Chapter 25 #3
I stare at the thousand versions of us reflected back, trapped in this glittering prison of his making, and whisper the only truth I have left. "I'm yours."
Suddenly, the tension snaps. He doesn't undress me; he destroys the clothes.
With one violent wrench, the fabric of my gothic dress screams and rips, the lace shredding under his brute strength.
I gasp as the cold air hits my skin, but the chill is nothing compared to the look in his eyes.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a heavy leather collar with a thick steel chain.
Before I can even blink, he snaps it around my neck, the leather biting into my skin.
The click of the lock sounds like a cell door closing.
He strips himself with a frantic, manic energy, his cock springing free—thick, pulsing, and ready to ruin me.
He doesn't waste a second. He shoves me down, forcing me onto my back, and lunges for my breasts. He doesn't kiss my nipples; he attacks them. He sucks them into his mouth with a bruising force, his teeth grazing the sensitive peaks, pulling and tugging until I’m arching my back, a mixture of terror and unwanted pleasure surging through me. He’s going so hard I think he might actually draw blood, his tongue swirling around the sore tips while he glares at me, making sure I see the madness in his gaze.
Then, he stands up abruptly. I hear a sickening crash. He’s stepped right through a mirror on the floor, shattering it into a thousand jagged diamonds. He doesn't even flinch as the glass cuts into his boot.
He grabs the chain on my collar and yanks me upward, flipping me over with a violent strength that leaves me breathless. He forces me into a grotesque position—upside down, my palms flat against the cold, hard floor, my ass shoved high into the air.
I look down, and my heart stops. Below me, in the shards of the broken mirror, I see myself.
I look like a broken porcelain doll, my reflection fractured into a dozen different pieces.
Cobwebs from the mirror I did not realize I leaned into and caught are sticking to my hair and face, clinging to me like a shroud.
I let out a piercing scream, the sight of my own fragmented face sending me into a full-blown panic.
But Rhys is already there. He dives between my legs, his face burying into my pussy.
He begins eating me with a feral intensity, his tongue flicking against my clit with a precision that is almost agonizing.
As I try to scramble away, terrified by the broken image beneath me, he jerks the chain.
My head snaps back, a warning that I am anchored to him.
"Stay," he growls against my wet skin. "Look at the pieces of yourself, Ophelia. Look at how fucking broken you are."
He sucks my clit so hard, so deep, that I lose the ability to think. I’m trembling, moaning and screaming simultaneously, my body betraying me. I am soaking wet, terrified, and completely at his mercy as I come in his mouth.
He shifts, pulling me back to my feet, just enough to force me to look into a larger, intact mirror on the wall.
He is behind me, holding me in place. He doesn't let me look away.
He begins to masturbate me, his fingers diving deep inside me, pumping hard and fast, while his thumb grinds relentlessly into my clit.
He leans in, licking my cheek, his breath hot and smelling of obsession.
"Look at her," he hisses, his voice psychotic. "Look at this little cracked doll, coming for the man who’s destroying her. You love it, don't you? You love being ruined by me."
I’m sobbing, my vision blurring, but I can't stop watching. The friction is too much, the psychological weight of his words pushing me over the edge. I scream as a violent orgasm crashes over me, my walls clamping tight around his fingers as I come, crying and shaking, completely shattered.
He doesn't give me a second to recover. He turns me around, grabs the chain and yanks me onto my knees.
He doesn't ask; he simply shoves his cock into my mouth. I gag, my eyes watering, but he holds the chain tight, pulling my head forward as he rams himself deep into my throat. He’s fucking my mouth with a brutal, rhythmic force, his hips slamming against my face.
He rips the bow from my hair, making it lose and falling down my back and shoulders.
I feel the rough texture of him, the sheer size of him stretching me.
Slowly, the terror begins to blend with a dark, twisted Need.
My hands find his thighs, gripping the hard muscle, and I start to moan around him, my throat vibrating with every thrust. He doesn't hold back, driving deep until I’m choking, his breath coming in ragged, animalistic grunts.
He fucks my throat until he groans, a low, guttural sound, and comes deep in my mouth, filling me with his heat.
But he’s not done. He never fucking stops.
He flips me around again, shoving me into a doggy position, but this time, he presses my chest and face directly against the mirror I fear most. It’s not distorted. It’s a clear, crystalline reflection.
He enters me from behind in one singular, violent thrust that knocks the wind out of me.
I gasp, my eyes locking onto my own reflection.
For the first time in years, I don't look away.
I see my face—really see it. My ice-blue eyes are wide and rimmed with red from crying, my lipstick is smudged across my cheeks, but...
I'm beautiful. I see the curve of my jaw, the fullness of my lips.
I actually smile at myself, a small, broken, liberated smile.
I look down at my body in the glass. My tits are jiggling wildly with every thunderous pound he delivers, looking plump and heavy.
I see my 167 cm frame, the pale skin of my thighs flushing red where he’s gripping me, the curve of my waist. I look sexy.
I look like a woman who is being claimed by a god.
The pleasure is overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation that drowns out the fear. I look back into the mirror, locking eyes with Rhys's reflection. He looks absolutely possessed, his face a mask of obsessive love and cruelty.
"Harder," I moan, my voice a desperate plea. "Rhys, fuck me harder!”
I’m staring at myself in the glass, my breath fogging the mirror, my eyes wide and glazed with a mixture of terror and pure, unadulterated lust. I can feel him behind me, a predatory weight that consumes everything.
Just as I start to drift, he jerks the chain.
My head snaps back, my spine arching violently as the leather collar bites into my throat, pulling me flush against his hard, sweating chest.
He slams into me again, a brutal, rhythmic pounding that makes the mirror rattle in its frame. He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice a dark, psychotic purr.
"You like what you see, huh, Ophelia? Look at you. Look at how you're taking every inch of me. You love being my little broken doll, don't you? My cracked doll."
I don't even try to lie. I can't. I smile—a jagged, manic thing—and nod, my fingers reaching back to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. "Harder," I moan, the word a desperate plea. "Fuck me harder, Rhys. Please."
A low, dangerous chuckle vibrates through his chest. "Careful what you wish for, love," he whispers, his tone shifting into something truly menacing. "You'll fucking regret that request."
Then he stops playing.