Chapter 8: The Power Shift
The word hung in the air, vibrating with a meaning Harry had never imagined attaching to Signe. Virgin. It explained everything—the shock, the hesitation, the terrifying tightness around his finger. It also sent a fresh, illicit jolt straight to his groin.
“Please, Anne,” he heard himself beg, his voice rough with a need that overshadowed all reason, all friendship. He was still buried inside her, but his entire being was now focused on the trembling girl beside the couch. “Let me. Just let me fuck her. I have to.”
Anne’s eyes, dark with a predatory gleam, studied him. She slowly withdrew from him, the loss of her heat a minor shock. She stood, naked and powerful, and looked down at Signe, who was trying to curl in on herself, her arms crossed over her chest.
“You heard him,” Anne said, her tone devoid of its earlier warmth. It was cool, commanding. “He wants to be your first. That’s a gift, Signe. Don’t be rude.”
“I… I didn’t… this isn’t what I meant to happen,” Signe whispered, her voice trembling.
“But it is happening,” Anne stated. She grabbed Signe’s wrist, her grip firm, and pulled her to her feet. Signe stumbled, unsteady, her resistance feeble. Anne guided her, not to the bed, but to the heavy wooden table by the window, sweeping the vanilla-scented candle and a stray book onto the floor with a clatter. The sound made Signe jump.
“On your back,” Anne commanded, pushing her down onto the polished surface. The wood was cool and unyielding against Signe’s skin. She gasped, her eyes wide with fear and a flicker of excitement she couldn’t suppress.
Anne grabbed her ankles, her movements efficient and sure, and pulled her legs apart, bending her knees and planting her feet flat on the table. Signe was splayed open, completely exposed, the tight, dark knot of her virgin pussy offered up to the room’s dim light.
“Look at that, Harry,” Anne said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you ever seen anything so perfect? So untouched.”
Harry moved like a man in a dream, his cock aching, a dull throb of absolute need. He stood at the end of the table, looking down at the breathtaking sight. Signe’s chest was heaving, her small breasts trembling with each rapid breath. Her eyes were screwed shut, but her hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“She’s so scared,” Anne murmured, running a single finger up the inside of Signe’s thigh, making her flinch. “But her body is begging for it. Look how wet she’s getting.”
It was true. A faint, glistening sheen coated her inner lips.
Harry’s hands found Signe’s hips, his thumbs digging into the sharp bones. Her skin was on fire. He leaned over her, his own breath hot on her face. “Open your eyes,” he growled.
She did. The fear in them was raw, but beneath it was a deep, dark pool of curiosity.
“I’ll be gentle,” he lied, the promise tasting like ash in his mouth. He wasn’t sure he could be.
Anne laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Gentle? Don’t make her promises you can’t keep.” She positioned herself beside Harry, her hand wrapping around his shaft again, guiding him. The head of his cock brushed against Signe’s entrance, and she cried out, a short, sharp sound of pure panic.
“Wait—”
“Five strokes,” Anne said, her eyes locked on Harry’s. A wicked smile played on her lips. “I bet you can’t last five strokes in there. That pussy is so fucking tight, it’ll milk you dry before you even get balls deep. You think you can handle that?”
The challenge was a spark on gasoline. Harry’s control shattered.
He pushed.
The resistance was immediate and immense. Signe screamed, a raw, torn sound as he breached her, stretching her impossibly wide. She was hotter than anything he’d ever felt, a silken, clenching inferno. He felt the delicate tear of her hymen, a faint pop of giving way, and a trickle of warmth coated his length.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his vision spotting. He was only halfway in, and he was already fighting for his life against the tide of his own orgasm. Her inner muscles fluttered around him, spasming in shock and pain.
“One,” Anne counted, her voice clinical.
Harry pulled back almost entirely, the sight of his slick, glistening cock emerging from her violated flesh making him dizzy. He drove back in, harder this time, burying himself to the hilt. Signe sobbed, her nails scratching at the polished wood of the table.
“Two.” Anne’s hand was on her own breast, pinching her nipple, her arousal a palpable force in the room.
He fucked into her again, a third brutal, piston-like stroke. The wet, slapping sound of their bodies meeting filled the air. Signe’s cries were becoming guttural, transforming from pain into something else, something ragged and primal.
“Three.”
He was losing it. The pressure was building at the base of his spine, a coil wound to its breaking point. Her cunt was a perfect, vicious fist, squeezing him, demanding everything he had.
“Four.”
On the fourth stroke, he felt her change. Her back arched off the table, not in retreat, but in offering. A long, broken moan was torn from her throat. Her internal muscles clenched around him in a series of rhythmic, shocking pulses. She was coming. Her virgin body, overwhelmed by the violation, was betraying her, seizing into a tumultuous, unexpected orgasm.
The sensation was his undoing.
“Five—” Anne started, but the word was lost.
With a guttural roar that came from the depths of his soul, Harry slammed into her one last time and held there, buried to the root. His orgasm erupted, a violent, unstoppable torrent. He pumped his seed into her in hot, endless jets, filling the tight, clutching channel, each pulse a shattering release that left him weak and trembling.
He collapsed over her, his sweat-slicked chest pressed against her heaving one. The only sounds were their ragged, desperate breaths and the slow, wet drip of their mingled fluids onto the table below.
Anne watched them, a satisfied, almost sleepy smile on her face. She reached out and traced the line of Harry’s spine. “Told you,” she whispered. “You didn’t even make it to five.”