Chapter 6 Vera #2
I try. Force myself to take shaky breaths while he holds still above me—or tries to. He's trembling. His whole body is taut with restraint, muscles locked, barely keeping himself from thrusting.
I can feel his balls pressed against me—heavy and full. Three days of denying himself. Three days of saving every drop. All of it waiting to flood into me the moment he loses control.
"That's it," he manages, voice wrecked. "You're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. My good girl. My brave wife."
So slowly it feels like hours, the sharp pain fades to a deep, throbbing ache. I'm still stretched impossibly full, but the initial agony is lessening.
"Better?" he asks, and I can hear the desperation. He needs to move. Needs it so badly he's shaking with it.
"A little," I whisper.
"Thank fuck." He pulls back an inch and groans like he's dying. "So good. You feel so fucking good."
The drag makes me whimper but it's not as bad as I expected. He pushes back in, slow and controlled, but I can see the effort it costs him. His jaw clenches. His arms tremble.
"I need you," He does it again, that careful withdrawal and return. "Need to go slow but you're so tight and I've been waiting so long."
"There," he murmurs, pressing kisses to my wet cheeks. "You're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. My good girl. My brave wife."
The praise helps somehow. Makes the pain more bearable.
"Can you feel me?" he asks. "Feel how deep I am? How completely you're filled?"
I can. God, I can feel every inch of him. The thick shaft stretching me wide. The way he's pressed against something deep inside me. How my body is clenching around him, trying to accommodate this foreign intrusion.
"I'm going to move now," he warns. "Just a little. Tell me if it's too much."
He pulls back an inch and the drag makes me whimper. The friction against my torn, sensitive flesh is overwhelming. Then he pushes back in, slow and careful.
"How does that feel?"
"It hurts," I admit, fresh tears leaking out. "But... but less."
"Good." He does it again. Another slow withdrawal and return. "Your body is learning. Learning to take me."
He establishes a rhythm. Shallow thrusts, careful and controlled. Each one burns less than the last. And underneath the pain, something else is building. Something that makes me understand why people do this voluntarily.
"That's it," he encourages, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "You're opening up for me. Taking my cock like you were made for it."
The ache is still there, but it's changing. Morphing into pressure and heat and friction that's starting to feel... not good exactly, but not entirely bad either.
He thrusts a little deeper and hits something inside me that makes me gasp. Pleasure.
"Found it," he says with dark satisfaction, hitting that spot again deliberately. "Right there."
Pleasure sparks through the discomfort. Sharp and unexpected. He angles his hips to hit it with every thrust and suddenly I'm feeling things I've never felt before.
"Pyotr?" I don't know what I'm asking for.
"I know." His hand slides between us, finding my clit. Still sensitive from his mouth earlier. "Come for me. Come on my cock. Show me you were made for this."
The combination of his cock driving deep and his fingers circling my clit builds something fast and overwhelming. Pleasure is layering over pain, transforming it into something confusing and intense.
"That's my girl," he encourages, thrusting harder now. "Feel that? That's what it's like to be fucked. To be claimed. To be bred."
His fingers press harder on my clit and the orgasm hits without warning. I cry out, my body clenching violently around him. The sensation of my pussy squeezing his cock while I'm still sore makes it sharper, more visceral than the one from his mouth.
"Fuck, yes," he groans, losing his rhythm. "Squeeze my cock just like that. Milk it. Take what's yours."
He thrusts harder, deeper, chasing his own release. Each drive pushes against my cervix—a deep, claiming pressure that reminds me exactly what he's doing. Where he plans to put his cum.
"Going to fill you now," he grits out. "Going to breed my wife. Put my baby in your belly."
He buries himself as deep as possible—so deep it borders on painful—and I feel it. Hot pulses of his release flooding my virgin pussy. Marking me from the inside. Claiming me in the most primal way possible.
"Mine," he growls against my throat. "All mine. Forever."
He stays inside me, softening slightly but not pulling out. Both of us catching our breath. I can feel his cum inside me, hot and thick, mixing with the blood from my broken hymen.
When he finally withdraws, it's slow and careful. I whimper at the drag—I'm so sensitive, so sore from being stretched around him. And then I feel it—the rush of liquid as his release starts leaking from my body.
I move instinctively to close my legs, to clean up the mess, but his hand stops me.
"No." He presses my thigh back down, keeping me spread. "Stay open. Let me see what I did to you."
I'm too exhausted to fight. Too overwhelmed. I lie there while he looks at my ravaged pussy with dark, possessive satisfaction.
There's blood. I can see it on his cock, on the sheets, smeared on my inner thighs. Not a lot—just enough to prove what happened. Evidence of my virginity taken. And his cum—so much of it—leaking out of me in thick white streams.
"Perfect," he breathes, fingers trailing through the mess. Smearing it. Pushing some of his release back inside me. "Marked. Claimed. Bred. This is exactly how you should look—covered in proof that you're mine."
He brings his fingers to my mouth. "Taste us."
I part my lips without thinking and let him slide his fingers inside. The taste is strange—metallic blood, bitter salt, something uniquely him.
"Good girl." He pulls his fingers free and kisses me deeply, tasting it himself. "My wife. My woman. Mine to fill whenever I want."
He's already hardening again. I can feel it against my thigh.
"Again?" My voice is hoarse.
"Again." He positions himself at my entrance, already sore and sensitive. "I told you I've been saving myself for you. I have three days of cum built up and it's all going inside you tonight. Every last drop."
He pushes back in and I whimper at the sensitivity. It doesn't hurt like before but it's intense, overwhelming.
"By morning," he promises, starting to move, "you'll be so full of me there's no way you won't be pregnant."
And he proceeds to make good on that promise. Takes me again. And again. Different positions—on my back, on my side, bent over the bed. Each time he fills me with more of his release, refusing to let me clean myself, wanting his cum to stay inside me where it belongs.
By the time dawn light starts filtering through the windows, I'm exhausted, sore, thoroughly claimed. And despite everything—the force, the lack of choice, the overwhelming possession—I don't want to be anywhere else.
"Sleep," he finally says, pulling me against his chest. His hand splays possessively over my stomach. "Rest. You've earned it."
I drift off in his arms, marked and bred and completely his.
Mrs. Maksimova.
His wife.
Forever.