His to keep
Pairing: Dark!joel miller x f!reader
Summary: Since the day Joel found you bleeding on his doorstep, he’s kept you…fed, warm, quiet. All he asks in return is obedience: to him, his rules, and the chart. But when you sneak out—when you break the one rule that really matters—you’re not just wondering how he’ll punish you. You’re wondering if he’ll make you beg for it.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, dark themes, dark!joel, dub-con to non-con elements, stockholm syndrome, toxic/manipulative Joel, power imbalance, psychological control, isolation, outbreak, talking about wounds, punishments, degradation, praise, pet names, mean!joel, spanking with a belt, age gap! (Reader is in her 20s, Joel in his 50s), naive reader, desperate reader, inexperienced reader, pinv, unprotected sex, orgasm denial, edging, fingering, vibrator use, creampie, Joel uses a chart to control reader
A/N: okey seriously, if you don’t like shit like this—stay AWAY. If you’re uncomfortable with these themes—stay AWAY. I don’t want anyone complaining in the comments or in my inbox. Otherwiseeee HELL YEA, this took some time but it’s finally hereeeeee …I did enjoy writing this so I hope you guys enjoy reading it hehe🤭
You know it’s a bad Idea.
Heck, it was maybe the worst idea you ever had. But it didn’t stop you from packing a backpack, marking the trail you’re supposed to go to on the map, and stealing a knife from Joel while he slept.
You were curious. Curious about the outside world, what it had become since Joel found you and kept you. Since the day he found you wounded outside his cabin, a big shotgun pointed at the center of your forehead while you begged him for mercy.
And you can’t even remember when it all started. When he claimed you as his, gave you rules, made sure you were fed and well taken care of. His calloused hands lying on your body, making you feel things you’d never felt. And how you felt yourself becoming devoted to him—promising to be good, to always be his.
Yet, you were not his good girl today. You could already hear his stern sighing, see the hands on his hips when he tells you how disappointed he is in you.
You were not allowed to go outside, not without him or without his permission. It was a strict rule, established already on the day you stepped foot in his cabin.
“It’s too dangerous out there,” he whispers, eyes locked on the blood blooming across your ribs. “Look what they did to you.” His finger traces the wound, slow. “Next time, they won’t stop at hurting you. They’ll kill you and feed what’s left of you to their dogs.”
You knew the rules and you knew what would happen if you broke them. Joel didn’t always yell. He didn’t always chase. He didn’t threaten. He punished. Quietly. Deliberately. Sometimes it was his belt, until your skin turned red and started stinging. Sometimes it was his hand.
Sometimes it was even worse—kneeling on small rocks, wrists bound, left alone in silence until your legs gave out. But it wasn’t the pain that made you cry. It was the waiting. The silence. The way he watched you like he was deciding whether you were still worth keeping. And then, if you were lucky—if you took it well—he’d say it.
“You’re learning,” and a “Good girl,” That was all you ever wanted.
Joel is asleep.
You can hear it—the steady rhythm of his breathing, the occasional rasp of a snore that cuts through the silence like a warning bell. It’s loud. It’s disruptive. And a reminder. That he’s still here. That you’re not alone. That you’re very much not supposed to be doing this.
Your heart is pounding and you haven’t even moved yet. Your body already feels like it’s betraying you, like it knows this is wrong. Like it’s preparing itself for when Joel wakes up and catches you before you can even reach the door.
But you want to see. You need to see.
The outside world has been a mystery for far too long. Joel keeps it locked away behind rules and warnings and stories too gruesome to be lies. You know he is right. You’ve listened. You’ve obeyed. You’ve earned points on the chart. You’ve been good.
But today, you’re not.
You zip your backpack slowly, the sound deafening in the quiet room. You pause halfway through, glancing towards the bed. Joel doesn’t stir, another snore escapes him. His arm is draped over the blanket, fingers curled loosely, the same hand that stitched your wounds, held your throat and stroked your hair when you cried.
The winter jacket is heavy in your hands. You slip it on one sleeve at a time, careful not to let the fabric rustle too loudly. The zipper is next—slow, deliberate, teeth sliding together like a secret you’re trying to keep. You tiptoe across the room, the boards creaking beneath your weight. You’re lucky that they are soft and silent. As you take a deep breath and want to lay your hand on the door, your eyes land on it.
The chart.
He put it together just after two weeks. After he took your virginity, touched you in places you’d never discovered, made you learn things you never knew about yourself. It’s just columns, hand-drawn in Joel’s sharp, unforgiving script. The ink is fading in places, smudged in others—like he pressed too hard when he was angry.
“You need structure,” he begins, swaying the paper from left to right in front of you. “This will help.”
You look at it like it might give you answers if you just stare long enough. A soft, breathy chuckle leaves him when your eyes flick to him, confused.
“It’s a chart. Look—here is obedience. If you obey me well, I may decide to add one mark.”
His finger sliding down, pointing at the next thing that’s on the chart.
“And here is punishment taken well. When you take your punishment good, I can add a mark also here.” He explains, his eyes concentrated on your face, voice soft.
You look at the chart, and the other things he listed. You nod, even before he finishes. You want to understand. You want to be good. Not just to avoid punishment—but because he knows better. He sees things you don’t. He survived things you couldn’t.
“And when you have enough lines,” he comes closer. “You can earn some rewards, yea?”
He puts a strand of hair behind your ear and cradles your face. “Like touching yourself. Only once, only when you say my name. Maybe even use the toy I made you.”
You take a deep breath, those memories settling deep in your bones. Knowing that if he finds out, all of the marks—the ones you worked so hard for will all be gone.
It’s going to be quick. It’s going to be easy.
You’ve already marked everything on the map you stole from Joel last week. One path leads to the forest, the other to the river. The excitement of seeing both runs through your veins, and you can’t help but smile to yourself.
If you arrive at the cabin before Joel wakes up—and he wakes up late—there won’t be any problems. As long as you get there in time.
Your fingers tremble as you undo the countless locks Joel made on the door. Three locks. One chain. A wooden beam across the frame. You’ve watched him do it a hundred times, memorized the rhythm of his hands, the way he hums low when he’s satisfied. The metal clicks feel too loud in the quiet. You pause after each one, listening for movement, paying close attention. Nothing.
The final lock sticks. You bite your lip, twist harder. It gives. You open the door just wide enough to slip through, then click it shut silently behind you.
And then you’re outside.
The cold hits you instantly—sharp. You can’t quite believe you’re outside. You suck in a breath, lungs burning, and it feels like freedom. The snow crunches under your boots, soft, smooth, like you’d forgotten how that sounded. You walk slowly, each step pulling you farther away from the man who saved your life. Each one feels like betrayal.
Joel’s voice is looping in your head, low, firm and unforgiving.
“You don’t go out alone.”
“You’re not strong enough.”
“You want to die? That’s how you do it.”
You hear him with every step. But you keep walking. Because for the first time in weeks, maybe months, the air doesn’t smell like him. It smells like pine and frost and something untouched. You breathe it in like it might cleanse you.
You remember the day you found his cabin.
Half-frozen, stumbling through snowdrifts, bleeding from places you didn’t want to name. The raiders had taken everything—your coat, your food, your voice. You were nothing but a shadow when you saw the smoke curling from his chimney.
You remember the way he looked at you. Not with pity. Not with kindness. Just calculation.
You missed this.
The sky. The silence.
What if he already noticed?
You turn halfway, eyes flicking back towards the cabin. It’s hidden now, swallowed by trees and silence. You could go back. You could pretend you never left. You could crawl into bed and whisper apologies into the sheets.
You slowly walk towards the river, the morning sun already starting to show up. As you reach the river you kneel down, and dip your hand into the water. It’s freezing and it stings. But it feels good.
You want to stay longer. Just a few more seconds. Watch the snow land on the water, disappearing from existence—just like you wish you could sometimes.
You turn towards the woods. To the second mark on your map. The place where you ran away from until you stumbled upon Joel’s cabin. It almost feels unnerving—the trees stretch tall, branches bare and reaching. Birds flit between them, their wings sharp against the sky.
Joel is still in the back of your mind as you watch them, making sounds you haven’t heard in a long time. You walk steadily, with the intention of doing it quickly, not getting too deep into the forest. Because you know: you won’t be able to find your way out.
And then as you just walk on a snow flooded path—
CRACK.
The ground gives way beneath you.
And you fall.
Snow and dirt collapse around you, and your body hits the bottom—hard. Your breath leaves in a gasp. You blink, dazed, and realize you’re in a big pit. A trap. Six feet deep. Maybe even more. It was covered and hidden. You didn’t see it. You were looking at the birds, thinking about Joel.
Panic floods you.
“Nonono—no—no—” you mumble over and over to yourself. You can’t even focus on the pain from falling onto your bum, or the sting in your hands from the snow you’re clutching.
You scramble, quick, clawing at the walls, trying to climb. Your boots slip, your fingers sliding up and down the falls until they start to hurt. The pit is too deep, it’s too slippery, too wet and too smooth. You jump, countless times, you try to scream but nothing comes out.
So you start crying.
Your heart pounds so loud it hurts. The walls feel like they’re closing in, like they are trying to suffocate you. You collapse, sobbing into your hands.
This is what Joel said. This is why he told you those gruesome stories. This is why he locked the door, gave you punishments. Why he made the chart. Why he said “You’re not ready.”
You didn’t listen.
And now you’re going to die.
Whoever set this trap will come to check. And they won’t be merciful, not like Joel was when he found you. Not like the man who punishes you but still feeds you. Still wipes your tears. Still calls you sweetheart when you obey.
The hours stretch. It slowly becomes evening.
You stopped sobbing, you stopped caring about escaping. It doesn’t help. You sit in the corner, your knees pulled to your chest, head buried in your arms. Staring at the dirt patch on the ground, thinking about the moments you had with Joel. Just yesterday, he kissed your forehead and tucked you into bed. Warm and safe. The way one time he made soup from scratch, even though food was scarce, and fed it to you spoon by spoon, watching your lips like they were the only thing that mattered. Holding you in his lap, whispering over and over: “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe with me.”
You start to say that to yourself, in your head, mimicking Joels arms and hugging yourself. You don’t know if you’re ready to die. You just know you’re alone.
And then—
A shadow.
It looms above the pit. Silently. Watching.
You freeze, staring up at the unknown figure. Your heart thuds in your chest—you know this is the end. Whoever this is, they’re going to kill you.
A flashlight clicks on and the beam hits your face.
You blink.
It’s Joel.
He doesn’t speak, he just looks at you, breathing in hard and then out. Disappointment written on his face. He kneels at the edge, eyebrows pinched together—eyes full of anger. Then he reaches down, hand extended.
You don’t move at first. Your body is frozen. Your mind is spinning. Your mouth is gaping open like you want to say something but nothing comes out. You feel yourself relieved but also scared of what comes next.
Then you whisper: “Joel.” Silent, like a prayer.
His voice is rough, angry and it’s spits into your face without warning. “Fuckin’ c’mere.”
You scramble to your feet, shaking and grab his hand, climbing up the pit with his help. Your body aches. Your heart is breaking. When you reach the top, you throw your arms around him, sobbing into his jacket, smelling in his scent.
But he doesn’t hug you back. He pulls you away, grabs your arm—hard. His grip is bruising, a yelp escapes from your mouth.
And then he starts to drag you.
His grip on your arm is relentless, fingers digging into your skin like he’s trying to fuse you into him. You stumble once on the uneven path, your ankle catching on a root, but he doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t even glance back. He just yanks you forward, and the pain shoots up your arm, sharp and hot, but you don’t dare make a sound.
The cabin looms ahead, dark and quiet, the porch light flickering like it’s trying to warn you. Your heart is pounding so hard you think he can hear it. And maybe that’s why his grip tightens. Maybe he wants to feel your fear in his palm.
He throws open the door with one hand and shoves you inside with the other. You stumble over the floor, catching yourself on the wall, breath hitching as you hear the door slam shut behind you. The sound of the locks clicking into place—one after another, echoes through the cabin like gunshots. You turn to look at him, tears already bubbling in your eyes, but he doesn’t meet your gaze.
“Bedroom,” he mutters, voice low and flat, like you’re not even worth the effort.
You nod, even though he’s not looking. It’s not for him—it’s for you. A silent apology. A quiet surrender.
Your legs feel like they’re made of glass as you walk towards the small room at the end of the hall. The bed is messy, the sheets twisted from the night before, and the moonlight spills through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. All you want to do is lay down, and cuddle him to sleep.
You stand there for a moment, unsure if you should sit, lie down, kneel. You don’t know what version of him is coming through that door.
And then he does.
Joel steps into the room slowly, his eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s trying to solve. His eyebrows are pinched, his mouth a hard line, and the disappointment in his face is louder than any scream.
He doesn’t speak. Just walks up to you and grabs your chin—firm, not gentle. His fingers press into your jaw, tilting your face towards the light coming from the window. You flinch, but you don’t pull away.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
His eyes scan your face, slow and careful. The bruise blooming on your cheek. The cut on your lip, still raw. The dirt smeared across your jaw like a brand. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Then his thumb brushes the blood away, and for a second, you think maybe—maybe he’s softening.
“You hurt?” he asks, his eyes locking with yours.
You nod. Barely. The movement is so small it could be mistaken for a tremble.
He scoffs. “Not enough.”
His hands move down, rough and methodical. He checks your wrists, turning them over like he’s inspecting. Then he sees the gash from the fall. He presses near it, and you gasp, the pain sharp and sudden.
Then he presses harder.
“Ow,” you whisper, pulling back instinctively.
He doesn’t let go.
“You crying over this?” he mutters, voice thick with contempt. “Pathetic.”
You bite your lip, trying to hold it in, but the tears are already spilling. You don’t know if it’s the pain, the fear, or the shame. Maybe it’s all of it. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you—like you’re not broken enough yet.
He lets go of your wrist and comes closer, towering over you. You feel small. Fragile. Like you could shatter if he raised his voice.
“Didn’t I tell you?” His voice is low at first, almost calm, but there’s a tremor beneath it—like something dangerous is trying to claw its way out. “Didn’t I fucking tell you what would happen if you went out there alone?”
He starts slowly pacing in the room, steps loud and clear on the wooden floor, hands on his hips, eyes burning into you like you’re the source of every wrong thing in his world.
“You think you’re smart? You think you’re strong enough to survive without me?” He chuckles, bitter and sharp. “You couldn’t even make it past the forest.”
“I didn’t want to go past the forest, I just wanted to explore,” you mumble—barely a whisper—and regret it the moment the words leave your mouth.
“That so, huh?” He stops in front of you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. “What would’ve happened if those traps weren’t mine?” Your eyes land on his, realizing.
“You think the world’s gonna cradle you like I do? You think it cares if you cry, hm? You think the person who would’ve found you would be as forgiven as I am?” His voice still low, unusually calm. He looks at you like he is expecting an answer, but you can’t open your mouth. The room feels small and suffocating as you stand there, listening to his words.
“I feed you. I keep you warm. I keep you alive. And this is how you thank me, baby?” He asks. “By running? By lying?“
He steps back, shaking his head like he can’t believe what you have done. You stand in front of him, tears in your eyes and heart aching like it never done before. You didn‘t want to run, you didn‘t want to lie. You just wanted to explore, but he couldn‘t understand that.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
It slips out before you can stop it—a reflex, a prayer. But you already know: apologies don’t mean much to Joel. They hold no weight in his world. The closest thing to forgiveness is you—shaking, withering beneath him, sobbing until your eyes burn. Then him adding a mark besides ‘punishment taken well.’
Joel’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then he shakes his head, slow and deliberate, coming closer to your face again.
“You ain’t sorry, doll.” His voice is low.
You feel your stomach drop. He is close enough that you can smell the sweat on his skin, the dirt on his jacket, the fury still simmering beneath his calm.
“You’re scared.” A pause. “But you ain’t sorry.”
You open your mouth to speak, but he cuts you off with one word.
“Strip.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t repeat himself. Just watches. Watches the way your fingers play with the hem of your pullover, the way you’re biting the inside of your mouth. Unsure to move, knowing in what position he is going to put you.
“Not gonna tell you twice.” He says, but you still hesitate. And that’s enough for him. Joel’s jaw tightens.
“You wanna explore, yea?” He takes your hand and places it on the hem of your pullover, pulling upwards. “Then explore what it feels like to be corrected.”
Your hands tremble as you put it over your head. The fabric feels heavier than it should. Like it knows what’s coming. Joel doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink.
“Slower.” His voice is quieter now. “You don’t rush when you’re being taught, baby.”
You nod, even though your throat feels too tight to speak. Next, you unclasp your bra. Then pull down your pants, with your panties. You stand there, bare and shaking, arms crossed over your chest. The cold hitting your skin, goosebumps blooming across it and sudden embarrassment fills you.
Joel grabs your wrists, pulling them down.
“Don’t hide,” His grip is firm. “You don’t get to hide from me.” He takes one of your hand and brings them close to his mouth, giving a kiss.
You just nod again, tears already slipping down your cheeks.
Then he unbuckles his belt—the sharp sound of it makes your heart jump. It’s the punishment he saves for when you’ve really messed up. The one that lingers for days, when sitting becomes a reminder. Joel moves behind you, settling on the edge of the bed with a sigh, legs spread just enough to make space for you. The belt rests in his hand, folded once—heavy, quiet, waiting.
And then, he pats his thigh. “Over.”
You move slowly, heart pounding, limbs trembling. You drape yourself across his lap, stomach pressed against his jeans, arms landing on the bed. You feel his hand settling on your lower back, firm—like he knows you’re going to squirm.
“You count,” His voice is low, steady. “Loud and clear. Or we start over.”
You nod, but it’s barely a movement. Your throat is tight. Your skin prickles with cold, shame and something else—something like what it feels like anticipation but also fear.
The first strike lands.
A sharp crack of leather against skin. It stings, making your whole body move slightly forward, his hand stabilising you. You gasp, loud, the sound escaping before you can even stop it. “One,” Your voice is shaky, thin, trying not to spill the tears again.
Joel doesn’t respond. Just lifts the belt again. And the second hit is harder. It aches deep, blooming across your skin like fire.
“Two.” You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers curling into the sheets, holding onto it like it may save you. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier and the knot in your throat feels like it’s going to unravel just in seconds. “Three.”
Your voice cracks. Tears finally slip one by one down your cheeks, silent and hot.
“Go ahead and sob. Maybe the river will come cradle you since you miss it so damn much.”
You hiccup, the weight of his words settle in your chest, heavy and unrelenting. Joel then shifts slightly beneath you, adjusting your position. His hand presses into your back again, this time rubbing in a big circle—grounding and soothing you, before giving you another spank.
“Four.” You squirm, just a little. The sting against your skin feels unbearable. But Joel’s grip tightens.
“Keep still. You wanted to play brave girl in the woods—now take what comes with it, baby.” He murmurs, his belt grazing over your bum and landing on the fifth hit. You nod, sobbing now. The pain mixed with guilt, with regret, with the memory of the river, the trap and the way he looked at you when he found you. “Five.”
Your legs tremble. Your body aches. But you keep counting.
“Six.”
Joel pauses. His voice is quieter now. “You were doing so well,” he begins. “and then you showed me you’re still just a mess I have to manage.”
Your breath catches, shallow and uneven. The words hit harder than the belt ever did. Not because they were loud and harsh—but because they were true. Or at least, they felt true in that moment for you. Your fingers curl into the sheets. Your shoulders tremble. And you nod. Barely. Like you’re agreeing with him. Like you’re accepting it.
Because what else is there to do?
You were doing well. And now you’re just a mess. Again.
With the ninth hit of the belt, a sob tears through your body. Your face is buried in the sheets, knuckles white from gripping the bed as you try to count for him—but fail miserably. And you think, maybe this time, he won’t just punish you. Maybe he’ll drag you back to the pit with his own damn hands—for misbehaving so, so many times.
But it doesn’t come. Your hiccuping stills as you try to listen what Joel has to say, but nothing comes out of his mouth. Instead, he gives you the tenth spank.
The hardest. The most painful of them all.
Your body recoils, lurching forward as your breath catches in your throat—unable to breathe for just a moment. His hand lands on the stinging, tender flesh, rubbing slow circles.
With the other, he sets the belt aside and begins stroking your hair.
The silence overwhelms the room, saved for the gentle hiccups and whines that still come from your body, just laying on his lap accepting the only softness he ever gives you.
“Look at me, yea?” Your head shoots up from the sheets, slowly turning and looking into his dark eyes. “That’s what this is for, baby. Good girls cry, they take it without begging or fighting.” He nods his head at you.
“This is what obedience looks like. Ugly, but earned, okay?” Joel asks low. You nod, eagerly, wanting to be good for him. And as if he already knows what he is going to expect, he nudges his middle finger between your thighs and then into your folds. The tip of his finger prodding at your hole with a hum falling from his lips. You are wet. And it wouldn’t matter how much pain you would’ve endure from him, you would still start aching.
Because that’s what he taught you. With a “I bet that feels good, baby.” And two fingers in your cunt just three days after he found you, controlling when you are going to let go, telling you “Nuh-uh, not now. Only when I give permission.” And then giving you something you’ve never had before—a release.
His hand slides to your waist—firm, possessive. You barely have time to brace before he shifts you in one smooth motion.
He lifts, turns, and settles you back down—your spine pressing into his thighs now, head tipped back onto the pillow. Your legs tremble as he spreads them wide. Exposing your pussy to him all the while you hold your breath.
“S’okey. Deep breaths, now.” He says, calm. “We ain’t done yet, babygirl.”
And you should’ve seen that coming.
Punishment on top of punishment wasn’t something he usually did—only when you misbehaved so badly he couldn’t see another way to deal with you.
Joel reaches for something, something you can’t see. Only when you hear it, your heart starts to race.
The vibrator.
The vibrator Joel build himself. The one where he found an electric toothbrush motor, a battery pack, leather, and put these together with the intention to control your pleasure. The device was overrun with smooth leather that made it easy for it to clean but also felt comfortable against your pussy. He didn’t need much words for it when he introduced you to it. Just a switch of the thing and holding it against your panties with a smile, praising you when you fell apart on it.
You sit up slightly, holding onto his arm with a pleading look.
“Please—“ knowing the last time he used the vibrator in one of his punishments, he made you come until you couldn’t feel your clit anymore.
“Don’t make me tie you up. Hands to yourself.” He cuts through your pleas with a stern look, making you put your hand away from him and lay down on the bed again.
Your body tenses when Joel spreads your cunt and open you up with two fingers, first inspecting and then when you least expect it, he presses the device down. Just on the tip of your clit, with the vibrations still on the lowest setting. Your breath hitches, a whimper escaping your lips. That alone easily makes you want to move your hips, and moan into the room.
But you needed to stay still—you knew the rules.
“This isn’t about your pleasure,” he starts explaining, lowering the vibrator and pressing it down on your hole. “It’s about control…makin’ sure you ache in all the right places before I decide you’ve earned anything more.”
Fingers curling into the sheets, knuckles white, you try to keep silence. The minutes stretching before Joel decides to press it onto your clit again. His eyes land on you, analysing your face, looking if you’re already trembling, if you’re already on the verge of an orgasm. His hand lifts and brushes against your cheek, you lean into it—wanting the warmth.
Heat coils low in your tummy, and your knees start to tremble. Your hips slightly move against the vibrations and Joel lets you, pressing even harder down on your clit.
And then, when he sees you clenching your tummy, mouth gaping open like a fish out of water while squeezing your eyes shut—he pulls it away. Completely.
“Wha—no, no,” you whimper, desperately bucking into the air.
“You were right there, weren’t you?” He murmurs, gently stroking your tummy.
His hand travels to your tits, cupping and twisting your nipples until they’re hard between his fingertips. You take a deep breath, You take a deep breath. Your cheeks, once dry, grow wet again, while your cunt clenches around nothing and your clit aches in need for that release he just striped away from you.
“I want you to remember who owns your releases,” the vibrator starts to buzz once again. “To remember who owns you.”
He starts pressing onto your clit again, and your body moves with anticipation against the leather.
“You ain’t coming today. That sweet clench of your hole? That twitching of your little clit, baby?” He asks, taking his hand from your tits, grabbing the vibrator so his other hand can sink two fingers into your cunt. “We’re gonna keep that.”
“I’m sorry—please,” you babble out. “I was—was just exploring. I swear! You were always on my mind and ungh—“ you get cut off by Joels fingers in you, now thrusting in and out.
“I hear ya, doll. Loud and clear. I just don’t care.” he says before setting the vibrator to the highest setting. “No begging. Or I’ll keep you like this every night this week…aching and no orgasm.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to even out your breath and concentrating on not coming right on the spot. Joel’s large fingers inside you feel too good to handle. Too big, stroking your walls over and over again. He hums in that familiar rhythm—low, steady, unforgiving. The disappointment from earlier hasn’t faded; it’s simply shifted into control. Now he’s the man who owns your body again. Who makes the decisions.
The buzz of the vibrator is the only sound filling the room—deafening in its own way. Your silent whimpers are so quiet, you’re the only one who hears them.
Joel’s fingers suddenly curl upwards, hitting that spongey spot inside of you, making your body shift suddenly, a moan erupting from your throat.
“Oh, I know.” He coos. “Bet that cunt feels so good right now, huh?” His fingers plunge into your faster now, the vibrator just pressing harder against your little nub.
“S’too damn bad, she can’t get a release.”
“Please—“ and gone. He pulls away completely.
Your legs lock in, just seconds away from having that climax that could relief you. But it fades away slowly as you lay there, breathing hard, tear slipping one by one from your eyes. His fingers still inside of you, enjoying the way your cunt clenches on to them pulse by pulse.
The ache dissolves slowly, your body still unwillingly trying to move against his fingers but Joel quickly pulls them out, a sweet gush of wetness releasing from your hole.
“Mhm, look at that.” He whispers to himself, ignoring your pleas as his eyes are locked on your pussy. “Gushing and twitchin’.”
And when he decides that you calmed down enough, he starts thrusting his fingers in and out again. This time, you don’t react like before. You already know—he won’t stop. Not until he decides you’ve had enough. Not until he’s sure you’ve learned. So you stay quiet. You behave. And maybe, just maybe, he won’t be as cruel as he’s already been.
“I’m not denying you because i’m angry,” he starts talking, low and steady. “I’m denying you because I know what you need more than you do. And right now, baby? You need to break.”
And you know he is right. That’s what terrifies you. The anger he has, you could survive. Anger you could soothe. But this was control. You understand that he is going to break you, not with force but with patience. One by one.
And maybe… maybe you want him to break you.
Just a little.
“I want you to remember this moment every time you think about disobeying me again.” With that, the vibrator in his hand starts buzzing again. And his fingers—they start curling.
You’ve stopped counting.
At some point, maybe the fifth, maybe the sixth—you lost track. The denials blurred together, each one folding into the next like waves crashing against the same stretch of shore. Now, on the eighth, you don’t flinch when he pulls away. You don’t gasp. You don’t beg.
You just breathe in. And then out.
Your body still responds, of course it does. It always does. The ache hasn’t dulled—it has only deepened, settled into your bones like something permanent.
You lie still on him, every muscle tight with restraint. The edge comes again—sharp, familiar, cruel—and you meet it like you’ve been taught: with silence. You let it crest and crash, let it burn through you without a sound. Your thighs tremble. Your breath stutters. But you don’t move. You don’t ask.
You endure.
Joel hasn’t spoken in a while. He doesn’t need to. His silence is a language now—one you’ve learned to read in the tilt of his head, the weight of his gaze, the way his hands move inside of you.
You don’t know how long it’s been. Minutes? Hours? Time doesn’t exist anymore. Only rhythm. Only ache. Only him.
And still, you obey.
You let the waves of your climax slowly disappear again, the tears dried out on your cheeks, lips bitten painful red. And you could feel the relief washing over you when Joel suddenly puts the toy away and slips his fingers away from you. Maybe now, maybe now you’re broken enough for his liking. Maybe now he forgave you.
Suddenly, he wraps his hands around your waist, fingers splayed, thumbs brushing the curve of your hips, squeezing. And with a slow, deliberate pull, he draws you upward, guiding you until you’re seated fully in his lap. With a yelp escaping from your mouth, your thighs settle around his hips, your body aligned with his, and you feel the shift—not just in position, but in power.
You don’t cling to him, you settle. With your limbs numb, and aching.
Joel doesn’t say anything, but he reaches for his crotch and when you hear a zipper opening your heart thuds.
One hand grips your ass, moving you harshly closer to him, upwards, so you can feel his cock between your thighs, grazing against your pussy. The other one jerks himself up and down, and you don’t have to see to know that he is painfully hard. You could already feel it when you were laying on his lap, his pulsing bulge just poking your thighs with need.
“Bite down my shoulder,” he grits out, his calm demeanour now gone. “Bite down my fuckin’ shoulder.” When you don’t listen.
You catch up, biting down on his shoulder with all the strength you got before feeling the tip of his cock entering your slowly.
And this was something that you weren’t used to. Joel took your virginity, yes. He did fuck you one too many times. But you never took him from this position, from his lap, from the place where he can get deeper, deeper than when he fucks you in missionary. Joel was already big. It was already a struggle to take him fully into your cunt.
You feel the sting, your cunt just pulsing from all the orgasms that you were not given.
“Ugh—“ you whimper into his shoulder, biting harder onto the fabric, knowing there is going to be a big, wet spot after. Joel feeds you with his cock, inch by inch, ignoring the whimpers and the biting.
He is too focused on his pleasure now. Because entering you, it feels like heaven. Your pussy is already fucked raw and open, just can’t stop clenching and when Joel finally settles you down, your hole basically starts to milk him.
“That’s it, take me in. Just like that.” He stills your hips, and breathes for a moment, his hand coming to hold you by your hair and making you look at him.
“It’s supposed to hurt,” he murmurs. “This isn’t for you, yea? It’s for me.” And then his hips start snapping into you.
Your hands wrap around his neck, stabilising yourself while Joel fucks you from underneath. The air feels suffocating as you concentrate on the way his tip keeps hitting your cervix. He is deep, deeper than you could’ve ever imagined.
Eyes locked into yours, he nods his head to you, in understanding, in knowing. Knowing it’s too much for you. Knowing he is too deep.
It doesn’t stop him from going faster. His hips, rocking into you in an unforgiving speed.Hips rolling with precision, dragging your pleasure, making you whine. Your body moves up and down, tits swaying from left to right while Joel focuses on your eyes. Claiming you with everything he has.
“My doll. My quiet little thing.” He whispers, his hand sliding up your jaw, fingers firm, thumb brushing your cheek. And before you can brace for it, he takes your mouth—no warning, no softness. Just heat. Just possession.
He kisses you like he’s sealing something. Like he’s locking in every command, every denial, every tremble you gave him.
Your body starts to move against him, and before you know it, you break the kiss, pushing him away and moaning out loud. He stills you on his cock, hands gripping your thighs, squeezing your flesh as a warning.
“Nuh-uh. Not happening” He shakes his head slowly to you, while you try overcome the wave of being close to an orgasm. “Don’t you dare, baby.”
“You’re not here to feel good, you’re here to learn.”
So you bite into his shoulder again, blocking out your whimpers and your climax by simply concentrating on something else. On his smell, on his clothes, on his pretty, long hair that he didn’t cut since he found you. The way Joels voice is firm, but can be soft at the same time.
And—oh, he starts to fuck into you again.
The tension still coils deep in your belly, sharp and relentless, like a string pulled too tight. Every movement of his hips sends sparks up your spine, and you feel like you will slip.
“Can feel you clenching,” He says, out of breath, his own orgasm already close to come through. “Focus, baby.”
Releasing his shoulder you look into his eyes one more time, a pleading look, a ‘please’ behind them. Maybe he will see how much you need it, see how much you’ve done good and how much you deserve it.
“No, focus on me. You ain’t cumming, baby.” He says, final. And all you can do is nod, feeling his hips getting sloppier and sloppier.
“Gonna cum in this pussy,” he whispers into your ear. “Mark it as mine.”
Joel groans into your chest, with big breaths leaving his mouth. You can feel it. The way he is throbbing inside of you, you try to not focus on that feeling. Not the way he keeps hitting that sweet spot over and over inside of you.
A whine leave your throat, “Joel.”
“I’m almost there, hold it.” He tells you. “Be good, baby. Be good for me now.”
And when you squeeze your eyes shut—you feel it. Spurt after spurt of cum filling you up. One by one, while his whole body shakes and grips into you like you’re his only anchor. His dick slowly becoming soft, while you feel his cum dripping out of your hole. You let out a long breath, like you’d been holding it forever.
Joel ruts his hips a few more times into you before stopping.
Your body is still trembling when he finally pulls away.
The absence of him is unusual—like cold air rushing in where heat once lived. You don’t even have the strength to chase it. Your limbs are useless, boneless, stretched thin by denial and obedience and the weight of everything he took from you. Everything you gave.
Joel doesn’t speak. He just moves with that same quiet control, lifting you gently, like you’re something fragile. Something earned. He lays you down on the bed, the sheets cool against your hot skin and pulls the blanket over you.
You blink up at the ceiling, vision blurred. Your chest rises and falls, while somewhere between the ache in your thighs and the throb in your cunt, you feel it—wetness slipping from the corners of your eyes. Not sobs. Not loud. Just tears. Quiet. Desperate. Like your body doesn’t know what to do with itself now that it’s not being commanded.
Joel stands at the edge of the bed, pulling his pants back up, his gaze never leaving you. Then he kneels besides you, one hand reaching to cup your cheek. His thumb brushes the tear away, slow and warm.
“You scared me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Don’t ever do that again.”
You just nod, barely, and lean into his touch like it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.
He presses a kiss to your forehead—soft, grounding—and then stands. You watch him walk out, the sound of his footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the house. You don’t move. You can’t.
When he returns, he’s holding the chart.
He doesn’t say a word as he walks to the foot of the bed, and shows it to you. You watch through heavy lashes, heart thudding slow and deep in your chest.
He lifts the pen. Draws a single line.
‘Punishment taken well.’
You exhale, a soft sound that’s almost a sob, almost a laugh. Your lips twitch into the smallest smile—fragile, but real. Joel sees it. His eyes soften, just a little, and he closes the chart, setting it aside.
Then he climbs into bed besides you.
The mattress dips under his weight, and a moment later, his arms are around you—pulling you in, tucking you against his chest like you’re something precious. His hand finds your hair, fingers threading through it slowly, rhythmically, grounding you in the quiet.
“Everything I’m doing is for you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m keeping you safe.”
You tilt your head up to look at him, eyes still glassy, lips parted. He leans down and kisses your forehead again, lingering there like he’s sealing the words into your skin.
Then, softly: “Maybe from now on we can go on weekly walks outside?”
Your breath catches. Your eyes widen, lighting up with something that feels dangerously close to joy. You nod—once, twice, eager and silent.
Joel chuckles, low and warm.
“Okey,” he says, brushing his thumb along your cheek again. “Only if you behave.”
EEEK I kinda want to write a prequel to them…but I hope you guys liked this one and it did meet your expectations!! Feedback is always welcome as well as corrections because English is not my first language!
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