Claimed and Consumed

Four days. That’s how long it’s been since Vic last wrecked me, and my body’s a raw, twitching mess, every nerve screaming for his cock. The bruises are everywhere—hipbones ringed by his teeth, thighs striped where his nails carved into me, stomach painted in blooms of purple from his knees pinning me spread eagle. The same stomach that once rounded with his child, years ago, before he paid for the clinic and called it a “mistake.” The hickey pulses like a second heartbeat, throbbing when I touch it, a brand he sucked into my neck while growling, “Scream my name, and I’ll ruin you.”

But it’s the ache inside me that’s worse; slick, desperate throb between my legs, a hunger that claws at me even in sleep. My cunt’s still swollen, still dripping when I remember how he fucked me raw last time—no condom, just spit and his cock stretching me so wide I felt him rearranging my guts, his dick punching into my womb like he wanted to brand me from the inside out. He knows I’m on birth control, but the memory of that pregnancy lingers. “You kept me then,” he’d snarled after slamming me against the fridge, “You could’ve ruined us both.”

We’re animals. There’s a hunger in him that mirrors mine, a need so desperate it borders on violence. When he pins me down, there’s no softness—just teeth on my collarbone, tongue lashing my nipples, fingers plunging into my cunt as he hisses, “So fucking wet for me. Always.” He doesn’t ask; he takes. That night, he shoved me face-first into the mattress, bit the back of my neck, and fucked me so hard the headboard cracked the wall. “You’re mine,” he snarled, slamming into my cervix, “Every fucking inch of you.”

His jealousy is a live wire. Once – years ago - a coworker brushed my arm at a bar, and Vic’s glass hit the counter hard enough to crack it. Later, he fucked me against my apartment door, biting my shoulder as he hissed, “If I ever see him near you again, I’ll make sure he knows who you belong to.” He marks me in ways no one else can see—a possessive rage that melts into filthy, primal need. When I walked home alone last winter, he followed me in my car, headlights off, engine purring like a predator stalking prey. He didn’t speak when I got inside—just grabbed my throat, shoved me against the seat, and fucked me so deep I felt him scraping my spine, his cock hitting places that made my vision blur. “You don’t get to take risks,” he growled, slamming into my cervix, “Not when you’re mine.”

Our sex is a fucking war. What started as quick, guilty fucks in my car now ends with me on my knees, choking on his cock while he fists my hair and growls, “You’re the reason I can’t stay loyal.” He doesn’t ask anymore; he claims. Last week, he cuffed my wrists to the headboard, spread my legs with his knees, and fucked me so deep I felt him punching into my womb, his dick dragging against every nerve until I sobbed. “You’ve turned me into a liar,” he panted, rearranging me with every thrust, “Now own it.”

The risks make him feral. He texts me videos of his wife’s voicemails while I’m still sore, captioned “She’s begging for me. But I’m yours, aren’t I?” Then he shows up at dawn, pressing me into the mattress with a groan: “I’ve been thinking about you all fucking night.” He’s relentless—biting my inner thigh, sucking bruises into my ass, fucking me doggy-style until I feel him in my throat, his cock so deep it’s like he’s trying to climb inside me. “Come for me,” he demands, fingers circling my clit, and I shatter, screaming his name.

His protectiveness is as fierce as his lust. When I tried to leave last month, he didn’t threaten—he claimed. “Don’t,” he whispered, pinning me in the stairwell, “I’ll burn the world down before I let another man touch you.” Then he shoved my skirt up, fucked me raw against the concrete wall, and came with his teeth buried in my neck, his dick so far inside me I swore it touched my spine.

The ghost of that pregnancy still haunts us. The way he looked at me in the clinic parking lot, eyes hollow as he said “We can’t keep it”? The way he fucked me nights later, pounding into me like he could rewrite our DNA, whispering “I’ll protect you, even from myself” between curses? That’s carved deeper than any mark.

And my body—god, my body won’t let me forget. Even now, I ache for him. My skin prickles when I think of his hands, my thighs clench at the memory of his tongue. He’s ruined me. And I’d let him do it again.