Get A Grip Novels & Stories

“Control. Not chaos.” I take a deep breath and force the irrational thoughts of roughing her up back down. I regain control over my self. I slowly rise up and motion for Lilith to bring it on. She shifts tactics. Less aggression, more testing. She probes for weak spots physically, but rhythmically trying to disrupt my timing. I adjust pace. slowly deliberately forced her to mirror but she has many openings, I can take her. She’s overconfident.

I pull harder at my left wrist and push with my right hand. But his grip is to strong. His presence to overpowering. I'm trapped. I stiffen as he leans closer, eyes glazed—too unfocused to be calm, too focused to be sane. He draws in a slow breath near my neck. Not hurried. Not accidental. Intentional. The sound of it sends a sharp ripple through me. I stop moving. Not because I want to. Because something in me holds me in place. His grip on my wrist tightens slightly—as if reacting to the way my body goes still.

"There is no *this*. You're overthinking." A dark, bitter laugh clawed its way up my throat. I pushed off the counter and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, my grip tight and unforgiving, bunching the cotton in my fists. He gasped, his large hands flying up to grip my wrists, but he didn't push me away. He just held on, his long fingers digging into my skin like anchors.

She pursed her lips, tightening her grip on me, milking me like never before. "Fuck!" I felt the familiar build-up, the pressure, the electric heat in my groin. No, no, no! Not yet!

I dropped to my knees and slapped my cheeks lightly. Then harder. “Get a grip,” I said between hits. “Get a fucking grip, Evelyn.”

he says “Just us” “Good” I drop my weight and drive my elbow back, twisting the way I was taught to- the way that’s supposed to break a grip or at least buy space. For half a second, it almost works. Then his arm tightens again, precise and controlled, pulling me back flush against his solid chest. My jaw tightens as I still, every sense sharpening. The room hasn’t changed. The bass from outside still pulses through the walls in the same dull rhythm. I shift again, smaller this time, testing. The hand at my throat adjusts instantly, anticipating the movement. Like he knows exactly where to stand, how to keep me balanced just wrong enough to make leverage useless.

I tightened my grip, milking him, pumping harder, desperate to make him cum. I shouldn’t be doing this—God, I knew I shouldn’t—but my greed was hotter than the shame. I wanted to drain him, make him cum in my hand, coat me in his release. And when his head tipped back and his groan deepened, I knew I was close to getting exactly what I craved. His cock jerked in my grip, his groans growing ragged, but before I could push him over the edge, his hand clamped around my wrist.

Her ass pressed against me, and I knew she felt exactly what she was doing to me. "How?" My voice came out rougher than intended. She tugged against my grip experimentally, and I held firm, perhaps enjoying this proximity more than I should. "You're not using your strength efficiently," I explained, trying to sound professional while every nerve ending was aware of her body against mine. "The key is leverage. Rotate your arm toward my thumb, that's the weakest point of any grip." She tried again, but her body moved against mine with each motion. When she finally broke free, she turned to face me with a triumphant smile that was absolutely not innocent.

It rips from his throat. I hear the scraping of his boots on the floorboards. He is rushing me from behind. I turn my torso. His claws are out. Black points grip the air, aiming straight for my eyes. He is slow. I slide my left foot back. I let his momentum carry him past my shoulder. My right hand shoots out. I catch his thick wrist mid-swing. My grip locks like a iron vice around his bone. "Let go!" he roars. I do not let go.

I groaned loudly, my hips jerking involuntarily, and I had to fight the urge to thrust into her grip. "Like this?" She asked, her voice breathless. "Yes," I gritted out. "Fuck, yes, just like that." She began to move her hand, slowly at first, stroking up and down my length. Her grip was gentle and uncertain, but it felt incredible anyway. Maybe because it was her. Maybe because I had been aching for this for so long. "Tighter," I instructed, my voice strained. "You can grip harder." She adjusted her hold, squeezing more firmly, and I groaned again.