands. No warning. Just from the brutal perfection of her rhythm and her aim and her dominance. His cock barely spurted this time—just a few drops, oozing from the tip. But the orgasm took him fully, shaking and whimpering beneath her as she held still, buried deep inside.

She didn’t pull out.

She stayed inside him. Letting his body ride out every last twitch. Letting him feel every inch of her cock still stretching him, still owning him.

Then slowly, slowly, she leaned forward.

One hand cradled his cheek.

“You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice soft but unyielding.

He nodded, lips parted, eyes wet.

And she kissed him—tender, sweet, like a reward.

Then finally, finally, she withdrew.

The sound it made was obscene. Wet. Sloppy. His cum and her cock sliding free, leaving him gaping and empty, aching already for more.

She stood back and admired him. Used. Shaking. Marked.

“Such a good boy,” she said again, this time with a little pride. “We’re going to do that often.”

His only reply was a trembling exhale and a look that said yes, please—again.