Instead the pain is sharp and bright and perfect, a blade cutting through fog. It makes me aware of every nerve ending in my body. Every place we're joined in blood. Every place we're about to be joined in flesh.
His cock is pressed against my entrance now. I can feel the blunt head nudging through slick, through blood, seeking its way home. The pressure is already too much. He's too big—I knew he would be, knew from the feel of him against my thigh, but knowing and feeling are different animals entirely.
Even with how wet I am, even with my body preparing for this like it was born to, he's going to split me open.
Good.
I want it to hurt.
I arch up and bite his throat again, right over the half-healed cut from the knife. My teeth sink in and the wound reopens like a flower blooming, like it's been waiting for me to return. Fresh blood floods my mouth in hot pulses that match his racing heartbeat.
He snarls against my hair.
Then his hips snap forward.
And he's inside me.
The penetration is brutal. One violent thrust that buries him to the hilt, that seats him so deep I feel him in my throat. No gentleness. No mercy. No working me open inch by careful inch. Just sudden, complete, devastating invasion.
I scream into his throat.
The sound is muffled by blood and flesh but it tears from me anyway—raw and animal and completely involuntary, ripped from someplace deeper than my chest.
Too big.
The thought surfaces distant and clinical, immediately drowned by sensation so overwhelming my mind whites out trying to process it.
He's too big and it burns and I'm being split open and it's perfect and terrible and I've never felt anything like this and I'm dying and I'm being born and I can't tell the difference?—
My inner walls clench around the intrusion, trying to adjust, trying to accommodate something that shouldn't fit. The stretch is impossible. I can feel myself tearing around him. Feel the give of tissue that shouldn't give. Feel blood—not slick, real blood—running down to join the mess already pooling beneath us.
The pain is blinding.
Then it's not.
Then it's something else entirely.
Pleasure crashes through the pain like a wave breaking over rocks, tangling with it, becoming inseparable until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. Every nerve ending lights up like stars being born. The stretch that should be agony becomes devastating fullness. The burn becomes heat that has nothing to do with biology and everything to do with him, with us, with this impossible thing we're doing.
I can feel every inch of him.
Every ridge. Every vein. Every subtle texture of him mapped against my inner walls. The thick shaft stretching me beyond what should be possible. The blunt head seated so deep it's touching places I didn't know existed, places that have never been touched, places that were waiting for exactly this. The pulse of him inside me—matching his heartbeat, matching mine, syncing until we share a single rhythm.
He's trembling. I can feel it through his cock, through his body pressed against mine, through his throat where my teeth are still buried.
"Fuck," he breathes, and his voice is wrecked. "You're so tight. So hot. I can feel you squeezing me like you're trying to keep me forever."
I bite down harder.
Don't want his words. Don't want him human. Want him lost to this the way I'm lost, drowning in sensation until there's nothing left but need.
His blood pours into my mouth. I swallow it down like communion wine, feel it burning through my veins like poison or magic or both.
Then he moves.
Pulls back. The drag of him against my sensitized walls draws a broken sound from my throat—half sob, half moan, entirely involuntary. I feel every inch of the withdrawal like he's taking part of me with him. Feel the emptiness that rushes in behind, cold and wrong. Feel myself clenching down trying to keep him inside where he belongs.
Then he slams back in.
