Chapter 6: I am taken
He knelt there, a king before a ruined altar, his hands hot on my naked skin. The distant melody had finally died. The only music now was our breathing—his measured, mine shallow and quick.
“Stand up,” he said, his voice a low command that brooked no hesitation.
My legs, watery and weak, somehow obeyed. I stood before him, exposed in the candlelight, while he remained impeccably clothed. The contrast was the entire point. I was already conquered territory. He was the general surveying the field.
“Now,” he said, rising to his feet so he loomed over me again. “You undress me.”
I blinked. My hands remained at my sides, numb.
“Your hands did such good work on yourself,” he continued, taking my right wrist and lifting it to the knot of his silk tie. “Now they work for me. Start here.”
My fingers fumbled with the knot. They felt like foreign objects, clumsy and cold. The silk was slippery. I could smell him—cologne, sweat, and underneath, the faint, salty tang of my own body from his skin. The tie came loose. I pulled it slowly from his collar, the fabric whispering as it slid free.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now the buttons. And I want you to talk. Describe everything we’ve done in this room. From the moment I walked in.”
I looked up at his face. His expression was expectant, almost bored, but his eyes were live coals. He wanted the performance. My first button came undone, revealing the strong column of his throat.
“You… you came in,” I began, my voice a dry rustle. “You sent the others away.”
“Louder.” His hand came up to cover mine on the next button, squeezing until I winced. “And with detail. I tasted the champagne on your mouth.”
I took a breath, forcing the words out. “You tasted the champagne on my mouth. You pushed me onto the bed. You held me down and you… you put your cock in my mouth.” Saying it aloud, here, now, sent a jolt through me. I saw his jaw tighten. The next button came easier. “You made me suck you. You came on my face. On my breasts.”
“And then?” he prompted, his voice thick.
“Then you… you ate me.” The crude phrase felt more real than any delicate euphemism. “You licked my pussy. You made me say the words. You made me come with your tongue.” My fingers worked down his shirt, revealing the hard plane of his chest, dusted with dark hair. Each confession loosened something in me, each admission stoking a low, shameful fire in my belly. I felt his excitement, a palpable energy radiating from him. My words were doing this. My filthy, honest words were making this powerful man breathe harder. I loved it. The power was an illusion, but it was a drug.
His shirt hung open. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor. My hands went to his belt buckle. The metal was cold. The click of the release was obscenely loud. “You fingered me,” I continued, my voice gaining a strange, steady rhythm. “You put your fingers inside me and curled them and I saw stars. You told me my own fingers were nothing. You were right.”
The belt slithered free. I undid the button of his trousers, then the zipper. The sound was a long, slow tear. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and briefs, and pushed them down in one motion.
He stepped out of the pooled fabric, completely naked.
And there it was.
I had felt it in my mouth, against my skin. But seeing it, erect and thick and intimidating in the soft light, was different. This was the instrument of my ending. My breath hitched. All the fleeting power I’d felt evaporated, replaced by a primal, dizzying fear. It looked like it would tear me apart. The memory of his fingers, the stretch of his tongue—they were nothing compared to this reality. The pain I’d heard about, dreaded, whispered about with anxious friends—it was standing right in front of me, embodied in him.
I took an involuntary step back. My thighs pressed together.
He closed the distance, his hands coming to my shoulders. “It’s just flesh and blood, Saumya. Same as yours.” He brought one hand down, taking my wrist and guiding it to him. “Touch it. Feel what you’ve been playing with.”
My fingers wrapped around him. He was hot, silken and hard as stone, a prominent vein pulsing under my thumb. I felt him twitch in my grasp. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was tangled now with a dreadful fascination.
He led us to the edge of the bed. He sat down, pulling me to stand between his spread knees. His hands began to move over me again, re-mapping, re-claiming. One cupped my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple until it puckered tightly. The other hand slid down my stomach, through the damp thatch of hair, and found the slick, heated core of me.
“See?” he whispered, his fingers parting me, rubbing in slow circles. “Your body knows. It’s ready. It’s asking for it.”
I shuddered. He was right. Despite the terror, a low ache was building, a treacherous echo of the pleasure he’d wrung from me before. He leaned forward and took my nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply while his fingers worked me. The twin sensations short-circuited my thoughts. My head fell back. A moan escaped.
He switched to my other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. His fingers pushed inside, two of them, stretching me. It burned, a little, but the fullness fed the ache. He was opening me, preparing me, but I knew it was a futile gesture. Nothing could prepare me for him.
He leaned back, his eyes glazed. “Now. You’re going to ride me.”
“What?” The word was a gasp.
“I want to watch your face. I want you to take it yourself, at your pace.” His hands gripped my hips, pulling me forward. “Straddle me.”
The command was impossible. My body refused. He pulled harder, his grip biting. “Now, Saumya.”
I lifted one shaky leg over his thighs, then the other, lowering myself until I was crouching over his lap. The head of his cock nudged against my entrance, a blunt, impossible pressure. I froze, suspended.
“Look at me,” he said. His hands were on my hips, steadying, controlling. “Slowly. Take just the tip.”
I tried to relax. I tried to sink down. The moment it began to stretch me, a sharp, burning sting made me cry out and jerk back up. “I can’t!”
“You can.” His voice was iron. “Again.”
Tears of frustration and fear welled in my eyes. I tried again, lowering myself millimeter by millimeter. The pressure intensified, a burning ring of fire. I stopped, panting. “It hurts. It’s too much.”
He didn’t relent. Instead, his hands came up to frame my face. He pulled me down and kissed me, a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of my own skin. His thumbs stroked my cheeks. “My beautiful, brave girl,” he murmured against my lips. “You were made for this. For me.” His kisses trailed to my jaw, my neck. He nuzzled the sensitive hollow of my underarm, his breath hot, and I squirmed. He returned to my mouth, his tongue mimicking the act he demanded.
I was dissolving under the assault of sensation—his kisses, his words, the relentless, burning pressure below. My resistance was a thin sheet of ice over a boiling lake. It shattered.
It shattered.
A low, surrendering sound left my throat. My muscles, clenched tight against him, went slack. He felt the change instantly. His hands returned to my hips, his grip firm and guiding. "That's it," he breathed, his voice ragged with his own restraint. "Now take it. Take what's yours."
I let my weight fall.
His cock touched my entrance, a blunt, insistent pressure against that terrified, slick warmth. He didn't thrust. He made me do it. I sank down an inch, and the stretch was a bright, shocking burn. I cried out, a short, sharp shout that echoed off the marble. He held me there, impaled just past the tip, letting me feel the impossible fullness.
It touched my hymen, that final, fragile border. A deep, resonant pain radiated from my core. I stopped. My whole body seized, resisting the inevitable rupture. "It's pai ning," I sobbed, trying to lift myself off, but his hands were anchors.
"I know," he murmured, his own breath hot and quick. He didn't force me down. Instead, he leaned forward and took my breast into his mouth again, his tongue circling the peaked nipple. The sharp pleasure-pain shot through me, a distraction that melted my resolve. He kissed his way up my chest, my throat, to my lips, swallowing my whimpers.
He kissed the hollows of my underarms, a strangely intimate act that made me shudder. Then he returned to my mouth, his kisses deep and coaxing. "Just a little more," he whispered against my lips. "Just let it go."
I was losing control. The pain was a fixed point, but everything around it was softening, blurring under his mouth and hands. My will dissolved into sensation. A helpless, grinding motion of my hips began, a subconscious seeking of relief from the pressure.
I felt it tear.
A sharp, singular rip, deep inside. A pain so clean and specific it whited out my vision for a second. I gasped, my body going rigid above him. A tear tracked down my cheek. He stilled, his face pressed against my collarbone. "There," he said, his voice thick with something like reverence. "It's done."
A wave of dizziness washed over me. The room tilted, the candlelight smearing into streaks. The pain, the overwhelming violation, the scent of jasmine and sex—it all collapsed into a silent, dark point.
I came back to the sound of his breathing, harsh in my ear. I was still upright, slumped against his chest. And he was inside me. Fully sheathed. The burning stretch was now a deep, throbbing ache. He was so deep it felt like he was in my stomach. I moaned, a weak, broken sound.
"You fainted for a second," he said, his hands rubbing my back. "But you didn't fall. I held you." He began to move, a slight, experimental lift of his hips. The motion stirred the raw pain, and I flinched. "Shhh. It'll ease. Just feel me."
He kept moving, tiny, relentless increments. The friction was agony, then it was agony mixed with a strange, full sensation. He kissed my shoulder, my neck. "Tell me," he urged, his voice a dark current under the quiet rustle of the bed. "What is inside you right now?"
I could barely form words. "You."
"Be specific."
"Your... your cock." The word was a puff of air.
"Is it big?"
"Yes."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes."
"Good." He thrust up, a little deeper, and I cried out. "Now tell me what we just did. What broke?"
I was so full of him. The ache was settling, morphing into a heavy, weighted feeling. "My... my maidenhead. You took it."
"I did," he said, and I heard the smile in his voice. He shifted his hands to my ass, urging me to move. "Now ride it, Saumya. Ride the pain until it turns into something else. Your husband will never know this feeling. This is mine."
With a sob that was half surrender, half despair, I let my weight drop.
The pain was instant and blinding. A sharp, tearing sensation as I forced myself onto him, impaling myself on his thickness. It was too much, too fast, too deep. I screamed, a raw, animal sound that scraped my throat. The world fragmented into bright shards of agony. I felt a distinct, popping give—my hymen—and a hot trickle of blood.
My vision tunneled, the lavish room swimming into darkness at the edges. The sounds faded—his rough groan of pleasure, my own ragged cries. There was only the overwhelming, splitting feeling of being filled beyond capacity, and then a merciful, silent blackness.
I came back to consciousness in waves. First, the smell of him. Then the feel of his hands, rubbing my back in slow circles. Then the deep, throbbing ache between my legs.
I was still straddling him, slumped against his chest. He was fully inside me. I was full of him. The pain had subsided from a sharp tear to a deep, pervasive burn.
“Welcome back,” he said, his voice a rumble in his ear.
I made a small, broken sound.
“Move,” he instructed softly, his hands guiding my hips. “Just a little. Get used to the feeling of me inside you.”
Tentatively, I shifted. The movement sent a fresh spark of pain, but underneath it, something else—a strange, full sensation. I did it again. His grip tightened, and he helped me, establishing a slow, grinding rhythm. The friction changed the pain, transmuting it into something complex, almost brutal in its intensity.
“Now,” he breathed, his own control starting to fray. “Tell me. What is happening right now?”
I was breathless, each small movement a conquest. “You’re… inside me.”
“Where inside you?”
“In my pussy,” I moaned, the word coming easier now, stained with the reality of the act.
“And what did you just lose to me?”
I closed my eyes, tears leaking from the corners. “My… my virginity. You took it.”
“Who owns this now?” He thrust up into me, a deep, punctuating stroke.
“You do!” The cry was ripped from me. “You own it! You own me!”
That was what he wanted. His rhythm became harder, more driving, pushing me up and down on his lap. The initial agony was blurring, mixing with the heat of his skin, the punishing grip of his hands, the filthy, perfect words he made me say. I was a vessel, being filled and claimed. The pleasure was a distant, cruel cousin to the overwhelming sensation of being broken and remade.
He was talking, a stream of filth and praise. “So tight… even bleeding for me… my good girl… my wife now…”
The word ‘wife’ hung in the air, a perverse jewel. I clung to him as the pace became punishing, my own cries becoming rhythmic, matching his thrusts. The world narrowed to this: the slap of skin, the ragged symphony of our breathing, the deep, claiming ache that was etching him into the very core of me.
He stiffened, his whole body locking. With a guttural shout that was nothing like his usual controlled tone, he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside me. I felt the hot, pulsing rush, a final, intimate violation.
He held me there, both of us slick with sweat, until his breathing slowed. Then, gently, he lifted me off him. I collapsed onto the bed beside him, a boneless heap. The evidence of my lost innocence and his possession smeared between my thighs.
After a moment, he propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at me. He traced the tear tracks on my cheeks. “Describe it,” he said, his voice hoarse but insistent. “The exact moment. In detail.”
I looked up at the canopy, my voice flat and empty. “You were in my mouth. Then you were in my pussy. I felt a tear. I felt a pop. There was blood. You filled me up. I fainted from the pain. I woke up with you still inside me. You made me move. You came inside me.” I turned my head to look at him, the full weight of the night crushing my chest. “My husband will touch me there later, and he will only find you.”