Page 17 of Until You Break

He kissed the side of my mouth then, slow and filthy, his cockhead pressed at my rim without entering.

His breath warmed my cheek as he whispered, “Feel how I wait here for you? You’re already soft for me.

Already stretched for me.” He rocked his hips just enough to smear slick across me, teasing circles that made my thighs tremble.

Each grind was promise and threat at once, dragging the moment longer until I shook with the need to know whether he would finally push in.

“It will.” His palm slid over my spine, firm. The other pressed across my chest, bar-like. “Breathe, Emilio. Let it hurt. You’ll remember it better.”

The pressure built, inch by inch. He pushed slowly, retreating a fraction, then pressing again, making me gasp with every attempt.

Virgin walls stretched wide, untested, straining.

He retreated a fraction, then pressed forward again, drawing it out until I sobbed into the sheets.

My body quaked around the blunt head as it inched deeper, the burn mounting with each deliberate pause.

He kissed my temple as he forced more inside, voice low, coaxing: “Good. Take it. You can.”

“Look at me.”

I did, half-turning, and his eyes caught mine, calm, anchored, merciless.

“You can,” he said. “You will.” His mouth brushed my temple, more possession than comfort. “Breathe for me.”

Air scraped in, trembled out. Breathing wasn’t mine anymore. He waited, patient and cruel, until my body shifted from refusal to something stunned. Then he pressed again, the head giving way to thick, veined heat splitting me open slow and certain.

“Good,” he murmured when my body finally yielded. “Learning. I could spend years watching how you refuse me.”

He pulled back, then pushed in again, deeper, veins dragging, the base grinding against me.

He paused halfway, holding me impaled and groaning against my ear before driving in another inch.

Each thrust forced sounds I couldn’t catch, muffled into the sheets.

He slowed deliberately, grinding his cock over that tender place, making me cry out again, drawing the angle until every sob was dragged from my chest. Every thrust was drawn out, every pause designed to make me feel how utterly he filled me.

One angle had me writhing, sharp as lightning under my skin. I tried to twist away, but my body betrayed me, shoving back for more. Every drag over that spot made my voice break into wrecked moans I couldn’t stop. Broken. Helpless.

He set a rhythm meant to break me. Every time my body tightened toward release, he stilled, hips locked, cock pulsing deep.

The thick weight inside me did the damage without movement, veins throbbing against walls stretched too wide.

My thighs quaked, cock leaking against the sheets, fists twisting linen tight enough to burn my palms. Each pause stretched long enough that I thought I’d snap, breath rattling, chest heaving, cock straining, and then he drove back in, crueler, deeper.

Shame blurred into hunger, my body begging even as my mind refused.

Every time he hit it, my thighs shook, desperate, shame boiling into a hunger I couldn’t hide. I hated it. I needed it. My voice cracked on his name, half-sob, half-plea.

By the time he said, “Beg,” my voice was wrecked.

“Please. Please let me—”

“Again.”

“Please. Let me come.”

He angled deeper, striking it again and again until I writhed against the sheets, grinding down on him without thought. The word please tore out of me like a wound, raw and helpless.

“Good boy.” His thrusts slammed into me harder, rough, relentless, and at the same time his fist wrapped around my cock, jerking me in rhythm with every drive. The double assault wrecked me, his cock splitting me open while his hand stroked me raw, the sync of it stealing my breath. “Now.”

Heat ripped through me, spine arching, body shuddering as I came, thick stripes spilling across the sheets.

The smell of it mixed with sweat and cologne, sharp and overwhelming.

My ass clenched around him, milking. He groaned low in my ear, voice guttural, driving deeper, base grinding against me as he spilled inside, hot waves filling me until I felt the drip down my thighs.

He pulled out slow, catching the spill and smearing it higher, coating my hole, my ass, the small of my back.

“Mine,” he said, spreading it like paint. “Now they’ll smell me on you.”

A cloth came next, warm, damp. The first drag over my skin was almost gentle, but he chose where to wipe and where to leave me ruined.

He cleaned my stomach, the mess on my thighs, but left streaks on my ass, cum rubbed into my skin like a brand.

His rings scraped my stomach as he pressed the cloth lower, deliberate reminder of who held me.

His hand lingered, pressing the mess into me with the heel of his palm. “I want it to dry there,” he said, low. “So when you roll over, when you wake, you’ll smell me first. You’ll feel exactly where you belong.”

He turned me onto my back, came over me with that steady, consuming look.

“Look at me.”

I did, because not looking felt impossible.

“You did well,” he said. “Better than you thought.”

Tears pricked hot at my eyes, unspilled, shame burning sharper for how close they were. “You’re a bastard.”

“And yet,” he murmured, kissing me slow, filthy, tongue deep, tasting himself on me.

When he broke away, he hauled me down the bed, pulled me onto my side, tucked back against his chest. His arm came heavy over my waist, palm low, cock soft but still thick resting against my ass.

His rings pressed cool into my stomach. One hand brushed my hair back deliberately, making sure I felt the gesture, even as it trapped me deeper.

“You’re not a pawn. You’re the prize.” He rested his mouth against my temple. “You sleep here. Get used to it.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.” His lips brushed my temple. “Tomorrow, when you walk past them, they’ll know. That you’re mine. That you were good for me. That you’ll be good again. And if you aren’t, you’ll learn faster.”

I shut my eyes. His hand at my waist was a lock and a promise.

His breath paced mine until I matched it.

The door was still locked. The light still bright enough to humiliate, yet dim enough to keep my scars unseen.

In the dark behind my eyes, shame curled tighter than comfort.

My body throbbed with the soreness of first ruin, cum drying tacky on my skin, scent sharp, inescapable.

I wasn’t untouched anymore. I never would be again.

Sleep dragged at me in slow, heavy pulls, but every time my body threatened to give in, the ache between my thighs reminded me whose bed I lay in.

His palm tightened over my waist when I shifted, a subtle tug that reeled me back against his chest. Even in half-sleep he claimed me, cock soft but still present, a weight at the small of my back.

I thought of the sheets stained beneath us, of how the scent would cling come morning, impossible to hide.

I hated him. I hated myself more for the part of me that settled under his arm, too tired, too used, too sore to fight anymore. My last thought before sleep took me was the cruelest one: that I was safer here, trapped in his bed, because right now, there was nowhere left for me to run.