This is my life now. Waking to him already inside me, using me, claiming me. Free use. Complete access. My body his to take whenever he wants it.
And I think I love it.
***
Later, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I barely recognize her.
The woman staring back at me is covered in marks. Evidence of ownership written on her skin in bruises and bites.
Hickeys bloom across my throat—dark purple against pale skin. More across my breasts, my ribs, trailing down to my inner thighs. Fingerprint bruises on my hips, five perfect circles on each side where he grips me every time he takes me. Bite marks on both shoulders. A particularly dark hickey right above my collarbone that he sucked into existence this morning while he was still moving inside me.
I touch the hickey on my collarbone gingerly. It's tender. They all are.
"Admiring my work?"
I jump at his voice. He appears in the bathroom doorway, completely naked, still half-hard. Water droplets cling to his tattooed chest—he showered while I was staring at myself.
His eyes trace over every mark in the mirror with dark satisfaction.
"Everyone will know," I say quietly, meeting his gaze in the reflection. "When we go out. Everyone will see these and know..."
"Know that you're owned," he finishes, moving behind me. His hands settle on my hips, fingers sliding perfectly into the bruiseshe left last night. "That's the point,malyshka. I want everyone to see my claim on you."
He presses against my back, and I can feel him hardening again. Always ready. Always wanting.
"You're mine, Vera. These marks prove it." His hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb deliberately brushing over a particularly dark hickey. "And every time they start to fade, I'll put new ones there. Keep you marked. Keep everyone knowing you're taken."
"Do they hurt?" he asks, squeezing my breast gently.
"A little."
"Good." His eyes gleam in the mirror. "Good pain. The kind that reminds you who you belong to every time you move. Every time you see yourself. Every time someone looks at you."
His other hand splays across my stomach, in a possessive gesture that's become constant. "By the time these fade, you'll be showing. Then everyone will know you're mine for a different reason."
He always finishes inside me. Always keeps me pinned beneath him for several minutes after, his hand splayed possessively over my stomach.
"Keep me in there," he orders every single time. "Don't get up yet. Let it stay inside where it belongs."
Breakfast follows. He feeds me himself half the time, watching me eat with that intense focus that makes me squirm. His hand never leaves my stomach during meals—constantly touching, checking, as if he'll be able to feel the moment his seed takes root.
"When's your next period due?" he asked yesterday morning.
"About a week and a half."
His eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. "You won't have it. You're already pregnant. I made sure of it."
The certainty in his voice both terrifies and thrills me.
Afternoons vary, but they always end the same way—with him taking me on whatever surface is closest. The kitchen counter. His desk in the study. Against the library wall. Once, memorably, in the pool.
"Can't wait," he'll growl, already pulling my clothes off. "Need you now."
Dinners are torture. We sit across from each other at the long table, tension crackling between us. He feeds me bites from his plate. His hand strokes my thigh under the table. By the time we finish eating, I'm already wet and aching.
Then he takes me to bed and breeds me thoroughly. Sometimes gentle, often not. Always possessive. Always ending with me full of his cum, his hand on my stomach, his voice dark with promise.
