His hands, large and scarred, slide up my thighs, bunching the black silk until I am completely exposed to the biting winter air. I try to pull away, my head lolling, my voice a broken, heroin-slurred whimper. “F-Felix… please… Peter… he’ll…”
“Peter isn’t here to hold your hand, Wendy. I am.”
He leans in, his face disappearing between my legs. The first touch of his tongue is a shock—hot, wet, and agonisingly slow. He isn’t rushing. He’s tasting the champagne, thesalt, and the ruin Viktor left behind. He licks a long, broad stripe from the base of my thighs to the very top, his tongue rough like a cat’s, dragging over my clit with a precision that makes my entire body vault against the tree.
“No… no, stop,” I sob, my fingers clawing at the rotting wood.
He doesn’t stop. He hums against me, the vibration traveling straight to my spine. He uses his thumbs to pry me open, exposing the pink, swollen folds. He begins to swirl his tongue around my clit, circling it with a rhythmic, maddening slowness. It’s torture. He’s edging me through the haze, forcing my body to wake up even as my mind begs to stay under.
“You’re so sweet,” he mumbles against my wet skin, his breath hitching. “I’ve spent five years thinking about the way you taste. I’ve killed men just to get close enough to breathe the same air as you.”
He sucks the small, sensitive bud into his mouth, his teeth grazing it just enough to make me shriek. I am shaking, my breath coming in short, panicked hitches. Every time I get close to the edge, he pulls back, blowing cold air on my wetness until I’m whimpering for the heat to return. He’s playing me like an instrument he’s spent a lifetime studying.
“Look at me,” he commands, pulling back just enough to look up at me. His blue eyes are predatory, glowing in the dark. “You’re mine now. Not a prize, not a lot number. Mine.”
He stands up, his hands going to his fly. The sound of the zipper is like a serrated blade in the silence. He reaches into his trousers and pulls himself out.
His cock is a masterpieceof violence. It’s thick, dark, and corded with heavy veins that pulse with every heartbeat. It’s larger than anything I’ve ever seen, a heavy weight that looks like it could snap me in half. He wraps his hand around it, his knuckles white, and I see a bead of pre-cum glinting on the blunt, broad head.
He doesn’t give me a moment to breathe. He seizes my waist, his fingers bruising the bone, and drives himself into me.
The impact is a rupture. I scream, the sound echoing through the dark pines, as he fills me to the absolute brim. He is so thick I feel my skin stretching to the point of tearing, his cock a hot, solid intrusion that reaches deep into my core, hitting my cervix with a dull, internal thud.
“Fuck,” he rasps, his head falling into the crook of my neck. “You’re so tight, Wendy. It’s like you’re trying to crush me.”
He begins to move—long, slow, grinding thrusts that emphasise every inch of his girth. He isn’t just fucking me; he’s claiming the space inside me, erasing the memory of Viktor, erasing the ghost of Peter. The friction is a searing, heavy heat that builds in my belly, a jagged coil of tension that even the heroin can’t numb.
“Say it,” he growls, his hand coming up to wrap around my throat, his thumb pressing into my windpipe just enough to make the stars blur. “Tell me who owns this pussy now.”
I can’t speak. I can only sob, my head thrashing against the cedar, my pussy clenching around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse as he drags me, screaming and broken, toward an edge I can no longer avoid.
Felix pulls backuntil he’s almost entirely out, the wet, sliding friction of his exit leaving me shivering and empty in the biting air. Just as I think he’s going to leave me, he presses the broad, throbbing head of his cock against my clit, circling it with agonising, rhythmic pressure.
“You want it, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice a dark, jagged rasp against my ear. “Even through the fog, your body knows exactly what I’m doing to it.”
I shake my head, a sob catching in my throat, but he just grinds his weight against me again. He doesn’t thrust. He just slides the head of himself up and down the length of my opening, teasing the raw, sensitive skin until I’m whimpering, my hips involuntarily bucking forward to find the fullness I’m starving for. Every time I try to take him, he retreats, leaving me gasping for the heat.
Suddenly, his hands are on the neckline of the silk slip. With a single, violent jerk, the fabric screams and gives way, tearing down to the waist. He bunches the ruined silk in his hands and tosses it into the dirt.
He reaches down and hauls me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he pins me against the cedar. My bare back scrapes against the rough bark, the cold air stinging my skin, but all I can feel is the sweltering, massive weight of him pressed against my core.
He latches onto my breast, his mouth a hot, wet vacuum. He doesn’t just suckle; he bites, his teeth grazing the peak of my nipple before he begins to swirl his tongue around it in a slow, punishing circle. I let out a high, broken moan that I can’t catch, the sound vibrating through the silent woods.
“That’s it,” he growls, his voice muffled by my flesh. “Give me those sounds, Wendy. Iwant to hear how much you hate that you’re leaking for me.”
He moves to the other side, licking a path across my chest, his tongue catching a stray drop of champagne before he devours my other nipple. He sucks it deep into his mouth, his fingers digging into my ass, squeezing the soft flesh until it bruises. The overstimulation is a physical weight—the cold wind, the rough bark, the searing heat of his mouth, and that thick, blunt head of his cock still mocking me, still refusing to go home.
I am a wire pulled too tight, vibrating with a frantic, jagged energy. “F-Felix… please… just… please…”
“Please what?” He pulls back, his eyes two electric-blue flames in the dark. He’s breathing like a marathon runner, his chest heaving against mine. He takes the head of his cock and pushes it just an inch inside me—barely the tip—before dragging it back out. “You want me to stop? Or do you want me to split you wide open?”
He does it again. One inch. Two inches. Then he retreats. He is mapping my tolerance, pushing me to the very precipice of a breakdown. My pussy is clenching, a rhythmic, weeping pulse that is trying to pull him back in, my inner walls twitching with a life of their own.
“I can feel you begging,” he rasps, his hand coming up to snare my throat, his thumb tilting my head back. “I can feel your pulse jumping against my skin. You’re so ready to shatter, aren’t you?”
He lifts me higher, his muscles corded and straining under the weight, and then, with a slow, agonising deliberation, he sinks himself in.
He goes one inch at a time, forcing me to feel the sheer, brutal width of him as he stretches me open. I cry out, along, shattered sound that breaks the silence of the forest, as the fullness finally returns, deeper and harder than before. He reaches the hilt and stops, burying himself deep in my womb, his forehead resting against mine as he lets out a long, guttural groan.
