Chapter 9: Vanja rides Manuel's thick cock on the physio table, her tits bouncing as she slams down on him, her tight pussy clenching around him with each deep thrust. 'You like watching my cock disappear inside you?' he growls, fingers digging into her hips as she moans, 'Yes, daddy, stretch me open!'
The hum of the cryotherapy chamber was a white noise backdrop to the tension thrumming through Vanja’s veins. Four days since her whispered ‘yes’ in the dark. Four days of Manuel’s hands lingering longer on her waist in passing, his eyes holding a smug, private heat that made her skin flush. The secret engagement was a live grenade with the pin pulled, resting between them. The other secret, the one swelling invisibly beneath her tailored blouses, felt even more volatile.
She was logging data on her tablet outside the physio room when Joshua Kimmich exited, a slight stiffness in his gait. He stopped, his cool gaze sweeping over her. It wasn’t the look of a teammate assessing staff. It was the look of a man evaluating a problem.
“Oldeburg.”
“Kimmich. Everything alright? The hamstring?”
“It’s fine. Maintenance.” He didn’t move. The corridor was empty. “Heard congratulations might be in order soon.”
The air left her lungs. She kept her expression neutral, a trick learned from years in locker rooms full of towering egos. “Oh?”
“Manu’s not subtle. And you’re…” he gestured vaguely at her, “glowing. Or something.” The word wasn’t a compliment. It was a diagnosis.
“The German weather disagrees with you, Joshua. It’s called a vitamin D deficiency. You should get it checked.” She made to move past him.
His hand, not gripping, but simply present, blocked her path against the doorframe. “Just a piece of advice. From someone who knows him. That ring he’s going to give you? It’s a handcuff. And he throws away the key.” His eyes, so analytical, finally showed a flicker of something else—not concern, but a cold warning. “Ensure it’s what you want. Because there’s no return policy.”
He dropped his arm and walked away, the echo of his steps as precise as his passing. Vanja stood rooted, a tremor starting in her hands. He wasn’t just confirming the proposal; he was outlining a life sentence. And he knew about the baby. He had to.
She needed space. The physio room was empty, a sanctuary of sterile surfaces and the faint, astringent smell of antiseptic. She leaned against the large, padded table, its vinyl cover cool through her thin sweater. Closing her eyes, she tried to breathe through the sudden, claustrophobic panic. Joshua’s words wrapped around Manuel’s possessive love, a strangling vine.
The door clicked open. She didn’t need to look. The shift in the atmosphere, the sheer density of his presence, was unmistakable.
“Alone in the dark?” Manuel’s voice was a low rumble. The lights were on, but she understood his meaning.
“Thinking.”
He closed the door behind him. The lock engaged with a soft, definitive snick. “About?”
“The future. Its… permanence.”
He came to stand behind her, not touching, but she felt the heat of his body along her back. His hands settled on the table on either side of her hips, caging her in. “Kimmich talked to you.”
It wasn’t a question. She nodded, her hair brushing his chin. “He implied you have a habit of locking things away you consider yours.”
“I protect what’s mine.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “He’s jealous. He doesn’t understand something that isn’t a game to be won. It just is.” His hands slid from the table to her hips, turning her to face him. In the clinical light, his face was all hard angles and intent. “Does his opinion matter?”
“No.” The answer was automatic, true. But the fear wasn’t about Joshua. It was about the vast, consuming reality of the man before her.
“Good.” His kiss was a brand, hungry and silencing. It chased the doubts into a dark corner, replacing them with a more immediate, physical urgency. His hands ran down her back, over the curve of her ass, gripping hard through the fabric of her trousers. “Fuck, the way these look on you,” he growled against her mouth. “These proper, intellectual trousers. All I can think about is pulling them down and seeing your ass in the daylight.”
He spun her around, his body pressing her front against the cool vinyl of the physio table. His fingers made quick, efficient work of her button and zip, yanking the trousers and her panties down to her thighs in one rough motion. The chill of the air, the vulnerability of being exposed in this bright, medical space, made her gasp.
“Manuel, someone could—”
“The door is locked.” A hand pressed between her shoulder blades, bending her over the table. “And I need to be inside you. Now.”
She heard the rasp of his own zipper, the rustle of clothing. Then the broad, blunt head of his cock was nudging against her, already slick from her arousal. He didn’t tease. He pushed in, a slow, relentless invasion that stretched her beautifully, brutally. A choked moan escaped her as he filled her, his pelvis meeting the backs of her thighs.
“See?” he breathed, his hands clutching her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her ass. “This is what matters. This fit. This is where you belong.”
He began to move, deep, pulling strokes that quickly built into a hard, driving rhythm. The table creaked with each thrust. Her hands scrambled for purchase on the slick surface. The obscene, wet sound of their joining echoed in the sterile room.
“Joshua can talk about handcuffs,” Manuel grunted, his pace punishing. “But this is the truth. This cunt, gripping my cock like it’s starving for it. This is your choice. You choose this. Every time.”
He was right. The panic melted, burned away by a wave of raw, claiming lust. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, wanting him deeper, wanting to erase everything but this visceral connection. “Yes,” she hissed. “I choose it. It’s yours. All of it.”
One hand left her hip and snaked around her front, sliding under her sweater and bra to palm her breast, pinching her nipple sharply. The pain-pleasure made her cry out. The other hand moved from her hip, down over the curve of her ass, his fingers sliding through the wetness where their bodies joined before finding her clit.
The dual sensation was overwhelming. The deep, pounding fullness and the sharp, precise circles on her clit. Her orgasm built fast, a tight coil in her belly. “Manuel… I’m gonna…”
“Come,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “Come all over my cock. Show me what’s mine.”
The coil snapped. Her vision whited out as the climax tore through her, a silent, seizing wave that clenched around him rhythmically. She shuddered, her legs trembling.
He fucked her through it, his own control shattering. His thrusts became erratic, brutal slams. “This pussy,” he gasped. “My fucking wife. Gonna put a baby in here. Gonna put a ring on you. Gonna keep you full of me forever.”
With a final, guttural roar, he drove in to the hilt and held, his body bowing over hers as he pulsed inside her, hot and endless. He collapsed atop her, his weight driving her into the table, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.
They stayed like that, joined, in the silent, bright room. The smell of sex and sweat cut through the antiseptic. Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He righted his clothes with a few economical movements before gently pulling her trousers up, his hands tender where they had been demanding. He turned her, gathering her against his chest. She was boneless, her mind blissfully empty.
He kissed her forehead. “My birthday plan stands. But this…” he gestured at the table, at them, “this is the real contract. Signed in sweat and come. Understood?”
She nodded, her face buried in his shirt. The panic was gone, replaced by a weary, satiated certainty. Joshua’s warning was just noise. This, the brutal, raw truth of their connection, was the only thing that felt real.
He smoothed her hair. “Get cleaned up. I have a meeting with the board.” He unlocked the door and was gone, leaving her in the quiet room, the evidence of their claim cooling on her thighs.
As she straightened her clothes, her fingers brushed against a small, familiar box in his jacket pocket, which he’d hung on the door hook. She didn’t open it. She didn’t need to. The shape was unmistakable. The future was no longer an abstract. It was a diamond ring in a pocket, a seed in her womb, and the fading, sticky proof between her legs that she had, irrevocably, said yes.