She knelt between them,
not in fear, but in offering—
a vessel poured open,
eager to be claimed.

Their hands were commands,
not questions.
Their touch, a language
she didn’t speak,
but understood with every breathless shiver.

One gripped her throat,
tilting her chin like a chalice;
the other anchored her hips,
his strength a silent promise—
you are ours.

She didn’t ask.
She didn’t need to.
The air itself held consent,
thick with tension,
taut as silk stretched before it tears.

They filled her like a ritual,
one behind, one before—
a perfect, merciless symmetry.
She was theirs to possess,
to shape,
to break and rebuild with every thrust of power.

No escape.
No need for one.
They owned the rhythm,
and she surrendered to the pulse,
a goddess beneath them,
worshiped through domination.

Every cry drawn from her lips
was earned.
Every trembling breath,
a tribute.

When they took her,
they didn’t just take her body—
they took the space within her
where control once lived.

And she never wanted it back.

They marked her in motion,
not with bruises,
but with memory—
a map of moans traced down her spine.

She was folded, opened,
drawn wide by force and fire,
her body made to house them both,
her mind adrift
on waves of ache and obedience.

The one behind pressed deeper,
a shadow made flesh,
while the one before watched her unravel,
his hand in her hair,
his voice low thunder:
“Look at me.”

She did.
Eyes glazed, mouth parted,
a painting caught mid-ruin.

And still, they moved.
Hard.
Certain.
Together.

She wasn’t lost—
she was remade.
Between their will and her wanting,
between the thrust and the stillness,
between the no escape
and the don’t stop.

They owned her
not just in body,
but in silence.
In the moment after she shattered,
when her body stilled
and all she could do was breathe them in
and wait for the next command.