Change 28 #2
He thrusts in hard, one brutal stroke that knocks the breath from my lungs.
I scream his name, the sound echoing off stone and bone.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He fucks me like a man possessed, hips snapping forward, cock driving deep with every thrust. The altar tomb grinds against my back, cold and unyielding, and I can feel the Latin inscription beneath my spine like a prayer turned curse.
"Yes," I gasp, grabbing fistfuls of his coat, pulling him closer. "Fuck me, Rhys. Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you dare go easy. I want it all. I want you to ruin me on this holy stone. I want the abbot to feel every filthy thrust. I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk."
He growls, low and animal, and slams into me harder.
My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back.
I bite his shoulder through his shirt, tasting cotton and salt, and he hisses, fucking me even deeper.
I’m on fire for him, cunt clenching around his cock, every nerve screaming for more.
The fear of this place, of him, of the sheer size of him stretching me open only makes me wetter.
I claw at his back, nails raking through fabric, and beg without shame.
"Harder," I cry. "Fuck me like you hate me. Fuck me like you want to break me. Don’t stop, Rhys, please don’t stop."
He obeys. He fucks me with savage precision, each thrust punching a scream from my throat.
My orgasm crashes over me without warning, white-hot and shattering.
I scream his name loud enough to wake the dead, body convulsing around him, cunt pulsing and dripping.
He gives me three more brutal thrusts, then buries himself to the hilt and comes with a guttural groan.
I feel every pulse, every hot spurt flooding me, filling me until it leaks out around his cock.
Rhys pulls out of me with a wet sound that echoes off the tombstone, and we both watch as his cum drips from my swollen cunt onto the ancient stone.
"Look at that," he murmurs, voice thick with lust and madness.
"My little doll, dripping all over the abbot’s tomb.
His holy altar, desecrated by your cunt and my cum.
The faithful departed will taste us tonight. "
I reach down without hesitation, wrap my hand around his cock—still slick with my juices and his seed—and begin to stroke him.
I look him dead in the eye, biting my lower lip, and smile like the broken, horny thing he’s made me.
"More," I whisper. "I want you to scare me again. Then fuck me again. On every grave in this abbey if you want. I’m yours, Rhys. Completely."
He laughs, dark and delighted, and leans down to kiss me like he’s claiming my soul all over again.
His hands are rough as he flips me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up until I'm on my knees, arse in the air and face pressed against the cold marble. The gothic Victorian dress bunches around my waist, and I feel the night air on my exposed cunt.
"Look at you," he growls, voice thick with obsession.
"My perfect little cracked doll, bent over the abbot's grave like you were made for this.
I'd build you an altar of bones and gold, Ophelia.
I'd worship at your feet every fucking night if it meant I could keep you like this—dripping, desperate, mine. "
He slams back into me without warning, cock driving so deep I scream. His hips snap forward with brutal force, each thrust shoving me harder against the stone. My hands scrabble for purchase on the carved surface, fingers digging into ancient inscriptions as he pounds me senseless.
"You have me completely," he pants, voice shaking with madness. "Every thought, every breath, every drop of cum I have belongs to you. I'm yours, Ophelia. Your devoted slave. Your psychotic worshipper."
His hand cracks down on my arse, the sting sharp and sudden. I gasp, then moan as his finger finds my arsehole, pressing against the tight ring before pushing inside. The invasion makes me jolt, a strangled sound tearing from my throat.
"This is the only hole I haven't claimed yet," he snarls, working his finger deeper while his other hand reaches around to rub my clit in tight circles. "But I will. I'll fill every part of you until you're marked inside and out."
He fucks me harder now—cock pistoning into my pussy, finger thrusting into my arse, thumb working my swollen clit with relentless pressure. The triple sensation is overwhelming, my body caught between pleasure and the edge of pain.
"Say it," he demands, voice hoarse. "Tell me I'm yours. Tell me you own me."
"You're mine," I cry out, voice breaking as he drives into me. "I'm yours. Rhys—fuck—I own you!"
He growls in satisfaction, pace becoming punishing. My orgasm hits like a lightning strike, cunt clenching around his cock as I scream his name into the night. He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding me with hot pulses of cum.
His thrusts slow, then stop. He spanks my arse one final time, the sound sharp in the quiet graveyard.
Then his hand fists in my hair, yanking me upright.
He turns my face to his and kisses me like he's trying to devour my soul, tongue claiming my mouth with the same desperate hunger he's shown my body.
Rhys doesn’t let me rest. He lifts me off the altar tomb just enough to spin me, then slams me back down so my hips are bent over the cold stone, my upper body still sprawled across the carved surface.
My gothic Victorian dress is bunched around my waist, the soaked fabric clinging to my ribs while my bare arse and cunt are exposed to the night air.
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a pair of heavy steel handcuffs that glint under the moonlight.
Without a word he snaps one cuff around my left wrist, then threads the chain through the iron ring of a massive Celtic cross mounted on the side of the altar tomb.
The other cuff clicks shut around my right wrist, locking both hands to the cross so I’m stretched forward, half my body still on the stone, the other half dangling over the edge. My toes barely touch the ground.
"Hold it," he snarls, shoving the cold iron into my palm.
My fingers close around the cross while he drags handcuffs from his coat.
One cuff snaps around my wrist and the other locks to the cross itself, pinning my arm above my head against the carved stone.
My other hand stays free only so I can grip the cross for leverage, knuckles white.
Half my body still sprawls across the altar tomb, dress bunched at my waist, bare arse and cunt exposed to the freezing air.
He yanks my hair with the other, forcing my head up so I’m staring at the moonlit abbey ruins.
His cock is already hard again, thick and slick with our mixed cum, and he doesn’t wait.
He drives into me in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
The force knocks the air from my lungs. I cry out, the sound echoing across the graveyard.
"Pray," he snarls, voice low and unhinged.
"Hail Mary, full of grace…" he orders, voice low and vicious. He slams into me again, harder, the head of his cock battering my cervix. "Say it in Latin while I fuck you like the little heretic you used to be. Pray to the Virgin to save you from me.”
Yes, I used to go to church. That was before my sisters died. I have never been to a church since,or prayed to any deity. How he knew that, I can't try to understand right now.
He slams back inside without mercy, the thick head of his cock stretching me wide again. The cross bites into my palm as he pounds, each thrust shoving me forward so the stone scrapes my ribs. I choke out the words, voice shaking.
My voice shakes as I start, the words tumbling out between gasps.
"Ave Maria, gratia plena…" Each syllable is punctuated by the wet slap of his hips against my arse. He fucks me without mercy, the cross digging into my wrists, the stone scraping my stomach. The cold night wind bites at my exposed skin, but inside me he’s a furnace, stretching me open, ruining me.
He drives deeper, hips snapping like he wants to split me open. My cunt clenches around him, dripping fresh slick down his shaft.
"Louder," he growls, yanking my hair so my head arches back. "Pray like you mean it. Beg her to stop me.”
"Dominus tecum," I scream, the words breaking into a moan as he angles deeper, grinding against that spot that makes my vision white.
“...benedicta tu in mulieribus.” My thighs tremble.
My cunt clenches around him, dripping down his balls and onto the ancient stone.
He leans over me, breath hot against my ear.
"Louder," he demands, yanking my hair so hard my scalp burns. "Let the Virgin Mary hear you beg her to save you from the devil who owns your cunt.”
“...et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus.” The words fracture as he fucks me harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the gravestones.
My thighs tremble. My free hand grips the cross tighter, using it to push back, angling my hips so he can sink even deeper.
Every brutal thrust knocks the breath from my lungs.
He leans over me, lips at my ear. "She won’t save you, Ophelia.
No one will. Now pray to me instead. Pray that I make you come so hard you black out.
Pray that I use your body like a toy until you’re nothing but a dripping, broken mess.
Pray that I break you and put you back together exactly how I want—my perfect little cracked doll, my obsession, my property.
Pray I’ll shatter you and rebuild you exactly how I want—mine, ruined, dripping, screaming. "
The blasphemy makes my head spin. I should be horrified. Instead my pussy floods around him, soaking his cock even more. I choke out the words he wants. "Rhys… make me come… use me… break me and put me back together… please…"