#and now I must pull off an entire neckband

[wellamarke]

Up to the Neck

For @cabinpressurechallenge Carolyn Month of May, year not relevant. Prompt 8: Winter, though the connection is rather blink-and-you’ll-miss-it.

Also on AO3

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The blasted neckband is inside out. She must have cast it on wrong — a lumpy, unsightly caterpillar of stitches sticks out, all the way around, ruining an otherwise fairly decent effort. Carolyn curses, fingering the rows for the umpteenth time. She’s only two away from binding off. All today’s work, completely wasted.

She sets the knitting down in disgust. Why had she gone back to the infernal pastime in the first place? She had always resented it as a girl, the way her mother sat so primly in her armchair, modelling the pursuits of a good housewife for Ruth to lap up. The actual work itself - the turning of a glorified bit of string into something one could wear against the world - that was all right. But the idea that it was somehow proper and feminine to do so, that was ghastly.

Ironic, then, that she should be back to it now, of all times. But when one is being fussed over daily by doctors who act as though thirty-four is the height of antiquity, one looks around for something one can get away with doing, with achieving, that can’t be taken away with a “tut tut” and a “won’t you think of the child?”

She thinks of the child now. Poor little mite. Born in the dead of winter to a mother who can’t so much as knit a nice warm jumper without messing it up.

Carolyn picks up the work again. She is moments away from sliding the first of the five needles out to pull the entire neckband loose when the door of her bedroom opens.

“Only me,” says the unmistakably irritating voice of her older sister, poking her head around the door in a pretence of decorum before barging in, as she had so obviously intended to do all along. “How’s the patient?”

“I’m not ill,” Carolyn points out.

“You know what I mean, Carol.”

“Carol-yn.”

Ruth ignores the correction, as usual. “I brought round a casserole. Gordon must need a feed-up, with you on bed rest.”

Gordon isn’t the one creating an entirely new human being, Carolyn observes inwardly. Out loud, because she is grateful, she says, “Thank you.”

“Oh, and there’s this.” Ruth swings her shoulder-bag around to reach inside, and brings out a green-and-white striped romper suit. Hand-made, of course, and almost certainly without flaw. “Saw the pattern in Woman’s Day and couldn’t resist.”

“Thank you,” Carolyn parrots. It’s extremely tedious of Ruth to keep doing this. When had they ever been about favours and presents and twice-weekly check-ins? Certainly Carolyn had never done that with any of Ruth’s pregnancies. Which makes it all that much worse, obviously. “It’s lovely,” she admits, still holding the romper. “It must have taken you an age.”

“Not really,” Ruth says, infuriatingly. “A couple of evenings, perhaps. Baby things are always quick. Makes a nice change from football jerseys.”

Before Carolyn can reply, Ruth’s eyes fall on the poor old jumper. “Oh, what’s this? You’ve been busy too.”

It’s startling how quickly Carolyn can go back to feeling like a five-year-old as soon as Ruth’s eyes are trained on something she’s tried to do. It could be the most perfectly crafted thing in the world and her skin would still be crawling at this moment.

“Oh, isn’t this sweet. Lovely colour, too.”

The red wool had simply been the closest to the front of the shelf, and bending down to rummage further back is not Carolyn’s current favourite hobby. Ruth doesn’t need to know that.

“Pity about the neckband. I could fix that for you, if you want. Wouldn’t take long. I can do it right now.”

“No,” Carolyn snaps. Surprising even herself with the fast movement, she snatches the poor little jumper back from her sister. “It’s fine. I’m keeping it like that.”

Ruth looks pityingly at her. “But you’ve cast the neck on the wrong way round.”

“I know.”

“And it wouldn’t take long to redo it. You were probably holding it inside out when you picked up the stitches.”

“I know. But I like it like this.”

“Well— but why? It looks… funny.”

“The baby won’t mind.”

Ruth rolls her eyes. “It’s not about the baby, though, is it.”

“Yes it is. Who else would it be about?”

She huffs. “You are impossible sometimes.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“If you won’t let me fix it, you could at least pull it back yourself. It really wouldn’t take long at all.”

Funny to think that a microsecond before Ruth had arrived, she’d been about to do just that, but now she would sooner die. “I think it gives it character,” Carolyn says. Goodness knows, if there’s one thing this child will need, growing up in this house, it’s that.

“Well, have it your way.”

“Thank you. I shall.”

Ruth looks at her, and after a moment, smiles. It’s unexpected and unnerving. Carolyn looks down at the two pieces of baby clothing, suspended on top of her bump in lieu of there being a lap to put them on. Not long now, and there’ll be a real little person wearing these. Green and white romper for grand days out, and funny little red jumper with its mistakes and character for walks in the park and watching the ducks.

“I asked Gordon if anything needed doing around the house,” Ruth remarks, “But he seemed not to know what I meant. I presume you’ll be unhelpful if I ask for a list.”

“On the contrary,” Carolyn replies, “If you want to do housework, have yourself a merry time.”

“All right, then.”

“It’s all so silly, you know. I’m only a little older than you were with Keith.”

“He was my third, though. They get ever so funny with your first. And I didn’t… have any of that business.”

“No.”

Terrifying pools of red in the morning. Even Gordon had been a little rattled then. Not his precious heir, not after he’d put up with her being enormous for months.

“Ah well,” Ruth says. “Soon be over. Or soon be starting, I should say.”

Carolyn hums in agreement. It still seems a funny image - herself with a baby. Gordon with a baby. Herself and Gordon with a baby that’s theirs. It’s one of those things that happens to other people, to be walked past at speed.

“Right. I’ll leave you to it, then. Shout if you want anything.”

“Thank you, Ruth.”

“Don’t mention it.” The response is automatic, and muffled in any case by the door that closes on it.

After a little while, Carolyn picks up the jumper. She smiles at it ruefully. Ruth is right, obviously. She really should just pull the whole thing off and start the neck again.

“I hope you’re not as stubborn as me,” she remarks to the baby, as she plants the needle into the next stitch nonetheless. “Or we’ll be in for a real time of it.”

[thetorturerwrites]

Lamb Ch 8 - Stop This

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol​​. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Previous Chapter

Summary: For hours, you kept vigil. Your terror believed you to be alone in a mundane forest, and you strained to hear a gnarly growl, an angry hiss, or even the snap of a twig to alert you of a predator’s presence.

But this was not a normal woodland, and there was only the gentle rustle of reeds and leaves in the breeze. This place was perilous but subtly so, the danger disguised as beauty.

You drowned in worry, chewing your cheeks and lips as you waited for him to return or to appear from between the trees where he hovered, watching you struggle. He would, you nodded to no one. Surely, even he wouldn’t leave you alone in peril. You told yourself this over and over, demanding that your heart make your brain believe it. Surely, offering your body and potentially pregnant already made you worth something.

Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone following along with this story. It is unfolding in a very unique way that I did not expect. I appreciate you all. <3

Content Note: Menstruation & red mustache, suicidal ideation, talk of pregnancy

Word Count: 4.5k

For hours, you kept vigil. Your terror believed you to be alone in a mundane forest, and you strained to hear a gnarly growl, an angry hiss, or even the snap of a twig to alert you of a predator’s presence.

But this was not a normal woodland, and there was only the gentle rustle of reeds and leaves in the breeze. This place was perilous but subtly so, the danger disguised as beauty.

You drowned in worry, chewing your cheeks and lips as you waited for him to return or to appear from between the trees where he hovered, watching you struggle. He would, you nodded to no one.  Surely, even he wouldn’t leave you alone in peril. You told yourself this over and over, demanding that your heart make your brain believe it. Surely, offering your body and potentially pregnant already made you worth something.  

But the nagging doubt never receded. His compassion, if he truly had it, was warped by solitude and eons of ends. You knew he would kill a thing to end its suffering rather than lend it aid.

Huddled in on yourself as best you could in your bondage, you kept the tears at bay until fatigue won out over fortitude. Limp, aching, wrecked, you contemplated screaming the way you did the first day. It drew his attention, after all. Instead, you cried as quietly as you could. He did not come, would not come; this was your punishment.

When your mind could no longer resist, you succumbed to fitful sleep, hounded by dreams of his terrible helmet and angry face. Repeatedly, you jerked awake from his haunting shouts only to still be hanging from the damn tree. How long would he make you endure this?

Shivering and miserable, you barely noticed the bright light emerging to your left. Larger and stronger, hotter and hotter, it grew, catching your eye and sending both wide open. You blinked hard to be sure you were awake, that you weren’t imagining it, but on it grew to the size of a man. The sort of man you’d seen only once before in your life.

The sort of man who wasn’t a man at all.

Even if you were half-dreaming, or half-mad, there was no mistaking who it was. There was only the unanswerable question of what he wanted. 

On a wince, you turned away when he stepped from the center of that dazzling aura. You didn’t want to look. Although you instinctively knew that if The Ren was real, so too must be his brother, you didn’t want to see it.  You didn’t need more evidence that the decision you made to journey here was ludicrous.

Unphased by your flinch, his ethereal fingers skimmed your chin, and his overly warm hand cupped your cheek. The near tenderness of it made you want to wretch. It was too much. He was too close. The Ren was cool to the touch, calming and, somehow, tranquil. This creature burned too brightly. You felt singed by his very touch, and you didn’t want even a second more of it.  There was only one way to make him stop, though.

Begrudgingly, you looked up into such familiar eyes; but whereas you knew irises that flitted from color to color, these shone a brilliant gold, piercing and fixed. They traveled the length of your body, and you could do nothing but endure his assessing eyes upon your nudity.

“Stop this.”

His voice radiated through you, flipping your stomach. It startled your heart out of rhythm, forcing a choking wheeze from your straining ribs. It was a punch to the gut, a sameness that was just slightly off. He spoke with a voice you knew, but it teemed with something unnameable, something you felt in your bones.  It was wrong, as though he worked to make sure you knew who and what he was with his voice.

Abruptly, the light bulb blinked on. This was pure demand disguised as niceness.  The Galaxy belonged to him, and he was very accustomed to getting his way.

“You do not know what you do.” He pinched your chin and forced your face nearer to his glowing gaze. “Stop this before you do greater damage.”

His touch turned fiery, angrily so. It was a threat, intended to punctuate your mortality with the slightest, most insignificant gesture. Fear knocked your knees, but you set your jaw against the blossoming burn and jerked away from his fingers.

The calm shroud evaporated, replaced by annoyance.  It was a look you knew well; but this time, you didn’t shy away from it. His hand tightened to a fist, and he towered over you, leaning in menacingly. You perched on the verge of saying something monumentally stupid when he glanced over your shoulder toward the mossy path, clocking something you couldn’t see. One last stern look to you was all there was before he disappeared, sucking all the heat and then some from the little nook as he went. 

Your trembling turned to quaking, a mixture of cresting adrenaline, fear, and what now felt like arctic cold. Your entire body shook terribly, unable to find any equilibrium in the wake of cold warring with hot.

Your particular deity came into view, and you slumped against the tree, ready to beg that he take you from here. You wondered how you must look, terrified and wild-eyed with your teeth chattering, chest and abdomen heaving, and fingers scrabbling against the ties at your wrists.

All of which he completely ignored.

The contented noise he made as he lifted you into granite arms and curled your legs around his waist jolted through you. Relief flooded in at the feel of him against you, and you let loose a pitiful whinge and pulled at the ties.  All you wanted to do was curl into his broad chest, regardless of how childish it would feel. 

Having his own agenda, cool fingers grazed your labia, plucking at the meat before sliding further down to assess your readiness. The realization that he meant to have you here, in the open, struck a chord you couldn’t put your finger on. But if you kept secret what just happened, the penance for it could very well be another night on this tree.

You twisted in his arms and shook your head to get it on straight, but he only tucked his face into the crook of your neck to lick at your sweat-slicked skin. He mistook your attempt at gathering your wits as reluctance and bit at your jaw. He clawed at your backside to keep you still, and you hissed at the drag of his nails.

“Did you think it would be only once, lamb?”  He shifted you in his embrace, scraping your back against the rigid bark. His next words came against the corner of your mouth, a husky promise that set your insides to clenching. “You’ll sacrifice this pretty cunt to me over and over.”

“N-n-n...” Freezing, feverish, and foolish, you couldn’t control your tongue. Pushing a knee up under his arm, you squirmed and thrashed until you thought he might slap you. “S-s-s-solo.”

The Galaxy stopped.

The Ren’s normally disinterested features morphed into murderous, and his fingers gouged into the soft swell of your hips. He stared at you, seething, and your very soul shrank from him. Cowering, waiting for the strike, you turned your face away, squeezed your eyes shut tight, and braced for the explosion of his anger.

What was a calm breeze whipped up into tumultuous wind. The silver twilight sky darkened with thick, gray, thunderous clouds. Plants and flowers and trees curled away from their creator, burrowing down as though to survive his wrath. Stars that hearkened to his every whim blinked out, casting the land into midnight blackness. 

Whatever fear Solo produced in you vanished in the face of this. You knew what The Ren was capable of, what he could accomplish with nothing more than his mood. 

You clung to him, knees tight around his middle, ankles hooked at the small of his back. He was the eye of the storm, the only bit of steadiness in this now abysmal environment. His eyes flashed lightning bright, swirling ominous shades of crimson and smoke. Suddenly, his wide hand snatched up your face, turning it right and left. You knew the skin flushed and heated from Solo’s touch, but could he see it somehow? Did the man beget of light leave a mark on your flesh?

Enraged, he shoved you away, letting his wolfish stare rake over the rest of you. You balked, shifting uncomfortably as he gripped your outer thigh and turned you to one side. Tangling fingers in your hair, he yanked your head back to inspect the jagged neckband for signs of tampering. It was then you understood he was looking for evidence that his brother sullied you, coerced you away from his claim.

You were naked, disheveled, and visibly struggling with all that transpired; and no doubt, the majority of anyone he’d ever known found Solo to be the more appealing brother.

“I-I-I didn’t.” You stood onto your toes and tried to lean into him, as though you could calm the brute with your nearness. “N-nothing happened. He said go away; that’s all. I-I swear.”

Hoping to placate him with that information, you shrieked as it only launched him into a roar that cracked the very ground you stood upon. From nowhere, his arcane scythe flew into his hand; and when the saber ignited, every vein in every leaf of every tree electrified to match until all the land was aglow in a scarlet-infused fog.

“Please,” you begged, haggard and croaking. “It was nothing. I didn’t do this.”

Rattled to the root of your spine, you were a breath away from apologizing for your very existence when the arc of his weapon came for you. It was so fast you didn’t have time to scream. In a blink, you knew Solo turned his brother from you, made him see this was senseless and that you couldn’t do what you’d promised.

Your time as a stupid girl was at an end.

It wasn’t until you felt Ren’s inflexible grip around your upper arm that you recognized you weren’t dead. He hauled you onto your feet and threw you at the path from which you’d come yesterday. Disoriented and ungraceful, you tripped and clattered to the ground in a mess of shredded cloak, boots, and knotted hair. 

“Go back.” He hefted you from the ground and tossed you further down the minor road. “For once in your idiot life, do as you’re told. Do not leave Hosnia. Am I understood?”

His voice was unlike anything you’d heard before. Even from him. It was sonorous on a cosmic scale, and it shook loose a mudslide behind him, substantial chunks of mountain crashing to the ground. The outright malice weighting every word made your eyes ache, your lungs tighten.

Before he could shout at you again or bury you beneath the rubble, you ran.

He was gone a week before you strayed further than his bedroom and the bath. You kept to the outside, deciding it wouldn’t do to have him find you snooping through his things. Again. You roamed winding paths and explored small caves in what he called Hosnia.  You also investigated the lasting effects of Solo’s presence. Large footprints left a scorched path on the ground. The bark around where you hung was charred, and many of the bushes in the vicinity were fried down to stems. Nothing here was meant to withstand so much light, such intensity.

With the absence of The Ren’s bombastic anger, everything settled back into calm, though the stars didn’t shine as brightly, and the flora didn’t bloom as vibrantly. Everything he created seemed to miss him terribly. You didn’t let yourself fear he wouldn’t return until you admitted you missed him, too.

Hugging yourself, you trained your eyes upon the red clay footpath and wandered aimlessly for what felt to be an entire day. At the Demarcation, you found his small band of soldiers patrolling. The sight of them jarred you because wherever he’d gone, he went alone. And he left his cadre of ghouls to keep you here, to contain you.

The thought was unsettling. 

When you came upon the pulverized altar, the exact spot of your tethering, you lost all control. Sunk down in the very center of it, you howled strained, lonely, wrenching sobs. He left you here. He left, and he wasn’t coming back. He might be dead, and he left you here to rot, an abandoned, foolish child in the middle of a cruel, deadly world.

You didn’t go outside after that.

You wept for days, even as you tried to force yourself to function, to pass for some kind of alive. You wandered room after room, which only fueled your heartbreak because you found that he collected artifacts from all throughout the Galaxy. Some rooms were expertly furnished, decorated to bear the theme of what you thought of as the objects’ homeworld. Some were haphazard and chaotic, the contents thrown inside and forgotten. These made you cry the hardest because you felt just like those rugs, those tatters. 

Useless. Forgotten.

At the end of the second week, your menses came, and you fractured all over again. Collapsed against a wall in the throne room, you unraveled into choking, heaving, mournful sounds you didn’t know yourself capable of making. No Ren. No family. No child to potentially keep you company, to give you purpose. The physical ache of your insides was pale in comparison.

You were utterly alone.

And you could not die. Not without The Ren to release you.

There was no escaping this hell, this monotonous existence wrought with only bottomless desolation. This was the sum and scope of your world now. You would be a wailing wraith disrupting the perfect silence with your lunacy.

“Find me in the Balance, beloved.”

The voice you had been desperate to hear for months broke through your delirium, stunning you to stillness. It was as clear as if she sat beside you, and you looked around frantically. You called for her, shouting when you received no answer. In the astounding silence, you pleaded. You begged her to save you, begged the universe to let you join her. Pressing your forehead against the icy wall, you willed yourself to expire. 

“Just die. Please, just let me die,” you murmured over and over.

As though to answer your plea, the barrier against which you rested shimmered to life with diaphanous color. It drew your head up, meeting your despair with the faces of your family. On a shocked cry, you rocked backwards, away from the thing; but as soon as your touch disconnected, it returned to a lifeless, muted slab.

Inching forward, you warily, carefully, pressed your fingertips to the surface; and again, the faces of your family parted the gloomy veil and blossomed into a lovely gossamer picture. Through tears turned grateful, you watched the memory play out. It was summer, and you’d all gone for a picnic. You and your brother picked as many wildflowers as you could find to decorate the small shrine Nona brought to bless the outing.

One memory tumbled into the next, silhouettes shifting as though in a delicate waltz.  Three vignettes was all it took for you to understand that he watched people’s memories this way, and you could watch yours so long as you touched it.

Shot up onto your feet, you ran through the rooms and collected every pillow and blanket you could find. You tore sheets and blankets from one bed after another and dragged over rugs to soften the hard floor.

If this was your new eternity, you would spend it with them the only way you could.

This was how he found you, buried in a nest of your own design, bundled up in another stolen shirt, and asleep with your knuckles pressed against the seam where wall met floor. 

The scrape of his teeth roused you. He bit and licked and sucked at the ruddy stains on your inner thighs, drawing you from your dreams with each nip. A breathy, satisfied sigh slipped loose; and in your sleepy fog, you reached down to curl your fingers into his silken tresses.

The next purr you heard was decidedly not your own, and you slammed into awareness just as he buried his face in your pussy. On an alarmed squeak, you tried to inch away, to twist out of his grasp, but he dug his fingers and nails into your back so deep all you could do was whine.

His wicked tongue plundered through the folds and crevices of your sex before delving down and into the very proof of your failure.

Fat tears collected at the corners of your eyes because if anything you'd done here was worthy of punishment, of being cast out, it was this. This inability to live up to your word. 

When he tipped your hips and parted your thighs wider, opening you up for him further, you forgot to feel sorry for yourself. Then, he bit and tugged on your labia and sucked on your over-sensitive clit, making you forget how to even inhale. 

This was vulgar in its most base form, and you groaned aloud at how fucking pleased he seemed to be. He hummed and growled. Each obscene squish earned you a new murmur and tempted you to sink further into this sin with him. 

You writhed and moaned, trying to coax him into just the right spot without words. But he set his sights on a new target and crawled up your body, stalking you even though you'd already been caught.

He nudged your legs apart wide with his hips and pushed his cock into your gory entrance easily. A quick rock of his hips had you pinned, penetrated, and gasping for air. 

He bottomed out on an exquisite moan, and you finally let yourself look. You knew your eyes went wide, knew your mouth fell open in shock. His perfect features were not only painted in your blood, they were accented by a large scar running from forehead to clavicle.

Your mind swam with a million questions, but there was nothing to say. You'd been claimed by a barbarian, the battle king come to take what was his.

Your cunt gushed a red river, lubricating the way for him, and he slowly, languidly fucked you open, giving you long, measured passes until your body accepted him eagerly. You thought you might combust because he was here. He was inside of you, and you weren’t alone. The patient tempo of his hips increased, stunting your lungs and lifting you into an arch. You struggled and panted at the end of a particularly deep, delicious thrust, whimpering at the staggering fullness you felt. Of body. Of spirit.

You desperately wanted to hear his voice, for him to praise you or call you a dumb girl, but he said nothing, giving you only a raspy chorus of grunts. Matching him, you bit at your lips, both upper and lower, to keep from moaning; but when he shifted to kneel between your thighs, you lost the fight for silence.

Whether it was the sight of your blood or your overwhelmed hiccups, something spurred him into a harsh pace; and soon, the sound of his body slapping against yours countered your shrieks and cries. He dug one hand into your abdomen painfully, gouging at your flesh with unkind fingers to hold you in place so he could pound at you forcefully. With the other, he scooped your blood from around his relentless cock to paint your thighs, your belly, your ribs with it.

Bringing you down to the level of savage, too.

Pungent iron and tang perfumed the air; and when he bent over you to lick and bite at a stain he’d just made, you curled upwards to meet him. You gaped as he lifted his gaze to meet yours, lost to the swirl of want and demand. Holding his stare only made him fuck you harder, but you held it, fighting through the tremors and ribbons of ecstasy threatening to throw you off course.

His eyes shone nearly entirely black with only the faintest swirl at the edges of his irises, as though he’d descended into absolute madness and still fought his way back. His cheeks and nose blushed ever so faintly, and his plump pink lips pressed into a hard line as he concentrated on what you assumed was not pulverizing you. Carmine swooshes of your blood decorated his mouth, jaw, and chin, casting him as every bit the fearsome monster many believed him to be.

And though he wracked your body, all you could think was that he was magnificent.

“There go I to meet him,” you whispered, unaware you even began the war prayer. “Bone-breaker, world killer, Prince of the Void.”

He snarled and wrapped his hands around your rib cage, pressing in viciously, but he did not stop you. You left your body, suspended in the grip of death more now than ever before; but still, you prayed to him, and he allowed it.  

“There go I to find him, to tell him my sorrows, all my joys and pains.”

A ravenous growl dripped from his beautiful lips, and you, adrift in this lewd mass, traced the fresh scar upon his face with the gentlest of touches. As he drilled you nearer to mindless, you struggled to maintain his stare and pay attention as the inky chasms filled in with the vibrancy you remembered.

“Finish it.” 

He groused behind gnashing teeth, lifting your hips entirely off the ground to make himself a better angle. You clung to his neck, yelping in alarm, but he held you effortlessly, keeping your cunt right where he wanted it.

“There… go… I…” 

You quaked under the sheer demand of his thrusts. Nothing like last time, he threw himself into you, stabbing at your pussy so furiously you thought you could feel the fat head of his cock shoving the words up and out of your throat. He was going to kill you; you decided. Screaming at the end of his dick, just like all the others.

“Think you're a warrior now, hm?” 

He snaked both arms along your back and lifted you against him. Settling back on his haunches, he wound your arms about his neck. He mouthed at your jaw, your lips, your pulse. And though he held you like you were nothing, this new position sent your weight down onto his thick cock, which earned you a sinful sound you knew you’d pray for again. 

“Finish it.”

Finding his rhythm in this new configuration took seconds, and he crashed up into your cunt brutally. Even the sensuous way he breathed, deep in his broad chest and punctuated with a bit-back groan, melted away your heartache and emboldened you. Pressing your forehead to his, you curved your hand along his scalp, carding through the lustrous strands. You poured every bit of feeling, of concentration and outright need to be pleasing into this moment. You steeled your voice against any hint of wobble or breakage.

“There go I to beg him,” You nudged his nose with yours the way you had the first day when you offered your body to him.  “Maker of mercy, keeper of the balance.” You swept your lips across his, feather soft and hesitant. “Carry me home.”

As you finished, he gripped your ass tight, sheathed his cock in your heat to the hilt, and captured your mouth on a fierce kiss. Hard hips bucked, pumping you full of his seed, taking back what he thought his brother spoiled. Awestruck, you watched the orgasm roll across his face. It started as a grimace and locked jaw and ended as flared nostrils, rolling lips, and the bob of his throat when he swallowed. 

Leaning forward, he eased you to the blanketed floor and settled himself against you, still wedged between your thighs and stretching your cunt to its limit. He sucked a mark into your skin just below your ear and licked at the skin just above his collar. You silently begged that the hum vibrating against your chest never stop and mewled when he shifted his knee further up to keep you open indecently.

His hips rocked into yours again, signaling he was not yet through with you, and you blew out a ragged breath. His hands pinched and palmed and skimmed all while his dick dragged out nearly completely only to push back in tantalizingly slow. You felt a new dollop of warm and sticky pour from you each time he did it, but you couldn’t tell if it was blood, arousal, or a mixture of both.

His honey-smooth voice, when it next came, rolled through you and made you dizzy. As he’d done so many times before, he slid his thumb, and that erotic drug, along your tongue, shooting you so high into the heavens you could only stare, bewildered and lost to the ravages of his desire.

“This is the last time you’ll bleed, little lamb.”