Wendy #2
I hate this. I hate him. I hate my own body for responding, I think, my head thrashing against the weeping wall.
How can it feel like this? How can it feel like lightning while my heart is breaking?
Every time his tongue swirls around me, a jagged spark of pleasure lances through the terror.
It’s a sickening, visceral conflict. My mind is screaming for death, but my pussy is clenching, weeping, pulsing against his lips in a desperate, primal rhythm.
It’s the ultimate violation—he’s stealing my pleasure, turning my own biology into a weapon against me.
The man with the iron steps closer. The heat from the glowing metal starts to radiate against the skin of my shoulder, a blistering promise of the agony to come.
“Now,” Viktor growls, his voice muffled by my flesh.
He doesn’t stop. As the glowing tip of the iron descends toward my collarbone, Viktor increases the pace. His tongue becomes a blur of friction, his fingers sliding back inside me, stretching me, filling me, while his mouth devours me.
The iron hits.
SSSSSSST.
The sound of my own skin searing is a high-pitched hiss that drowns out the world.
The pain is a white-hot explosion, a supernova of agony that rips through my chest and radiates down my arm.
I scream until my lungs feel like they’re going to collapse, my body convulsing, my heels drumming a frantic, dying beat against the concrete.
And in that moment of peak agony, the pleasure Viktor is forcing upon me snaps.
My walls collapse inward, a violent, jagged orgasm tearing through me at the exact same second the brand marks me.
I am cumming and dying all at once, a shattered mess of lust and torture.
I hate myself. I feel the hot, sticky release of my own climax coating Viktor’s face while I sob from the sheer, soul-destroying pain of the burn.
“Good girl,” Viktor murmurs, pulling back, my wetness gleaming on his chin like a trophy under the swinging bulb. “You see? Even in pain, you belong to the one who takes you.”
I hang there, limp, the smell of my own burnt flesh filling my nostrils, my body still trembling from a climax that felt like a sin. I am broken. I am branded. And I am utterly, hopelessly lost.
Viktor stands up, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the blood-slicked floor. He doesn’t look at the iron. He looks at me—at the way I’m shaking, at the fresh, blistering mark on my shoulder that smells of charred skin and ruined innocence.
“Out,” he barks, his voice a low, vibrating snap of authority. “All of you. Fuori! Cazzo, andatevene prima che vi ammazzi tutti!”
The men don’t hesitate. They scramble toward the stairs, the heavy steel door groaning shut behind them with a final, echoing thud that seals me into the dark with the devil.
Viktor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, obsidian-handled stiletto. The blade flickers open with a sharp, lethal snick. He doesn’t look like a businessman anymore; he looks like a butcher about to carve his masterpiece.
“Peter Hale thought he could keep you whole,” he whispers, the blade’s edge tracing the curve of my jaw, drawing a thin, beaded line of crimson. “He thought he could protect the nectar. But I am going to drink it until you are a husk.”
He moves behind me. I feel the cold steel of the blade slide beneath the gold chain of my shackles.
With one violent, practiced jerk, he doesn’t cut the chain—he cuts me.
The blade bites into the meat of my wrists, the blood slicking the gold, making it slide easier against the iron rings.
I let out a broken, jagged sob as he moves the knife down, lower, until the tip is resting against the soft, trembling skin of my inner thigh.
“Please,” I whimper, my head lolling. “Please, just kill me.”
“Death is a mercy you haven’t earned, piccola fiamma,” he growls.
He presses the blade in. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to mark.
He carves a slow, shallow line down the length of my thigh, the blood blooming behind the steel like a red ribbon.
And then, he leans down. He licks the wound.
His tongue is heavy, abrasive, drinking the copper heat of me while his hand reaches around to the front.
He isn’t gentle. He shoves his hand back between my legs, his fingers slick with my own blood and the remains of the climax he forced out of me. He begins to stretch me, his knuckles rubbing raw against my sensitive skin, forcing me open until I feel like I’m going to split.
“You are so tight,” he rasps, his voice a guttural hum against my ear. “It’s a pity. I’m going to ruin this for him. He’ll never be able to touch you without feeling my shadow inside you.”
He stands, his hands going to his belt. I hear the heavy leather slide through the loops, the clink of the buckle sounding like a gunshot in the silence of the cellar. He drops his trousers, and for the first time, I see the weapon he’s going to use to finish what the iron started.
His cock is massive, a thick, vein-corded pillar of dark meat that looks far too large for my body. It’s angry, pulsing with a rhythmic, violent heat. He doesn’t use any oil. He doesn’t give me a moment to breathe.
He seizes my hips, his fingers bruising the bone, and aligns himself.
“Look at the door, Wendy,” he commands, his breath hot and smelling of the salt he’s drinking off me. “Look at the door and imagine Peter is on the other side, listening to what I’m about to do to you.”
He drives in.
It’s not a thrust; it’s a rupture.
I scream, a sound so high and thin it doesn’t even sound human.
I feel the skin tear, a sharp, searing heat radiating from my core as he forces his way into me.
He’s too big, too dry, his cock a jagged intrusion that stretches me past the point of breaking.
I can feel the warm, wet slide of fresh blood coating him as he sinks deeper, his weight crushing me against the cold stone.
“Yes,” he hisses, his face contorted in a mask of primal, ugly lust. “Bleed for me. Let me feel how much it hurts to be taken by a real man.”
He begins to move, a slow, grinding friction that is pure agony. Every inch he gains feels like a hot iron sliding through my insides. He isn’t seeking pleasure; he’s seeking conquest. He’s using his body to erase Peter’s ghost, his heavy, rhythmic thuds echoing through my skull like a drum.
I am sobbing, my hands clawing at the chains until my fingernails bleed, my vision swimming in a sea of red and grey. I can feel the brand on my shoulder throbbing in time with the jagged stabs of his cock inside me. I am being dismantled. I am being hollowed out.
“Say it,” he growls, his hands moving up to my throat, his thumbs pressing into my windpipe until I’m gasping for air. “Tell me you’re mine. Tell me Peter is a fucking ghost.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can feel is the rhythmic, brutal tearing of my body and the cold, dark void opening up inside me.
“Peter… Peter, please…”
The name is a broken prayer, a jagged piece of glass I’m choking on.
My head thrashes against the weeping stone, my hair matting into the slime and the blood.
Every time he lunges into me, the impact rattles my teeth, a rhythmic, bone-deep thud that makes the gold chains above my head scream in protest.
“He isn’t coming, piccola fiamma,” Viktor growls, his voice a dark, viral rasp in my ear.
He isn’t stopping; he’s getting more feral, his movements losing their clinical edge and turning into a raw, desperate pounding.
He seizes my hair, yanking my head back until my spine arches like a bow, forcing me to take the full, brutal length of him.
“He is a corpse in a fancy suit. I am the only god in this room.”
“No…” I sob, the word a shattered vibration. “He’s… he’s coming… he’ll kill you…”
Viktor lets out a guttural, jagged laugh and drives home, his cock hitting my cervix with a force that makes my vision go white. I am bleeding, the slick heat of it coating his thighs, but he doesn’t care. He thrives on it. He’s using the friction of my own trauma to fuel his fire.
He’s a monster, a nightmare, but the sheer, agonising size of him is forcing my body to stay awake, to feel every inch of the violation.
The pain is so sharp it’s almost electric, a white-hot wire threading through my nerves.
I want to die. I want the floor to swallow me.
But as he grinds his hips against mine, his thumbs digging into the bruises on my waist, a sick, traitorous heat begins to coil in the pit of my stomach.
It’s not love. It’s not desire. It’s the primal, horrific response of a body pushed to its absolute limit. My pussy is screaming, torn and bleeding, yet it’s clenching around him in a rhythmic, desperate reflex, trying to survive the assault.
“Look at you,” Viktor hisses, his face a mask of sweating, Italian cruelty. “Even as you cry for him, your body is begging for me to fill it. You are a feast of contradictions, Wendy.”
He begins to move faster, a frantic, jagged pace that sounds like wet leather slapping against stone.
I can hear the slap of his skin against mine, the clink of the chains, the ragged, animalistic gasps for air.
The brand on my shoulder is a pulsing, screaming star of agony, syncing up with the jagged stabs of his cock.
I am a ruined thing. A broken bride.
“Peter!” I shriek one last time, my voice breaking into a high, thin wail that echoes off the ceiling.
Viktor lets out a low, agonising roar, his body locking up as he slams into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt.
I feel the hot, violent surge of his release flooding my insides, a burning invasion that makes me want to scream until my throat bleeds.
He stays there, pinned against me, his breath hitching, his forehead resting against mine as the adrenaline begins to ebb into a cold, hollow silence.
The silence is worse than the noise.
He slowly pulls out, the wet, sliding sound making me gag.
He stands up, his movements slow and satisfied, as he begins to adjust his clothes with the same chilling calm he had when he walked in.
He looks at me—naked, bleeding, branded, and chained to a wall of filth—and he doesn’t look disgusted. He looks possessive.
He reaches out, his thumb dragging a smear of my blood across my bottom lip. He leans in close, his scent of mint and copper filling my lungs one last time.
“I had planned to send your head to him in a box, Wendy,” he whispers, his eyes tracing the red glow of the ring on my finger. “But I think… I think I will keep you instead. A man can always use a beautiful ghost to haunt his house.”
He turns and walks toward the door, the heavy steel groaning open. He steps through, the light from the hallway casting his shadow across my broken body before the door slams shut, plunging me back into the absolute, suffocating dark.