It’s not a thrust; it’s a rupture.
I scream, a sound so high and thin it doesn’t even sound human. I feel the skin tear, a sharp, searing heat radiating from my core as he forces his way into me. He’s too big, too dry, his cock a jagged intrusion that stretches me past the point of breaking. I can feel the warm, wet slide of fresh blood coating him as he sinks deeper, his weight crushing me against the cold stone.
“Yes,” he hisses, his face contorted in a mask of primal, ugly lust. “Bleed for me. Let me feel how much it hurts to be taken by a real man.”
He begins to move, a slow, grinding friction that is pure agony. Every inch he gains feels like a hot iron sliding through my insides. He isn’t seeking pleasure; he’s seeking conquest. He’s using his body to erase Peter’s ghost, his heavy, rhythmic thuds echoing through my skull like a drum.
I am sobbing, my hands clawing at the chains until my fingernails bleed, my vision swimming in a sea of red and grey. I can feel the brand on my shoulder throbbing in time with the jagged stabs of his cock inside me. I am being dismantled. I am being hollowed out.
“Say it,” he growls, his hands moving up to my throat, histhumbs pressing into my windpipe until I’m gasping for air. “Tell me you’re mine. Tell me Peter is a fucking ghost.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can feel is the rhythmic, brutal tearing of my body and the cold, dark void opening up inside me.
“Peter… Peter, please…”
The name is a broken prayer, a jagged piece of glass I’m choking on. My head thrashes against the weeping stone, my hair matting into the slime and the blood. Every time he lunges into me, the impact rattles my teeth, a rhythmic, bone-deep thud that makes the gold chains above my head scream in protest.
“He isn’t coming, piccola fiamma,” Viktor growls, his voice a dark, viral rasp in my ear. He isn’t stopping; he’s getting more feral, his movements losing their clinical edge and turning into a raw, desperate pounding. He seizes my hair, yanking my head back until my spine arches like a bow, forcing me to take the full, brutal length of him. “He is a corpse in a fancy suit. I am the only god in this room.”
“No…” I sob, the word a shattered vibration. “He’s… he’s coming… he’ll kill you…”
Viktor lets out a guttural, jagged laugh and drives home, his cock hitting my cervix with a force that makes my vision go white. I am bleeding, the slick heat of it coating his thighs, but he doesn’t care. He thrives on it. He’s using the friction of my own trauma to fuel his fire.
He’s a monster, a nightmare, but the sheer, agonising size of him is forcing my body to stay awake, to feel every inch of the violation. The pain is so sharp it’s almost electric, a white-hot wire threading through my nerves.I want to die. I want the floor to swallow me. But as he grinds his hips against mine, his thumbs digging into the bruises on my waist, a sick, traitorous heat begins to coil in the pit of my stomach.
It’s not love. It’s not desire. It’s the primal, horrific response of a body pushed to its absolute limit. My pussy is screaming, torn and bleeding, yet it’s clenching around him in a rhythmic, desperate reflex, trying to survive the assault.
“Look at you,” Viktor hisses, his face a mask of sweating, Italian cruelty. “Even as you cry for him, your body is begging for me to fill it. You are a feast of contradictions, Wendy.”
He begins to move faster, a frantic, jagged pace that sounds like wet leather slapping against stone. I can hear the slap of his skin against mine, the clink of the chains, the ragged, animalistic gasps for air. The brand on my shoulder is a pulsing, screaming star of agony, syncing up with the jagged stabs of his cock.
I am a ruined thing. A broken bride.
“Peter!” I shriek one last time, my voice breaking into a high, thin wail that echoes off the ceiling.
Viktor lets out a low, agonising roar, his body locking up as he slams into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt. I feel the hot, violent surge of his release flooding my insides, a burning invasion that makes me want to scream until my throat bleeds. He stays there, pinned against me, his breath hitching, his forehead resting against mine as the adrenaline begins to ebb into a cold, hollow silence.
The silence is worse than the noise.
He slowly pulls out, the wet, sliding sound making me gag. Hestands up, his movements slow and satisfied, as he begins to adjust his clothes with the same chilling calm he had when he walked in. He looks at me—naked, bleeding, branded, and chained to a wall of filth—and he doesn’t look disgusted. He looks possessive.
He reaches out, his thumb dragging a smear of my blood across my bottom lip. He leans in close, his scent of mint and copper filling my lungs one last time.
“I had planned to send your head to him in a box, Wendy,” he whispers, his eyes tracing the red glow of the ring on my finger. “But I think… I think I will keep you instead. A man can always use a beautiful ghost to haunt his house.”
He turns and walks toward the door, the heavy steel groaning open. He steps through, the light from the hallway casting his shadow across my broken body before the door slams shut, plunging me back into the absolute, suffocating dark.
Wendy
The dark isn’t empty anymore. It’s filled with the ghost of his weight, the stinging heat of the brand on my shoulder, and the sickening, wet slide of blood cooling between my thighs. I don’t know how many hours have passed. Time in this cellar doesn’t move; it just rots.
The steel door groans open, and for a second, I pray for a bullet.
Instead, three women file in. They are dressed in severe, high-collared black uniforms, their faces as expressionless as the stone walls. They move with a terrifying, synchronised silence. Behind them, two men haul in a clawfoot copper tub, the metal scraping against the concrete like a scream. They begin to pour steaming, thick white liquid into it—gallon after gallon of goat’s milk, the scent of it sweet and cloying, mixing with the metallic tang of the cellar.
“Get her down,” the oldest woman commands. Her voice is a dry rasp.
They unbolt the chains. My arms drop like lead weights, and I collapse onto the floor, my knees hitting the grit. I try to crawl, my fingers scratching at the floor, but they are on me instantly. Their hands are cold, clinical, and strong.
