Tahlia
My mouth still tastes like him.
Salt. Iron. Shame. Need. It coats my tongue, clings to my teeth, refuses to leave no matter how hard I swallow. I want to spit it back in his face, but he’d only make me lick it off the floor.
So I hold it.
I swallow it.
I let it burn inside me like acid.
He’s sprawled against me, heavy, breath thick and ragged, blood smeared across his throat where I cut him, across his chest where I clawed him, across my lips where he forced me to taste myself.
I should feel ruined. I should feel broken.
But what coils in my stomach isn’t ruin.
It’s fire.
Every word he forced out of me, every sound he dragged from my throat, every filthy confession—I hate him for it. I hate myself more. Because the hate is slick and wet and trembling between my thighs. Because the hate feels like need, like hunger, like something I’ll never escape.
My body aches for what he’s already given. My skin burns for more.
He shifts then, lifting his hook, dragging it slow across my collarbone, tracing a path down my chest. The cold bites, makes me shudder, makes my breath catch.
“You confessed,” he murmurs, voice low, guttural, as if he’s savouring the memory. “Now I’ll make it permanent.”
The hook lowers, cold steel pressing against the soft swell of my breast. My body jerks, panic and heat colliding in my veins.
“No—” The word cracks from my throat, thin, useless.
He smiles, sharp and cruel. “Yes.”
The steel presses harder, not enough to cut deep, but enough to score a line across my skin, shallow, stinging, burning. A brand, not a wound.
I gasp, back arching, eyes burning. He watches me like a god sculpting his altar.
“This isn’t ink,” he says softly, voice like gravel. “This isn’t paper. This is forever.”
As the line blooms red across my skin, I realise—he isn’t just writing on me, he’s carving me into who he always wanted me to be.
The hook bites shallow, a thin sting that sears hotter than fire.
My breath rips ragged from my throat, my chest arching against it.
I want to twist away, but his weight pins me, his hand grips my jaw, and the steel keeps moving, slow, deliberate, dragging across my skin like a pen etching a story into parchment.
It burns. It hums. It owns.
I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood, but the sound still tears out of me—a gasp caught between pain and something filthier.
His eyes don’t leave my face. He’s watching me more than the line he’s carving, feeding on every twitch, every breath, every betrayal of my body.
The hook lifts, cold and wet, and when I look down there it is: a shallow red mark scarring across the curve of my breast. Not deep enough to kill, not shallow enough to fade. A scar that will stay.
My chest heaves. My heart hammers. Shame floods my cheeks, hot and burning, but beneath it, something else coils—dark, sharp, addictive.
He drags the tip lower, circling my nipple, pressing just enough to make me cry out, my back bowing off the sheets. The sting lances through me, cruel and searing, but my thighs clamp together, wet, throbbing.
“Stop,” I rasp, the word cracking, fragile.
He tilts his head, lips curving. “Say that louder.”
I choke on a sob, tears sliding hot down my temples, my body trembling under his weight. “Stop.”
His laugh rumbles low, feral, vibrating through my bones. “And yet your cunt’s soaking the sheets.”
The hook scrapes lower, tracing my stomach, leaving faint red trails like tally marks across my skin. Each one is shallow. Each one is mine to carry. Each one says the same word.
His.
I close my eyes, but the darkness only makes it worse. I can feel every movement sharper, every scrape branding me deeper. My body arches, shudders, writhes, but I don’t fight him anymore. Fighting doesn’t erase the marks. Fighting just gives him more to carve.
When the hook finally lifts, my skin burns with fresh wounds, shallow but unyielding, my body trembling, breath torn and broken. I look down, and my chest, my stomach, my hips—they’re all streaked in red, painted with proof.
I hate myself for it because all I can think is that I’ve never looked more alive.
The sting is still fresh, every shallow line burning hot, my skin alive with fire and shame. My breath shudders out in broken gasps, my body trembling under him, and for a moment I think he’s finished—satisfied with what he carved into me.
His mouth finds the first mark, lips closing over the raw line, tongue dragging slow and wet across the wound. I jolt, a cry bursting free, half agony, half something far worse. My fists clench in the sheets, glass cutting into my palms, but I can’t move away.
He kisses it again, softer this time, sucking the blood until I feel his tongue lap it clean. Heat pools low in my stomach, filthy and wrong, but my thighs squeeze together, wetness already betraying me.
He moves lower, mouth finding the next line, lips worshiping what his hook carved. Each kiss is a brand of its own, searing deeper than the steel. He moans against my skin like my pain feeds him, like the taste of my blood is sweeter than anything else.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs between licks, his voice rough, guttural. “Every scar I give you makes you more mine.”
Tears streak my temples, my chest heaves, but my back arches into his mouth when he sucks hard at the mark beneath my breast, drawing another broken cry from me.
I hate it. I hate myself more.
My nipples tighten, aching, desperate, begging for his teeth.
He doesn’t miss it. His lips close around one, tongue circling, teeth biting until I scream. My hips jerk up off the bed, my pussy clenching, wet dripping down my thighs.
His laugh vibrates against my skin, cruel and triumphant. He drags the hook across my stomach while his mouth worships higher, pressing steel and lips into me at once, branding and blessing in the same breath.
“Your body knows the truth,” he growls, blood and spit shining across his mouth. “You were never meant to be clean. You were meant to be carved and kissed, cut and claimed. You were meant for me.”
Another sob rips free, but this one sounds like a moan, filthy and desperate. My hips grind against nothing, chasing friction, betraying every word I swore.
When his mouth finally leaves my chest, his lips trail wet down my stomach, over every raw line he carved, sealing each mark like a vow.
By the time he reaches my hips, I’m shaking, slick soaking the sheets, my body begging for him even as my mind screams no.
And I realize—
the marks aren’t just scars.
They’re doors.
And he’s opening every single one of them with his mouth.
His mouth trails lower, hot and wet, every kiss sealing another scar into me until I can’t tell where the steel ended and he begins. My thighs quake, slick already flooding down them, shame burning hotter than the wounds.
His hook presses flat against my hip, pinning me to the bed, cold biting my skin. His mouth finds the inside of my thigh, lips dragging slow, tongue painting circles over tender flesh until I gasp. Then his teeth sink in—sharp, deliberate, cruel.
I scream, my back arching off the sheets, blood blooming fast under his bite. He groans against it, sucking until I feel him swallow me down, until my thigh shakes uncontrollably.
“You taste better here,” he murmurs, lips smeared red, voice thick with hunger. “Closer to where you really live.”
Before I can speak—before I can breathe—he spreads me open with his hands, thumb bruising my thigh apart, dragging me wider until I’m bared to him completely. His breath hits me there, hot and hungry, and I want to slam my legs shut, want to hide, want to vanish.
His mouth is already on me.
Tongue dragging slow through my folds, lapping up the slick he forced from me, savouring every drop like it’s his due. My cry rips through the room, raw and broken, but he only moans against me, mouth working harder, hungrier, like he’s feasting on the confession my body made.
The hook presses harder into my hip, holding me down while his tongue carves me open, licking, sucking, worshiping what he just branded. He bites my inner lips, sucks them into his mouth, leaving new marks to join the scars.
I sob, thrash, claw at the sheets—but my hips betray me, grinding up into his face, chasing the ruin he’s giving me.
He laughs against my pussy, low and guttural, tongue plunging deep before dragging up to circle my clit. “That’s it. Grind yourself raw on my mouth. Brand yourself on my tongue. You’ll never be clean again.”
The words detonate inside me. I buck harder, sobbing, my thighs trembling as his teeth catch my clit, sharp and merciless. My scream shatters, echoing off the cage walls, my body convulsing in violent waves as he drinks me down like blood.
And when the orgasm rips through me, brutal and humiliating, his voice vibrates against me, taunting, triumphant, final:
“Your cunt’s signed the contract now.”
I collapse against the sheets, trembling, legs quaking, throat raw from the scream he wrung out of me. My body convulses with aftershocks, slick dripping down my thighs, soaking the paper and glass beneath me.
But he doesn’t stop.
He licks me slow, long strokes, cleaning me like he owns me, swallowing every drop until I can barely twitch beneath him. Then he drags his mouth up my stomach, leaving a wet trail over every shallow cut, every fresh scar.
I sob, gasping, jerking with each pass of his tongue, because the sting of blood mixing with my own release burns worse than fire.
“Perfect,” he murmurs against my skin, voice rough, drunk on me. “Your ruin tastes sweeter than your hate.”
He reaches my chest, lips closing over a mark he carved across my breast, and he spits my own slick across it. The warmth slides down my skin, sticky and filthy, before he smears it in with his mouth, licking, sucking, sealing the wound with what he stole from me.