Wendy #2
He looks older, harder. The boyish softness has been replaced by a predatory grace that makes my skin crawl and burn all at once. He is wearing a suit that cost more than a house, but he still looks like he belongs in the wild, holding a knife to someone’s throat.
“You… you were his b-best friend,” I slur, my tongue heavy, my heart fracturing in my chest. “You s-sold… you bought… why?”
Felix leans in close, his scent—cedar, gunpowder, and something darkly sweet—overwhelming the perfume and the booze. He reaches out, his bare hand—no longer gloved—sliding behind my neck. His skin is scorching hot against the cold steel of the collar.
“Peter became a King, Wendy. And Kings forget that the boys who helped them build their thrones are still hungry.” He runs a thumb over my split lip, his gaze dropping to the blood he smeared there.
“I didn’t just buy a prize. I bought the only thing Peter Hale ever truly loved.
I didn’t want the money, Wendy. I wanted the crown.
And in our world, the Queen is the crown. ”
He leans in, his nose brushing mine, his electric eyes boring into my soul. “He made you need him, didn’t he? He made you think he was the only sun in the sky. Well, look at you now. Drowned in my champagne, marked by my rival, and chained to my wrist.”
He lets out a low, dark chuckle, his hand sliding down to squeeze my throat just enough to make my head swim. “You look so beautiful when you’re broken, Wendy. It almost makes me want to be a better man. Almost.”
The Maybach swerves off the asphalt, the tires crunching over frozen pine needles and gravel until the headlights cut out, plunging us into a world of oppressive, ancient green.
The silence of the forest is heavy, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine and my own jagged, drug-thickened gasps.
Felix doesn’t say a word. He reaches across me, the scent of his skin—sharp and masculine—filling the small space. He unlatches the door and hauls me out by the chain. I hit the ground hard, my knees scraping against the frozen earth, the silk of the black dress fluttering like a dying crow’s wing.
“Get up,” he growls, jerking the lead.
He drags me deep into the tree line, past the point where the road disappears. The moon is a cold, silver eye watching through the canopy. He stops at a fallen cedar, the wood rotted and soft, and shoves me against it. The bark bites into my shoulder, right against the weeping brand Viktor gave me.
“You remember the woods, don’t you, Wendy?” Felix whispers, his voice a low, vibrating rasp. He steps between my legs, his thighs like pillars of heated stone. “This is where we used to play. But there are no games tonight.”
He sinks to his knees in the dirt.
His hands, large and scarred, slide up my thighs, bunching the black silk until I am completely exposed to the biting winter air. I try to pull away, my head lolling, my voice a broken, heroin-slurred whimper. “F-Felix… please… Peter… he’ll…”
“Peter isn’t here to hold your hand, Wendy. I am.”
He leans in, his face disappearing between my legs.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock—hot, wet, and agonisingly slow.
He isn’t rushing. He’s tasting the champagne, the salt, and the ruin Viktor left behind.
He licks a long, broad stripe from the base of my thighs to the very top, his tongue rough like a cat’s, dragging over my clit with a precision that makes my entire body vault against the tree.
“No… no, stop,” I sob, my fingers clawing at the rotting wood.
He doesn’t stop. He hums against me, the vibration traveling straight to my spine.
He uses his thumbs to pry me open, exposing the pink, swollen folds.
He begins to swirl his tongue around my clit, circling it with a rhythmic, maddening slowness.
It’s torture. He’s edging me through the haze, forcing my body to wake up even as my mind begs to stay under.
“You’re so sweet,” he mumbles against my wet skin, his breath hitching. “I’ve spent five years thinking about the way you taste. I’ve killed men just to get close enough to breathe the same air as you.”
He sucks the small, sensitive bud into his mouth, his teeth grazing it just enough to make me shriek.
I am shaking, my breath coming in short, panicked hitches.
Every time I get close to the edge, he pulls back, blowing cold air on my wetness until I’m whimpering for the heat to return.
He’s playing me like an instrument he’s spent a lifetime studying.
“Look at me,” he commands, pulling back just enough to look up at me. His blue eyes are predatory, glowing in the dark. “You’re mine now. Not a prize, not a lot number. Mine.”
He stands up, his hands going to his fly. The sound of the zipper is like a serrated blade in the silence. He reaches into his trousers and pulls himself out.
His cock is a masterpiece of violence. It’s thick, dark, and corded with heavy veins that pulse with every heartbeat.
It’s larger than anything I’ve ever seen, a heavy weight that looks like it could snap me in half.
He wraps his hand around it, his knuckles white, and I see a bead of pre-cum glinting on the blunt, broad head.
He doesn’t give me a moment to breathe. He seizes my waist, his fingers bruising the bone, and drives himself into me.
The impact is a rupture. I scream, the sound echoing through the dark pines, as he fills me to the absolute brim. He is so thick I feel my skin stretching to the point of tearing, his cock a hot, solid intrusion that reaches deep into my core, hitting my cervix with a dull, internal thud.
“Fuck,” he rasps, his head falling into the crook of my neck. “You’re so tight, Wendy. It’s like you’re trying to crush me.”
He begins to move—long, slow, grinding thrusts that emphasise every inch of his girth.
He isn’t just fucking me; he’s claiming the space inside me, erasing the memory of Viktor, erasing the ghost of Peter.
The friction is a searing, heavy heat that builds in my belly, a jagged coil of tension that even the heroin can’t numb.
“Say it,” he growls, his hand coming up to wrap around my throat, his thumb pressing into my windpipe just enough to make the stars blur. “Tell me who owns this pussy now.”
I can’t speak. I can only sob, my head thrashing against the cedar, my pussy clenching around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse as he drags me, screaming and broken, toward an edge I can no longer avoid.
Felix pulls back until he’s almost entirely out, the wet, sliding friction of his exit leaving me shivering and empty in the biting air. Just as I think he’s going to leave me, he presses the broad, throbbing head of his cock against my clit, circling it with agonising, rhythmic pressure.
“You want it, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice a dark, jagged rasp against my ear. “Even through the fog, your body knows exactly what I’m doing to it.”
I shake my head, a sob catching in my throat, but he just grinds his weight against me again.
He doesn’t thrust. He just slides the head of himself up and down the length of my opening, teasing the raw, sensitive skin until I’m whimpering, my hips involuntarily bucking forward to find the fullness I’m starving for.
Every time I try to take him, he retreats, leaving me gasping for the heat.
Suddenly, his hands are on the neckline of the silk slip. With a single, violent jerk, the fabric screams and gives way, tearing down to the waist. He bunches the ruined silk in his hands and tosses it into the dirt.
He reaches down and hauls me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he pins me against the cedar. My bare back scrapes against the rough bark, the cold air stinging my skin, but all I can feel is the sweltering, massive weight of him pressed against my core.
He latches onto my breast, his mouth a hot, wet vacuum.
He doesn’t just suckle; he bites, his teeth grazing the peak of my nipple before he begins to swirl his tongue around it in a slow, punishing circle.
I let out a high, broken moan that I can’t catch, the sound vibrating through the silent woods.
“That’s it,” he growls, his voice muffled by my flesh. “Give me those sounds, Wendy. I want to hear how much you hate that you’re leaking for me.”
He moves to the other side, licking a path across my chest, his tongue catching a stray drop of champagne before he devours my other nipple.
He sucks it deep into his mouth, his fingers digging into my ass, squeezing the soft flesh until it bruises.
The overstimulation is a physical weight—the cold wind, the rough bark, the searing heat of his mouth, and that thick, blunt head of his cock still mocking me, still refusing to go home.
I am a wire pulled too tight, vibrating with a frantic, jagged energy. “F-Felix… please… just… please…”
“Please what?” He pulls back, his eyes two electric-blue flames in the dark.
He’s breathing like a marathon runner, his chest heaving against mine.
He takes the head of his cock and pushes it just an inch inside me—barely the tip—before dragging it back out.
“You want me to stop? Or do you want me to split you wide open?”
He does it again. One inch. Two inches. Then he retreats. He is mapping my tolerance, pushing me to the very precipice of a breakdown. My pussy is clenching, a rhythmic, weeping pulse that is trying to pull him back in, my inner walls twitching with a life of their own.
“I can feel you begging,” he rasps, his hand coming up to snare my throat, his thumb tilting my head back. “I can feel your pulse jumping against my skin. You’re so ready to shatter, aren’t you?”
He lifts me higher, his muscles corded and straining under the weight, and then, with a slow, agonising deliberation, he sinks himself in.
He goes one inch at a time, forcing me to feel the sheer, brutal width of him as he stretches me open.
I cry out, a long, shattered sound that breaks the silence of the forest, as the fullness finally returns, deeper and harder than before.
He reaches the hilt and stops, burying himself deep in my womb, his forehead resting against mine as he lets out a long, guttural groan.
“Now,” he whispers, his voice thick with a crazed, obsessed hunger. “Now we start.”
He doesn’t stay at the tree. He keeps me wrapped around him, his cock still buried to the hilt, a thick, throbbing anchor that keeps us fused together as he treks deeper into the shadowed throat of the forest. Every step he takes jars him deeper into me, the rhythmic bounce of his gait sending sharp, white-hot stabs of sensation straight to the back of my skull.
He finds a hollow where the pine needles have piled into a thick, springy carpet, sheltered by the low-hanging boughs of an ancient hemlock. He lowers me down, but he doesn’t let go. He follows me to the earth, his massive weight pinning me into the soft, fragrant needles.
The heroin is a cruel mistress; it makes the world feel like it’s made of velvet, but it sharpens the agony of the betrayal.
I am a ghost, I think, my mind drifting like smoke through the trees. I died in the barn. This is just the haunting.
He begins to move, and it’s a revelation of filth.
He isn’t slamming into me anymore; he’s grinding, his hips rotating in a slow, agonising circle that makes his girth stretch my walls until I feel them thinning.
He’s thick enough to hurt, heavy enough to drown in.
Every time he pulls back, the vacuum of his exit makes me whimper, and every time he slides back in, he finds a new, raw spot to claim.
“F-Felix,” I rasp, the silver-blonde waves of his hair blurring as he looms over me. “Please… just… kill me. If you ever loved me… if you ever cared… just kill me now.”
He freezes. His hands, which were pinned beside my head, move to frame my face. He leans down, his lips brushing mine—not a kiss of comfort, but a kiss of absolute possession. He tastes of the champagne he forced down my throat and the cold winter air.
“Kill you?” he whispers against my mouth, his voice a low, vibrating growl. He hitches his hips, driving himself another inch deeper, bottoming out so hard I feel the impact in my lungs. “No, Wendy. I didn’t spend a hundred million dollars to watch you bleed out in the dirt.”
He licks my split lip, his tongue soft and teasing against the wound.
“I bought you to watch you live. I bought you so I could feel this—” he thrusts, a slow, wet slide of friction that makes my toes curl into the pine needles— “every single night for the rest of our miserable lives.”
He begins to pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming more rhythmic, more intentional.
I can hear the wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting mine, a primal percussion in the silence of the woods.
My pussy is a riot of nerves, clenching around his thick shaft with a desperate, involuntary hunger that makes my soul sick.
I hate you, I try to think, but the thought is swallowed by a surge of heat that starts at the base of my spine and radiates outward. I am melting. I am a candle being held to a blowtorch.
“You’re so tight for me,” he groans, his eyes blown wide, the electric blue practically glowing in the dark. “Even high out of your mind, you’re begging for more. You’re coming for the man who stole you, aren’t you?”
He reaches down, his fingers finding my clit again, grinding against it as he delivers a sequence of fast, shallow stabs that keep me right on the precipice of a break. I am sobbing now, my head thrashing on the forest floor, the pine needles poking into my bare back.
“Kill me,” I moan, the words dissolving into a high, broken keen as the orgasm begins to fracture my vision. “Please, Felix… don’t make me… don’t make me stay…”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” he snarls, his jaw locking as he prepares for his own release. He seizes my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand while the other continues to work me into a frenzy. “You’re staying right here in the dark with me. Forever.”
He gives one final, bone-crushing lunge, his entire body shuddering as he pours himself into me, his heat filling my womb and spilling over, a hot, sticky brand that tells the world—and the ghost of Peter—exactly who I belong to now.