He called me Wren. My stomach flipped and then went cold. I wanted to know why.
“Can I ask you why you are calling me Wren?”
“Sure. Because you are my little bird, flitting around chirping wishing someone would see you. But you’re like a thousand other birds just like you, all making the same noise. So you try to chirp louder, doing stupid fucking shit that will get you killed. And I’m not just talking about what you’re wrapped up innow, hacker. If you’re not careful, you’ll wind up just another dead little bird on the side of the road. But lucky for you, you have a big, bad monster who has a Wren-sized cage who’s gonna keep an eye on you and maybe, just maybe, keep you alive. But for now, I’m about to fuck your feathers off.”
He pulled off the oversized t-shirt that I slept in, and that left me completely bare to him. Then he kissed me again, harder this time, and let his hand trace down the side of my neck, over thebones of my shoulder and straight to the softest part of my breast. I was hypersensitive, every cell on high alert, each brush of his knuckle a spark in dry brush. His fingers found my nipple, pinched and twisted, rolling it between calloused pads until it throbbed with pain, then heat, then an ache that traveled straight down to my cunt. I wanted to say something—a smart remark, a threat, anything to keep my head above water—but his mouth devoured mine and left me breathless.
He kept at it, working my breasts like a mechanic tuning a precision engine. At first just one hand, then two—one palming the fullness, the other tweaking and tormenting the nipple until it stood like a warning light. When he wanted a change of pace, he used his teeth. Nipped, then bit down hard enough that I yelped. He kissed the mark, tongue cool and sweet, before moving to the other side and starting over.
All the while, his thigh was pressed between mine, a pressure point I couldn’t ignore. I ground down against it and hated myself for the desperation. He laughed into my neck, as if he’d been waiting for me to make the first move.
“Fucking knew you’d be like this,” he muttered, breath tickling my ear. “Tough little bird. Always needing to be broken in.”
He slid down, using his body weight to pin me. My arms were above my head, limp and useless, but he made sure they stayed there by grabbing both wrists and holding them with one hand. The other hand drifted down my stomach, splayed out wide, his thumb tracing lazy circles just under my navel. I tried to pull free, but the grip was absolute. I was helpless, and the realization sent a jolt of molten electricity straight through me.
He used his other hand to part my thighs. His fingers were gentle at first, just petting the outside of my mound, but the touch was invasive—a searchlight, a customs inspection, nothing shy about it. He spread me open with two fingers, pressed his thumb right onto my clit, and held it there, firm but not moving.
“Wet already?” he said, sounding genuinely pleased. “I haven’t even gotten started.”
He was right. I was soaked, embarrassingly so, the kind of arousal that made a mess of the sheets and stuck to your thighs in the morning. He toyed with my slit, slow and clinical, like he was seeing how far he could stretch me before I broke. When he was satisfied, he slid one finger inside, all the way up to the knuckle.
I moaned, couldn’t help it. He pumped in and out, slow at first, then faster. The heel of his palm ground into my clit at the bottom of every thrust. I was writhing now, body trying to squirm away, but he just shifted his weight and kept going, adding another finger, then a third. It hurt, but not in a way I wanted to stop. I clenched around him, and he laughed again, a sound that made me want to both spit in his face and beg for more.
“Good girl,” he said, voice so low it vibrated inside my chest. “You’re gonna come for me, right here.”
I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But my body had other plans. I could feel it building, a pressure cooker of want and humiliation, and I tried to fight it but the more I resisted, the stronger it got. He must have sensed the shift, because he let go of my wrists and reached up to grab my jaw, forcing me to look him in the eye as he fucked me with his fingers.
“You’re mine now,” he said. “Say it.”
I shook my head, just barely. “No,” I whispered.
He squeezed my jaw hard enough to hurt. “Say it.”
“Fuck you,” I managed.
He grinned and then pushed me harder. His thumb worked my clit now, fast and mean, while his fingers filled me up. I bucked under him, couldn’t help it. The pressure inside me snapped, and I came—loud, eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent scream. It was a full-body orgasm, the kind that leaves you trembling and weak, that makes your toes curl and your lungs seize up.
He didn’t stop. He kept working me through the aftershocks until I was oversensitive and kicking at him to make it stop. Only then did he pull his hand free and wipe it on the bedsheet.
I lay there, dazed and half-blind, trying to catch my breath. He rolled me onto my stomach, slow and deliberate, and used his gigantic hands to massage the muscles up and down my spine. He found the knots and pressed them out, kneaded the flesh until it hurt, then soothed it with long strokes.
I would have fallen asleep right there, but then I felt his hand drift lower, down to the curve of my ass. He squeezed, then spread the cheeks apart, exposing my hole. I tensed, a ripple of panic surging through me.
He noticed of course. “You’re so fucking tight,” he said, almost reverent. He ran a finger over the pucker, just barely touching, then pressed down until I thought I’d break in half. I clenched, tried to shut him out, but he just chuckled and spanked me—once, twice, three times, each hit ringing out like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“That’s not how this works,” he said, voice in my ear. “You want to clench? I’ll give you something to clench around.”
He spat on his finger and pushed it against the hole, forcing it in slow, one knuckle at a time. I gasped, shocked at the stretch, at the way it made me feel both violated and alive. He worked it in and out, shallow at first, then deeper, until I couldn’t tell where the pain stopped and the pleasure began.
He used his other hand to reach under and finger my pussy at the same time. I was crying now, not from pain, but from the intensity of it, from the sheer, unfiltered reality of what he was doing to me.
He leaned down, mouth hot against my ear. “You know what I want, Wren? I want to fuck you so hard you can’t walk straight tomorrow. I want you to remember who owns you every time you sit down. You think you can handle that?”
I shook my head, sobbing now. “No, I can’t,please—”
He bit the back of my neck, hard and drove his finger deeper. “Yes, you can. You’re gonna take it. Because that’s what you were made for.”
He kept it up, alternating between the two holes, until I was a mess of sweat and tears and shame. When he finally pulled his hands away, I felt empty and desperate, like I’d lost something important.
