The Night Everything Changed

It started with a single text from Ant:

Unlock the door. I want you to get ready for me.

My heart thudded as I stripped off my clothes, anticipation making my skin tingle. The cool air in the apartment made my nipples pebble, but the heat inside me was already building. I lay back on the couch, legs parted, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles over my clit as I waited for him. Every second felt like an eternity.

The door swung open, and Ant was on me in an instant-his mouth crashed against mine, hungry and wild, his hands everywhere at once. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. His fingers slid between my thighs, finding me already wet and aching for him.

“You’re always so ready for me,” he growled, voice rough in my ear.

He knelt between my legs, tongue flicking over my clit, then plunging deep inside me. I writhed beneath him, moaning shamelessly, grabbing his hair and grinding against his mouth. He devoured me, relentless, until I was trembling and begging for more.

He stood, unzipping his jeans, eyes locked on mine.
“Turn over,” he commanded, voice thick with need. I obeyed, pressing my chest to the cushions, arching my back. He slid inside me in one hard thrust, filling me completely. I gasped, clinging to the couch as he pounded into me, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me back to meet every stroke.

“You love being filled, don’t you?” he whispered, slapping my ass, making me cry out.

“Yes-God, yes-don’t stop-”

He didn’t. He drove into me, faster, deeper, until I shattered around him, crying out his name. He followed with a guttural groan, spilling his release inside me, his body pressed tight to mine as we both caught our breath.

But the night was far from over.

The Shift

I was still shaking when Max’s key turned in the lock. I scrambled to pull on a robe, but Ant just smirked, lounging naked on the couch, utterly unashamed.

Max paused in the doorway, his eyes flicking from me to Ant and back again. There was no anger-just a strange, electric calm.

“So this is him,” Max said, voice low.

I nodded, heart pounding. The air was thick with tension.

Max poured three drinks, handing one to Ant, one to me. He sat across from us, his gaze never leaving my face.

“You like the way he fucks you?” Max asked, voice dark and smooth.

I swallowed hard, unable to speak. Ant answered for me, his hand sliding up my thigh.

“She loves it. But I think she wants more.”

Max’s eyes glittered. He set down his glass and stood, crossing the room in two strides. He cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Do you want us both?” he asked, his voice a dangerous whisper.

I nodded, breathless.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I want you both. I want you to watch. I want you to touch me. I want-everything.”

The Three of Us

Max’s lips crashed into mine, fierce and possessive. His hands roamed my body, tugging at the robe until it fell away. Ant moved behind me, his hands sliding over my hips, his mouth hot on my neck. I was sandwiched between them, their hands and mouths everywhere, overwhelming me with sensation.

Max knelt in front of me, guiding my mouth to his cock. I took him eagerly, moaning around him as Ant’s hands slid between my legs, teasing me open.

“That’s it,” Max groaned, threading his fingers through my hair.

“You look so good with your mouth full,” Ant murmured, pressing kisses down my spine.

Ant knelt behind me, his tongue flicking over my entrance, tasting both of us. I whimpered, shuddering with pleasure, my body stretched between them. Max pulled me up, kissing me deeply, tasting himself on my lips.

They moved me to the bed, laying me out between them. Max kissed me slow and deep, while Ant spread my legs wide, his mouth and fingers working me until I was begging for release. When I came, it was with both their names on my lips, my body arching between them.

Then Ant was inside me again, hard and urgent, while Max stroked himself, watching us with hungry eyes.

“Fill her,” Max commanded, voice rough.
“I want to see her dripping with you.”

Ant groaned, thrusting harder, his hands gripping my thighs. I came again, clenching around him, and he spilled inside me with a shudder.

But Max wasn’t done. He rolled me onto my back, spreading my legs wide to see Ant’s release leaking from me. He slid inside, groaning at the sensation, moving slow and deep, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re so full, baby,” he whispered, kissing me hard.
“You love being used, don’t you?”

I nodded, lost in the pleasure, lost in them.

Max came with a growl, filling me even more, his body pressed tightly to mine. The three of us collapsed together, tangled and breathless, the air thick with sweat, the scent of sex and satisfaction.

Aftermath

The days that followed blurred into a fever dream of pleasure and abandon. I woke tangled between Max and Ant, their bodies pressed close, the scent of skin and sex lingering in the sheets. Each morning began with slow, lazy kisses-Max’s lips tracing the curve of my shoulder, Ant’s fingers gliding down my thigh, their hands staking their claim before the day even started.

Sometimes, Max would pull me against him, his touch gentle but insistent, coaxing soft moans from my lips as Ant watched, eyes dark with hunger. Other times, it was Ant who took control, pinning my wrists above my head, his mouth exploring every inch of me while Max’s hands roamed, teasing and tormenting until I was begging for release.

There were afternoons when they shared me-one kissing my mouth, the other trailing kisses down my stomach, their hands and lips everywhere at once. I was their playground, their obsession, and I reveled in the way they worshipped my body together. They took turns, sometimes slow and deep, sometimes rough and urgent, always leaving me breathless and aching for more.

At night, the boundaries between us dissolved completely. Max would wrap his arms around me, holding me steady as Ant moved behind, their rhythm in sync, their voices tangled with mine in the dark. I lost count of how many times they made me cry out, how many times I surrendered to the pleasure only they could give. Each time, I felt them both-filling me, claiming me, marking me as theirs.

Afterwards, we would collapse together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison. Ant would press a kiss to my forehead, Max’s hand stroking my hair, and I would drift off to sleep knowing I was cherished, adored, and utterly undone.

The hunger between us never faded. If anything, it grew-an insatiable need that pulled us back together, again and again. Every touch, every glance, every whispered promise was a reminder that I belonged to both of them, and they belonged to me.

And as the days passed, I realized that nothing would ever be the same. I didn’t want it to be.

 

Max's possession

Max’s jealousy had been simmering for weeks, but now it was a wildfire, crackling in every glance and word. At first, it was subtle-a sharp edge in his voice when Mark made me laugh, a possessive hand on my waist when Markian entered the room, a cold silence whenever Bob’s name slipped from my lips. But soon, Max’s need to have me all to himself was impossible to ignore. He found ways to push the others out of my life, sometimes with biting words, sometimes with a look that said everything. He wanted to claim me, and the realization left me both furious and electrified.

I’d grown used to the freedom of sharing my body, spreading my legs and affection, of being surrounded by horny men who wanted me in very different and very sexual ways. Now, Max’s possessiveness closed in around me, every decision he made tightening the grip, making me crave rebellion.

The more he tried to control my world, the more I felt the walls closing in. I missed the laughter, the thrill of being taken by many, the shameless way I could indulge in my own desires. Max’s attempts to “protect” me felt less like love and more like a challenge-a gauntlet thrown at my feet.

That night, I decided to push back. I stormed into his law office after hours, the city outside dark and silent. Under my trench coat, I wore nothing but the heat of my own anger. When Max opened the door, he froze-then something primal flickered in his eyes. I let the coat fall, leaving the door open just a crack. The message was clear: I was done playing by his rules.

He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing me with a hunger that bordered on desperation. His lips crashed onto mine, and the world spun away. We collided against the wall, his hands everywhere, rough and demanding. We barely made it to his desk before we were tangled together, scattering legal documents to the floor. Every touch was urgent, every kiss a battle. He lifted me onto the desk, sending papers flying, and pressed himself against me to fuck me hard as if he could erase the distance, the doubt, the memory of anyone else.

The room filled with the sound of our bodies, the slap of skin, the ragged gasps as we lost ourselves in the frenzy. The city lights outside flickered across our tangled forms, illuminating sweat-slicked skin and wild, hungry eyes. It was wild, raw, and reckless-the kind of passion that left bruises and bite marks, that made us forget who we were outside of this moment. When our orgasms finally tore through us, it was fierce and overwhelming, leaving us breathless and shaking, the evidence of our needs – our combined cum - scattered across the room.

A sudden noise in the hallway-a gasp, a slammed door-reminded us of the world outside. Max’s eyes flashed with anger and something darker, but I slipped out before the fallout could begin, my heart still pounding with adrenaline.

Hours later, he showed up at my apartment, flowers forgotten the moment our eyes met. We barely made it inside before we were fucking each other again-on the couch, against the kitchen counter, in the hallway, the urgency never fading. There was nothing gentle about it; it was all teeth and nails, desperate hands and hungry mouths. He wanted to fill me with his cum, to mark me, to remind me with every rough, urgent encounter that I was his. And I wanted it too - I wanted to be claimed, to be ruined and remade by the force of his obsession. I didn’t tell him that I was ovulating, but he knew….he shot every load of his cum deep inside of my pussy.

We lost track of time, days blurring into nights, the sheets tangled and the air heavy with sweat and longing. Sometimes we collapsed together, spent and shaking, only to find ourselves tangled again minutes later, unable to get enough. It was intoxicating, exhausting-a fever that burned through everything else.

When Max finally left, I was left aching, swollen and alone, the consequences of our choices settling around me like the aftermath of a storm.

Three months passed. My pregnancy was unmistakable, and I started seeing someone new-a boyfriend who knew about my pregnancy and accepted it. For a while, I thought I could move on, that the chaos Max brought into my life was behind me.

But four months later, at seven months pregnant, Max reappeared. He was captivated by the changes in me, his hands lingering on my belly, his eyes hungry and possessive. The tension between us reignited instantly. We crashed together again, the urgency undiminished, his touch reverent and rough all at once. He worshipped every curve, every change, his need for me as fierce as ever.

Just as we were lost in that moment, climaxing and him releasing his cum in me, my boyfriend walked in. The shock and betrayal on his face was a cold slap, but I barely had time to process it before he was gone-leaving me to face the future with Max’s memory and a new life on the way.

Max moved in, determined to be part of my life and the baby’s. He started his own law firm, pouring his energy into work by day and into us by night. Every evening, he came home with food I craved, but it always ended the same way-his hands on me, his mouth finding mine, the two of us tangled together in a cycle of hunger, climax and him releasing his cum in me. Sometimes it was slow and sweet, but more often it was wild, fierce, and unrestrained. He wanted to be everything for me, to fill every space left by those he’d driven away.

Yet beneath it all, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d traded one kind of chaos for another. Max’s love was fierce, but it was also consuming. As my due date approached, I wondered what kind of future we could build-one shaped by desire, jealousy, and the hope that, somehow, we could survive the fire we’d started.

Max promised that he would give me two to three weeks to heal before he’d mount me, ride me and fill my hungry womb with his hot cum again. I knew that I would love taking him and his loads of cum down my throat and in my ass. The man has needs and it’s my job as his baby mama, his sex toy and his love to take him when he wanted. I knew that he was my saving grace and how I’d heal from Vic.

Claimed and consumed

Three days after leaving Max’s, his message lit up my phone:

Max: We want you for a whole week. Just us, the house, and as much pleasure as you can handle. Are you in?

I replied instantly: Absolutely. I want all of you.

When I arrived, the air was thick with anticipation. Max, Mark, Bob, and Markian - each with their own hunger and style - were waiting, their eyes devouring me before a single word was spoken. There was no slow build-up; the week began with hands, mouths, and dicks everywhere, each man eager to claim his turn and his place.

The first night, they took turns. Sometimes I rode them, feeling their hands grip my hips, their bodies stretching me deep. Max would hold me close, his voice rough in my ear, “You’re so fucking perfect.” Mark pinned me down, fucking me until I screamed, while Bob and Markian watched, stroking themselves, their eyes locked on every movement.

But it wasn’t just about taking turns. The men loved to switch things up, keeping me guessing and my body constantly on edge. Sometimes Max and Mark would both slide into my pussy, stretching me wide and making me gasp, while Bob took my mouth and Markian pressed into my ass. Other times, Markian would take my pussy, Max at my ass, Bob at my mouth, Mark’s hands everywhere - pinning me, guiding me, making sure I was never empty. They’d pause to switch positions, dicks slick and hard, trading places so every hole was filled by someone new, every sensation fresh and overwhelming.

No matter where they were, they always finished inside me. Their cum was hot and thick, spilling deep, mixing and leaking from my pussy and ass, sometimes dripping from my lips after Bob or Max finished in my mouth. The sensation of being filled, stretched, and shared by all of them was almost too much, but I craved every second.

They praised me constantly, their voices a chorus of approval and filthy encouragement. “Just like that.” “Take it all.” “You’re incredible.” “So tight, so perfect.” The words blended with the relentless rhythm of their bodies, their hands, their mouths, until I was shaking and begging for more.

Between sessions, they cared for me-feeding me, hydrating me, letting me rest and recover before starting again. But as soon as I gave the word, the hunger returned, and I was theirs once more.

By the end of the week, my body was marked by their hands, their mouths, their teeth, my mind floating in a haze of exhaustion and bliss. We even joked about it, but it was true: combined, they came in me about two hundred times, every load claimed, every drop savored, every moment a testament to our insatiable hunger for each other.

I was utterly spent - sore, sated, glowing, and cherished, knowing I’d been shared and filled beyond my wildest fantasies. By the end of the week, I couldn’t walk or sit normally...and I can’t wait for the next time I’m invited over.

 

All holes, all night

With my apartment spotless and my body refreshed, I decided to indulge. I hit the tanning salon, letting the warmth soak into my skin until I was glowing with a golden sheen. At the nail salon, I picked out a deep, glossy red for my manicure-bold, dangerous, and perfect for the night ahead. I thought about getting my hair done, but laughed to myself. There was no point; I knew exactly what would happen to it.

As I was leaving the salon, my phone buzzed. It was Max.

Max:
You still up for tonight? The guys are prepped. We’ll take care of you.

Me:
Always. Safe word’s the same. And no surprises.

Max:
No surprises. Just you, me, Bob, Mark, and the cross. We’ll start slowly. You’re in control.

Me:
I trust you. But don’t go easy on me.

Max:
Never. You’re my good girl. I love filling you up.

His words sent a shiver through me, and my mind flashed back to that night months ago-when Max was supposed to pull out but didn’t. I remembered the heat of his nine-inch dick pounding into me, the rush as he came deep inside, and then the panic weeks later when I missed my period. The ER doctor’s detached words: “spontaneous abortion.” A miscarriage. I’d bled for weeks, guilt and grief tangling in my chest. Since then, my birth control pills have been my armor, and I rarely use condoms unless I’m on antibiotics. Tonight, I felt ready for anything, knowing I was safe and in control of my body.

When I arrived at Max’s place just outside of town, the air was thick with anticipation. The men were already there, lounging in their boxer briefs, their dicks all thick, long, and hard-each one a solid nine inches and already straining with need. Max greeted me first, his hands possessive on my hips, his lips brushing my ear. “Ready to be my good girl tonight?” he murmured.

“Yes,” I breathed, shivering as he led me to the St. Andrew’s cross. He fastened my wrists, his voice low and rough. “Remember last time?” he whispered, his fingers trailing down my spine. “Tonight, I’m going to fill you until you can’t take any more.”

He started with teasing, his hands roaming, lips finding every sensitive spot. Then he pressed inside me, slow at first, then harder, deeper. Each thrust was raw and unfiltered, skin against skin, the kind of sex that left no room for anything but sensation. He fucked me until I was gasping, begging, my body trembling with every climax. He came in me, again and again - seven times, each time his cum spilling deep inside me, each time he praised me, told me how perfect I was, how much he loved seeing me take it all.

Bob entered next, his shy smile belying the hunger in his eyes. He clipped nipple clamps on me, the sharp bite making me arch and moan. He stroked a feather over my skin, teasing, making my nerves sing. Then he slid a thick extender over his nine-inch dick and pressed into me, the stretch exquisite, the fullness overwhelming. “You’re the queen of taking big dicks,” he murmured, thrusting deep, making me shudder. He took his time, savoring every reaction, every gasp and whimper. He filled me up with cum five times, each orgasm making me cry out, each time his cum mixing with Max’s, dripping from me, making me feel so thoroughly wanted.

Mark’s energy was electric as he handcuffed me to the headboard, his touch both tender and demanding. He dripped hot wax onto my nipples, the sting making me whimper, then soothed the burn with his tongue. He slid inside me, hard and relentless, his hands gripping my hips as he drove into me with his own impressive nine inches. “You should be worshipped,” he whispered, voice reverent and wild all at once. He fucked me with abandon, and every time he came-nine times in all-he made sure I felt every pulse, every spurt of cum filling me up, overflowing, marking me as his.

By midnight, I was high on pleasure and anticipation, my body humming, my mind floating as the three men surrounded me. Max caught my chin, his eyes searching mine. “Still want this, good girl?”

“Yes,” I whispered, breathless, my voice barely a whisper. “I want all of you.”

They positioned me - Max at my mouth, Bob at my pussy, Mark at my ass - their dicks stretching me impossibly wide. They moved in sync, alternating, filling every hole, their groans mingling with my cries. I lost count of how many times they came, but I knew I was overflowing, their cum leaking from me, my body shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction. Each man praised me, worshipped me, told me how perfect I was, how much they loved seeing me filled by all of them.

When dawn crept in, we lay tangled together, my body sore and sated, every part of me marked by their hands, their mouths, their cum. Max stroked my hair, his voice soft. “You did so well, good girl. Rest now. We’ll take care of you.”

I drifted off, a smile on my lips, already dreaming of the next time I’d let myself be completely, utterly shared.

The next morning, sunlight crept through the curtains, and I blinked awake, my body deliciously sore and marked by the night’s indulgence. The scent of sex and sweat lingered in the air, a tangible reminder of everything we’d shared. I stretched, feeling the ache in my hips and thighs, and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. With practiced routine, I took my birth control pill, swallowing it down and smiling at the small, empowering ritual.

Max stirred beside me, his hand tracing lazy circles on my back. “Good morning, good girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. I glanced around to see Bob and Mark waking too, their eyes glinting with mischief and hunger even after the marathon night.

Without needing words, the anticipation built again between us. They gathered around me, their bodies warm and eager, their dicks already hard and heavy - each one as thick and long as I remembered, all over nine inches, ready for more. Max brushed my hair from my face, searching my eyes. “You still want this?” he asked, voice low and full of care.

“Yes,” I whispered, my consent clear and eager. “I want all of you again.”

They moved in perfect rhythm, positioning me just as they had before - Max at my mouth, Bob at my pussy, Mark at my ass. The stretch, the fullness, the sensation of being surrounded and claimed by them all at once was overwhelming and intoxicating. They switched places, each man taking his turn in every spot, their hands and mouths worshipping every inch of my body. The room filled with the sounds of pleasure - moans, gasps, whispered encouragement - as they each pushed me higher and higher.

Again and again, they filled me, their cum spilling deep inside until I was overflowing, my body trembling with satisfaction and exhaustion. When they were finally spent, we collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and laughter, the morning sun painting us in golden light.

I lay there, sated and cherished, my body marked by their touch and my mind already drifting to the next time we’d share ourselves so completely. I was Max’s good girl, and together with Bob and Mark, I knew I was exactly where I wanted to be-desired, cared for, and utterly fulfilled. And not a drop of cum wasted.

Raw revelations

The day began like any other: I woke up, tended to the pets, took a hot shower, and dressed for work. After dropping the pets off at my parents’ house, I headed into the office, anticipation simmering beneath my calm exterior. I’d arranged three meetings-three men, each one a secret thrill, each one promising something forbidden and unforgettable.

I know some people might judge me for this. Maybe you’re thinking, “Is this fiction or nonfiction? Is she just making this up? Or is this just another story about her being promiscuous?” For years, I let those voices get to me, especially after realizing I was worth far more than Vic ever gave me credit for. Now, I’m living life on my own terms. Yes, I’m seeing people again. Yes, I’m enjoying myself. And yes, I take my health seriously. I get tested for STIs regularly, I’ve completed the Gardasil vaccine series, and the men I’m involved with are also routinely screened. We don’t use condoms at all-just raw, passionate sex, skin to skin, feeling every sensation and every pulse. I trust my partners to be honest and responsible, and I take my birth control meds faithfully every morning, making sure I’m protected and in control of my body. I absolutely love the feeling of bare dicks pounding deep inside me, and the thrill of unfiltered connection that comes with it.

First Encounter: Seven Times in My Pussy

After work, I met my first lover-a friend since middle school-at a dimly lit bar. The chemistry between us was electric, every glance and touch laced with a sense of danger. Back at his apartment, we barely made it through the door before we were on each other, hands roaming, mouths greedy. He pressed me against the wall, his breath hot on my ear as he whispered how much he’d been craving me. It felt wicked, almost reckless, to let him take me right there, but I wanted it-wanted him.

He pushed me down onto the living room couch, which sat right next to a large window. The curtains were wide open, and anyone who glanced up from the street or neighboring buildings could see exactly what we were doing. That only made it hotter. He spread my legs wide, his dick sliding deep into my pussy, and began to fuck me hard, raw, no barriers between us, just skin on skin. The thrill of being so exposed, so open to the world, made every thrust more intense. He fucked me without restraint, hips slamming into mine, and I felt his cum fill me-again and again. Seven times he came in my pussy, each time groaning my name, his díck pulsating inside me, the heat and slickness building with every round. The more he came, the more I wanted, my body aching for every illicit drop, my own orgasms crashing over me in waves. By the end, I was shaking, my pussy swollen and dripping with his cum, both of us breathless and grinning at the mess we’d made-and the secret show we might have given to anyone watching.

Second Encounter: Mounted and Soaked

On my way to the next friend, I couldn’t help but wonder if the first knew about my other plans. All three men are friends-two since middle school, with the third joining the group in high school. Since my house was on the way, I stopped to take a shower and change into something daring before heading out again. I checked in with my parents, who were happy to keep the pets overnight-they love sharing “custody” with me. Thanking them, I made my way to my second friend’s apartment.

He was waiting outside, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Inside, he’d set out a charcuterie board and poured wine, but the real feast was the hunger between us. When I fed him a grape, he caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm-a simple gesture that made my core clench with anticipation. Upstairs, the tension snapped. We undressed each other in frantic bursts, his hands everywhere, his mouth hot on my skin. He pressed me onto the bed, spread my legs, and mounted my pussy with a hunger that felt almost dangerous. I moaned as he filled me, his dick stretching me, his hands pinning my hips down as he fucked me hard and deep. There was nothing between us-just raw, slippery, feverish sex, every thrust sending a shiver through my body.

Each time he came in my pussy-five times in all-I felt his cum spill inside me, the sensation so filthy and forbidden that it made me even wetter. We didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, even as sweat dripped from our bodies and soaked the sheets beneath us. By the end, the bed was a mess-sheets tangled, soaked with sweat and slick with our combined cum. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, and the thrill of knowing how thoroughly we’d used each other made me shiver with satisfaction.

Third Encounter: Slammed and Stuffed

Little did my second friend know, my third would be at my place in less than half an hour-and I was still a good thirty-five minutes away. Sometimes, life is about savoring every moment, every connection, and every secret thrill. As I drove home, my friend called to say he was running late at work but asked if he could stay the night. I said yes, knowing it would give us more time to enjoy each other.

By the time he arrived, I’d cleaned up and slipped into an oversized shirt, still feeling the cum of two other men dripping from my pussy. The air between us was electric as he poured wine for both of us, his eyes roaming over me with open hunger. He admitted to taking Cialis, though we both knew he didn’t need it-his desire for me was enough.

He carried me to my bedroom and slammed his dick into my pussy with a force that made me gasp, my legs spreading wide to take him as deep as possible. He was relentless, fucking me with wild abandon, the thrill of being so thoroughly used making me dizzy with pleasure. Again, no condoms-just raw, passionate sex, every sensation magnified. He came in my pussy twelve times, each orgasm leaving me more wrecked, more desperate, fuller. My clit and pussy lips were swollen, my pussy stretched and aching, my cervix sore from the sheer volume of his cum. We screamed each other’s names, bodies slick with sweat, never quite coming down from the last climax before the next began. By morning, I was exhausted, my body marked by every wild, passionate moment, my pussy overflowing with the cum of three different men.

Aftermath

Spent and satisfied, I knew I’d need to spend part of the day resting-letting my body recover, gathering my strength. I’d nap in the guest room, washing both sets of sheets for later use, because everyone deserves to sleep on cum-free sheets. The anticipation of being shared by several men tonight at a friend’s house made me smile as I drifted off, loving the control I have over my body and the pleasures I choose to embrace.

 

Unbound and unbroken

The past 36 hours unfolded as a carnal symphony-skin slapping against skin, guttural moans harmonizing with the wet squelch of cocks plunging into my well-loved pussy. Vic’s ghost drowned beneath an ocean of cum as four men I knew rebuilt me, thrust by thrust, orgasm by orgasm, their releases of cum merging into a chorus that rewrote my grief into something feral and alive.

First, the sculptor:
His clay-crusted hands molded my body like wet earth, bending me over his splintered workbench. “Mine,” he snarled, teeth splitting the skin of my shoulder as he buried himself to the root. We fucked in a frenzy-doggystyle, missionary, my ankles pinned to my ears-each position a new canvas for his lust. He came five times: twice against my cervix, his cock pulsing like a piston; once with my legs hooked over his shoulders, his load so hot it made me scream; twice more from behind, his cum overflowing as he finger-painted my thighs and shoved his sticky digits back inside. “My masterpiece,” he rasped, leaving me dripping and trembling.

Then, the poet:
He arrived with metaphors on his tongue and wildfire in his hands. Pinning me to the mattress, he composed odes with his teeth across my ribs, his mouth devouring my clit until I sobbed into the sheets. Nine times he filled me, his cock twitching like a metronome as he chanted, “Mine, mine, mine,” our foreheads glued together by sweat. Between rounds, he traced the bruises on my hips and whispered, “You’re my redemption,” his softening cock still oozing inside me as we dozed in a tangle of limbs.

Third, the storm:
A force of nature, he fucked like he was exorcising demons. Biting my neck hard enough to draw blood, he snarled, “Perfect fucking cunt,” as he hammered into me. Yet between the chaos came tenderness-lips brushing my ear as he murmured, “I’ve got you,” calloused thumbs wiping my tears mid-thrust. Eight times he spilled his hot cum inside me, each climax longer and thicker than the last, until his cum leaked down my thighs and pooled beneath us. “I’ll dream about this pussy,” he panted, collapsing beside me, his fingers still teasing my swollen clit.

Last, the conqueror:
He took me against the Sub-Zero, cold steel biting my palms as he sheathed himself raw. “Scream my name,” he demanded, lifting me onto the granite counter to drill deeper. We came hard-against the dishwasher, on the island, bent over his desk-his cock spurting seven loads that dripped from my battered pussy onto client contracts. “Still hungry?” he asked as he was still thrusting in and out of me.

Between them, I scrubbed until my skin burned-lemongrass soap clawing at their musk, scalding water turning my body pink. But no lather could purge the stretch of my well-used hole or the trails of cum that escaped hours later. By the final shower, their essence still seeped down my thighs-warm, sticky proof of their relentless hunger.

Now, as twilight gilds the bite marks on my breasts, I’m a canvas of scratches and teeth marks, my pussy throbbing with the memory of being claimed. Vic’s ghost lies suffocated beneath their collective release; my birth control pills the only barrier against consequences I’d risk again. The heartbreak remains, but it’s softer now smothered beneath the weight of being needed with primal ferocity.

Tomorrow, I’ll rise with stilly slightly sticky thighs and a smirk, my grief rewritten in the language of sweat, semen, and the electric hum of being utterly alive. But tonight? Tonight, I’ll nurse my sore, swollen body-aching muscles, tender nipples, the sweet sting of overused flesh-and let sleep claim me. Let the next day bring new hands, three new cocks, more cum. For now, I’ll rest…and dream of the symphony yet to come.

A eulogy for Vic (may he rest in irrelevance)

They say the best way to get over a man is to get under a new one.

Honestly? They were being polite.

Vic took what he wanted from someone who wasn’t his wife—and thought I’d sit around crying about it. Cute. Men like him always mistake silence for weakness and loyalty for stupidity. He was wrong on both counts.

This weekend, I’m not grieving. I’m celebrating.
Getting under one man... maybe two. Separately, of course—I have standards, even when I’m misbehaving.

This isn’t about anger. This is about indulgence. About taking back everything, he was too small to hold and too cowardly to honor.
He took what he wanted without thinking twice; now I’m taking what I want without looking back.

No tears. No closure. No dignity funerals held in his honor. Just me, a few bad decisions, and a night—or two—where Vic isn’t even a passing thought.

By Monday, he’ll be six feet deep in a grave I dug with nothing but high heels and better company.
Rest easy, Vic. You’re officially nobody.

The Silence That Hurts

I still haven’t heard from Vic.

Not even a text. Not even after I apologized for not giving him what he wanted—to make him cum. That silence has been sitting heavy in me ever since. I’ve tried to stay calm. Tried to act like it’s not a big deal. But it is. It hurts more than I want to admit.

Because this was never just about sex.
I wanted to be close to him.
Because it’s always been him.

It’s the way he made me feel. Like I was enough. Like I mattered. Like I was wanted—really wanted. Like I was desired, needed. He touched me like I was something he didn’t want to break. He held me after fucking like I was important. Like I wasn’t just some side piece or random hookup. I’ve never felt that with anyone else. He made me feel safe. Like I was his. Like I belonged to him.

So, when I couldn’t make him cum and he pulled away, it cut deep.
It wasn’t just about not “performing.” It was everything underneath it.
I wanted to matter to him. Even knowing I’d never be anything more than his secret. I still wanted to believe I had a place with him.

He always knew how I felt. Even before anything happened between us, he knew. And I still gave him everything—my time, my body, my heart.
Because no one else made me feel the way he did.
No one else made me feel anything.

Vic wasn’t just a fling. I loved him. Still do.
And now he’s gone.
No explanation. No goodbye.
Just silence.

And I’m stuck here replaying everything—his voice in my ear, his arms around me at night, the way he used to kiss me like he meant it. The way he touched me like I was the only thing that mattered in that moment. I don’t know how to pretend that didn’t mean anything when it meant everything to me.

He used to lie to his wife to spend nights with me. Said he was out with friends, but really, he was wrapped around me. And I let myself believe that had to mean something. That maybe I wasn’t just a place to land. But now? I don’t know.
Maybe I was just a warm body. An escape.

I keep trying to tell myself his silence is just a phase. That he’ll text. That he’ll say something—anything. But deep down, I know. He’s done.
And it’s not just his silence I’m sitting with.
I’m also dealing with someone else I love who’s not speaking to me.
Another silence. Another fracture.
And honestly, I don’t know how much more of this I can carry.

I’ve cried every night since I last heard from Vic.
Not because I’m weak.
But because losing someone who’s still alive, who just chooses not to talk to you anymore, is a different kind of pain.

And yeah, I slept with someone else recently.
But it didn’t mean anything.
It wasn’t Vic.

There are moments where I imagine my phone left unlocked and unattended.
A friend knows what I’ve been going through, finds Vic’s number, and decides to text him from their phone.
“Hey, she’s not okay. This is destroying her.”
But I won’t let that happen.
Because Vic is mine to carry.
My mistake.
My consequence.
I got myself into this on my own, and I’ll get out of it on my own.

Because no matter how much I wanted it to be different, he never really cared about me the way I cared about him.
I knew he wasn’t going to leave her.
And even if he did… deep down, I’ve always wondered if he’d end up doing to me what we did to her.

And now I know the answer.
He’s hurting her.
And he’s hurting me too.

— A heartbroken woman just trying to survive it

 

Exploring the Edge of Desire

TWELVE NIGHTS

DAY 1: CHEMICAL INITIATION
The silver clamps glinted in his hand before he snapped them onto my nipples.
“Make a sound,” he growled, twisting the right clamp, “and I’ll tighten them.”
He pressed me hard against the cold foyer wall, his cock already thick, already demanding.
“Count,” he ordered as he thrust deep.
“One... two... three…”
The second clamp tugged, sharp and electric, right as he came. His cum was hot and forceful, his hips grinding into mine.
“The pill,” he said, tossing a foil packet. “Swallow. Show me.”
I obeyed, breathless.

NIGHT 3: TOLERANCE BUILDING
“Double dose tonight,” he muttered, swallowing two blue pills before bending me over the couch.
The clamps bit tighter. He guided me to ride him in reverse, the chain swaying, clinking with every bounce.
“Gonna fill you so full that little pill won’t stand a chance,” he warned, hitting a spot that made me scream.
He came hard, a low growl rumbling in his throat, twisting the clamp as I clenched.
“Pill,” he said again. I swallowed it, dizzy with sensation.

DAWN, DAY 5: ORAL CONQUEST
“Open.”
He spread my thighs with his foot, tongue ruthless against my clit—sharp flicks, unforgiving suction.
“Cum for me,” he ordered, pinching a clamped nipple.
I did—violently.
Before the waves even ended, he was inside me, clamp chains wrapped tight in his fists.
“Missionary’s too tame,” he snarled, slamming into me. “But I need to see your face when you climax.”
He came deep, his climax dragging mine back into flames.
“Pill,” he whispered, pressing it between my lips.

DAY 7: SYMBIOTIC INTENSITY
The mirror reflected us: raw, marked, feral.
“Again,” he slurred.
He took me against the glass, chains wrapped in his fist. I gagged as he pushed the pill into my mouth mid-thrust.
His cum spilled over, onto the tiles.
“Look at that,” he said, panting. “Our little science project.”

NIGHT 9: PEAK EXPERIENCE
“Triple dose.”
He slammed into me over the dining room table, china rattling.
“You’re so tight,” he panted. “Fucking perfect.”
He spanked me, then came in thick waves.
The pill came up—too much.
“Another,” he growled, crushing one between my teeth.

NIGHT 12: THE EDGE
“Last ones,” he said, shaking the empty vial.
The clamps had drawn blood. Sweat soaked the sheets.
His cock throbbed, his body shivering from chemical overload.
“Still so tight,” he whispered. “Still so good.”
His last release of cum was long and chaotic.
He pressed the final pill into my mouth before collapsing onto the bed next to me.

I lay in the mess of us, trembling.
Eventually, I dressed in silence and walked home. I collapsed on my porch

EPILOGUE: THE AFTERMATH

ICU VIGIL
Vic paced the sterile hallway, clutching my bra strap.
The doctor pointed at my X-rays. “Three dislocated fingers. Uterine thickening—consistent with emergency contraceptive over use.”
Vic’s jaw locked. “Help her.”

DISCHARGE – 3:17 AM
He carried me inside of his place, peeled away the gown.
His fingers brushed the bruises.
“He went too far,” he murmured.

DAY 1 POST-RELEASE
He rolled the condom on with care.
“Tell me if anything hurts.”
His movements were slow. Gentle. Checking in with every breath.
“Still okay?”
I nodded, swallowing the ache. He kissed the scar on my belly.

NIGHT 2 POST-RELEASE
He found the marks.
“Damn it.”
He applied ointment. Held me.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “We talk.”

DAY 3: THE CONFRONTATION
Vic came home quiet.
“We talked,” he said, slipping out of his coat.
“He won’t touch you again. He knows.”
Vic pulled me in.
“Your body, your rules.”

VIC’S SUPPORT
He was patient. Present.
Touch became care. Conversation became healing.
He let me set the pace.
Every time he asked: “Is this okay?”

A SUDDEN SHIFT
Weeks passed. The tenderness remained. The spark faded.
He wanted me—badly. But something in him changed.
He couldn’t cum anymore. Not inside me. Not at all.
“I’m trying,” he whispered, eyes full of guilt.
Eventually, he left.
“I need space.”

THE UNCERTAIN FUTURE
I haven’t seen Vic in weeks. I want to call, but I know—he blames me.
And maybe he should.
I chose this. I let it go too far.
Now I’m left wondering if I ever knew how to love a man right.
Maybe it’s time I went back to where I came from—
The parties. The hookups.
Maybe I can learn not to fail next time.

VIC'S POV: AFTER SHE LEFT

I still have her bra strap. It’s in the glove box.
I haven’t touched it. Haven’t thrown it away either.
Some nights I take it out and hold it in my lap like a relic. Something soft from a time before everything cracked.

She doesn’t know what it did to me. Watching her come back bruised, bleeding in places no man should ever leave a mark.
She thinks I left because I was angry.
But it wasn’t anger. It was grief.

She made it through hell and crawled back to me, and I wanted to be enough—I tried to be.
But every time I touched her, I saw him.
Every time I pushed my hard dick inside her, I remembered the way she winced when I reached that same spot.
And it killed me. I couldn’t cum anymore.

I wanted to reclaim her body gently, fill her the way she said made her feel safe, wanted, whole.
But my body betrayed me.
My mind couldn’t stop screaming: What if you hurt her too?

I blamed her. Quietly, shamefully.
But not because she let it happen—because I couldn’t make it okay again.
Because she came back broken, and I couldn’t glue her back together with soft sex and whispered I love yous.

I needed space to fix myself.
But now the space feels like a grave.

I don’t know if she’ll ever forgive me.
I don’t know if I deserve to ask.

But I do know this:
I still love her.
And if she called, even once, I’d run to her barefoot through glass.

 

The promise

The Prelude

Two mornings ago, he - my neighbor - kissed me softly, his lips lingering as he whispered, “Sorry for eating you out and then falling asleep on you. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging.” His hands traced my thighs, coaxing forgiveness from my trembling body. I smiled, knowing what awaited me the following night—last night.

And last night? A preview of pleasurable hell. His 10-inch, soda-can-thick cock split me raw, condoms shredded and discarded like confetti. He started by pinning me against the wall, forcing his thickness down my throat until I gagged, then bent me over the couch to hammer my cervix until the tenth or twelfth condom snapped. “Fuck these,” he growled, tossing the torn condom aside before slamming bare into me. I screamed, his girth stretching me obscenely as he roared “TAKE IT ALL!” and dumped his first load deep inside.

The Marathon
By midnight, he’d cream pied me over a dozen times—on the kitchen counter, against the balcony railing, draped over the bedframe—his thrusts relentless, his cum leaking from my swollen pussy with every step. At 3 AM, he carried me to the shower, fucking me under scalding hot water while his free hand choked me against the tile. “You’re just warming up,” he snarled, bottoming out with a snarl as his seed mixed with the spray. I blacked out twice, my body limp on his cock, only to wake with him still pounding into me, his teeth sinking into my shoulder.

The Ultimatum
This morning, he woke me with his tip already pressing against my sore entrance. “She’s gone at 3,” he hissed, sheathing himself in one brutal thrust. I sobbed, my nails drawing blood as he unloaded inside me again, then forced the morning-after pill down my throat. “Rest up,” he ordered, gripping my bruised hips. “I’ve got a stash of pills to keep this dick hard for days. You’ll swallow a morning after pill every morning—no accidents, just my cum flooding you. You’ll pass out on this cock nightly, wake up with it still inside you, and beg for more. I’ll pump you so full, you’ll feel me leaking out of you for weeks.”

The Countdown
Now I’m home—body trembling, thighs sticky, his scent carved into my skin. My phone buzzes: “3:01 PM. Be here.  I’m already hard. Be ready.” I reek of sex, my pussy throbbing at the thought of his med-fueled stamina. He’ll fuck me raw, nonstop, his monster cock never softening, my womb a vessel for his obsession. “You’ll take a pill every dawn,” he’d snarled earlier, fingers digging into my jaw. “No brats—just my seed. You’ll stay swollen, dripping, ruined.” I can already hear his growl in my ear: “You’re not leaving this house until just before my wife’s back… and you’re walking funny for a month.”

Scars That Fit

The Healing

Vic’s eye recovers in grotesque stages: first swollen plum, then mold-green, finally fading to jaundice-yellow over three weeks. Every morning, I peel away the blood-stiff bandages, dabbing antibiotic ointment over his split lip—crusted, raw, reopening every time he kisses me too hard, his mouth hungry and bruising. He watches me, eyes dark and unblinking, memorizing the pain and the care.

The Rituals

We settle into a rhythm. Mornings: he swallows Aspirin with black coffee, hands trembling as he steadies himself against my bare thighs. I guide his fingers to my mouth, sucking them clean of bitterness. Nights: I soak a cloth in saltwater and press it to his eye; he hisses, but lets me comb my fingers through his hair, his head heavy in my lap. Sometimes, he pulls me down and eats my pussy out while the saline stings, his tongue relentless, my thighs shaking around his ears.

The First Night

“On your knees,” he growls, voice rough as he tosses open a velvet-lined box of stainless-steel nipple clamps. He fastens them with slow, deliberate cruelty, tightening until I gasp and whimper, nipples throbbing. He shoves me against the wall, yanks my panties aside, and thrusts in raw—no condom, no barriers, just the slick heat of skin and the sharp, electric risk. He fucks me until my knees bruise, until I’m sobbing into his shoulder, his teeth sunk into my neck.

The Return to Her

He comes back reeking of his wife’s jasmine perfume, sweat-slick and wild-eyed. He slams me against the pantry door, one hand fisted in my hair. “She thinks I’m at the gym,” he snarls, shoving a vibrating toy inside me, thumb grinding against my clit. I bite down on his wedding band to muffle my screams as he takes me from behind, his other hand choking me just enough to blur the edges of the world.

The Ovulation Days

I track my cycle like a predator. When I’m fertile, I hunt him—pinning him to the bed, clawing at his belt, riding him until he’s gasping. “Take what’s yours,” he growls, and I do, milking him until he’s spent and shaking, his cum dripping down my thighs. He fills me over and over, sometimes eight, nine times a day, until the sheets are soaked and my cunt is swollen and raw.

The Revelation

The pregnancy test flashes two bold lines. He laughs, low and guttural, shoving me onto the bathroom floor. He bites my neck hard enough to draw blood. “Mine,” he hisses, palming my belly as he fucks me, slow and possessive, until I’m crying and begging, his seed leaking out of me onto the tile.

The Deadline

At the clinic, the nurse’s voice is soft, almost apologetic. “You’re 14 weeks. State law prohibits termination after 12.” Vic grins, a wolfish flash of teeth, his scarred hands claiming my belly. “Now you’ll keep it,” he says, and later that night he takes me again, rough and merciless, pinning my wrists above my head as he marks my skin with teeth and bruises.

The Pride

He becomes obsessive. In the morning, he kneels and kisses my belly before fastening my shoes, his tongue tracing the curve of my skin. At night, he sleeps with his hand splayed over my womb, growling if I shift away. When he fucks me, he chooses positions that force my belly to jut out—bent over the bed, on all fours, my swollen stomach pressed to the mattress as he pounds into me, demanding I watch in the mirror.

The Ultimatum

His wife calls. “I know about the baby. He’ll ruin you both.” Vic burns her threats in the sink, then drags me onto the bathroom counter, tattooing “Property of V.M.” above my pelvis, the needle burning as he fucks me from behind, blood and ink mixing with slick. “No one takes what’s mine,” he whispers, biting my ear.

The Birth

The twins come four weeks early, tearing through me in a storm of blood and pain. Vic cuts their cords with trembling hands, then leaves me gasping on the gurney to check on his wife, laboring three rooms down. Through the wall, I hear his voice: “Is it mine?” I pressed my face to the pillow and screamed.

The Hospital Night

He returns, eyes wild, shoving the toy back inside me and mounting me raw. “Scream and you’ll wake the babies,” he growls, biting my shoulder as he fucks me, hard and deep, coming inside me twice before collapsing on top of me, sweat and milk and blood pooling between us.

The Milk

My breasts ache, leaking constantly. Vic sucks me dry, greedy and rough, sometimes pinning me to the bed, fucking me hard until milk spurts over his tongue. He drinks until I sob with relief, then laps up every drop, licking my nipples raw.

The Departure

He leaves at dawn, burning divorce papers in the sink. The note he leaves behind is simple: “Moscow’s courts play fair. Wait for me.” I found his scent on my sheets for weeks.

The Absence

During the first month, I find Russian rubles hidden in his drawer. His wife posts solo ski trips, captions reading “Freedom.” By the fourth month, the Russian court dismisses her case; she floods Instagram with Geneva sunsets and champagne. At the six-month mark, the burner phone he left for me buzzes: “Meet me. Bring the children.”

The Reunion

He returns smelling of birch smoke, dragging me into the pantry before I can speak. “Take them to your brother’s,” he snarls, pressing rubles into my palm. “I’ve waited to ruin you properly.” He bends me over the kitchen counter, rips my panties, and fucks me until I’m sobbing, his hand fisted in my hair, his wedding band bruising my hip.

The Reclamation

Days 1–3: We fuck in every room—

• Against the fridge, his wedding band leaving deep indentations in my breasts as he pinches and bites, milking me for more.
• Bent over the crib, milk leaking down my stomach as he pounds into me, whispering filth in Russian.
• On the stairs, timed to the grandfather clock’s chime, my knees bruised, his hand around my throat.

By Day 4, I’m raw, shaking, begging for mercy. He laughs, ties me with nursing bra straps, and takes me harder, slapping my ass until I scream. “Another,” he murmurs, palming my belly, his cum dripping down my thighs.

 

The Conception

Week 1: He times my cycle, fucking me missionary during ovulation, holding my legs wide open as he comes inside me, refusing to pull out; filling me all day.
Week 2: Implantation cramps wake me at dawn. He slides down, licking sweat from my thighs. “I taste how ready you are,” he says, tongue pressing inside me, making me come on his mouth.
Week 10: The test shows two bold lines. He bites it in half, laughing as plastic shards stick to his tongue, then fucks me on the bathroom floor, his hand pressed to my throat.

The New Reality

Month 3: At custody mediation, he smirks as the judge grants shared visitation.
Month 4: He drags me into the courthouse bathroom, lifts my skirt, and fucks me hard, coming inside me as bailiffs bang on the door.

The Epilogue

Month 9: The second set of twins rips out of me on the kitchen floor, blood pooling beneath my thighs. Vic cuts their cords with steady hands, then tattoos “VI” above my C-section scar, his fingers rubbing the fresh, unbroken stitches with possessive reverence. Paramedics wheel me away, but he stays close, his palm pressed to my belly even as they loaded me into the ambulance. I am losing too much blood, and the twins need to be checked out as well.

Three Months Later: My stomach swells again, another life taking root. He tracked my cycle with surgical precision, and continues to fuck me raw every night, his teeth at my throat. “You’ll keep filling this house,” he growls, spilling inside me. I feel the sticky heat of him leaking down my legs as he licks the sweat from my collarbone. “Mine. Always."

The Bag

The Driver

The black town car idles at the curb, its engine purring like a drowsy predator. Vic’s hand rests on my thigh, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the fresh bruise he left last night—a plum-colored bloom just above my knee, still tender to the touch. His wedding band glints in the streetlight, a cold reminder of the life he’ll return to after this.

“Your stop first,” he says, voice sandpaper-rough from a week of whiskey and whispered sins. His thumb digs into the bruise, punishment and apology in one gesture.

The driver doesn’t meet my eyes in the rearview mirror as I slide out, the leather seat still warm from Vic’s body. The door closes with a soft thud, sealing me into the humid night air that smells of rain and exhaust.

The Shower

My apartment exhales dust and abandonment when I step inside. The air clings to my throat, stale from ten days of neglect. I strip in the bathroom, the mirror fogging as the shower scalds my skin.

The bruises tell a story only we can read:

• Neck: Finger-shaped shadows where he held me against the window, my breath fogging the glass as the city watched.
• Ribs: Fading yellow smudges from the steam room tile, his teeth marks haloed by heat blisters.
• Thighs: Fresh violets blooming where he’d muttered “Mine” between bites, each one deeper than the last.

I scrub until my skin burns raw, but the memories cling like his cologne—smoky sandalwood and regret.

The Laundry

His shirt sits at the bottom of the hamper, stiff with dried sweat and my perfume, the collar still torn from when he’d ripped it off in the shower. I bury it beneath towels, pretending I don’t press it to my face when I transfer the load, inhaling the ghost of his rage.

The pajamas I chose are his least favorite—oversized gray cotton, no lace in sight. A silent rebellion.

The Silence

Three days have passed.

• Day 1: I stare at my silent phone, imagining it ringing. At 3:17 a.m., I press call but hang up before it connects.
• Day 2: I rearrange the pantry, tossing expired spices he’d mocked—cardamom pods like tiny shrunken hearts, cinnamon sticks snapped in half.
• Day 3: I dream of Dubai—hot sand gritting between my teeth, cold sheets stiff with dried blood, a clinic door closing with a pneumatic hiss.

The Bag

He arrives at midnight, knuckles crusted with blood, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like a corpse.

His left eye is a ruined galaxy—swollen shut, the skin mottled purple black around a deep cut that glistens with dried blood. A fresh split bisects his lower lip, deep enough to show teeth when he smirks.

“She knows,” he says, stepping inside. The bag hits the floor with a metallic clatter that shakes the walls. “Found the hotel receipts. The driver talked. She threw me out.”

I cross my arms, hiding the new bite mark under my sleeve—his parting gift the other morning. “And?”

He unzips the bag with a violence that makes me flinch:

• Passports: Mine, his, and a forged one with my face but someone else’s name.
• Cash: Neat stacks of euros and dollars, bound with rubber bands that smell of bank vaults.
• A velvet box: Inside, a diamond ring too large for my finger—his wife’s, I realize.

“We leave tonight,” he says, pulling me close. His breath smells of nicotine and fear, a cocktail I’ve learned to crave. “You and me. Anywhere.”

I trace the split in his lip, tasting iron on my fingertip. “She did this?”

He laughs, bitter. “Threw a decanter. Nailed my eye. Split my lip on the doorframe when she shoved me out.”

The Questions

I grab his wrist, turning his hand to examine the bloodied knuckles—skin split, joints swollen. “And these? You hit her?”

He jerks away. “Wall. After she threw the decanter. Punched it three times.” His fingers tremble as he flexes them, wincing at the popping sound.

“You could’ve broken them,” I snap, pressing an ice pack from the freezer to his hand. “We need to go to the ER. Your eye—”

“It’s fine.”

“You can’t even open it!” I lean closer, the rancid smell of infection hitting me. “If there’s damage to the cornea…”

The Hospital

The fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps as we sit in the ER waiting room. Vic slumps in the plastic chair, hoodie pulled low, while I fill out forms with lies:

• Name: “Vincent Carter” (his alias from the forged passport).
• Injury: “Work accident. Debris flew into eye.”

The nurse eyes his split lip and crusted knuckles but says nothing.

The Diagnosis

“Corneal abrasion,” the doctor announces, shining a light into Vic’s swollen eye. “No retinal damage, but you’ve got a hell of an infection brewing. We’ll need to flush it and start antibiotics.”

Vic grips my hand like a lifeline as they irrigate the wound, yellow pus swirling down the drain.

The Confession

In the parking lot, I light a cigarette with shaking hands. “How many times?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Have you cheated on her before? With others?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Twice before you. Different cities. She never knew.”

“Why’d she take you back then?”

“She didn’t know. Not until now.” His voice cracks. “The driver gave her dates. Locations. Fucking timelines.”

“Will she take you back?”

He stares at the floor. “Doubt it. Not after this.”

The Choice

I walk to the car, the city glowing around us like a circuit board of lies.

“You’d really burn your life down for me?” I ask, pressing my forehead to the cold window.

His arms circle my waist, teeth grazing the scar on my neck. “I already did.”

The diamond ring digs into my palm as he kisses me, a stolen promise.

“We’re not going to runaway yet,” I said. “If we leave, it could cause issues. Plus, she may take you back.”

“I highly doubt it but for now, I’ll stay with you.”

 

No exit

Day 1: The Suite

The penthouse suite swallows us whole—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city’s neon veins, a bed dressed in black silk wide enough to drown in, and a minibar stocked with Vic’s favorite single malt. He tosses his keys onto the marble counter, the clatter echoing like a gunshot. His eyes are already darkening, pupils swallowing the whiskey-gold of his irises.

“Three days,” he says, crowding me against the glass until my breath fogs the view. Rain streaks the skyline like tears. “No phones. No lies. Just us.”

He undresses me with his teeth—zipper tugged down with a growl, lace shredded between his molars. When he fucks me against the window, it’s possessive, brutal, his palm smearing my crimson lipstick across the glass like a crime scene. “Mine,” he snarls, teeth sinking into my shoulder hard enough to draw blood. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I gasp, fingernails carving half-moons into his back.

Later, we lie tangled in silk sheets that reek of sex and regret. His fingers trace the scar low on my stomach—a four-inch line, pale and raised, from the second pregnancy I never told him about. He pauses, calloused thumb pressing into the tissue. “This is new.”

I stiffen. “Old gym injury.”

His hand stills. “Bullshit.”

“It’s nothing.”

He props himself up on an elbow, eyes narrowing to slits. “You don’t get scars like that from a treadmill.”

“Vic—”

“Tell me.” His voice drops to a whisper that raises the hair on my arms. “Or I’ll drag you to the ER right now and ask them.”

I shove him off, scrambling to the edge of the bed. “Fine. I had to go back to the clinic, okay? Happy now?”

He freezes, muscles locking like a predator scenting weakness. “What clinic?”

“The one you paid for after the first time. The one you never asked about.”

His face hardens, jaw ticking. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie about that?”

“Because you’re scared I’ll—” He stops, fists clenching the sheets. “Fuck. Was it mine?”

I laugh—a brittle, shattered sound. “Who else’s would it be? You were the only one I was with for a year.”

He staggers back like I’ve shot him.

Night 1: The Floor
He drags me to the rug by the fireplace, pinning my wrists above my head. “You think you can hide from me?” he growls, biting a bruise into my inner thigh that’ll bloom violet by dawn. “I’ll fucking find every scar.”

When he enters me, it’s slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on mine like he’s carving his initials into my soul. “Feel what you do to me?” he whispers, grinding against me until the ache turns white-hot. “That’s how deep I’ll dig to own you.”

His hands slide under my hips, lifting me to meet every punishing thrust. “You’re gonna scream it tonight,” he snarls, teeth scraping my collarbone. “Tell me who you belong to.”

I bite my lip until copper floods my tongue—until he pins my clit between his thumb and forefinger, circling roughly. “Say it!”

“You,” I choke out, back arching as he drives into me harder, faster, the rug burning my skin. “Always you.”

He groans, low and feral, biting my nipples as he comes. “Mine,” he mutters against my sweat-slicked skin, licking the salt from my neck. “Every fucking scar. Every fucking scream.”

Day 2: The Spa

Vic books the entire spa, throwing a wad of cash at the trembling receptionist. “Couples’ everything,” he barks, already dragging me toward the massage rooms.

The masseuse works on him first. I watch his muscles tense under her hands, his jaw clenching when she grazes his lower back—the same place I scratched raw last night. “Enough,” he snaps, flipping onto his side to watch me. “Her turn.”

Oil drips down my spine as he takes over, palms rough, thumbs digging into the bruises he left yesterday. His fingers linger over a small, faded scar on my ribcage—one he’s never noticed before.

“What’s this?” he asks, tracing the thin line with a reverence that terrifies me.

I stiffen. “Nothing.”

His hand stills. “Tell me.”

“Later.”

Midday 2: The Steam Room
He drags me into the private steam room, slamming me against the wet tile. “Now,” he orders, biting my nipple as his fingers slide inside me. “Tell me who gave you that scar.”

“Not here,” I gasp, arching into his touch as the steam swallows our moans.

He drops to his knees, tongue circling my clit. “Here. Now.”

I shatter, screaming his name as he laps at my release, the sound swallowed by the hissing pipes.

Night 2: The Bath
He fills the marble tub with rose petals and steaming water, dragging me in before it’s full. “Talk,” he orders, biting my earlobe as his hands slide between my legs.

“Not now,” I gasp, arching into his touch.

“Now.” He pinches my nipple hard, then soothes it with his thumb.

I break. “It happened during the two times you were working for my brother. That year you left me.”

He freezes. “Who?”

“Someone I knew from my past. Someone who didn’t ask permission.”

Vic’s face darkens, veins bulging in his neck. He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Name.”

“Why? So you can cause him harm?”

“Yes.”

I laugh hollowly. “Too late. I handled it.”

He kisses me then—hard, desperate, like he’s trying to erase the memory with his teeth. “I’ll never hurt you like that,” he mutters against my lips.

“You already did, my love,” I say, nodding to the pregnancy scars and bruises.

Day 3: The Bed

We don’t leave the room. Room service trays pile up—oysters glistening like sin, champagne bubbles popping like secrets, chocolate-covered strawberries half-eaten and abandoned.

He’s obsessed with my body now—biting my breasts, sucking bruises into my thighs, his fingers always returning to the ribcage scar. “You should’ve told me,” he growls, pinning me to the mattress.

“You weren’t here,” I whisper, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He slams into me, fucking me with a fury that borders on worship. “I’m here now,” he snarls, teeth sinking into my neck. “And I’ll burn the world down for you.”

Afternoon 3: The Shower
He pins me under the scalding water, hands roaming my scars. “Every mark on you,” he mutters, biting my shoulder, “is a fucking failure of mine.”

“Then fix it,” I challenge, guiding his cock inside me.

He does—rough, relentless, his thrusts shaking the glass door.

The Breaking Point

On the fourth morning, he slams me against the bathroom mirror, steam fogging the glass. “Tell me everything,” he demands, hand splayed over my stomach. “Now.”

“Ours,” I whisper.

“What?”

“Two years ago. You were in Dubai. I didn’t tell you.”

His face fractures—rage, grief, guilt. “Why?”

“Because you’d have stayed. And I didn’t want you to stay out of guilt.”

He sinks to his knees, forehead pressed to my stomach. “Fuck. Fuck.”

The Morning After

He books another week.

At breakfast, he watches me sip coffee, his voice hoarse. “I’ll leave her.”

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because then this…” I gesture to the suite, the scars, the bruises, “…becomes real. And we’ll destroy each other faster.”

He smirks, bitter. “Race you there.”

The Tenth Day

We spend the week in bed, taking our time.

His hands chart my body like a cartographer mapping ruins—lips worshiping the scars he once bit, tongue tracing apology patterns on my inner thighs. When he finally sinks into me, it’s slow, aching, our foreheads pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, thrusts gentle but no less possessive.

“Don’t be,” I murmur, nails scraping his back. “We’re past redemption.”

He proves me wrong between my legs—no choking, no bruises, just hours of him murmuring filth-tinged devotion while his tongue works miracles. When I come, it’s with tears in my eyes and his name on my lips. His name will always be on my lips and in my heart.

Fractures and Fire

Vic’s belt hits the floor with a sharp clink, and his eyes lock onto the bruises blooming on my hips—his marks from weeks ago, dark and undeniable. His fingers tremble as they trace the deepest purple, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of the damage he’s done.

“I did this,” he breathes, voice rough and low. “God, I keep doing it.”

I reach for him, but his grip is iron as he pins my wrist above my head. “Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t forgive me.”

Yet his mouth crashes down on mine, fierce and searching—a kiss that’s both punishment and desperate confession, teeth grazing my lip before his tongue soothes the sting.

The Sex: Roughness Laced with Tenderness
He shoves me onto the bed, hands rough as they spread my thighs, but when his fingers slip between my legs, their touch softens, deliberate. “You’re still tender,” he murmurs, circling my clit with a slow, aching rhythm. “Why do you let me break you like this?”

“You don’t break me,” I whisper, arching into his hand. “You make me come like this.”

He snarls, biting my inner thigh hard enough to bruise, then licks the mark as if trying to erase it. “Liar.” His fingers curl inside me, stealing my breath, while his other hand cups my face gently. “Look at me. I need to see what I’ve done.”

When he enters me, it’s not the usual frantic pounding. He moves deep and slow, forehead resting against mine, breaths mingling in the quiet space between us. “You feel that?” he whispers, dragging his cock against the spot that twists my insides. “That’s how much I want you. How much I… fuck.”

His hips falter, but his hands remain tender—one tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip like I’m fragile glass.

The Confession
Later, he carries me to the shower, scrubbing my skin raw with a washcloth, muttering curses at the bruises. “I’ll stop,” he says, but his hands are already sliding between my legs again. “Tell me to stop.”

“No.” I press his fingers deeper, gasping. “I want the bruises. I want you to ruin me.”

Pinned against the cold tile, his fingers work me open beneath the scalding water. “You’re mine,” he growls, voice thick with need and regret. “Even if I don’t deserve you.”

Breaking Point
At 2 a.m., in the kitchen—him shirtless, me wrapped in his hoodie—he slams his fist into the counter. “I can’t fuck her anymore,” he admits, voice cracking. “Not since you. She… Christ.”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

He pulls me close, burying his face in my neck. “I try, but she’s not you. She doesn’t make me feel like this.” His hands clutch my hips desperately. “I can’t even get hard unless I’m thinking of you.”

Mutual Destruction
His lips find mine—a kiss both savage and reverent, teeth splitting my lip before his tongue cleans the wound. “Forgive me,” he breathes against my skin, hands sliding beneath my hoodie to cup my breasts. “I’ll ruin us both… but I can’t stop.”

“I already have,” I whisper, biting his earlobe hard enough to draw blood. “But I’ll destroy you too. Every bruise, every scream—I’ll take you down with me.”

He stills, eyes wild. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He laughs bitterly, pressing his forehead to mine. “Then we’ll burn together.”

Scarred and Sacred

 Vic’s hands tremble as he unbuckles his belt, the leather hissing like a blade unsheathed. The bruises on my hips—his fingerprints from three days ago—glow violet under the dim light, a map of his hunger. He freezes, staring at them like they’re a confession.

“I did that,” he rasps, thumb skimming the darkest mark. His voice is low, reverent, like a man kneeling at an altar. “Fuck. I’ll do it again. I always do.”

I reach for him, but he catches my wrist, pinning it above my head with a growl. “Don’t.” His breath is hot, uneven. “Don’t fucking forgive me.”

But his mouth crashes into mine anyway—a kiss that’s equal parts punishment and plea, teeth drawing blood from my lip before his tongue soothes the sting.

The Sex Scene: Guilt and Devotion
He shoves me onto the bed, hands rough on my thighs as he spreads them, but his touch softens when his fingers find me wet. “Still sore,” he mutters, circling my clit with a slowness that makes me whimper. “Why do you let me ruin you?”

“You don’t—”

He bites my inner thigh, sharp enough to bruise, then laps at the mark like he’s trying to erase it. “Liar.” His fingers push inside me, curling in that way that steals my breath, but his other hand cradles my face. “Look at me. Let me see how much I fucking hurt you.”

When he sinks into me, it’s not the usual frenzy. He fucks me deep and slow, forehead pressed to mine, our breaths tangled. “You feel that?” he whispers, dragging his cock against the spot that makes me see stars. “That’s how much I need you. How much I… goddamn it!”

His hips stutter, but his hands stay gentle—one fisted in my hair like a lifeline, the other gripping my hip like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

He carries me to the shower, scrubbing my skin raw with a washcloth, muttering curses at the bruises. “I’ll stop,” he lies, hands already sliding between my legs. “Tell me to stop.”

“I can’t.”

He pins me against the tile, fingers working me open under the scalding water. “You’re mine,” he snarls, but it sounds like a prayer. “Even if I’m poison.”
At 2 a.m., we’re in the kitchen—him shirtless, me drowning in his hoodie—when he slams his fist into the counter. “Why don’t you hate me?”

I don’t flinch. “Do you want me to?”

He hauls me onto the counter, burying his face in my neck. “Yes. No. Christ.” His voice cracks. “I’m breaking you. And you just… let me.”

When he kisses me, it’s savage and reverent—teeth splitting my lip, tongue licking the blood clean. His hands slide under the hoodie, palms rough on my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples. “I’ll ruin us,” he murmurs, biting my earlobe. “But I can’t fucking stop.”

Prisoner of Want

Vic’s hands are a confession he’ll never speak—brutal in their claiming, tender in their aftermath. He pins me to the bed, teeth at my throat, cock splitting me open like he’s trying to rewrite my DNA. “Tell me you hate me,” he snarls, slamming into my cervix. “Tell me this is just a fuck.”

I don’t. I can’t.

He stills, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged. “Why won’t you say it?” His voice cracks—a fracture in his armor—and for a heartbeat, I see it: the fear beneath the fury. He withdraws abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal, his jaw tight. “You’re making this… complicated.”

Later, he fucks me against the window, my palms smearing fog on the glass as he drags his teeth down my spine. “You’ll catch a cold,” he mutters, shrugging off his jacket to wrap around my shoulders mid-thrust. The gesture is possessive, not protective—but his hands linger, adjusting the fabric with a roughness that betrays something softer.

At 3 a.m., he’s a paradox.
He wakes me with his mouth between my legs, tongue working me to a trembling edge. “Come for me,” he growls, fingers digging into my thighs. When I shatter, he doesn’t stop—just licks deeper, like he’s trying to memorize the taste.

Afterward, he drags me into the shower, scrubbing my skin raw with a washcloth. “You’re mine,” he mutters, his voice hollow. “Only mine.” But his hands tremble as they rinse shampoo from my hair, fingers lingering at the nape of my neck.

The cracks deepen.
He shows up at dawn the next morning with coffee, black and bitter—the way he likes it, not my usual order. When I raise an eyebrow, he slams the cup down, his jaw tight. “Don’t fucking read into it.”

That night, he fucks me raw on the kitchen counter, my legs hooked over his elbows. “You’re mine,” he pants, slamming deeper. “Say it.”
“Yours.”
“Louder.”
“Yours!”

He comes with a broken groan, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. For a moment, his arms tighten—not to claim, but to cling.

The breaking point comes in silence.
I wake to find him watching me, his fingers tracing the bruises on my hips. “I should’ve stopped,” he whispers, voice raw. “That night at the clinic… I should’ve let you keep it.”

My breath catches. He’s never acknowledged the pregnancy.

He fists the sheets, his knuckles white. “You’d have left me if we’d kept it. Wouldn’t you?”

I don’t answer.

He’s on me in an instant, pinning my wrists, his cock pressing against my still-sore cunt. “Tell me you’d have stayed,” he demands, but there’s desperation beneath the anger.

When I stay silent, he kisses me—not the usual brutal claiming, but something slower, hungrier. “You’re under my skin,” he murmurs against my lips. “Fucking parasite.”

But he doesn’t pull away.

Cracks in the Armor

Vic’s hands are a paradox—cruel enough to bruise, tender enough to make me shatter. He pins me to the mattress, his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he growls, “I’ll never get enough of you.” His cock drills into me, brutal and unrelenting, splitting me open like he’s trying to carve his name into my bones. “You feel that?” he snarls, slamming deeper, “That’s where you belong. Right here. Impaled on me.”

But that night was different.

When he flips me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up, I expect the usual frenzy—the mindless, possessive rutting that leaves me raw and shaking. Instead, his palm slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me back against his chest. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, “Taking me like you were made for it.” His other hand grips my throat, not to choke, but to feel my pulse hammering against his palm. “Mine,” he whispers, biting the shell of my ear, “Every fucking breath. Every fucking scream.”

He fucks me slower. Deliberate. Devouring. Each thrust grinds against my cervix, his cock so deep I gasp. “You’re shaking,” he taunts, dragging his lips down my neck. “You want me to stop?”
“No.”
“Good.” His hand slips between my legs, fingers circling my clit with practiced precision. “Come for me. Let me feel you break.”

I shatter, screaming into the pillow, but he doesn’t stop. He fucks me through the aftershocks, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release. “Fuck—fuck,” he grits out, slamming into me one last time before stilling, his come flooding me hot and thick. “Christ,” he pants, collapsing on top of me, his heartbeat slamming against my back. For the first time, he doesn’t pull away.

Later, in the shower, he pins me under the scalding spray, sucking bruises into my collarbone as his soap-slick fingers slide between my legs. “You’re still wet,” he mutters, working me open. “Always fucking ready for me.” But when I moan, his free hand fists my hair, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Look at me when I touch you.”

There’s something new in his eyes—a flicker of something desperate, unspoken. He watches me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve, his thumb pressing harder on my clit as if he can erase whatever’s haunting him. “You’re mine,” he repeats, but it sounds less like a threat and more like a plea. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Only mine.”

The realization hits him at 3 a.m.
I wake to his hands roaming my body, his lips trailing fire down my stomach. “Vic—?”
“Shut up,” he mutters, spreading my legs. “I need to taste you.” He devours me like a man starved, his tongue fucking me until I’m sobbing. When I come, he doesn’t stop—just licks deeper, growling, “Again.”

Afterward, he drags me onto his lap, my back pressed to his chest, his arms locking around me like a vise. “You’re not leaving,” he says, voice low. It’s not a command. It’s a confession.

“I’m not yours to keep,” I whisper, testing him.
His grip tightens. “You’re wrong.” His lips brush my ear, the words barely audible: “You’re under my skin. In my fucking veins.”

By dawn, he’s frantic.
He fucks me against the kitchen counter, my legs hooked over his elbows, his thrusts erratic and wild. “Tell me you hate me,” he demands, slamming into my cervix. “Tell me this is just a fuck.”
“Vic—!”
“Say it.”
But I can’t.

He stills, forehead pressed to mine, breath ragged. Something cracks. His voice drops to a raw whisper: “I can’t stop. I can’t—fuck.”

For the first time, he looked afraid.