She was a fucking vision—perfect in her imperfection. Bound and spread wide, blindfold tugged tight, chest heaving. Panting for him like a bitch in heat.

He’d felt it the moment he stripped her—a tightening low in his gut. A twitch behind his zipper. She hadn’t said a word, but her body had already confessed. The scrawl on her chest—black ink now sheened in sweat—wasn’t just decoration. It was a declaration marked in her own hand before he’d even touched her. The words curved just above the swell of her breasts, rising and falling with every ragged breath. A filthy truth worn like a brand. She’d offered herself the second she walked through that door, panties already damp with the promise of him.

His. To corrupt. To ruin. To claim.

Now he sat back—one leg crossed, drink in hand—and stared like she was nothing but a cunt on display. Slick and swollen, her pussy glistened in the low light, wet enough that it dripped down her crack and pooled beneath her ass.

He’d barely touched her after binding and blindfolding her. Just one slow pass of his fingers from entrance to clit, smearing the mess she was making. He’d rubbed her pearl until her breath broke, until her hips chased his touch. Then he gripped her tit hard, thumb dragging over her nipple while his finger rolled her clit—once, twice, three times. Enough to make her whimper. Enough to make her body lurch. Then he pulled away, and retreated across the room.

Now he let her stew in it. Watched her cunt flutter with need, thighs trembling as she strained against the binds. She was dripping for him, wide open and helpless, mind unraveling one filthy thought at a time. He didn’t need to touch her again. Her pussy was already begging for it, betraying every last shred of resistance she thought she had.

She was naked. He was fully dressed. That alone said everything—his control absolute, her exposure total. He didn’t need to stroke himself, didn’t need her hands on him. But his cock—pulsing, leaking, hungry—was straining against his pants anyway.

All for her.

She startled at the soft clink of glass set down on the table beside the bed. Even that sound was deliberate, calculated. A reminder of how close he was. How near he could get.

Her breath hitched and held when the belt buckle clicked, leather sliding free with a slow scrape, followed by the sharp rasp of a zipper. Every nerve in her body lit up. She ached to know what came next, desperate for the confirmation of his touch.

The mattress dipped, but not where she expected. Not between her spread thighs. Higher. His presence settled over her chest, oppressive and hot even without contact.

A palm cupped the back of her head, lifting her just enough, tilting her chin. His fingers fisted in her hair, holding her steady.

“Open your mouth.” Not a request—a command, smooth as glass. Practiced.

Her lips parted instantly, already yielding. He was there, the swollen head of his cock pressed against her mouth, and she didn’t resist. Wouldn’t. Obedience was the only answer he’d accept—and the only one she wanted to give.

He was slow at first, pushing forward just enough to feel her lips stretch around the tip, tongue cradling heated flesh like a delicacy she’d been waiting to taste.

“Good girl,” he rasped, fingers tightening in her hair, “Open wider. You’re going to take more.”

Her jaw strained as he fed her his length, stopping only when she gagged. He held there, savoring the choke, then pulled back just far enough for her to gasp. Spit clung to his cock, shiny threads strung between his hardened flesh and her lips.

He caged her jaw in his hand, fingers pressing against her cheeks with just enough force to keep her mouth open.

“Look at you, drooling already.” He leant toward her, spat in her mouth, drew his cock across her lips. “You’re nothing but a hole for me to fuck, and you love it, don’t you?”

She gave a muffled “uh-huh” around him as he shoved in deeper, brutal this time, grinding against her throat until her eyes watered beneath the blindfold. Her muffled, choked moans vibrated around his length, and his groan spilled out low and rough.

“That’s it, sweetheart—gag on it. Swallow what I give you.”

And she did. She took it—choking on him, on her own spit, gag reflex fluttering against the thick head of his cock. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, mingling with the mess around her lips as she fought to take every inch he fed her.

The need to please him burned hotter than shame. The need to be needed—that was scalding. A hunger that brought her back from the brink, over and over, even bound, blind, defenseless. Her obedience wasn’t just surrender; it was devotion made flesh.

He pulled back with a wet sound and left her gasping, cock slicked by her ruined mouth. The ghost of her tongue still slid along the underside of his shaft as he fisted his length, stroking slowly, deliberately, while he watched the light catch the mess dripping from her swollen lips and chin. It pooled high on her chest.

He tugged the blindfold from her eyes. Her makeup had melted, tracing dark fingers along her flushed cheeks, lips glistening, still parted as she gasped for air.

Her gaze met his—wet, wide, and still holding a flicker of innocence. Innocence he ached to defile. He wanted to unmake her just to build her back into something filthy, devoted, remade the way he wanted. That was thrill.

Even now she resisted, trembling on the edge of submission. That last flicker of fight was what captivated him. It wasn’t enough to take her body; he wanted to watch her come apart, inch by inch. He wanted to pull at the threads of her sanity with every plunge of his cock just to see how far she’d unravel.

He moved off the side of the bed, stripped his pants, kept his underwear. Still controlled, even glazed by her spit and hard as steel under the thin fabric. The mattress dipped again under his knee as he leaned over her, his palm curling over her throat, thumb stroking her frantic pulse like he owned it. Fingertips trailed along her forearm, just to feel her skin rise in goosebumps at his touch.

“Breathe,” he murmured while deftly fingering the bond on her right wrist until it came free. He pinned her arm against the mattress. “The rope keeps you in place. I keep you obedient.”

His dark gaze held her still, as if to prove his point.

“I’m untying you because I want you a different way. You’re still mine. Even without the rope.”

She nodded slowly, and after a moment, his thumb eased off her pulse; the weight of his palm slid up to her jaw, tilting her head until she was forced to look at him.

“I’ll have you the way I want you.” His grip flexed, fingers pressing into the hollows of her cheeks. “Stay soft for me, or I’ll bind you tighter than before.”

He moved slowly, deliberately. One wrist, then the other. Ankles next. She didn’t move until he gave the command.

“On your knees, face down. Spread your ass.”

He stood at the foot of the bed, watched her roll over. Climb onto her knees. Legs wide. Back arched deep. She reached back with both hands and spread her cheeks—offering everything.

Her pucker was glistening with her own juices. Pussy weeping, folds flushed and shining. Open. Aching. Dripping. Her need on full display. He let her stew in it. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stared—let the heat of his gaze sink into her until her cunt twitched with every throb of her pulse.

She didn’t hear him move. She felt him. The weight of his presence folded over her like a storm cloud, heavy like a palm on her nape.

Then—contact.

A single finger dragged across her swollen, exposed pearl with clinical precision, the sensation jolting through her like lightning. He dragged it along the soaked seam of her cunt, spreading her open as he went. When he reached her entrance, he circled the point of entry—light as breath—until she shuddered.

A hum vibrated low in his chest, and she felt its echo in hers. Then he pushed in—one finger, slow. Her heat parted for him like it had been waiting.

“Perfectly fucking ripe,” he murmured, sinking to the first knuckle. “Hold yourself open for me. Just like that. I want to watch you writhe.”

He leaned in and licked a slow, filthy line from her dripping cunt to her tight little pucker—just to feel it twitch beneath his tongue and hear her gasp. He didn’t linger.

His teeth scraped across one cheek, a warning more than a kiss, before he leaned back to watch her cunt clutch at his finger like it couldn’t bear to lose him. It curled deep, pressing into the soft, spongy core of her need.

Her whimper cracked—high and humiliating. Her hips bucked. Her nails dug hard into her own ass, but she didn’t dare let go. The pressure was devastating. Precise. Unrelenting. It lit her up from the inside out.

She needed more. So much more.

He didn’t rush. He worked her open methodically—fingertip moving over her g-spot with steady, calculated strokes, the curl of his finger the only gentle thing about it, tugging pleasure from her depths until her thighs quaked and her balance faltered.

Then he pulled back—just to his third knuckle—and wrapped one arm around her hips to lock her in place, anchoring her precisely where he wanted her. A second finger slid in beside the first. She stretched around him, every measured stroke punctuated by the wet, obscene sounds of her arousal coating his digits. Her breath fractured.

She was already coming undone: knees buckling, thighs trembling. Watching her fall apart made his cock throb.

He curled deeper, pressing into that swollen, aching knot until her body slumped against his arm—muscles tight, spine rigid. She cried out, tightening around his fingers like she never meant to let them go, teetering on the edge. He felt it in the quake of her body, the way she fluttered around him, hips rocking back without rhythm—just desperate want.

His grip loosened on her waist. Just enough. His thumb found her clit and circled. Each pass a command. She buried her face in the mattress and moaned—loud, ragged, rising toward a scream.

He pulled his fingers out slow, slick with her need, savoring the slide and the way her cunt clutched at him. She sobbed at the loss, body jerking toward him, chasing him.

He didn’t soothe. Didn’t speak. Just brought his fingers higher—spreading her slick between her cheeks, making a calculated mess of her. She twitched under the touch, helpless, already trembling.

Her hole glistened, smeared with the evidence of her desperation. The tight ring of muscle fluttered beneath his fingertip when he brushed over it—so fucking eager to be used. He circled once. Then again. Just to watch her squirm.

Then he pressed. Slow. Steady. Sure. Like he knew her body would yield for him, knew it had already decided what it wanted. She gasped—a choked sound, raw and ragged—as her spine bowed and her hips rocked back involuntarily.

She was locked in place by the arm he’d wrapped tight around her waist, her back arched, breath stuttering. His middle finger sank slowly into her ass—patient, methodical—his pace measured by the sounds she made. Choked gasps dissolved into soft whimpers. Shudders became trembles. And then, the inevitable: she pressed back into him, giving him more.

His palm cracked brutally across her ass. She yelped, jolting forward an inch. The echo of the strike rose fast—rosy, stinging, spreading across her skin like heat poured straight from his palm.

His grip sank into her cheek, spreading her open while his teeth scraped across the tender curve like he was carving his name with his mouth.

When he added a second finger she whimpered at the stretch, jerking forward like she meant to pull away. Until two fingers from his opposite hand slid back into her cunt, hot and fluttering, and held her right where he wanted her—caught in the hinge between resistance and need. He stroked her g-spot, felt the moment she stopped fighting and softened.

His lips brushed across her skin, his exhale kissing the bloom of his handprint. “Good girl,” he rasped, voice coarse with satisfaction.

He didn’t let up. Just dragged his hand back between her thighs, fingers slick with the proof of her surrender. He stroked her entrance once to feel the way she clenched at the threat of penetration. Then he replaced his fingers with something thicker. Hotter.

“One hole aching. The other full,” he murmured, sliding through her slick. “Tell me—are you mine?”

His fingers stayed buried deep, the stretch unforgiving. He fucked her ass while teasing her cunt with the blunt press of his cock—nudging, not entering, a torment of friction.

“I’m yours.” The words slipped out on a choked breath as she pressed her cheek into the covers, giving him a clean view of her profile. “…For tonight.”

He gave her a knowing, crooked smirk, and pushed in with one slow, devastating thrust—slick heat parting under the pressure, inch by relentless inch, until she felt him press against that tender, unyielding place inside her. The part she knew he’d hammer until she was screaming.

She was trembling before their hips met. He didn’t pause. Didn’t give her time to adjust. He rocked forward once, sinking in deep while his fingers remained embedded in her forbidden heat, anchoring her there. Holding her open and still.

At first, it was slow. Controlled. She propped herself on her elbows, trying to brace—struggling to take all of him, and failing beautifully.

He pulled his fingers free, both hands cracking across her cheeks in a brutal smack before gripping them tight. And then he began in earnest. Each stroke hit deep, angled with ruthless precision. The weight of his hips slammed into the meat of her ass, every impact a syllable in an obscene language—the wet slap of skin.

He was cracking her open, and she was taking it. Every inch.

She couldn’t understand what she was saying anymore. His name. A choked moan. A gasp. A sob. A cacophony of nonsensical sounds. Pleading. She clawed at the sheets, and threw herself back into him, meeting every thrust—wrecked, desperate, still trying to take more.

“Don’t stop,” she managed, voice cracking.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he growled, his fingers finding her clit again, “I’m far from finished with you.”

This time, it wasn’t a tease. He rubbed hard and tight, perfectly in rhythm with the snap of his hips. Plowing into her front wall mercilessly, dragging her over the edge.

Her scream ripped through the room. She came violently—pussy clenching so hard it nearly forced him out. Her hands twisted in the sheets, fists so tight her knuckles went white and her fingers cramped.

He pulled out without warning, and flipped her onto her back before she could make sense of what was happening. His hands, warm and sure, gripped the backs of her thighs, spread her legs wide and pushed them toward her chest.

She cried out again at the wet slide of his tongue through her folds, cunt still throbbing with the aftershocks of her orgasm. She was so hyper sensitive she felt everything: every flick, every lick, every warm exhale over her sodden sex.

He licked her like he was starving. Buried himself in the act, tasting the evidence of her release, his own desire heavy and hot against his abdomen. His groan reverberated through her, drawing her own moan in response, hips twitching as his tongue parted her soaked, swollen lips to the peak of her sex. He found her clit. Circled it with his tongue. Not touching—not yet. But her every nerve was alight like he had. Her back bowed, and she reached for him to anchor him where she was burning alive.

“Hands above your head,” he said, voice rough.

Then—another deliberate stroke, tongue dragging from her entrance to her clit.

“Now.”

She obeyed, stretching her arms high over the mattress.

He held her legs bent, folded, pinned with his grip on the backs of her thighs. In this position, she had no leverage. No way to grind. No way to run. She was breathless, twitching, helpless—her core still fluttering from the orgasm he’d already wrung from her.

Then he sucked her clit into his mouth, and the world went white.

His lips sealed tight. Tongue flicking, devouring her with single-minded precision. Every stroke hit like lightning. Her hips tried to jerk, but he held her. Controlled her. Drove her toward another release with nothing but the filthy, perfect drag of his mouth.

“Fuck!” She choked, “I can’t…I’m gonna—”

The second orgasm slammed her senses, left her legs shaking so violently against his palms she wondered how she’d ever stand again. She held her breath as the wave washed over her, fists locked on the pillows like that might anchor her against the undertow. Like it might save her from being ripped away from the shores of sanity by him, and him alone.

And then the suction vanished. His mouth lifted. And she whimpered—wrecked, twitching.

“Please…” she whispered, so soft she hoped he hadn’t heard. She didn’t want him to know he could make her beg.

He didn’t speak. Just shifted forward, parting her legs wider as he moved over her—his cock gliding through her soaked seam, thick and molten, claiming her with every pass.

He pressed against her entrance, not breaching, but with enough pressure for her to feel the weight of him again. Palm heavy on her throat. Then he drew back and dragged his length through her slick once more—slow, deliberate, controlled. There was no urgency in the way he moved, just certainty. He knew exactly how to unmake her, and he was going to enjoy every second of it.

And while she was still pulsing—still aching—he took her again.

She was barely able to stand the stretch. The throb. The heat and weight of him. She could feel every ridge, every vein as he carved himself into her depths, grinding relentlessly, thumb stroking just below her jaw.

He leaned over her, hand dragging down from her throat to catch her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and he rolled it with just enough pressure to make her moan. His lips dragged over her pulse—frantic, pounding—tongue tasting the desperation he’d wrung from her.

“You beg for it. Cum on me like it hurts—and you still take more.” His voice was thick with heat. “That’s what being mine looks like.”

A scrape of teeth where her throat met her shoulder. A warning, a promise of possession.

He watched the way her expression twisted with pleasure infused pain as he plunged deep, claiming every inch of space inside her.

“Say it,” he demanded, hips snapping forward hard. “Tell me who you belong to.”

And there it was—the flicker of resistance, sharp and stubborn. Her brow creased. Lips pressed tight. She was still fighting it, fighting him. Still holding on to the last shred of control like it could protect her from what he already knew to be true. Like if she refused to speak it, her want couldn’t be real.

His eyes drifted down to the script across her chest. His proof of ownership.

Tom’s Real Girl.

She’d already confessed to being his the moment she’d scrawled those three little words on her pale skin. Now he wanted to hear her say it.

He stilled inside her, buried to the hilt, one hand splayed just beneath the shadow of sharpie on her chest, the other gripping her jaw—not hard. Just enough to turn her face toward him.

His thumb traced the corner of her mouth. “Say it. For me.”

He leaned in, pressed his mouth to hers, drew her lip between his teeth. The threat of the bite was enough to make her breath hitch.

His lips brushed hers when he spoke again.

“You belong to me. You knew it when you wrote it. You know it now.”

Their hips stayed flush. His thumb dragged across the ink, as if to remind her of the claim she herself had marked into her skin.

“Say it.”

She was shaking. Her hands fisted in the sheets like she could hold onto that last sliver of pride—but it was already gone. He had it. Had her.

She turned her face into the pillow, voice barely audible.

“…Yours.”

One word—half-broken. A whispered confession.

He didn’t move.

“Look at me.”

She turned her head, lips parted, eyes glassy.

“I’m yours,” she said, voice steady, staring back at him defiantly. This time the truth landed with the weight of the world. “For tonight,” she added with a knowing smirk.

Like the marker, she believed this too would wash away. Erased when they went their separate ways. And that was the power she clung to. For tonight, one night, she could be possessed. Ruined.

Her body softened around him.

His. Completely. For now.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t call out the qualifier like a bluff.

He just moved. One slow, deliberate grind of his hips to drive her open again. To remind her exactly what she’d just given him.

His hand slipped between them, fingers finding her clit—swollen, aching for him.

“Then come for me,” he murmured. “One more time. Let me feel you fall apart with my name still on your skin.”

And he didn’t give her the chance to resist.

His rhythm was as ruthless as it was precise. Fingers stroking tight, merciless circles, every thrust angled to unravel her from the inside out.

“Mine for tonight?” he echoed, voice low against her throat, his mouth dragging along her jaw like a brand. “Then I’ll fuck you hard enough to make sure you feel it tomorrow.”

He felt it the moment she broke—her cunt clenching hard around his cock, hips jerking, throat straining with a cry she didn’t mean to give. It was sharp. Gut-deep. The sound of her falling apart just for him. Surrender made sound.

He fucked her through it, chasing his own edge, riding the wave of her orgasm like it was meant to drag him under with her. Then he pulled out, and she throbbed around nothing like her body hadn’t realized he was gone. His hand closed around the base of his cock, eyes sweeping over her.

Her hair was dark under the low light, damp and matted at her temples. Cheeks flushed. Lips parted as she struggled to find her breath again. Eyes blown wide—wild, stunned, shining. She looked feral. Like he’d unearthed something primal in her, dragged it to the surface and set it alight. Her tongue was sharp, her wit quick—and her defiance was withering. There was no mistaking the truth he saw.

She burned, but where others smoldered, she ignited.

And then his eyes dropped to the smudged ink on her chest. That messy scrawl. Half-gone, but not forgotten.

It didn’t matter that it would wash away. The memory wouldn’t. The choice to mark herself—his name on her skin—spoke louder than anything she could have said.

That’s what undid him.

For all her fight, all her fire, all her perceived innocence and resistance—she wanted this. Needed to be used. Claimed. Marked in a way that didn’t fade.

He groaned as his release surged from the base of his spine. Thick ropes of cum striped her chest, from navel to collarbone. He stroked himself through the final wave, watching it paint her in hot streaks across soft flesh and fading ink. A mess. His mess.

Exactly the way he wanted her.

His breath sawed rough between them, hands braced wide on either side of her head. She was still trembling beneath him, thighs quaking, chest rising fast. They stared at one another like they couldn’t quite believe the other was real.

For a moment, the world held still.

Then he reached for the towel at the side of the bed. She expected indifference. Maybe silence. But instead, he cleaned her with a touch that was gentle. Almost reverent. Dragging soft cotton over the mess he’d made of her—across the curve of her breasts, down the flushed plane of her stomach. He took his time, like he meant it. Like some part of him didn’t want the moment to end.

But it had to.

She stilled beneath his hands, breath evening. The shift was quiet, subtle. Neither of them spoke. And when it was done, the moment snapped back sharply like a rubber band stretched to the point of rupture.

She rolled to her side, slipped out from under him. Detached. Controlled. Like she’d long accepted the inevitability of this moment, and wanted to rip it off like a bandaid instead of linger in it.

By the time he tossed the towel aside, she was already half dressed. Panties snug, dress pulled over sticky skin. She bent to slip into her Doc Martens—black, worn, the laces permanently knotted—frowning like the act required effort. Like if she focused hard enough, she could shove everything she’d given him back inside herself.

He watched from the bed, arms braced behind him, cock still half-hard, slick with the memory of her. Poised like he might lunge and drag her back down.

“You think once will be enough?” He asked, the words edged like something dangerous.

Her eyes cut to the writing desk. To the ring he’d left there.

The smile she gave him didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind you wore while pretending you hadn’t done something regrettable. She plucked the ring between two fingers and flicked it to him like a coin.

He caught it midair—reflexive, effortless.

“No,” she replied coolly. “Not now that you know I’m real.” Her smile cut deeper—all teeth. “You get your souvenir, Tom darling?”

They’d danced around the promise of the photo longer than either would admit. It wasn’t just any picture. This was one she refused to take herself. Shot from between her thighs—open, exposed, slick…

Exactly the way he knew he could make her with words alone.

The slow curve of his mouth said it all—no. And that was exactly what would bring him back.

She hummed, picked up her bag, palmed her keys. Spine straight, shoulders back, eyes sharp. Every movement practiced. Like this wasn’t the first time she’d walked away from a man who made her cum hard enough to see stars.

“Think your wife might have something to say about that?” She asked, head tilted, brow arched in challenge.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He thought he held all the cards, and she was just fine letting him believe it.

The black ink was still smeared across her chest—sweat and cum bleeding the edges. She didn’t wipe it off. Didn’t flinch. Her steps were silent, deliberate. A woman practiced in exits—especially after being ruined by a man who looked like every mistake she was never supposed to make. And fucked like it too.

Worse—he was the kind of mistake she wanted to make twice.

She didn’t need his voice in her ear. Didn’t need the flash of his smirk or the weight of his stare to know he was watching her. Of course he was.

Her fingers brushed the door handle. She paused. Half-turned.

“Next time,” she said, not quite smiling. “Bring a pen that doesn’t smear with your cum.”

His smirk stretched, slow and sharp. Voice pitched low—intimate. Not a threat. A promise.

“Until next time then.”

A beat.

“Oh—and Jessa?”

His gaze dragged over her like his tongue. Possessive. Indulgent. Like she wasn’t wearing anything at all.

“You’re my real girl,” he murmured, the weight of the reminder hanging heavy like a verdict. “And I don’t share.”