Her body jerked and heaved, slamming down harder, punching her cervix with each desperate thrust. Her cunt spasmed violently around the thickness, but the stretch kept her wide, helpless, quivering — muscles firing, nerves flaring, nothing under control.
She couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop the sobs that tore loose between gasps. Her body bucked like it wanted to crawl deeper, to break itself apart to chase one more flicker of sensation. Every twitch was a betrayal, every spasm an admission that she needed everything Silas had done tonight.
Every. Fucking. Thing.
When she finally collapsed, boneless and broken, he moved with clinical calm. Stepped forward, slid his arms under hers, and lifted her — pulled her ruined cunt off the thick dildo with a wet, obscene sucking sound that echoed like a slur.
Her cunt tried to close but couldn’t. It twitched helplessly, gaping, wrecked.
The air hit it raw. Her whole body shuddered.
Part of her reeled, horrified at what she’d done, at how desperately she’d begged.
But deeper down, below shame, below thought, a darker truth curled warm and tight in her belly:
The shame wasn’t something to overcome anymore; it was fuel.
“Your pussy’s fucking wrecked,” Silas said, carrying her across the room. Draping her over the fucking bench, adjusting it to his height with practiced ease, connecting her wrist and ankle cuffs.
She didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch.
She didn’t moan when he shoved into her ass. Didn’t whimper. Didn’t fight.
He was fast. Brutal. Detached. Just another use. Just another hole.
He emptied into her like she was nothing but a receptacle, then pushed the plug in without comment. Her ass clenched, but it was already too late; she’d been filled, sealed, marked.
What was it with the wolves always plugging their come into her?
He lifted her when it was over, and she didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Her body was done. She hung limp in his arms, legs dangling, chest still heaving. A fucked-out ragdoll — thighs trembling, cunt twitching, ass plugged full of him. Broken and used. Finished.
But he didn’t take her to bed, didn’t cradle her, didn’t offer softness or comfort.
Instead, he set her back on the bondage table like she was just another object in the room, and he turned to the cabinets.
Her heart stopped beating when he returned with the Perifit.
She whimpered without sound.
The soft, unforgiving silicone slipped in easily because her body gave no resistance. She was stretched, ruined, gaping — thefucking floor cock had made sure of that. There was no friction. No fight left in her body.
He pulled up the app on his phone, held it so she couldn’t see the screen. “All right. Let’s see how wrecked you really are. Hold each contraction for five seconds. Keep going until I say you can stop.”
She squeezed,hard, tried to pull her muscles in tight, tried to prove she wasn’tcompletelydestroyed.
He didn’t even glance at her. Just shook his head while he looked at his phone.
“Nope. Maybe actually try this time.”
Humiliation scorched her chest. She clenched harder, pulled everything up and in with everything she could.
But he shook his head. “That’s two fails.”
Tears welled again. She gritted her teeth. Squeezed so hard her stomach cramped.
He didn’t even blink. “Still weak. I guess Boone’s hand destroyed your hole so much, even a dildo is too much for you.” His voice was calm. Flat. “That, or this cunt’s just getting lazy.”
She shook. Not from fear. From shame.
