Wendy #2
He begins to pump, a rhythmic, bone-crushing violence that sends me sliding forward in the hay with every strike. He reaches around, his large, calloused hands snaring my breasts. He pinches my nipples with a cruel, sharp pressure, twisting them until I’m gasping, while his other hand slides lower.
His thumb finds my clit, rubbing it with a heavy, grinding friction that is pure, unadulterated malice.
“Does Peter touch you like this?” he whispers, his breath hot and smelling of the copper of my split lip.
“Does he tell you how much of a whore you look like right now? Bleeding in the dirt, taking every inch of me while your husband is probably licking his wounds in some hole? You’re mine.
Every time I hit your cervix, I’m marking you deeper than that iron ever could. ”
He’s relentless, his hips slapping against my ass with a wet, rhythmic thud that echoes through the silent barn.
Every thrust is a jagged stab of fire, his cock a searing intrusion that leaves me breathless and shattered.
I am sobbing, my fingers clawing at the hay, my vision blurring as the pleasure he’s forcing out of me starts to mix with the blinding, white-hot agony of the assault.
“You’re going to cum for me again, aren’t you?” he snarls, his fingers working my clit into a frenzy of overstimulated nerves. “You’re going to scream my name while I fill you with everything Peter couldn’t give you.”
I hate myself as the coil in my belly tightens, a sick, visceral reaction to the sheer brutality of his pace.
My pussy is screaming, pulsing around his thick shaft, the friction generating a heat that threatens to consume me.
I am a ruined thing, a branded doll being used in the straw, and the worst part is the way my body is beginning to fracture under the weight of his conquest.
“Tell me,” he commands, his voice a dark, rhythmic snarl. “Tell me you’re my bitch.”
He yanks my hair back so hard my neck cracks, forcing my face up so I have to see my own reflection in the polished brass of a nearby harness. I look like a ghost—eyes blown wide with terror, lips smeared with a cocktail of milk and blood, and my body shivering under the onslaught of his weight.
“Look at you,” Viktor snarls, his voice a guttural rasp that vibrates through my skull.
He doesn’t slow down; he speeds up, his hips hitting me with the force of a battering ram.
Thud. Thud. Thud. “You’re taking all of me, aren’t you?
Your little pussy is so greedy, soaking up my cock like it’s been starving for a real man’s touch. ”
I let out a high, broken keen, my fingers digging into the dirt beneath the hay. The pain is a constant, white-hot hum, but the friction is becoming something else—something darker, a feverish heat that makes my breath hitch in a way that makes me want to die of shame.
“You think this is just a fuck?” he growls, his hand moving from my throat to my belly, his palm splayed flat against my skin as he drives into me with a violent, final depth.
“I’m going to fill you until you can’t walk.
I’m going to put my mark so deep inside you that you’ll swell with my seed, Wendy.
You’re going to carry my brat while Peter watches from a cage. ”
He leans down, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of my shoulder, right next to the raw, weeping brand. I scream, a muffled, shattered sound, as he whispers the filthiest promises into my skin.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having me pump my baby into you every single night until your belly is round and tight?
Imagine it, piccola fiamma. Me coming home, smelling of the men I’ve killed, and stripping you bare just to fuck my child deeper into your womb.
You’d be my little breeder, wouldn’t you? My broken, beautiful prize.”
He begins to lunge with a frantic, animalistic desperation, his cock hitting my cervix so hard I feel the impact in my throat.
I am a mess of tears and sweat, my walls clenching around him in a rhythmic, agonising grip.
I am drowning in the scent of cedar and his expensive, musky cologne, my mind fracturing as the climax he’s forcing out of me begins to claw at my senses.
“Fucking cum for me!” he bellows, his voice echoing through the rafters, startling the horses into a fresh frenzy of neighs and thundering hooves. “Let me feel you shatter around my cock so I know I’ve finally erased him!”
He seizes my hips, his fingers leaving deep, purple bruises in my flesh, and delivers a final, punishing sequence of thrusts.
I am sobbing, my head thrashing against the hay, my body erupting in a violent, jagged orgasm that feels like a betrayal of every memory I have of Peter.
I am cumming for the monster, my pussy milking him in a desperate, primal rhythm while the hot, heavy surge of his release floods my womb.
He groans, a long, low sound of triumph, and collapses against my back, his chest heaving, his sweat dripping onto my skin. I hang there, my face in the dirt, feeling the hot, wet slide of him inside me—a permanent stain on my soul.
He stays there for a long moment, savouring the wreckage, before he slowly pulls out. The sound is wet and horrific in the sudden silence of the barn. He stands up, looking down at me as I lie broken in the hay, my body still twitching with the remnants of the shock.
“Clean yourself up,” he says, his voice back to that cold, clinical chill as he begins to buckle his belt. “I have a guest arriving shortly, and I want you to be presentable. It would be bad form for your husband to see you looking so… used.”
I collapse into the filth of the barn floor the second his weight leaves me.
My knees hit the packed earth with a dull thud, and I stay there, curled into a ball of shivering, ruined flesh.
The hay is stuck to my damp skin, pricking the raw edges of the brand on my shoulder, but I don’t move to brush it off.
I can’t move. My body feels like a house that’s been gutted by fire—blackened, hollow, and still smouldering with the heat of his intrusion.
I watch the blood and the thick, white slick of him drip from my thighs, staining the golden straw beneath me. It’s a map of my own destruction.
“He won’t want me,” I whisper. My voice is a jagged, unrecognisable rasp that barely carries over the sound of the rain drumming on the tin roof. “He won’t want me now.”
I look at the ruby ring on my finger. It’s still there.
Still glowing. A beacon for a man who is looking for a girl who no longer exists.
Peter didn’t marry this thing lying in the dirt.
He didn’t put his mark on a woman who has another man’s seed cooling inside her, who has another man’s brand burned into her collarbone, who felt her own body betray her in the dark.
“Just kill me,” I say to the empty, echoing rafters. A sob racks my chest, making the torn muscles of my core scream in protest. “Viktor! Come back and just fucking finish it. Please.”
I dig my fingernails into the dirt, clawing at the earth as if I could bury myself alive right here. I feel the phantom weight of Viktor’s hands still bruising my hips, the phantom stretch of his cock still splitting me open. I can’t scrub him off. He’s under my skin. He’s in my blood.
Every breath I take tastes like the hay he stuffed into my mouth. Every heartbeat thuds against the brand he gave me.
“Peter,” I choke out, my forehead resting on my own blood-stained wrists. I close my eyes, and all I can see is the look on his face if he found me like this. The disgust. The pity. The realisation that I’m tainted beyond repair. I’m a broken toy. I’m a ruined prize.
The gold chains around my wrists feel heavier than they ever have before—not like jewellery, but like anchors dragging me down into the mud. I’m not a Queen anymore. I’m just a body.
“Please,” I whisper into the shadows, my eyes wide and vacant as I stare at the barn door. “Anyone. Just… just kill me before he sees what I am.”
The silence that follows is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s the sound of a life ending while the heart is still beating. I lie there in the straw, a branded, bleeding ghost, waiting for a saviour I’m now too terrified to face.