Chapter 19: Broken Position
The word hung in the air between them, a shared, profane prayer. Peter looked down at the inverted arch of her body, the tremble in her limbs, the breathtaking vulnerability of her offered belly. A final, crackling surge of ownership shot through him. He would not fuck her like this.
Not yet.
He stepped off her with a single, fluid motion. Eva’s bridge collapsed instantly. She folded to the carpet with a thud and a sharp, punched-out gasp, curling onto her side, her arms wrapped around her middle.
“Too much?” he asked, standing over her. His voice was flat.
She shook her head, hair sticking to her damp forehead. “No. Just… needed to breathe. It’s intense.”
“Turn over. On your back.”
She obeyed, uncurling with a wince. She lay spreadeagled on the stained carpet, her chest heaving. The bruises on her stomach were a stormcloud of color, a topography of their violence. Her eyes were dark pools, fixed on him, waiting.
Peter knelt beside her, not touching her. He studied the target. The stretched, tender skin just below her ribcage. The soft indentation of her navel. The quivering lower abdominals. He made a fist, slowly.
“Bridge was good,” he said, almost conversational. “But you can’t tense. I want to feel it give.”
Before she could answer, he drove his fist into the meat of her upper belly.
The impact was a wet, deep thud. Her whole body jolted, her back arching off the floor for a split second before slamming back down. A sound like “Oof!” exploded from her lungs, followed by a ragged, sucking inhale.
He didn’t wait. He punched again, lower this time, just above her pubic bone. Her hips bucked, a violent, involuntary spasm. “Fuck!” she screamed, but her hands stayed pinned at her sides, palms slapping the carpet.
He settled into a rhythm. Short, sharp jabs that sank deep into the yielding flesh of her midsection. Each blow drove the air from her in a pained grunt. Each impact made her body fold around his fist. He watched her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her teeth bared, her features contorted in a mask of exquisite suffering. There was no pretense of control now, no show of athletic endurance. This was pure, brutal reception.
Her bridge had been a feat of strength. This was its demolition.
With every punch, her body sank lower into the floor, as if he was pounding her through the carpet, through the floorboards. Her protests became wordless, animalistic cries – sharp ah! sounds that coincided with each strike. Her legs, which had been slightly bent, fell open limply. Her strong, defined core was just a soft, pulped thing for him to wreck.
He paused, his knuckles slick with a faint sheen of her sweat. He was breathing hard. Her stomach was a convulsing mess, rising and falling in panicked hitches.
“Get on the bed,” he ordered, his voice guttural.
Eva moved like a broken puppet. She rolled onto her hands and knees, crawling the short distance to the mattress before collapsing onto it. She lay on her back, her head lolling to the side, her gaze unfocused. She was spent.
Peter followed. He climbed onto the bed, his knees on either side of her hips. He grabbed her behind the knees, his hands rough, and pushed. He folded her in half, forcing her legs back toward her shoulders, exposing her completely. Her cunt was glistening wet, a stark contrast to the brutalized landscape of her abdomen.
He didn’t tease. He positioned himself and shoved his cock into her in one brutal, deep stroke.
She cried out, a throaty, shattered sound. She was tight, but slick, and her body offered no resistance. He fucked her with a hard, driving pace from the first moment, each thrust jolting her broken body. His balls slapped against the base of her spine.
He looked down at her ruined stomach, heaving with each of his movements. The urge was undeniable, a completion of the circuit. He pulled his right hand back, formed a fist, and slammed it into her lower belly as he drove into her.
The effect was electric. Her internal muscles clamped around his cock in a vicious, shocking spasm. A scream tore from her throat, but it was swallowed by the pillow her face was pressed into. He did it again. A punch to the soft spot beside her hip bone as he bottomed out inside her.
“You take it,” he grunted, the rhythm building. Fuck, punch. Fuck, punch. “You fucking take all of it.”
His left hand snaked down, his thumb finding her clit. It was swollen, hard as a pebble. He rubbed it in rough, frantic circles, in time with his thrusts and his blows. The symphony of sensations was overwhelming – the hot, wet clutch of her cunt, the devastating give of her flesh under his fist, the tiny, desperate knot of her clit under his thumb.
Eva was beyond words. Her sounds were muffled, wet sobs into the fabric. Her body was a vessel of contradicting signals – flinching from his punches, bucking up to meet his thrusts, pushing against his hand for more friction. Her heels dug into the mattress near her ears, her entire being pinned open and annihilated.
Peter felt the coil in his gut wind to its breaking point. The sight of her, used and wrecked and still desperately moving under him, was too much. He punched her one last time, a final, savage blow to her solar plexus that made her shriek. His thumb pressed hard on her clit as he buried himself to the hilt and came.
His orgasm was a silent, violent seizure. He ground into her, pulsing deep, his vision whiting out at the edges. As the waves receded, he felt her body convulse around him. A series of sharp, internal clenches, a high, broken whine from the pillow. Her own climax, wrung from her by the relentless, contradictory assault.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his hands before he crushed her. He slipped out of her. For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged, overlapping breaths and the distant hum of the city through the open balcony door.
Slowly, he released her legs. They fell to the bed with a thud, limp. He rolled onto his back beside her, staring at the water-stained ceiling. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a vast, hollow quiet.
Her hand found his on the sheets. Her fingers, cold and shaky, laced through his. He turned his head. Her face was turned toward him, cheeks streaked with tears and sweat, her lips swollen. She looked utterly destroyed. And she was smiling.
“Told you,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I’m perfect.”
He didn’t know what to say. Thank you seemed absurd. Sorry was a lie. He just squeezed her hand.
On the nightstand, the tablet had gone to sleep. The silent trampling video was finally over.