Chapter 17: Anal Cherry Popped
The dark was still thick, velvety and suffocating, when I felt the shift. Not movement exactly. A change in the air. The heavy arm pinning me down lifted. The mattress groaned softly as weight redistributed. I kept my eyes shut, breathing shallow, pretending sleep. Maybe, just maybe, he’d leave. Let me curl into the wreckage alone.
No such luck.
Cool air touched my inner thigh as the sheet was peeled back. Rough fingers – his fingers – traced the curve of my hip, slid down the sensitive skin. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His intent was a physical presence, heavier than the silk canopy. My breath hitched, a tiny betraying gasp I couldn’t swallow. He knew I was awake.
His touch moved lower, parting my thighs with deliberate, inexorable pressure. Despite the lingering ache, the raw tenderness between my legs, my body betrayed me. A slick warmth bloomed where his knuckles brushed. Shame, hot and acrid, flooded my mouth. How could it? After everything? After him?
Then his mouth was there. Hot, wet, hungry. Pressing against flesh already swollen and sore from the night’s relentless use. I gasped, a sound that choked into a whimper. The jasmine scent, once sweet, now felt cloying, mixing with the musk of sex and sweat. He licked, slow at first, then with increasing fervor, lapping at the remnants of his own possession, the stickiness of our joined fluids. It felt… obscene. Degrading. Yet, a treacherous spark ignited low in my belly, a counterpoint to the deep throb of pain.
His tongue explored, probed, focused. He knew exactly where to press, to circle, to send shivers up my spine that had nothing to do with cold. My hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. No. I clenched my teeth. Stop it.
One hand slid lower, tracing the cleft of my ass. One thick finger, slicked with my own wetness, pressed against the tight, forbidden pucker. I froze. Terror, cold and sharp, sliced through the haze of lingering arousal. No. Not there. Please not there.
“Vishal…” My voice was a ragged thread. A plea.
He ignored me. The finger circled, insistent, applying a slow, steady pressure. My body clenched impossibly tight, a reflexive defense. His mouth never stopped its intimate assault, his tongue a relentless counterpoint to the probing intrusion at my back. The dual sensation was maddening – sharp pleasure warring with sharp fear, the slick warmth from his mouth contrasting with the alarming pressure building behind.
“Relax,” he murmured against my skin, the vibration sending another unwanted jolt through me. His voice was calm, utterly in control. Like he was discussing the stock market. Not… this. “Fighting it only makes it worse, Saumya. You know it feels good eventually.”
The pressure increased. A burning stretch began, agonizingly slow. I cried out, a sharp sound that echoed slightly in the cavernous room. Tears pricked my eyes. He was getting me ready. Preparing the last untouched place. My breath came in short, panicked gasps. This was different. Worse. Violating in a way the other wasn't, somehow. Sacred ground he was determined to conquer.
He added more slickness – spit, I realized with another wave of humiliation. The pressure became a relentless, burning intrusion. My fists clenched the ruined sheets. I tried to pull away, twist my hips, but his other arm clamped across my waist, holding me pinned. Helpless. “Stop… please… you’re hurting me!”
“Shhh,” he soothed, his breath hot on my thigh. “Just a little more. Breathe, Saumya. Let me in.” His finger pushed deeper, past the impossible ring of muscle. A white-hot lance of pain ripped through me. I screamed then, a raw, guttural sound. Tears streamed down my temples, soaking into the pillow. This is breaking me.
He paused, buried deep in that tight, unfamiliar heat. The pain was excruciating, a constant, burning throb. He stayed still, letting my body adjust, or trying to. His finger moved slightly, a tiny twisting motion that made me sob. Then, impossibly, his mouth returned to my front, his tongue finding that swollen bud again. The contrast was torture. Pain and pleasure, violation and unwanted stimulation, colliding.
Slowly, agonizingly, the sharpness began to recede, dulling into a deep, insistent ache. His clever mouth worked, coaxing responses I couldn't suppress. Whimpers turned into moans, mingling with my ragged breaths. The heat from his tongue spread, battling the burn behind. My traitorous body began to soften, to yield, muscles unclenching infinitesimally around the invading finger.
“See?” he murmured, withdrawing his finger slowly, making me gasp. “Knew you could take it.”
Before the relief could register, before I could even think, he was moving. His weight shifted. I felt the blunt, overwhelming pressure replace his finger. Larger. So much larger. Panic surged again. “Vishal, no! It’s too–”
He pushed. Not the brutal slam of last night, but a slow, relentless, unstoppable invasion. It felt like being split open. The burning returned, fiercer than before. I choked on a scream, my body bowing against the sheets. He held my hips firm, sinking deeper, deeper, filling that virgin space completely. The pain was all-consuming. I thought I might pass out.
He stopped, buried to the hilt. Panting. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word thick with strained control. “So tight. Like a fucking fist.”
He didn’t move for a long moment. Just held himself there, a burning, stretching presence deep inside me. The pain began to mutate again, tempering, warping into something else. A strange, impossible fullness. An intimacy that felt darker, dirtier, than anything before. His hands smoothed over my hips, my back, almost… comforting. Possessive. “Easy now. Just breathe.”
Then he moved. A slow, grinding withdrawal. The drag was exquisite agony. Then an even slower, deliberate thrust back in. Deep. Unbearably deep. The rhythm began. Long. Slow. Measured. Each stroke was a controlled burn, a careful stretching, a remorseless claiming. The pain was still there, a bright thread woven through the sensation, but underneath… something else bloomed. A perverse pleasure sparked where his pubic bone ground against me, radiating outwards. His slow, deep thrusts began to brush places inside that sparked unexpected heat, even through the pain.
My cries softened, becoming moans I barely recognized. My body, the traitor, began to move with his rhythm, seeking that pressure, that friction. Shame warred with a dawning, horrified realization: my hips were lifting to meet him. Arching into the violation. Wanting the depth only he could give. The pleasure built, insidious, undeniable, coiling tighter and tighter as he maintained that torturous, perfect slowness.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice rough. His hands gripped me harder. “Take it. All of it. Such a good girl.” His words, the praise for my submission, sent another jolt through me.
The long, slow fuck stretched on, a relentless tide of sensation. Pain and pleasure blurred, merged, became indistinguishable. The friction, the deep grinding pressure, the sheer fullness… it was overwhelming. Consuming. My climax didn't crash over me; it built, slow and deep, coiling from that forbidden place he was ruthlessly claiming. When it finally broke, it was a silent, shuddering implosion, a wave of heat and release that washed through my core, leaving me trembling, weak, completely undone.
He felt it. His rhythm faltered. His thrusts became shorter, harder, losing their careful control. A low growl rumbled in his chest. Then he slammed into me one final, devastating time, burying himself impossibly deep, and held there. I felt the hot, pulsing release deep inside that intimate, newly conquered space. He shuddered, collapsing heavily over my back for a moment, his breath hot on my neck.
Slowly, carefully, he withdrew. The sudden emptiness was profound, a hollow ache. He rolled off me. I stayed on my stomach, face buried in the pillow, breathing in the scent of sex, sweat, jasmine, and my own tears. My body felt shattered. Used. Utterly possessed. And yet… a residual tremor of that shocking, unwanted pleasure still hummed deep within.
I heard him move, the sound of water running in the ensuite. He returned, a damp cloth in hand. He cleaned himself efficiently, then turned his attention to me. The cool cloth touched the heated skin of my inner thighs, between them, then, with unsettling gentleness, he wiped the tender, stretched flesh he’d just violated. The intimacy of the act, after the brutality, was almost worse. I flinched.
He tossed the cloth aside. Dressed quickly in the clothes from last night, looking every inch the powerful businessman, the ruthless entrepreneur. The monster in the silk sheets vanished behind crisp linen and polished shoes. He walked to the door, paused, and looked back at me where I still lay, broken and exposed on the ruined wedding bed.
A small, satisfied smile touched his lips. There was no tenderness in it. Only conquest. “Rest now, Saumya,” he said, his voice cool, detached. “I’ll see you at work.” The door clicked shut behind him.
Work. Vikram. My husband. The world crashed back in. The enormity of what had just happened, what I’d just felt, slammed into me. I curled into a tight ball, the silken sheets now feeling like chains. The scent of jasmine was suddenly sickening. What had he done? What had I done? And that last, casual threat hung in the air, colder than the morning light now filtering through the curtains: I’ll see you at work. Right outside the office where Vikram, my oblivious husband, sat at his desk. The desk owned by the man who had just taken everything.
The scent of Vishal still clung to the silk sheets, a brutal reminder tangled with the fading sweetness of jasmine. My body felt like a violated temple, every muscle protesting, the deep, throbbing ache between my legs and the sharper sting back there a constant, humiliating echo. Sunlight, harsh and accusing now, streamed through the curtains I hadn't drawn, illuminating the wreckage of my wedding bed – the tangled sheets, the fallen ornament glittering like broken promises on the floor. Work. Vikram. The words echoed Vishal’s cool dismissal, chilling me despite the morning warmth.
A tentative knock shattered the heavy silence. "Saumya?" Vikram’s voice, muffled through the thick wood, sounded hesitant. Apologetic. "Can I… come in?" Like he needed permission in his own bridal suite. The irony tasted like ash.
Panic flared, hot and sudden. I scrambled, pulling the ruined sheet over my nakedness, wincing as the fabric brushed tender flesh. "Just… just a minute!" My voice sounded thin, strained. How long had he been waiting outside? While Vishal… The thought choked me. I grabbed the nearest thing – a flimsy silk robe discarded last night – and wrapped it tightly around myself, its luxurious feel suddenly repellent. "Okay."
The door opened slowly. Vikram stood there, looking painfully young, awkward in his rumpled wedding clothes. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the disarray, the unmade bed, before landing nervously on me. He flinched slightly, seeing my tear-streaked face, the shadows under my eyes. "Saumya…" He stepped inside, closing the door softly. "Are… are you alright? Last night… I… I’m so sorry I couldn’t…" He trailed off, flushing deeply, unable to meet my gaze. "The drinks… they hit me harder than I thought. Passed out cold in the guest room." He offered a weak, embarrassed smile. "Stupid, huh?"
Relief warred with a fresh wave of disgust. He had no idea. None. He thought he was the one who failed. The sheer innocence of his obliviousness was almost worse than Vishal’s calculated cruelty. "It’s… it’s fine, Vikram," I managed, my voice flat. "Just tired." I forced myself to look at him, at his earnest, worried face. My husband. Owned by the man who owned me now.
He shuffled closer, his hands twisting nervously. "I… I wanted to… you know. Properly. This morning." His gaze dropped to the robe’s neckline, then quickly snapped back to my face, his cheeks flaming. "If… if you’re feeling up to it?" He sounded like a boy asking for a favor, not a husband claiming his bride.
The robe felt like a shroud. Vishal’s parting words – another hole for me in the morning – echoed, mocking. He’d taken that too, hadn’t he? Taken everything. What was left for Vikram? Scraps. The thought ignited a cold fury deep inside me, mingling strangely with the lingering, unwanted pulse Vishal had left behind. "Okay," I whispered, the word tasting sour.
He approached the bed, his movements stiff with nervousness. He sat gingerly on the edge, the mattress dipping slightly. His hand reached out, trembling, to touch my arm through the silk. "You’re so beautiful, Saumya," he breathed, leaning in. His kiss was tentative, clumsy, landing awkwardly on my cheekbone. Nothing like Vishal’s possessive hunger. It felt… pathetic.
He fumbled with the robe’s tie. His fingers were cold. Clammy. I closed my eyes, turning my face away. I couldn’t bear to see his earnestness. Couldn’t bear the comparison screaming in my head. As the robe loosened, his breath hitched. His hand slid inside, trembling fingers brushing my bare waist, then lower, towards my hip. His touch was hesitant, exploring, utterly devoid of the confident ownership Vishal wielded. It felt like being examined by a nervous student.
His fingers brushed the top of my thigh, then tentatively moved inward. He gasped softly when he encountered the slickness Vishal had left behind – the undeniable evidence of another man’s possession. He froze for a second, then his touch became more urgent, clumsier. He was trying to find his way, trying to ignite something. All it ignited was impatience. And that cold, simmering anger.
"Here," I muttered, my voice devoid of warmth. I couldn't endure his fumbling exploration, couldn't stand the feel of his uncertain hands on skin Vishal had mapped with ruthless precision. I reached down, grabbed his wrist firmly, and guided his hand away from my core. I pushed him back gently onto the mattress beside me. "Just… relax."
His eyes widened, confused but hopeful. "Saumya?"
Ignoring him, I shifted, turning towards him. The silk robe gaped open. I didn't care. My focus was singular: get this over with. Fast. My hand slid down his stomach, beneath the waistband of his trousers. He gasped, a sharp intake of breath, his body tensing then arching slightly off the bed. "Oh god," he choked out.
He was already half-hard, responding instantly to the mere promise of contact. Eager. Desperate. Like a starving man offered crumbs. My fingers closed around him. He wasn't large. Not like Vishal. The difference was immediate, visceral. Where Vishal had been thick, demanding iron, Vikram felt… manageable. Soft skin over modest firmness. I began to move my hand, a brisk, efficient up-and-down motion. No teasing. No lingering exploration. Just friction.
"Saumya… yes…" Vikram moaned, his head thrashing back against the pillow. His hips bucked upwards into my grip. "Oh, yes… just like that…" His voice was already thick, strained. His hands fluttered uselessly at his sides, then gripped the sheets.
I kept my rhythm steady, mechanical. Watching his face contort with building pleasure. His eyes squeezed shut, mouth hanging open. He was panting. It wasn't arousing. It was… clinical. Pitifully quick. Barely a minute passed. His breathing hitched, became ragged gasps. "I'm… I'm gonna… Saumya…!"
His body stiffened violently. A choked cry tore from his throat. Warmth spilled over my fingers, pulsing weakly against my palm. Then, just as suddenly, he collapsed back onto the mattress, spent, trembling, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes blinked open, dazed, meeting mine with a look of bewildered, grateful ecstasy. "Wow," he breathed, a dopey smile spreading across his face. "That was… amazing. You're amazing."
I pulled my hand away, sticky and warm. Disgust, cold and sharp, washed over me. He hadn't even touched me properly. Hadn't come close to filling the hollow ache Vishal had left behind, let alone the deeper, newly conquered emptiness. He lay there, basking in his fleeting, insignificant release, completely unaware of the violation that still throbbed within me, of the powerful man whose scent still clung to his wife and his sheets. Before I even began properly, I thought, staring at the dampness on my fingers, then at Vikram's blissful, oblivious face. What a loser.
He reached for my hand, his smile soft, affectionate. "My beautiful wife." The words landed like stones. I pulled my hand away, wiping it discreetly on the inside of the silk robe. The phantom sensation of Vishal’s slow, agonizing possession, the shocking bloom of forbidden pleasure amidst the pain, flooded back with brutal clarity. Vikram sighed contentedly, snuggling deeper into the pillow, already drifting towards sleep again. A profound sense of contempt settled over me, colder than the morning air. Good I had Vishal, I thought, the bitterness a sharp, metallic taste on my tongue. At least he knows how to finish the job.
The contempt curdled into something colder, sharper, like broken glass in my gut. "Vikram," I said, my voice flat, devoid of the warmth he craved, cutting through his satisfied daze. "Get down there."
He blinked, confused, his dopey smile fading. "Down...where?"
I didn't answer with words. My hand, still sticky from him, pushed firmly on his shoulder, forcing him lower on the bed while my other hand shoved the silk robe aside completely, exposing myself – the swollen, aching flesh Vishal had feasted on, still glistening with the evidence of his earlier, brutal claim. "There," I hissed, staring straight into his bewildered eyes as I spread my thighs wider, the sharp scent of sex and jasmine thick in the air."Now. Eat."
He hesitated, his gaze flickering over the slick mess, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face – maybe catching the unfamiliar, musky tang beneath the sweetness. But the eagerness to please, the pathetic desire to prove himself in this one arena Vishal hadn't yet corrupted, won out. He lowered his head, his tongue touching me with timid, tentative laps. The sensation was clumsy, irritating, nothing like Vishal’s deliberate, devastating skill. My hand tangled in his hair, not gently, yanking his face harder against me. "Harder," I commanded, grinding myself against his mouth. "Use your tongue properly."
He flinched but obeyed, redoubling his efforts with a frantic, sloppy desperation, his nose buried in the remnants of Vishal’s seed. His tongue probed, circled, pressed where I needed it, fueled by my harsh grip and sharper words. I closed my eyes, not seeing Vikram, but feeling the lingering ghost of Vishal’s possession deep inside, the phantom stretch from that morning, the humiliating echo of pleasure wrung from pain. The contrast was grotesque: Vikram’s earnest, wet fumbling against the memory of ruthless expertise. Yet, against all reason, the friction built, coiling that familiar, traitorous heat low in my belly, amplified by the dark thrill of making him taste him, of using his pathetic devotion as a tool. "Faster," I gasped, arching, forcing his face deeper, my fingers tightening painfully in his hair. "Don’t stop!"
He choked slightly, gagging maybe on the sharp, salty tang he couldn’t name, but he didn’t pull away. He kept licking, sucking, driven by my command and his own bewildered need to satisfy. The peak, when it crashed over me, was sharp and sudden, less a wave than a violent shudder, tearing a ragged cry from my throat – a cry of release tangled with fury and utter contempt. I held him there, grinding against his mouth until the last tremor passed, then shoved him away roughly. He collapsed back, gasping for air, his lips and chin glistening wetly. I looked down at his dazed, panting face, a bitter taste in my own mouth. Finally some use.