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"Punish me however you see fit."
Rogal Dorn’s words still rang in your mind.
At first, you had thought he was joking. A proud-looking man like him would never admit he was wrong—or so you assumed. If he did, you imagined he would simply say he was sorry, acknowledge his mistake, and leave it at that. It had never crossed your mind that a ten-foot-something giant built like a brick fortress would look you squarely in the eye and ask to be punished.
Not apologize. Not offer some grim, formal admission of fault and leave it at that.
Punished.
You had stared at him for several seconds after he said it, waiting for some sign that you had misunderstood. Rogal Dorn, however, had only stood there with that same immovable expression, hands clasped behind his back, as though he had just made a perfectly reasonable request.
You tried to wave it away.
It was fine, you told him. You were alive. No one had actually managed to cut your head off. Considering you had quite literally appeared out of nowhere in the middle of their strategium, you could hardly blame anyone for being suspicious.
He disagreed — firmly and repeatedly.
By the third refusal, you began to suspect that arguing with Rogal Dorn was less like having a conversation and more like attempting to negotiate with a fortified wall.
So eventually, against your better judgment, you agreed.
Only then did the much larger problem occur to you:
How, exactly, was an ordinary woman from the twenty-first century supposed to punish a Primarch?
You could not overpower him. You doubted anything you did could genuinely hurt him, and even if it could, the thought held little appeal. The man probably considered pain an inconvenience at best.
You stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
Then an idea came to you.
A ridiculous — no — a really terrible one.
But considering this, sometimes insane circumstances require insane actions.
You picked a room in the Imperial Palace that was well-ventilated yet far enough away not to be disturbed. It was quite cosy, all things considered. The dark brown and beige paneling contrasted with the deep blue ceiling, where tiny stars had been inlaid overhead. There was a sofa, a sideboard, and a table in the corner, which you quickly pushed against the walls to clear some space.
The ropes were a little more difficult to acquire.
Your first idea was to use the curtains.
You even stood there for a moment, eyeing the heavy drapes and wondering how much fabric it would take to wrap around Rogal Dorn.
Then sanity returned.
No. You were not going to dismantle part of this sprawling complex to fulfill a Primarch's insane request.
There had to be spare fabric somewhere.
Finding it took longer than expected. The Palace seemed to contain endless corridors, storage rooms, service passages, and enough bureaucracy to make asking for “some fabric” feel like a formal requisition. Eventually, you found what appeared to be a textile store and approached the nearest palace serf.
“Excuse me,” you said, trying very hard to sound casual. “Would it be possible to borrow some cloth?”
The serf glanced at you.
“How much, my lady?”
You looked past them at the enormous bolts stacked along the shelves.
“…Enough.”
That earned you another look.
You smiled and said it was for Lord Rogal Dorn.
Thankfully, invoking the name of a son of the Emperor could do wonders to people's judgment. “As long as it is returned,” the serf said.
“Absolutely.”
You selected a bolt of deep burgundy cloth, gathered every bundle you could, and bolted out before they reconsider.
There were some questions you did not want to answer in the middle of a huge political center of a planet, and Why do you require several meters of fabric for Lord Dorn? was very high on that list.
With a knife borrowed from the kitchen, you cut a few lengths of cloth and laid them on the floor. The strips were not as thin as you had hoped, but they would do for now.
When you finally straightened, the room had changed.
The last of the daylight poured through the enormous windows in long amber bands, catching on the burgundy fabric scattered across the floor. You had been so occupied with cutting, tying, and rearranging furniture that you had not noticed the sun beginning to set.
For the first time since you started, you had nothing left to do.
That was when the nerves arrived.
You looked over everything again: the cleared room, varied strips of fabric ready for use, the feather you had carefully set aside.
This was really happening.
In a little while, Rogal Dorn was going to walk through that door and willingly let you tie him up.
You pressed your lips together.
There were sentences you never expected to become applicable to your life, and that was certainly one of them.
A nervous flutter stirred in your stomach. You had done what you could to prepare, yet suddenly the entire plan seemed much more ridiculous now that there was nothing left between you and actually carrying it out.
Still, backing out now would mean explaining yourself to Rogal.
Somehow, that seemed worse.
You surveyed the room and the improvised materials you had gathered. The cloth was a deep burgundy, long enough to drape over the enormous windows that lined the room. When you ran it through your fingers, it felt soft enough not to scratch the skin, yet firm enough—hopefully—to restrain someone. From one of the pillows, you had taken a long white plume.
A whip would have been useless. Probably insulting, too. The man looked as though he could take on artillery fire all by himself.
You rolled your secret weapon between your fingers.
Fine. If pain was pointless, you would try the opposite.
Inhaling, you hid the feather first. You had experience back in your own time—but would any of it be enough to handle someone like him?
There was only one way to find out.
Your soul nearly jumped out of your skin when three firm knocks sounded against the door.
“It is I, Rogal Dorn,” came the deep voice from behind the heavy wood.
You swallowed. “Come in.”
The door swung open, revealing the Lord of the VII Legion.
His golden armor had been replaced by simple military regalia. This change did little to conceal the contours of his enormous frame. The room’s soft light caught against his pale hair, cropped short around his head. His square jaw was set as his dark grey-blue eyes swept across the room, taking in every detail with the thoroughness of a man inspecting a defensive position.
For someone capable of walking through most ordinary furniture without noticing, he stood strangely awkwardly in the doorway, as though afraid of trampling over whatever you had prepared. Then his attention settled on the strips of burgundy laid across the floor.
His thick brows drew together. “Do you intend to restrain me with that?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Rogal hummed and stepped closer, studying the fabric.
“It cannot hold against my strength,” he said. “The tension alone would tear the material in less than a second.”
“I know.”
His eyes shifted toward you.
You clicked your tongue. “That’s the point. Before I punish you, we are going to establish a few rules. If you break any of them, I stop immediately. Am I making myself clear?”
The Primarch straightened. His hands folded behind his back almost automatically.
He nodded once.
You raised a finger. “First, close the door and lock it.”
Rogal obeyed in a single, effortless movement. The lock clicked into place. Then he turned back toward you and resumed the exact same posture, hands behind his back, waiting.
You had the sudden and deeply unhelpful thought that he looked as though he were awaiting a military briefing.
“Second,” you said, “give me your safe word.”
One thick eyebrow rose.
“Safe word?” he said. The two words dropped from his lips like bricks striking the ground one after another.
“Yes.”
“What purpose does it serve?”
“If you decide you cannot take the punishment anymore, you say it and I stop. Immediately. No questions asked.”
His expression hardened. “You assume I will be unable to endure it?”
“That is not what I said.”
“If I am permitted an avenue of escape whenever the punishment becomes sufficiently unpleasant, then it ceases to be punishment.”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Of course.
“It isn’t an escape,” you said. “It is there in case something actually goes wrong.”
“I will inform you if I am injured.”
You shook your head. "This is not how this works."
"I will ensure that I will be cognizant until the punishment ends."
“No, Rogal.”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Ah.
Suddenly, the whole xenos spy accusation made considerably more sense.
Finally, you folded your arms. “I am the one administering the punishment, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then I decide the rules.”
A pause. His jaw shifted almost imperceptibly. After a few moments of seeming deliberations, he merely nodded.
“Good. Safe word.”
Rogal looked almost offended by the concept. After several seconds of intense contemplation, he said:
“Fortify.”
You blinked. “Your safe word is ‘fortify’?”
“It is memorable.”
“That is the most unsexy safe word I had ever heard."
“I do not understand what that means.”
"...nevermind."
His brows furrowed again.
You quickly raised another finger before he could demand an explanation. “Third rule. You do not break anything. You want to endure this? Then you have to stop your body from moving out of reflex.”
His eyes moved toward the fabric, then toward the furniture...
Then back to you.
“Is this part of the punishment?"
You hummed and bobbed your head. "You could say that. I will inflict punishment on you; you may not, under any circumstances, retaliate or destroy your surroundings. So, the more you lose control, the harder it will be to contain yourself. See how long you can last."
Rogal considered this for a moment.
Then he nodded. "Understood. Continue."
"Good. Now, strip."
This time, both eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “Must I?"
You shrugged. “Yes, unless you want me to cut through your clothes with this.” You brandished the knife you had taken earlier.
He narrowed his eyes. Then, without further hesitation, he reached up and unfastened his jacket. You watched, more than a little fascinated, as he peeled the layers away—first the outer garment, then a black tunic, and finally an undershirt that left his upper body bare.
The soft lamplight traced the hard ridges of muscle, the faint scars crisscrossing his chest, the sheer size of him that seemed to take up the entire space.
Then he removed his boots and finally his trousers.
He did not seem self-conscious or embarrassed. If anything, his posture was as straight and controlled as ever, as though he were merely changing into different gear. Once fully undressed, he folded his clothes neatly and set them aside, then turned toward you once more, utterly unbothered by his own nudity.
You paused and drank in his figure. It took all of your willpower not to gawk when your eyes traveled down to his abdomen. For a moment, it felt sacrilegious to even stare, but if you were going to be the one to administer punishment, you might as well do a thorough inspection. Your eyes widened when you saw the thick length between his legs.
Holy shit.
You blinked. And blinked again. But it was still there—large and intimidatingly heavy-looking, even in its flaccid state. You wondered just how much bigger it would become once fully aroused.
The Emperor indeed granted his sons everything.
The thought sent a hot flush through your body, but you quickly buried it.
You tried to get your game face on. "Kneel."
Though you had thoughtfully provided cushions, Rogal ignored them entirely. He lowered himself onto the bare floor with his usual effortless control. His knees struck the boards with a dull, heavy thud, and you could have sworn the vibration traveled up through the soles of your feet.
The floor gave a faint complaint beneath his weight.
You crouched down and gestured for him to lift his arms. “Lift them.”
He complied without question.
You took the first strip and wound it carefully around his wrists. Once. Twice. Then you crossed the fabric between them, forming an X before drawing the ends back around and securing the knot.
You had half expected an immediate criticism of your technique.
Instead, Rogal merely watched your hands.
“Too tight?”
"Why are you asking if I am comfortable?" the Primarch asked.
"Just answer the question."
He flexed his fingers once, testing the pressure. “No,” he answered with his jaw tight.
"No meaning, it's not too tight or no meaning you can bear it?"
"Yes."
You let out a heavy sigh. "Very reassuring."
"This is a punishment. You do not have to ascertain my well-being." Rogal said flatly.
For a moment, the urge to gag him came to you. But you shelved those thoughts for a while. Instead, you replied, "This is a punishment, not torture, Lord Dorn,"
His shoulders sagged by a mere millimeter, "You should not show mercy to the one who endangered your life."
Your hand paused over the fabric.
For an instant, you remembered steel flashing beside your throat, the shouting in the strategium, wings appearing in the corner of your vision as one of his brothers intervened.
You were alive. For you, that's all that mattered.
Why Dorn still seemed determined to atone for it was beyond you.
The next strip went around his upper arms. Rather than pulling them harshly together, you used the strips to hold his posture where you wanted it, looping the ends behind him before securing them. Another length followed across his chest, passing beneath his arms and around his broad back.
The sheer amount of fabric required was becoming absurd.
You pulled one end around him.
Then another.
And another.
His shoulders remained rigid beneath your hands, prepared for something that never came. Every few seconds, however, his eyes dropped toward another loop of burgundy rope with increasing suspicion.
"How are you so wide?" you muttered as you had to stand up and tug the cloth just to reach the other side.
His brow furrowed. “I do not understand the relevance of the question.”
“It was rhetorical.”
You tugged your improvised rope and knotted it.
Against his frame, the burgundy bands looked almost decorative. Dark red crossed pale skin in clean lines, forming broad geometric shapes over his chest and shoulders.
You paused.
You added another crossing band almost experimentally, drawing it diagonally from one shoulder toward the opposite side of his torso before mirroring it with another until it formed an "X".
It was beginning to resemble something like a forbidden heraldry etched on his broad chest.
Another length of cloth went around his waist, mostly to anchor the others and keep them from shifting. You passed it behind him and tied it securely, then gave the whole arrangement an experimental tug.
After that, you wound the cloth around one thigh, passed it behind him, and secured it loosely around the other, enough to discourage sudden movement without actually forcing his legs into an uncomfortable position. Another strip went around his ankles.
When you finished, you rose and stepped back. For several moments, you simply stared.
Rogal Dorn—Praetorian of Terra, master of the Imperial Fists, the man who seemed to regard fortification as both profession and personality—knelt before you wrapped in a collection of improvised burgundy restraints that would not have held an ordinary Space Marine for long, much less him.
Every knot could have been broken in an instant. Yet none of them were.
Rogal simply knelt there, perfectly still. He followed your movements with his eyes. "Is this a humiliation ritual?" he asked after a long silence.
Your hands faltered. "...what?"
"The act of stripping me bare, binding me in this manner," he said calmly, as though he had spent the last ten minutes mentally cross-referencing your actions against an ancient penal code, "It does not seem intended to inflict harm. Therefore, it must serve another function. Degrade me so I may remember the consequences of my misjudgment."
You stared at him.
The idea that you were trying to humiliate this absolute brick of a human being by tying him up had never entered your mind. He looked like a walking statue even without his armor on, and now he was tied up like one of those male models in those bondage photos you had only ever seen in passing on the internet. In fact, the entire visual was starting to distract you.
You shook your head. "I'm not trying to humiliate you," you said firmly.
He tilted his head. “Then what is the purpose?"
You looked at him, trying to keep your tone even. "I am giving you what you asked for: punishment. It's just that I am going the more unorthodox route getting there."
He said nothing, but gave you a doubtful look.
Your fingers tightened around the loose strip of cloth.
Fine. He could have it his way.
You grabbed one final length and cut it in half. For the longer part, you tied it into knots over and over until a firm knot formed at its center. The second part, you simply placed it on the table, in a place where he could actually see.
Then you stepped forward and lifted the makeshift gag.
His eyes did not move from your face.
"Open your mouth."
For just a moment, you thought he would refuse. He stared at you, unblinking, his jaw tight.
You remained still. “Do you wish to use your safe word?”
His jaw shifted. Slowly, his lips parted, and you took the opportunity to press the knotted part into his mouth. Then you drew the loose ends around his head and secured them behind his head with another tight knot.
Only then did something shift in his expression.
The slight tension in his shoulders eased, though whether it was from resignation or the fact that he had at last relinquished some measure of control, you could not know.
You stepped back, surveying your work.
He was fully bound, his massive frame now wrapped in deep crimson bands that held him exactly where you wanted. His breathing had not changed. If anything, the only real sign that this bothered him was the fact that he was now unable to speak.
Which was exactly what you were hoping for.
You glanced at him one last time. He was watching you, waiting.
Without another word, you brandished the white feather and waved it in front of his face. "This is where the punishment starts."
He grunted and raised an eyebrow. If there was any comment coming from the Primarch, it was soon blocked by the cloth gag.
You walked in front of him and gently grazed the tip down the side of his neck. He jerked, almost imperceptibly. His muscles twitched beneath the taut restraints. But immediately, he seemed to have remembered the rule and forcibly set himself back to position.
The plume brushed over him again, this time more deliberately.
He gasped, barely, and his shoulders tightened as though bracing for something worse.
The soft edge passed across his collarbone, then down his chest and over his stomach.
His skin was warm. A faint sheen of sweat had already begun to gather, betraying just how much effort it took to remain perfectly still.
Good.
The white plume drifted lower before moving up the inside of his leg. Across one thigh, then the other. Up the inside of one leg, brushing dangerously close to where his still soft cock rested.
Direct contact was deliberately avoided.
Not yet.
Instead, it returned to his chest, following the hard lines of his abdomen. Muscles quivered faintly beneath the touch. His jaw tightened around the gag, while his bound hands curled slowly into fists.
A pass over the scar on his right bicep finally drew an audible catch of breath.
Still, he refused to move.
Only the rigid set of his posture and the strain against the burgundy restraints betrayed him.
A switch in tactics, then.
The tip of the feather traced along the burgundy lines that etched down his torso. Up his ribs. Over his shoulders. Under his arms.
The first twitch was unmistakable. Shoulder muscles heaving, restraints straining, the reactions popped one after the other like a chain of fireworks. His breathing quickened, now unmistakably audible, even through the gag.
Another pass beneath his arms, and he inhaled sharply.
His dark eyes flicked toward you.
You smiled. "Still doing well?"
A short grunt. It could have meant anything, but you took it as a yes.
You returned your attention to his lower body. This time, you let it drag lightly over the inside of his thighs again. Back and forth. Then over his knees, where his skin was softer. Down the sides of his calves, then back up again, tracing the sensitive areas just behind his knees.
He jerked. Not enough to tear the bindings, but enough to be noticeable.
His face remained impressively stoic, though sweat now dotted his temples. When the feather grazed his skin, his limbs automatically jerked away.
For a moment, you regretted you did not have a nipple clip. But it was not like you had planned to be in this impromptu bondage session with one of the Emperor's Primarchs. The thought of seeing him writhe in the tightness, however, made you giddy.
Instead, you concentrated its soft tip around his nipple. Tracing lazy circles. Then flicking across it, barely making any contact. It hardened under the teasing; with him responding with a violent shudder.
He exhaled something around the gag, something akin to frustration.
You ignored him.
Its soft tip danced between his nipples, never quite letting him expect where it would land next. A brush against one hardened peak, then a teasing caress up his sternum. A sudden, light drag over the other.
His breathing had grown heavier, deeper.
When your eyes drifted downward, you saw that his cock had begun to respond, thickening against his thigh. A dark flush had spread across the base.
Good.
A soft laugh escaped your lips. Despite him kneeling, his eye level still forced you to tilt your head up just to meet his gaze. You leaned in slightly, voice lowered. "Do you feel the punishment now, milord?" you whispered playfully, then you brushed the feather against his ear.
A low guttural growl reverberated from his throat. But underneath that growl, there was a faint whimper. Yet despite of it, his glare remained defiant, resolute.
You picked up the second loose fabric and waved it in front of his face. "Lower your head a little."
He narrowed his eyes.
"The rules, Lord Dorn."
An exhale came out through his nostrils before complying. He bent down, just enough for you to reach his hair. His head remained ramrod straight as you lowered the fabric and blindfolded him.
By the time you had tied the knot, his body stiffened.
Perfect.
Your light-weight plume returned to his thighs, dragging lazily up the inside of his leg.
This time, however, you did not stop at his thighs.
A deliberate brush against his balls.
The reaction was immediate. His entire body twitched. His hands jerked against their bindings. You were certain the restraints would have torn under lesser men, but Rogal remained still, forcing himself into submission.
You pressed the feather more firmly, tracing the sensitive skin just behind his balls, up to the base of his cock. It jerked under the attention, already half-hard and growing rapidly.
A sharp, muffled sound escaped him through the gag.
The temptation to focus your efforts in his most sensitive areas was strong. But no, the Praetorian had to know what kind of punishment you had in mind, and you intended to deliver it fully.
Walking behind him, you traced it against the broad expanse of his back, following the lines of his musculature. You could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His shoulder muscles tightened with each passing second, the tension growing palpable.
Then you trailed the long plume lower… and lower…
His whole body jerked as it brushed the sensitive patch of skin right above the cleft of his ass. The reaction was so sharp it was almost violent, his bound arms trembling from the strain of keeping himself in place.
You returned to face him. His chest was rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths. His thighs were quaking, just barely.
A bead of sweat dripped from his jaw.
He looked utterly wrecked. His imposing frame trembled despite his best efforts to remain still, his lips drawn taut around the knotted gag. A faint crimson flush had spread across his face, and damp strands of pale hair clung to his temples.
Fuck.
The sight alone could make anyone's ovaries explode.
You shook your head and focused on the soles of his feet. With just a flick of the feather, you stroked across the arches.
Another deep sound rumbled in his throat.
Encouraged, you brushed it more deliberately along the curves of his feet. The tip caressed each gap between his toes. Each touch sent fresh tremors up his legs. His hands were clenching and unclenching against the restraints. His cock, now fully erect, strained against his stomach, glistening with a bead of pre-come.
You did not stop. Instead, you let it drift slowly upward. Lazy spirals of feathery touches crept up from his soles, then ankles, calves, then the back of his knees ─
His spine arched forward, hips thrusting up, followed by a moan that you swore was heard by everyone in the palace, up to where the Emperor was right now.
Goodness gracious.
The urge to climb his lap and ride him right there was almost unbearable. But you kept your composure, and you did not let yourself get distracted. Instead, you tickled right into the sensitive spot at the base of his spine.
His entire frame shuddered violently. A choked, frustrated sound spilled past his lips, and the restraints creaked under the strain. Despite the reaction, Rogal's jaw tightened and hunkered down.
You circled there, over and over again.
The ragged breaths turned much faster and more desperate. His cock jutted upward, flushed and throbbing, begging for attention.
You pulled away, eliciting a sound of protest from him.
With a slight tug, you loosened the binds that kept his thighs together. "Part your legs," you commanded.
His shoulders rose and fell.
"Would you want to use your safe word, Lord Dorn?" you hummed.
He shook his head. Slowly, he let his knees part, and his legs spread wider, exposing his dripping cock and balls.
You stepped closer, slipping between his legs and running the tip down his inner thigh once again. Then, without warning, you flicked it straight across his balls.
He lurched forward. The motion was instinctive, unchecked, and you were half-expecting him to snap through his binds.
But he didn't.
Instead, he let out a muffled groan, his head falling forward against his chest as he fought for control.
You continued, dragging the feather up and down along his shaft, never quite giving him the friction he so desperately needed: Up the underside of his cock, over the tip where a stream of precum trickled down, then repeating the slow, torturous strokes.
His hips jerked upward in a silent plea.
Were it not for the fact that it was a punishment, you would had already pushed him against the bed and let him pommel you. Instead, you pulled a chair in front of him and guided him forward until his face was on the seat. It allowed his posterior to stick up and his cock to hang freely, fully exposed and unbearably hard.
The white plume traveled down from the crack of his ass leading to the anus. His hole twitched in surprise. Another swirl and the shudder that rippled down in his entirety was almost obscene. The gag was barely doing its job, the sounds he was making were loud enough to raise suspicion.
You traveled down further until you found the spot between the anus and the base of his scrotum. A light swipe made his balls tightened, and the deep moan he let out almost made you waver.
Good. Now he was feeling it. You withdrew for a moment to observe him. His thighs trembled with effort. His head was still turned towards the seat, his shoulders tensed, and his breathing was coming in short, sharp bursts. Every sinew was drawn tight as though he were bracing himself for something much worse than the lightest of touches.
You moved behind him, gripping the plume loosely between two fingers as you slowly circled his anus again, applying just enough pressure to make him aware of every fleeting stroke. You were tempted to push it further, but not yet. Not when he was still holding together like this.
Rogal tensed and jerked each time you pressed against it, but he didn't pull away: The red flush spread across his sweat-drenched skin. The lower part of his body squirmed as she flicked his sensitive areas.
When you returned him to his sitting-kneeling position, his cock was practically dripping. You traced the feather lightly along the length, teasing the vein that ran up the underside. His whole body jerked again, his legs straining against the cloth, and a stifled sob escaped through the gag.
"Are you still doing well, Lord Dorn?" you asked, your tone light and teasing.
His response was an incoherent groan.
You hummed. Maybe it was enough. He was already a mess bathing in his own fluids.
Yet his cock was still erect. Still needy.
Your tongue unconsciously licked the parched lips. It would be a waste to let such a beauty wither.
But it was just a punishment. To take him in this state was not something he agreed to, so you decided on a different approach. You knelt down before him. He might be blindfolded, but you could feel him following your movements. Your hand hovered over his cock, your fingers lightly brushing against his tip. His chest jerked, and he bucked forward, seeking the contact you weren't yet giving.
"I just want to remind you of your safe word, Lord Dorn," you whispered on his ear while your hand circled his length. You gently squeezed.
He gasped and shook his head furiously. "No—!" It came out as a garbled cry.
You smiled. "Alright."
And then your hands went to work.
With a firm grip on his shaft, you stroked him from base to tip in slow, deliberate movements. The moment your skin met his, his control snapped. A choked moan ripped from his throat, his back arching, hips bucking wildly. The restraints groaned as he pulled against them, but they held.
Your pace remained steady, even as his movements grew erratic. Each stroke of your hand drew a louder, more desperate sound from him. He thrust forward, chasing the friction as you teased his slit with your thumb.
The angle shifted, allowing your other hand to reach up to his short, pale blond hair, and gave it a sharp pull. He hissed and groaned, and his head craned up, exposing the long column of his throat.
His voice was raw, ragged, and completely undone. A garbled word in High Gothic slipped out in a strangled gasp, surprising even you. For one startled second, you wondered whether Rogal Dorn had just sworn.
You pumped his cock faster. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. The muscles in his thighs shook. He was teetering on the edge, ready to spill.
And then—
You stopped.
His hips jerked forward once, then twice, the motion involuntary as his body sought the release it had been so cruelly denied. A guttural cry tore from his throat, and his head fell forward as he struggled to catch his breath. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the frustration in the way he strained against the restraints, but you didn't relent.
"It's still part of the punishment," you whispered again.
Rogal's groans were no longer from a place of stoic defiance. The tone of his muffled voice had shifted to something far more vulnerable, as if begging for the mercy of release. The flush on his skin deepened, and he was panting around the gag, pelvis twitching with every lingering touch.
You waited, letting his frustration mount, letting the denial sink in. You could feel every twitch and shudder of his massive frame beneath your touch. When you finally started again, this time slower, he nearly sobbed.
His head bowed further, and you could hear the ragged edge of his breathing, could feel his entire being straining toward the edge once more. You pumped his cock with renewed focus, watching his muscles clench and spasm with the effort of not falling apart.
The moment his whole body tensed, signaling that he was about to climax again, you stopped once more. His entire frame trembled with the denial, a choked sound escaping his lips as his orgasm was ruthlessly cut short.
His shoulders trembled as he shifted some of his weight to yours. The knot of cloth around his wrists was beginning to fray.
You rubbed his head. "You're doing well," you murmured. "Not much longer, I promise."
He let out a soft, almost pitiful whimper that was so at odds with his usual stoic demeanor that it nearly broke your resolve.
You reached down and lightly circled his cock again, stroking with the faintest pressure. His manhood twitched forward involuntarily, seeking more, but you kept your movements teasing. Barely there. Just enough to keep him hovering on the edge without relief.
He let out a broken roar. His shoulders trembled with each deliberate stroke of your hand, his control all but shattered.
Then, like a rushing burst of light piercing through the sky, you pumped harder and faster.
This time, you didn't stop. You felt his cock swell in your hand, the pulsing rhythm as his whole body locked up with the intensity of the release. The first jet of come hit your hand with startling force, thick and hot, followed by another, and another. His lower abdomen jerked violently with each pulse, the restraints creaking ominously as he strained against them. It was not long until a deep, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he finally, finally found relief.
It went on, one wave after another. His orgasm seemed endless, each spasm stronger than the last. You kept stroking him through it, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until, with a final shudder, he slumped forward, his chest heaving, sweat-soaked and utterly spent.
The moment it was over, Rogal seemed to collapse inward on himself. It was only through his discipline that he did not completely tumble to the floor.
You let go of his cock, your hand sticky and warm, and gently caressed his trembling thighs. The gag was still in place, and he was breathing hard, limbs limp in his restraints. You leaned forward, brushing his damp hair away from his face and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
"Is my punishment satisfactory to your demands, Lord Dorn?" you asked.
He nodded weakly. You were not sure if he was agreeing or just unable to form a proper response.
Carefully, you reached behind him and untied the gag first, pulling the wet knot from between his teeth. His lips were swollen and red from the pressure, and his breath came in ragged, shallow pants.
"Better?" you murmured.
He swallowed hard and nodded, his voice hoarse. "...yes."
You smiled and began loosening the restraints, starting with the one around his chest and working your way down to his legs. The burgundy fabric slipped free, leaving red imprints behind, but nothing too harsh. Rogal made no attempt to move as you undid each knot, perhaps still trembling with the aftereffects of the overstimulation.
Once his arms were freed, he stretched them out, rolling his shoulders slowly as circulation returned. His hands fell to his sides, but he stayed kneeling for a moment longer, his eyes closed, his chest still rising and falling heavily.
You took out a lotion, but he held his hand up.
"My body can endure this," he said.
"Well, it's for the skin."
"I want it to stay as a reminder."
You stared at him with raised eyebrows, but did not press further.
Finally, he opened his eyes and looked up at you, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. "Thank you."
"It was a punishment for your supposed crimes against me," you chuckled, "And you thank me?"
"You do not resent me?" he asked. For a moment, he looked surprised. But his rigid expression masked it again.
Something in his tone made you stop smiling.
Was he serious?
You scratched your head. "No? If someone suddenly appeared right in front of me, I would've been alarmed also."
He looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead, he simply nodded and began to stand. You moved to help him, but he raised a hand again, indicating he could manage on his own. His first step was slower than before. He compensated immediately, straightening before reaching for his clothes.
He took a step toward his neatly folded clothes and began to dress. You turned away to give him a modicum of privacy, your thoughts still lingering on the sight of him—so utterly undone and yet still every bit the commanding presence he had been before.
As he fastened the last button on his jacket, Rogal paused. His eyes flicked toward you, then to the discarded burgundy strips on the floor. "If I may ask..." His voice was lower now, more controlled, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity.
"Yes?"
"If you would stay... in this timeline, would you be willing to repeat such... punishments?"
Your cheeks warmed at the suggestion. "It would depend on the offense."
He nodded slowly, as if considering his next words carefully. "Perhaps I would find reason to require... further discipline."
You smirked and shook your head. "If that's your way of inviting me to stay, you could just say it."
A flicker of amusement passed through his eyes. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible smile. "I have never been one to say what can be shown."
You chuckled softly, the tension between you easing as the moment passed.
Then he turned toward the door, his hand resting briefly on the handle before he spoke again. "The Emperor has extended an invitation for you to remain in our time. I have seconded that motion."
You blinked, the words taking a moment to sink in. "Wait, what?"
"My Father suspects that your sudden arrival might not be an isolated incident," he explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "He wishes to study the phenomenon. I, on the other hand, would be remiss if I did not express my desire for your... continued presence."
Your mind raced. Stay here? In the 30th millennium? With the Emperor of Mankind and the Primarchs? What about your life back in the 21st century? But as your eyes lingered on the man standing before you, a thought surfaced—what might life be like here with the man who now seemed to have taken more than a passing interest in you?
Rogal's gaze remained steady, patient, as if waiting for your answer.
"I... need some time to think about it," you said.
He nodded, his expression unreadable but not unkind. "I understand. The decision is yours, of course."
Opening the door, Rogal turned to leave, but paused at the threshold. He glanced at you, his expression softening slightly. "Whatever you decide, know that this experience has been... enlightening. I would not be opposed to a repeat. For disciplinary purposes, of course."
You snorted. "Of course. Maybe I can show you a few more tricks."
In that rare moment, he smiled. "Perhaps I should already think of new transgressions."
You smiled, your heart doing flip flops as you watched the rare gesture.
Then the door closed behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts, and the faint scent of his sweat and his sex still lingering in the air. You let out a long, shaky breath, your body buzzing from the intensity of the encounter.
What in the world have you gotten yourself into?
[ Epilogue ]
"Brother, are you well?"
You and Rogal were returning to the main strategium in the Palace when the Julius Caesar-looking brother approached him. Behind him were the other equally impressive (and handsome) Primarchs.
"I am," Rogal said. There was a faint hitch in his steps as they walked. You tried not to think about how he was most likely sore from your punishment.
"We heard noises from where you and the prisoner were," the angel-looking one said with a hint of amusement. "It sounded... concerning."
"An intense interrogation," the lion-looking brother added.
Rogal merely nodded, as though nothing was amiss. "It was. She is no threat."
You tried not to laugh.
The wolfish one grinned. "Are you certain? It did not sound as if you were interrogating her. If anything, it sounded like she was doing the interrogating."
Rogal shot him a warning look. "It was necessary."
The red-haired brother's eye glowed for a moment. Then his expression turned from surprise, to scandalized. "Oh... Ah... Ah..." he stammered and took a step back.
"Don't invade his mind, you damn witch," the wolf brother growled.
The Lion and the angel exchanged glances. The former rolled his eyes, the latter laughed.
The Caesar-looking brother then looked at you. "My apologies, lady. I was not aware of this meeting. Has he treated you well?"
You smiled, not unkindly. "It's fine, I... uh, don't mind. He was very... thorough in his apologies."
At this point, Rogal's ears were turning red. "I am sure there was much to discuss," he said gruffly, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his discomfort.
The effeminate-looking brother’s eyes glinted with amusement as he leaned toward his brother. "Indeed. Such passion. We could all learn from your example, brother."
Rogal shot him a withering glance. "If you are all finished, I would like to bring my report to Father. The prisoner's status is no longer in question."
"Of course," The red-haired brother said, still recovering from his moment of mental intrusion. "Let us not delay further."
You walked beside Rogal as the group continued down the hall, trying to keep a straight face.