“You think you can just fucking leave?” he growls, his voice a guttural vibration that rattles my very bones. “You think you have a choice in this? Now I’m going to punish you. But first… I’m going to fuck you until you forget his fucking name.”
He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t use his hands to open me this time. He just lunges, his massive, hot weightcrushing the air out of my lungs as he pins my wrists into the hay above my head. He drives his cock into me with a brutal, unyielding thrust that tears through the healing wounds from the cellar.
I let out a muffled, agonising shriek against the hay in my mouth, my body arching in a violent spasm of pain. He’s a beast, a thresher, his hips slamming into mine with a rhythmic, bone-crushing force that sends the hay flying around us.
“Look at me,” he commands, his hands coming down to seize my throat, squeezing until the world starts to go grey at the edges. “Look at the man who owns you.”
I am sobbing through the straw, my eyes wide and wild, the tears carving tracks through the dust on my cheeks. Every lunge is a violation, every thud of his body against mine a reminder that Peter is a world away and I am drowning in the hay and the dark. The horses are screaming in their stalls, a chorus of animal panic that matches the one in my chest.
He’s going faster, his breath a hot, jagged rasp against my neck, his cock a searing iron inside me. I am being broken in the dirt, a ruined bride in a stable, while the man who swore to protect me is nothing but a ghost in the wind.
He yanks the hay from my mouth, only to grab a handful of my hair and haul me upward. My knees dig into the dry, prickly straw as he forces me onto all fours, my head bowed low like a sacrificial animal. The cold air hits my wet back, but the heat radiating from him is a sweltering, suffocating weight.
“Look at yourself, piccola fiamma,” he rasps, his hand sliding under my stomach to haul my hips higher,tilting me until I’m perfectly aligned for his ruin. “Arch that back for me. Show me how a King’s wife begs for a real man.”
I let out a broken, jagged sob, my forehead pressing into the hay as I feel the thick, blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He doesn’t wait. He lunges forward, his entire massive length buried in one single, soul-shattering thrust.
I scream, the sound lost in the rafters among the rafters. He fills me so completely it feels like my internal organs are being rearranged, his thick, vein-corded shaft stretching my raw, torn walls until I’m certain I’ll split in two. My pussy, traumatised and weeping, has no choice but to clench around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse, my muscles spasming in a desperate attempt to accommodate the sheer, brutal size of him.
“That’s it,” he groans, his voice a guttural vibration against my spine. “Fucking clench for me. Feel how much space I’m taking up inside you. You’re so tight, so wet with the blood I drew—it’s like you were made to be broken by me.”
He begins to pump, a rhythmic, bone-crushing violence that sends me sliding forward in the hay with every strike. He reaches around, his large, calloused hands snaring my breasts. He pinches my nipples with a cruel, sharp pressure, twisting them until I’m gasping, while his other hand slides lower.
His thumb finds my clit, rubbing it with a heavy, grinding friction that is pure, unadulterated malice.
“Does Peter touch you like this?” he whispers, his breath hot and smelling of the copper of my split lip. “Does he tell you how much of a whore youlook like right now? Bleeding in the dirt, taking every inch of me while your husband is probably licking his wounds in some hole? You’re mine. Every time I hit your cervix, I’m marking you deeper than that iron ever could.”
He’s relentless, his hips slapping against my ass with a wet, rhythmic thud that echoes through the silent barn. Every thrust is a jagged stab of fire, his cock a searing intrusion that leaves me breathless and shattered. I am sobbing, my fingers clawing at the hay, my vision blurring as the pleasure he’s forcing out of me starts to mix with the blinding, white-hot agony of the assault.
“You’re going to cum for me again, aren’t you?” he snarls, his fingers working my clit into a frenzy of overstimulated nerves. “You’re going to scream my name while I fill you with everything Peter couldn’t give you.”
I hate myself as the coil in my belly tightens, a sick, visceral reaction to the sheer brutality of his pace. My pussy is screaming, pulsing around his thick shaft, the friction generating a heat that threatens to consume me. I am a ruined thing, a branded doll being used in the straw, and the worst part is the way my body is beginning to fracture under the weight of his conquest.
“Tell me,” he commands, his voice a dark, rhythmic snarl. “Tell me you’re my bitch.”
He yanks my hair back so hard my neck cracks, forcing my face up so I have to see my own reflection in the polished brass of a nearby harness. I look like a ghost—eyes blown wide with terror, lips smeared with a cocktail of milk and blood, and my body shivering under the onslaught of his weight.
“Look at you,” Viktor snarls, his voice a guttural rasp that vibrates through my skull. He doesn’t slow down; he speeds up, his hips hittingme with the force of a battering ram. Thud. Thud. Thud. “You’re taking all of me, aren’t you? Your little pussy is so greedy, soaking up my cock like it’s been starving for a real man’s touch.”
I let out a high, broken keen, my fingers digging into the dirt beneath the hay. The pain is a constant, white-hot hum, but the friction is becoming something else—something darker, a feverish heat that makes my breath hitch in a way that makes me want to die of shame.
“You think this is just a fuck?” he growls, his hand moving from my throat to my belly, his palm splayed flat against my skin as he drives into me with a violent, final depth. “I’m going to fill you until you can’t walk. I’m going to put my mark so deep inside you that you’ll swell with my seed, Wendy. You’re going to carry my brat while Peter watches from a cage.”
He leans down, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin of my shoulder, right next to the raw, weeping brand. I scream, a muffled, shattered sound, as he whispers the filthiest promises into my skin.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Having me pump my baby into you every single night until your belly is round and tight? Imagine it, piccola fiamma. Me coming home, smelling of the men I’ve killed, and stripping you bare just to fuck my child deeper into your womb. You’d be my little breeder, wouldn’t you? My broken, beautiful prize.”
He begins to lunge with a frantic, animalistic desperation, his cock hitting my cervix so hard I feel the impact in my throat. I am a mess of tears and sweat, my walls clenching around him in a rhythmic, agonising grip. I am drowning in the scent of cedar and his expensive, musky cologne,my mind fracturing as the climax he’s forcing out of me begins to claw at my senses.
“Fucking cum for me!” he bellows, his voice echoing through the rafters, startling the horses into a fresh frenzy of neighs and thundering hooves. “Let me feel you shatter around my cock so I know I’ve finally erased him!”
He seizes my hips, his fingers leaving deep, purple bruises in my flesh, and delivers a final, punishing sequence of thrusts. I am sobbing, my head thrashing against the hay, my body erupting in a violent, jagged orgasm that feels like a betrayal of every memory I have of Peter. I am cumming for the monster, my pussy milking him in a desperate, primal rhythm while the hot, heavy surge of his release floods my womb.
He groans, a long, low sound of triumph, and collapses against my back, his chest heaving, his sweat dripping onto my skin. I hang there, my face in the dirt, feeling the hot, wet slide of him inside me—a permanent stain on my soul.
He stays there for a long moment, savouring the wreckage, before he slowly pulls out. The sound is wet and horrific in the sudden silence of the barn. He stands up, looking down at me as I lie broken in the hay, my body still twitching with the remnants of the shock.
“Clean yourself up,” he says, his voice back to that cold, clinical chill as he begins to buckle his belt. “I have a guest arriving shortly, and I want you to be presentable. It would be bad form for your husband to see youlooking so… used.”
