I’m left trembling, soaked, utterly his.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
RAVEN
Istir awake, the heaviness between my legs demanding attention. It's not pain, not quite discomfort, but a primal, insistent need. The plug seated firmly inside me shifts slightly as I move, a constant reminder of his presence, his claim. Each tiny movement makes me feel him again—the stretch, the burn, the overwhelming fullness. My breath hitches, body dripping with the remnants of his invasion, the sheet beneath me damp with my desire and his leftover essence.
My thighs are slick and sticky, my cunt throbbing with a hunger that gnaws at my core. My mouth is parched from the endless begging that echoed through the empty room. I haven't found my release yet, and the ache within me has grown into a monster, clawing at my insides, craving more. I know what I am now—his. Used. Filled. Plugged and awaiting his permission to be anything else.
The door creaks open, but I don't lift my head. I merely whisper, "Please." The door groans wider, and I can feel him before I see him. His silence is heavy, a weight that presses down on me, like a sanctified burden. I shift, whimper, and roll to myside, the plug grinding deeper with my movement. The sheets cling to my skin, but I peel myself away, hands meeting the floor first, then knees.
I crawl. Not because he commands it, but because I know I should. Because my body yearns to. Because my cunt aches for his acknowledgment. The burn of being filled isn't enough unless he sees me wearing it. He stands in the doorway, arms folded, watching. No smile. No command. Just expectation.
I reach his boots and stop, panting, shaking, dripping. I don't look up. I lower my head and whisper, "I'm ready." His voice descends like thunder, "Prove it." The floor is cold, hard, unforgiving beneath my knees, but I don't move. I keep my eyes down, hands behind my back, thighs parted just enough to let the slick drip freely. Let him see what I've become.
Damien looms above me like a chosen shadow. Silent. Still. Waiting. I swallow, open my mouth, and break. "Please..." It comes out rough, raw, torn from me. "Please touch me. Please say I've been good. Please take it out and fuck me or leave it in and ruin me again." My voice trembles, but I keep going. "I can still feel it leaking, and I want to wear it longer. I want to wake up wrecked and go to sleep worse. I want you to use my mouth to quiet your thoughts and my cunt to punish your sins."
He exhales sharply, still silent, still watching. So I beg harder. "I'll do anything. Crawl for you every morning. Sleep on the floor. Let you edge me with a look and deny me with a whisper. Just—please—let me serve you again." My throat cracks on the last word. It's not just about pleasure anymore. It's about being kept.
Damien finally steps forward, two fingers sliding under my chin, lifting my gaze. His fingers stay under my chin, thumb grazing my jaw, not gentle, just... inspecting. Like I'm something he's about to break all over again. "You want to serve me?" His voice is low, deadly soft. "Yes," I breathe. He hears it. He stepsback, unbuckles his belt with one slow pull, unzips, lets his cock fall heavy and hard in his hand—still glistening from last night's ruin. "Then start with your mouth."
My breath shudders, and I move forward instinctively—on my knees, wrists still behind my back, neck bared, like an offering. When my lips wrap around him, he exhales as if I've finally done something right. I suck slowly at first, letting him feel every inch, every drag, every wet pull of tongue and hollowed cheeks and reverent moan that escapes me as I taste him again—salt and power and ownership.
He grips my hair, commanding, "Deeper." I take more, gag once, but don't stop. This isn't about choking. It's about submission. He groans, hand tightening in my hair. "That's it. You're not a girl anymore. You're a ritual. A hole that prays with its throat." I moan around him because that's what I want to be. Not his lover. Not his pet. His altar.
His body jerks, cock pulsing, but he doesn't come. He pulls out, wipes my mouth with his thumb, and whispers, "You want your reward? Hands on the floor. Back arched. Don't look up unless you want to cry." I drop to the floor like I was made for it, palms down, back arched, face burning with need and shame and something darker I don't want to name.
The plug inside me shifts, still locked deep, still buzzing faintly—his come sealed inside me. Damien circles behind me, slow and deliberate, his boots echoing on the tile, each step a countdown. "Don't look up." I don't. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, mouth slightly open, breath shaking, dripping between my legs.
"You want to be filled again?" he asks. "Yes," I admit. "You want to be used like a fucktoy until you forget you were ever a person?" "Yes," I confess. He drops to one knee behind me, hand on the small of my back, pressing me lower. I fold deeper, chest grazing the cold tile, ass arched high, open, exposed, his.
"You don't come," he growls, lining up behind me, his cock sliding over my folds, gathering the mess I'm still leaking. "Not until I say your name." He pushes in, slow, brutal, stretching me around the plug still locked inside. I scream, but I don't break. This is what I begged for. This is what I need.
He fucks me with a steady, punishing rhythm, hand gripping my hair, the other sliding around to cup my throat. And he whispers, "What are you?" "Yours," I gasp. "What's your purpose?" "To serve. To ache. To wear your come until I'm nothing else." He growls—sharp, raw, ruined, and keeps going. Each thrust drives the plug deeper, each snap of his hips presses him further than the last—like he's trying to carve space inside me where I don't exist yet.
I'm soaked, my body shaking, the slap of skin filling the room, mixing with the lewd, wet sound of his cock pounding into me and my voice—choked, cracking, begging without words. He presses down on my back, commanding, "Still." I freeze, forehead to the tile, hands clawing the floor, but I don't move. Because I'm not allowed to. Because he hasn't said my name.
"Say it," I sob. "Please... say it—" He grips my throat from behind, pulling me up just enough so he can growl into my ear, "Not yet. You don't get your name back until you come apart without it." My clit pulses, the plug shifts, his cock drives deeper, and I bite my lip to keep from falling. Because if I come now—I fail.
He thrusts harder, meaner, the table scraping beneath me, the world blurring. I start to shake. "Damien—please—I need it—" He pulls out halfway, holds, and then, in a breath so soft it nearly breaks me, "Raven." I come. Hard. Too hard. My scream hits the floor, my body snaps, legs buckling, cunt clenching around everything inside me—the plug, his cock, the ache. And all I can think is: He gave it back to me. My name. My ruin. My release.
My body collapses onto the floor, every muscle twitching, thighs soaked, chest heaving, cunt still fluttering around nothing—empty and aching. He stands behind me, breath steady, not ragged, not ruined. He didn't come. That realisation slices through the fog. And I hate that I still want him. That I want his release sealed inside me again. That I want to be plugged and stuffed and sent to bed with his heat dripping down my thighs.
But I do. I feel him step forward, kneeling again. He gathers the slick leaking out of me with his fingers. "Don't waste it." And then—I hear it. That familiar sound. The plug. Clicking open. I cry out, "No—" not from fear, from desire. Because I want to keep every drop. But he presses it back in—slow and brutal. "You begged to wear it." His voice is low, final. "So wear it."
The plug locks, the ache sharpens, and I moan, face to the floor, knees spread. He leans down, kisses my spine, whispers against my skin, "Good girls don't leak what they're given. Good girls stay full." And I do. I stay right there, plugged, shaking, owned, exactly how he wants me. I don't move. I couldn't if I tried. The plug is locked inside me, sealing every drop of his come like a ritual—one I asked for, one I earned.
The tile beneath me is cold, but I'm warm everywhere—between my legs, behind my eyes, under my skin, where his voice still lives. Damien kneels beside me, not touching, just watching. And I feel it—his satisfaction. Not just because he broke me. Because I let him. Because I crawled to it. Chose it. Became it.
His fingers brush a damp strand of hair from my cheek, his voice barely a breath, "You'll sleep here tonight." I nod, cheek to the floor, eyes closed, cunt pulsing around the plug, heart still wrecked open with the echo of his name. And when I finally fall asleep, I'm still full, still ruined, still his.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
DAMIEN
She doesn’t move, not even to tremble. She just stays there—on the floor where I left her, plugged, raw, kneeling in my silence. The stillness isn’t obedience; it’s exhaustion, worship scraped to the bone. Her breath catches every few seconds, like her body’s still afraid to inhale too loudly.
And me? I haven’t said a word. Not since I whispered,prove it.Not since I watched her crawl to my boots like penance wrapped in skin. She said she was ready—she believed it—but what she doesn’t understand, what she can’t, is that I’m the one who isn’t. I’m not ready to touch her, not ready to hear my name in her mouth like it still means mercy, not ready to see what I’ve made her become.
