Natalya #2
My body is limp, entirely at his mercy, my back arched, my head tilted against his shoulder as if he’s the only structure keeping me upright.
His arms are so wide around me that I have the disorienting sense he’s holding every piece of me at once, that there isn’t a single inch of my body he wouldn’t gather back together if it dared to fall apart.
His fingers travel down from my stomach and find my pussy again.
The gentleness he puts in caressing my clit stands in brutal contrast to the relentless force with which he’s entering me from behind, killing me, then bringing me back to life all over again, until the heat rises and splits through me, my body seizes, and stills under it.
My fingers tangle in his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. I want him to feel it too. I want the ache to travel both ways. I have a visceral need to mark him, to make him tremble as well, to drag him down to the same ruthless edge I’m standing on.
My eyes fall and I exist only in sensation and the steady friction of our bodies moving together. The world narrows until there is nothing left but that sound, that heat, that unbearable closeness.
We collapse into each other, fused in a way that feels less physical and more eternal or infinite. It feels like something I cannot survive losing again.
The release hits like a small death—disorienting and obliterating.
My entire body trembles under it, muscles locking and giving way at once, my whole internal being throbbing.
The sounds that leave me don’t belong to language anymore, they are raw loud cries for him saturated with lust and anger and hatred.
When the tremor loosens its grip and I drift back toward consciousness, he moves with decisive control.
He pulls out, rises, and lifts me with him in one fluid motion, holding me against him so my feet barely brush the ground.
“Wait—” I try to talk, but it’s pointless.
Two steps carry us up the low stone stairs toward the altar, and he puts me onto it face forward. I feel like a bag of potatoes being thrown on a table, but I don’t complain.
“I can’t stop now, baby,” he says through an audible smile.
My palms meet the surface, keeping me upright. My body is still hypersensitive, trembling in the aftermath with every nerve awake.
Bent forward over the stone, I feel exposed as he stands behind me, but the torturous exposure doesn’t last long before he moves, thrusting back into me, and the force feels even more merciless now that my body is oversensitive after the first orgasm.
The ache that follows is like bliss and punishment fused together, spreading through me like something molten. My forehead drops helplessly against the cold stone of the altar beneath me because I can’t hold myself upright anymore, all my strength dissolves the second he claims that rhythm again.
He grips the long braid of my hair and pulls me back up, forcing my gaze toward the angels above us while he moves inside me, savoring control, slow enough to make every inch unbearable, as if he knows damn well how sensitive my pussy is right now. Of course he knows.
“I need you to scream like before,” he murmurs, voice frayed but steady. “I’m obsessed with the sound.”
He makes me feel every inch of him, every vein scraping on the inside of me, every little movement precise and deliberate as he’s savoring his dick in the silky mess I made. As if this is more about reclaiming something he thinks was always his.
I can feel the heat drip down my pussy like a proof of how my body missed him, how much I am able to produce for him.
He leans in, still holding my braid, drawing me closer until his lips hover at my ear.
“Do you know how dripping wet you are,” he forces out, words splintered. “How fucking gorgeous you are?”
A broken sound escapes me, something like agreement.
“Uh-huh,” I hum, my throat not able to form words.
Every sound we make echoes through the space around us, bouncing off the sacred objects, making it sound like some filthy choral.
He’s taking me slow, moving inside me so tenderly, then brutally deep, then easing out.
I can feel another release building with every little inch and I don’t need any other stimulation anymore.
Every measured motion tightens the coil inside me.
My body is already clenching around him, already betraying me and tipping toward another collapse.
But he stops and the pleasure snaps mid-air.
A frustrated, desperate sound tears from me, but he stays still, leaving me hollow and burning. All I feel is his breath near my ear.
“You haven’t said my name once,” he says, tone destroyed but commanding.
“I can’t,” I pant, anger mixing with want, my hips betraying me as they move instinctively toward him.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
“Yes you can.”
“No,” I protest weakly, my hips squirming, feeling his tip just there on the verge of my happiness.
“I need you to say it. To cry it out loud.”
I don’t give him an answer.
He drives back into me, reclaiming the rhythm just enough to build the pressure back up and to remind my body who it responds to. He lets it rise, lets it crest and holds me there, suspended, his own growls giving away how torturous this is for both of us.
“Say it, Natalya,” he chokes out, voice cracking at the edges. “Let it mean pleasure. Not pain.”
“Don’t make me.”
“I’ll definitely make you,” he murmurs, and there’s no mockery in it now, just devotion.
He splits me in half again, diving back in, repeating the slow and blissful suspense until I reach for the peak and my pussy gives me away. He takes me right to the edge and then holds me there, trembling, unfulfilled on purpose.
It’s pure cruelty.
“Oh fuck you!” I snap.
I can feel his mouth curling into an evil smile right against the skin of my neck.
“I will,” he replies, now the mockery is there. “If you say it, c’mon.”
His mouth finds the sensitive spot on the back of my neck right when he rushes back into me, tenderly and incredibly right to bring back the sensation instantly.
It’s not even a kiss, he’s eating me alive.
It breaks me. I’m beyond every rational sense right now.
The sounds I make don’t even feel like mine anymore, they feel like his. He owns every note my body produces.
“Adrien,” I breathe out finally, barely audible.
Something in me loosens, like a relief. As if I was crying the name out of sleep every night and my mouth was suddenly sealed the second I woke up.
“Mhm.” A low, satisfied hum vibrates through him, felt more than heard. “Again.”
The sound of him is bringing me right to the edge.
“Adrien,” I moan the name, feeling every syllable bringing me closer to deliverance of the chains in my head.
“Yes baby, again.”
“Adrien. Adrien. Adrien. Adrien. Adrien.”
The chains break completely, spreading a warm sensation throughout the space of my mind and my core.
“Natalya,” he exhales through a satisfied little smile.
His name pours out of me like something that needed to be released for a long time and ricochets around us like prayers. I can’t control it anymore as it slips out of me between every thrust.
“Adrien. Adrien. Adrien—”
“Natalya. Natalya—”
Our names change from words into euphoric sounds.
I fall into absolute delirium as he paints the inside of me, every drop of his cum marking its territory while I hum, eating up the heat spilling into me.
He lets go of my braid and I drop to the altar, desperately trying to catch a breath that is not coming yet. His hands drop beside my head and he trails kisses down my spine, marking every vertebra through my clothes.
“I love you—” he whispers, then moves an inch lower. “I love you.” Another kiss. “I love you.” Another vertebra. “I love you.” Another whisper. “I love you.”
“I still hate you,” I exhale, feeling lethargic.
He doesn’t argue it. He silently smiles with the last kiss on my cheek.
My pulse gradually steadies, and he circles his arms around my waist from behind, lifting me with effortless control only to turn me around and settle me back onto the altar, face to face with him.
He finds my lips like he’s been starving for them, like this kiss has been waiting in his lungs the entire time.
It’s deep, romantic, gentle and rough all at once.
So romantic I almost don’t notice he’s taking all my clothes off, frantically scraping my jeans off my legs, unzipping my boots and discarding everything on the ground.
“I’m so not done with you,” he mutters against my mouth, the corner of his lips lifting into something dangerously sinful. “I’m taking back every second we lost.”
He only has two hands, but every word he speaks feels like another stroke along the most sensitive parts of me.
The altar under my bare skin is cold but sleek, and the heat my body possesses now welcomes it.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull my top over my head and I lift my arms without thinking.
Then my bra is suddenly gone, stripped away so abruptly a startled giggle escapes me before I can stop it.
He stops moving right after flicking off the rest of my underwear.
And suddenly I’m naked entirely, without even registering how the hell that happened. Not a single piece of fabric clings to my body anymore as I’m sat up on the majestic altar, right under the vast praying stone hands.
He steps back, two steps.
His lips part as he takes me in, giving himself distance like he needs to confirm I’m real, like what he’s seeing requires space to fully take in. His breathing matches that of someone who has just climbed a mountain and is still stunned by the view.
The sinfulness of this act consumes me and wakes something even more heretical in me. I arch my back, stretch my arms behind me and bend my knees to embody exactly what is going through his mind right now.
A feast spread on the altar like an offering.
His gaze is dark and corrupted, dragging on every curve of my body exposed like this as if this is the dirtiest fantasy of his coming to life. His eyes scan every inch of me, catching much longer on my full breasts that I know he’s obsessed with.