Chapter 20: Post-Trauma Worship
The grey dawn light bled through the thin curtains, painting the room in shades of ash and dust. Peter woke to a deep, familiar ache in his shoulders and a hardness pressing against the worn cotton of his boxers. He was curled around Eva’s back, his arm slung over her waist. Even in sleep, his hand had settled possessively over the curve of her hip.
She stirred with a low, pained groan. A full-body flinch that reverberated through him.
“Fuck,” she breathed into the pillow, her voice thick with sleep and damage. “Everything’s… tight.”
He didn’t answer. He just pressed his erection more firmly against the back of her thigh. It was an instinct, unthinking. The raw aftermath of last night had settled into a dull, persistent hum in his blood.
Eva went still for a second. Then she chuckled, a rough, dry sound. She shifted slowly, wincing as she rolled onto her back. The sheet pooled around her waist. In the weak light, her stomach was a masterpiece of destruction. The bruises had deepened overnight into a mosaic of plum, burgundy, and sickly yellow, a brutal canvas that covered her from ribs to pelvis. She saw him looking.
“Pretty, right?” she said, her fingers skimming lightly over the darkest patch below her navel. She hissed at her own touch.
“Yeah.” His voice was morning-rough. He propped himself up on an elbow, looking down at her. The sheer reality of her, here in his bed, marked by him, was still a quiet shock.
Her hand slid from her stomach, across the stained sheet, and found him through his boxers. She gripped him, not gently. “Morning,” she smirked, though her eyes were still heavy with residual pain.
He gasped, hips jerking forward into her fist. “Your stomach…”
“Is sore. I know.” Her smirk widened. She pushed his boxers down, freeing his cock. It stood thick and eager against his belly. She spat into her palm, a crude, efficient gesture, and began to stroke him, her eyes locked on his. “You wanna be inside. I can tell. But not there.” She nodded downwards, towards her cunt. “Here.”
She guided his hand to her abdomen, pressing his palm against the bruised flesh. It was warm, strangely alive under the map of violence. “Fuck my stomach,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Use it. I want to feel you come all over these wrecked muscles. Paint them.”
A dizzying heat flooded him. He moved, straddling her hips, his knees pinning her thighs. He looked down the length of her body: her breasts, her ruined core, his cock in her hand. She positioned him, the head of his cock nudging into the valley between the tensed ridges of her abdominal muscles.
“Do it,” she urged, her own breath catching. “Fuck my abs.”
He pushed forward.
It wasn’t the yielding, wet heat of her cunt. This was tight, muscular resistance. A dry, hot channel forged by the clenched, trembling wall of her stomach. She flexed, deliberately, and the sensation was incredible—a powerful, milking pressure around his shaft. He groaned, grabbing her shoulders for leverage.
“That’s it,” she gasped, her hands going to her own breasts, pinching her nipples hard. “Use me. Come on.”
He set a pace, short, grinding thrusts between the tight clasp of her muscles. The friction was intense, almost rough. Each drive forward made her whole torso bow slightly, her face contorting. He was fucking the breath from her lungs, his cock glistening with pre-come and her sweat as it pistoned in that unforgiving space.
“Tell me,” she demanded, her voice strained.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he panted, the words torn from him. “Your stomach… it’s like a fist.”
“It is a fist,” she grunted, flexing again on an inward stroke, squeezing him so hard he saw stars. “It’s my best muscle. And you’re fucking it raw. God, yes.”
He was losing coherence. The visual alone was destroying him: his cock, slick and desperate, vanishing again and again into the brutalized landscape of her body. Her muscles gripped and released on command, a voluntary, brutal caress. The pain on her face was transformed into something ecstatic, her mouth open in a silent cry.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned, the tension coiling at the base of his spine.
“On them,” she ordered, her hands leaving her breasts to frame her stomach, spreading the skin, presenting the target. “Do it. Mark it.”
With three final, savage thrusts, he pulled out. His orgasm hit him like a kick to the gut. Thick, hot stripes of come shot across her bruised abdomen, painting the purple and yellow skin with white. He groaned, shuddering, pumping until he was empty.
Eva sighed, a long, satisfied sound. She looked down at the mess he’d made on her, her fingers tracing through it, mixing it with the sweat on her skin. “Perfect,” she murmured. Then she winced, a genuine flash of pain. “Shower. Now. I smell like a crime scene.”
The bathroom was small, steam already fogging the mirror. Eva stood under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over her shoulders. Peter watched the water run in rivulets through the valleys of her stomach, diluting the streaks of come, flowing over the vivid bruises. They did look better. Less swollen. More defined, like storm clouds that had found their final shape.
“They healed fast,” he said, stepping in behind her.
“Always do,” she said, tilting her head back into the water. “High metabolism. Good genes for this.” She turned to face him, water sluicing down her body. “Wanna test it?”
He didn’t need asking twice. The wet tile was treacherous. He put a hand on the wall for balance, then drove his fist into her side, just below the water-slicked curve of her breast.
The sound was different in the shower—a sharper, wet smack that echoed off the tiles. Eva grunted, bending into the blow, her hands slapping against the wall for support. “Again,” she gasped.
He hit her other side. Then a direct shot to her solar plexus. She folded over, coughing, water spraying from her lips. He grabbed her shoulder, turned her, pushed her back against the wall. The spray hit his back as he loomed over her.
“Feet,” he said.
She knew. She braced her hands against the tile wall behind her, lifted one foot, then the other, placing her soles against his chest. He leaned in, increasing the weight gradually. Through the steam, he watched her stomach muscles lock, tremble, and then begin to flatten under the pressure. Her breath came in short, sharp pants as he eased more of his weight onto her.
“God… yeah…” she moaned, her head rolling back. “Feels so deep.”
He settled his full weight onto her. Her body became a platform for him, suspended between his push and the wall’s resistance. He looked down between them, at the complete compression of her midsection. He shifted his feet slightly, grinding his heels into the tender flesh just above her hip bones. A raw, guttural cry tore from her throat, swallowed by the steam and the drumming water.
He stayed there, a monument of pressure, for a count of thirty. When he stepped off, she slid down the wall into a crouch, water raining down on her heaving back. She was laughing, a breathless, ragged sound.
“Breakfast,” she panted, looking up at him with gleaming eyes. “I’m fucking starving.”
They sat at his small kitchen table, towels wrapped around their waists. She ate cereal with a voracious appetite, the spoon clattering against the bowl. The bruises on her torso were a shocking contrast to the mundane setting. Peter watched her, a piece of cold toast forgotten in his hand.
She caught him staring and smiled, a bit of milk at the corner of her mouth. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just… last night. This morning.”
“It was good,” she said simply, swallowing. “You’re a natural. No hesitation anymore.” She pointed her spoon at him. “That’s the key. You commit.”
He nodded, the truth of it settling in his chest. The videos on his laptop seemed like childish things now, distant and pixelated. This was the brutal, breathing reality. He had committed. And she was still here, eating his cornflakes, her body a testament to his commitment.
She finished the bowl and pushed it away, leaning back with a contented sigh that turned into a slight grimace. “Okay,” she said, folding her hands over her ruined stomach. “What’s next?”