Lahat ng Kabanata ng Cracking His Code: Kabanata 141 - Kabanata 150

OliverThe next ten minutes are his.He told me they would be and he meant it. The first stroke after I’m back up to the level I was at before the German interrupted lands across the meat of my ass like a dropped cinder block.I jolt forward against the cross hard enough to feel the harness bite into the skin under my collarbones. The second one lands two inches lower. The third lands lower still, on the back of my thighs, in the soft place where the leather of the cross is not catching me, and I make a noise that sounds very much like screeching.He works in a pattern I can’t predict. He alternates side to side, then drops three in a row on the same spot until my breath catches, then moves. The stripes are layering on top of each other now. I can’t see them but I know by feel that the earlier marks are pink. The new ones are red. The newest are turning a color beyond red.The cock ring is doing what it’s meant to do. My cock is so hard it’s throbbing against the leather panel

OliverIt’s the third night of this goddamn standoff.The first night, I refused to light the wood-burner and slept in my clothes, pretending to be asleep when Kir came back from the sauna. The second night, I picked a fight over whether the curtains should be open or closed, lost it, and lay awake just listening to the heavy, even sound of his breathing.Tonight, I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, watching him plate the lamb shanks I refused twice before finally caving. Because at some point, a man has to eat and it smells divine.Kir’s been making a concentrated effort to teach himself how to cook in the past two months and it’s apparently paying off.He’s pretending he hasn’t noticed I’m still not wearing the collar.He’s definitely noticed.The pouch is shoved at the bottom of my duffel under a hideous jumper I don't even like. He hasn’t asked. I haven’t put it on. We’re just two stubborn idiots suffocating in a small kitchen.He sets a plate in front of me. Lamb, mashed pota

Kir It’s day five. Two days left in our cabin on the ice.Oliver is standing in the kitchen at eight in the morning, announcing he’s going into Stockholm for the day.He doesn’t phrase it as a question. He phrases it as an absolute fact. It’s that infuriating, stubborn tone he uses when he’s already made a decision, factored in my potential reaction, and decided he doesn't give a single fuck about asking for permission."For what?""Errands. I’ll be back this evening."He isn't looking at me. He’s buttering his second piece of toast with the careful, hyper-focused casualty of a man who’s rehearsed exactly how this conversation is going to play out in his head.I drink my coffee.I could push. I could back him into a corner and demand the truth. I could point out that we are in a cabin on a frozen lake, three kilometers from a plowed road, and Stockholm is a six-hour round trip by train. I could remind him that we have two days left here and he’s choosing to spend one of them si

Kir He sleeps until twelve.That is unprecedented. The man rarely sleeps past eight anymore. Usually he wakes up within ten minutes of me leaving the bed. The piercings put him under. That was a lot of pain to deal with on a single day.I wish he’d spaced it out to make it easier on his body, but that’s not Oliver’s style. When he wants something he wants it now.When he finally drags himself downstairs, his hair is a disaster, his mouth is visibly swollen, and he’s gripping the small bottle of sterile saline the piercer sent him home with.He sets it on the counter and looks at me pleadingly."Please help me."I want to laugh at the way the words come out, but I manage to keep a straight face."Of course, baby. What do you need me to do?""I’m not supposed to touch the nipple ones. They need to be sprayed and patted with the gauze. No fingers."He hands me the aftercare sheet. The Glasgow woman wrote three lines in aggressive block capitals at the bottom. NO FINGERS. SALINE TWIC

Oliver He made me wait nine fucking days.Nine days of dry, sterile kisses that barely brushed my lips before he pulled away. Nine days of watching him stare at my mouth across the dinner table like he was fighting a losing war with his own goddamn impulses.But tonight? He cracked first. I want it on the record. I’m petty enough to keep score, and I won.The cottage is dead quiet except for the hum of the dishwasher. I’m sitting on the edge of the mattress, stripped down to my boxers, shivering a little. Kir told me to wait here ten minutes ago, but he’s still out there checking the locks, the windows, pacing the perimeter like he’s securing a crime scene before he destroys me in it.When he finally walks through the bedroom door, he locks it even though it’s just the two of us. It’s theater. Setting the scene.No one is breaking into this Hungarian shithole. The lock is just to remind me I’m trapped with him. My favorite place to be."Kirill.""Oliver." His voice is gravel."