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."