“Please, no,” I sobbed, but the words were weak, a desperate plea against the overwhelming force of him.
He ignored me. He just kept pushing, pushing, a slow, inexorable pressure that was as terrifying as it was determined. My body fought him, my muscles clenching, trying to repel this invasion, but it was useless. He was too strong, too relentless, too merciless. I tried to push up against the bed, but for me, there was no way out.
I was about to get my bottom fucked for the first time in my life.
Then, with a final, brutal thrust, he was fully inside me.
I shrieked into the blankets, a ragged, pained sound that was swallowed up by the duvet. I felt impossibly full and stretched to my absolute limits.
For a moment, he just held still, letting me adjust, letting my body become accustomed to his cock.
Then he started to move.
He pulled back slowly until he was all the way out, and I choked with relief. But it was nowhere near over. He made me endure the whole thing all over again as he immediately pushed back into my abused bottom. When he was buried to the hilt once more, he suddenly pulled back and then slammed forward. The pain was staggering, an agonizing, stinging burn, but it was changing. It was blurring into a hot, fierce sensation that was connecting directly to the traitorous ache in my pussy. The same pussy that was still dripping, slick with my own arousal.
He fucked me.
Hard.
The line between pain and pleasure had become so thin it was almost nonexistent and I both hated and loved every second of it.
“Look at you,” he grunted, his rough voice deep and possessive. “Taking my cock in your tight little ass so well. Your body knows what it needs.”
He was right. Damn him, he was right. This was what I’d been craving, what I’d been running from my whole adult life. Thiswas the consequence of my own actions, the price of my own desire. I had fantasized about him fucking me, and now, here it was, more intense, real, and overwhelming than I could have ever imagined.
He reached around, his fingers finding my clit, still swollen and sensitive. He circled it, his touch a stark contrast to the ruthless rhythm of his hips. The dual sensations were overwhelming, a perfect storm of bliss that was pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
“Come for me, Kara,” he commanded. “I want to feel you come with my cock deep in your ass.”
The sheer depravity of his command was my undoing.
The orgasm that ripped through me was a cataclysm. It was a violent, seismic event that drew a scream from me I didn’t think I was capable of, a sound of pure agony and ecstasy at the same time. It wasn’t just a wave of pleasure; it was a tsunami that shattered my world into a billion little pieces. I could feel my ass clamping down on him, my body trying to pull him deeper, to take more, a desperate, instinctual reaction to the overwhelming pleasure that was destroying me.
A primitive sound of victory and satisfaction emanated from deep in his chest, and his pace quickened, his thrusts becoming even harder, even deeper. He was fucking me like I belonged to him, like he was trying to brand himself on my very soul. My pussy, jealous and neglected, was clenching, aching, dripping with a fresh wave of arousal.
Fucking traitor.
He slapped my ass hard, twice, and roared, digging his fingers into the flesh of my hips. Then he froze, deep inside my bottom,and I felt the hot pulses of his release—three, four, five times—and I keened as another wave of desire coursed through me at the realization that he’d just come in my ass.
He leaned over me, his weight pressing down onto my back, and I collapsed. His breath was hot and ragged on my neck, his heart a wild, frantic drum against my back. For a long moment, we just laid there, the only sounds in the room our harsh breaths and the faint hum of the air conditioning.
I was weak, trembling, wrecked, a thoroughly used thing. My body ached in places I didn’t know could ache, but my mind was utterly silent.
Then he shifted, his weight lifting off of me. He pulled out of me with a casual grunt that left me feeling achingly empty and strangely embarrassed, a river of our combined fluids leaking from my used holes, the final, messy evidence of his conquest.
I didn’t move.
Not even when he smacked my ass hard. Once. Then twice. Then a third time, each one harsh and unforgiving. I was too tired to flinch.
I listened to him move. The sound of his zipper, the rustle of his clothes. The quiet click of the bathroom door. I closed my eyes, the image of him standing over me, his eyes dark and fathomless, burned into the back of my eyelids. I could still smell him, a heady, intoxicating perfume of sweat, aromatic cologne, and raw, masculine sex.
The shower started, a hiss of water that broke through the heavy, post-coital silence. I should have been moving. I should have been planning. I should have been reaching for the go-bag. My escape route. It was still there. Still an option.
But I couldn’t move.
My body was a quivering, oversensitive mess of euphoria. My mind was a fog of endorphins and forced surrender.
The fight had been brutal and total, and I had lost.
