Chapter 4: The Confession
The condom wrapper still lay on the bathroom tile. Elia stared at it, their reflection warped in its crumpled foil surface, Chris’s sneering voice echoing: Hers. Tell her she swallowed. The air tasted of stale steam and violation. They nudged the wrapper aside with a shaky foot, the tiny sound disproportionately loud in the silence. Their hand trembled violently as they finally turned the lock.
The hallway was empty, dank. Chris’s door was firmly shut, a barricade. The smell was stronger here – sex, musk, Chris’s cheap cologne, and the faint, salty-sweet tang of Bambi. It clung to the walls, seeped into the very air Elia breathed. They moved like a sleepwalker towards their own room, the distance feeling immense. The silence from within was thick, wounded.
Pushing their door open felt like lifting a boulder. The familiar sanctuary – the soft lavender walls, the string lights, the overflowing bookshelf, the deep plum velvet duvet – felt alien, tainted. Bambi was a small, broken shape curled impossibly tight on the bed. She faced the wall, knees drawn up to her chest, one arm flung over her head. The torn strap of her bright pink camisole hung loose, stark against the angry purple blossoming across her shoulder blade. Finger-shaped bruises, deep and unmistakable, stood out in livid contrast to her pale skin.
Elia closed the door softly, the click like a gunshot in the stillness. They leaned back against it, the wood cool against their overheated skin. Their gaze fixed on the delicate curve of Bambi’s spine, the vulnerable nape of her neck exposed beneath her choppy, damp hair. The rhythmic thump of Chris’s headboard, the wet slap of skin, Bambi’s choked moan dissolving into his animal roar – it all played on a loop behind Elia’s eyes.
Bambi stirred. Slowly, painfully, she rolled onto her back. Her eyes were red-raw, swollen almost shut from crying. Tear tracks carved paths through the smudged remnants of glitter on her cheeks. She looked impossibly young, impossibly fragile. Her gaze, when it finally met Elia’s, wasn’t defiant, nor apologetic. It was hollow, haunted. Her lips, dry and cracked, parted.
The whisper was barely audible, a thread of sound frayed to breaking. "Eli…"
Elia couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Their chest felt too tight.
Bambi swallowed, a visible, painful ripple in her throat. Her eyes flickered, dropping for a second before locking back onto Elia’s with a terrifying intensity. The words that followed were clearer, laced with a shame so profound it vibrated in the air. "I… I liked it."
The world tilted. Elia’s stomach clenched violently, a wave of nausea and pure, incandescent jealousy crashing over them. Liked it? The image exploded: Chris’s massive hands pinning Bambi’s slight hips, his thick cock stretching her obscenely wide, her back arching not in pain but in traitorous pleasure as he pounded into her while taunting Elia through the wall. That choked sob that became a moan. That final, shattered 'Yesss!' The empty foil wrapper on the floor. Hers.
Jealousy wasn’t enough. It warred with a terrifying, unwelcome surge of heat low in Elia’s belly. The visceral memory of Chris’s strength, the undeniable power in his body, the sheer size of him they’d accidentally glimpsed once… it flooded back, tangled with the sounds they’d just endured. The thought of Bambi enjoying that cock, that brutal possession, while Elia listened… it ignited something dark and possessive inside them.
"Liked it?" Elia’s voice was flat, alien, scraping like gravel. They pushed off the door. "What exactly did you like, Bambi?" They took a step closer, the plush rug muffling their tread, the ornate mirror across the room reflecting their pale, strained face. "Him dragging you? The sound of the wall shaking? Him telling you he knew you got off listening to him?" Another step. The air crackled. "Or did you like feeling his fucking monster cock tear you open?"
Bambi flinched as if struck, fresh tears welling. But she didn’t look away. A tremor ran through her, and beneath the shame, beneath the horror, something else flickered in her glassy eyes. Need. Raw, desperate need. "Yes," she breathed, the word barely audible. Then, stronger, her voice cracking, "All of it. Fuck, Elia, I hated it… but my body… I… he filled me…" Her hand rose, trembling, touching the dark bruises on her shoulder. "He hurt me… and I came so hard."
The admission hung like poison gas. Elia was on the bed in two strides, the frame creaking. They loomed over Bambi, their breath coming fast and shallow. Jealousy, desire, fury – a toxic cocktail burning through their veins. They saw Chris’s fingerprints on her skin, imagined his thickness stretching her, imagined Bambi’s submission, her moans.
"Show me," Elia demanded, their voice rough. "Show me how much you liked it."
Bambi whimpered, a sound that sent another jolt through Elia. Slowly, with shaking hands, she pushed down the waistband of her tiny shorts. They caught on her hips, revealing the dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs. Her skin was flushed, sensitive. She hooked her thumbs in the fabric and pushed them down her legs, kicking them off. She lay exposed: the torn camisole bunched under her small breasts, the brutal marks on her shoulder, her cunt glistening, swollen, her inner thighs slick with unmistakable wetness and the faint, drying remnants of Chris’s release. The smell of sex, Bambi mixed with Chris, filled the small space between them.
Elia stared at the glistening folds, the slightly puffy lips, the evidence of Bambi’s unwanted, undeniable arousal. The sight – the violation mingled with blatant desire – was obscene. Electrifying. Their own body responded violently, heat pooling low.
"You’re fucking soaked," Elia hissed, their hand darting out, not gentle, fingers plunging roughly between Bambi’s legs. She cried out, arching off the bed, not in pain but in shocked, overwhelming sensation. Elia’s fingers slid easily through the slickness, coating themselves in her wetness and Chris’s residue. They rubbed hard, circling Bambi’s clit with bruising pressure. "Is this from him? Is this what his big fucking dick did to you? Got you this messy, this desperate?"
"Y-yes! Oh god, Elia!" Bambi gasped, her hips bucking uncontrollably against Elia’s hand. "He was… so deep… fuck!" Her words dissolved into a high-pitched whine as Elia’s fingers thrust inside her, two, then three, curling, stretching her again where Chris had been moments before. Elia could feel her cunt clench greedily around their fingers, hot and impossibly wet. The scent of sex and conquest was overwhelming.
"Look at yourself," Elia snarled, their other hand gripping Bambi’s chin, forcing her to turn her head towards the large ornate mirror beside the bed. Bambi’s reflection stared back: tear-streaked face, bruised shoulder, eyes wide and dark with conflicting terror and lust, their hand pistoning between her splayed legs. "Look at how fucking ruined you are. Look how wet you are for the cock that just used you." Elia leaned down, their breath hot against Bambi’s ear. "You want it again, don’t you? You want to feel that giant cock splitting you open while I watch? Want him to make you choke on it again?"
Bambi moaned, a long, shuddering sound wrung from deep inside her. Her gaze fixed on the mirror, on the sight of Elia’s fingers fucking her hard, glistening with her own arousal. "Yes," she sobbed, the word thick with shame and unbearable need. "Oh god, yes. I want it. It hurts… it’s so much… but I want it. Make me want it, Elia. Please."
Elia’s fingers dug deeper, scraping Bambi’s slick inner walls, mimicking the brutal invasion she’d just endured. That possessive fury, white-hot and jagged, ripped through Elia’s chest at Bambi’s confession. Wanted it. Wanted him. Chris’s thick cock buried deep inside her while Elia listened helplessly. "Make you want it?" Elia rasped, their voice raw with a jealousy that tasted like bile. "You already fucking want it. You’re dripping for it again right now." They twisted their fingers sharply inside her, relishing the choked gasp it tore from Bambi’s throat. The wet squelch was obscenely loud in the quiet room. "Tell me you’d let him do it again. Now. Tell me you’d beg him for it."
Bambi’s body arched like a bowstring, her small hands clawing at Elia’s forearm. Her reflection in the mirror was a portrait of abject debasement: tears mingling with sweat, lips parted in a silent scream, cunt spread obscenely wide around Elia’s thrusting hand. "I... I would," she sobbed, the words thick with self-loathing and undeniable need. "Fuck, yes! I’d beg him. Please, Eli... please!" Her hips jerked erratically, chasing the punishing rhythm Elia set. "His cock... it hurt... so big... but I need it! Like this! Harder!" Her admission tore through Elia, a sucker punch to the gut that somehow only fueled the dark fire.
A strangled sound escaped Elia. Jealousy warred with a sickening, electric pull deep in their own core, the phantom echo of Chris’s size they couldn’t forget. They leaned down, teeth scraping the tender skin of Bambi’s bruised shoulder, tasting salt and Chris’s cheap cologne. "You filthy little slut," Elia breathed against her skin, the insult sending another violent tremor through Bambi. "You loved feeling him tear you apart, didn’t you? Loved being his little fuckhole." Their free hand snaked down, thumb finding Bambi’s swollen clit. They pressed down hard, grinding in rough circles, mimicking the crushing pressure of Chris’s hips. "Came on his fat dick while he called you names. While he told you whose cunt it belonged to."
"Yours!" Bambi wailed, her body convulsing around Elia’s fingers. "He said... he said it was yours... but he took it! Filled me!" Her words dissolved into incoherent, high-pitched cries as the combination of brutal fingering and the grinding pressure on her clit pushed her violently over the edge. Her cunt clamped down like a vise, pulsing rhythmically around Elia’s hand, fresh juices soaking their fingers and the sheets beneath her. She arched off the bed, a silent scream contorting her face in the mirror, body shaking through the brutal climax. The scent of her release, sharp and musky, mixed with Chris’s lingering scent, thick in the air.
Elia didn’t relent, keeping their fingers buried deep, feeling the powerful contractions milk them, watching the utter ruin of Bambi’s face reflected back. The sight – her broken pleasure, her ecstatic surrender to the very act that violated her and them – was horrifying. Mesmerizing. Heat pooled low in Elia’s own belly, a treacherous throb echoing Bambi’s pulsing cunt. They finally withdrew their slick fingers slowly, the sticky strands of fluid glistening in the dim light. They held them up, forcing Bambi’s blurred gaze to follow. "Look. His mess. Your mess. All mixed together. Proof of what a greedy little cunt you are."
Bambi collapsed back onto the bed, utterly spent, shivering. Her chest heaved, breaths ragged and shallow. The tears flowed freely again, tracing clean lines through the sweat and glitter on her cheeks. She looked shattered. Used. Her eyes, huge and dark in her pale face, found Elia’s. Not defiance. Pleading. Exhaustion. "Eli... I’m sorry," she whispered, the sound barely audible, fragile as glass. "So sorry. I... I didn’t mean... it just... happened." She reached out, trembling fingers brushing Elia’s thigh. "He just... took me."
The fury roared back, momentarily eclipsing the confusing tangle of other feelings. Elia snatched their hand away from Bambi’s touch, the movement sharp. "He took you? You walked into his fucking room, Bambi!" The image flashed: Chris’s smirk, Bambi’s hesitation before he dragged her in. "You listened to him fuck other girls through the wall for months. Got wet for it. Admit it." Elia stood up abruptly, the distance feeling necessary, the air suddenly thick and suffocating. They wiped their wet fingers on the dark duvet, leaving dark streaks. "He saw it. Saw you wanting it." They paced the small space between the bed and the mirror, their reflection a distorted blur of agitation. "That’s why he targeted you. Your fucking desperate little whimpers when you thought no one could hear."
Bambi curled in on herself again, pulling the torn camisole across her chest like flimsy armor. The finger-shaped bruises stood out lividly against her skin. "I love you," she choked out, the words raw and desperate. "Only you. But... my body... it remembers... misses... that." She buried her face in the pillow, shoulders shaking with fresh, silent sobs. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by Bambi’s muffled cries and Elia’s harsh breathing. The undeniable truth hung between them, ugly and sharp: her body’s treacherous betrayal, her craving for the brutal possession Chris offered, the raw, undeniable power of him.
Elia stopped pacing. Stared down at this person they loved, lying broken and used, yet still emanating that dark, needy energy. That longing for the very thing that shattered them. The raw, visceral memory of Chris’s power, the sheer size of him, surged back, not just as a source of fury, but as a terrifying, magnetic pull deep in Elia’s own core. Jealousy twisted into something darker. Hungrier. They knelt beside the bed, not touching her. Their voice, when it came, was low, dangerous, stripped of its earlier rage. "You miss feeling owned," they stated, the word hanging heavy. "Filled. Used. Like a worthless little fucktoy." They leaned closer, their breath stirring the damp hair at Bambi’s temple. "You want that feeling again." It wasn’t a question. Bambi shuddered, a fresh wave of tears leaking from her closed eyes. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod into the pillow. Elia’s lips brushed her ear. "Then maybe," they whispered, the sound cold and deliberate, cutting through the stifling air, "you should get on your fucking knees and thank him." The implication slammed into the room, thick and suffocating. Bambi went utterly still. Elia watched her, the embers of rage cooling into something colder, sharper, watching for the flicker in her tear-filled eyes. The thought – the image of Bambi crawling to Chris, offering herself in gratitude for her own violation – was monstrous. Yet, it coiled in Elia’s gut, undeniable. Exciting. Bambi lifted her head slowly, eyes wide with shock, horror... and a terrifying, unmistakable spark of dark understanding. Her lips parted.
Bambi’s lips remained parted in a silent gasp. Horror warred with something darker, something slick and treacherous coiling low in her belly. Elia’s words hung in the lavender-scented air like toxic smoke. Thank him. For using her. For marking her. For making her forget Elia’s name when he drove into her so brutally the bedframe cracked the wall. Her mind recoiled. Her cunt clenched, empty and aching, still pulsing from Elia’s punishing fingers.
"Eli…" she breathed, the name a broken plea. Tears welled again, spilling hot and fast. "I can’t. Please. Don’t make me."
Elia watched her, their expression unreadable, eyes burning with a cold fire that wasn’t just anger anymore. It was fascination. A terrifying hunger to see Bambi consumed by the very force that had shattered them both. They leaned closer, their voice dropping to a low, dangerous rasp against Bambi’s bruised ear. "Make you? I’m not making you do anything. But look at you." A sharp gesture encompassed her nakedness, the vivid bruises, the glistening wetness smeared across her inner thighs, the torn camisole barely covering her small breasts. "Look at this fucking mess you are. He did this. And your greedy little body begged for it. Still wants it." They paused, letting the accusation hang. "You think pretending it didn’t happen makes it disappear? Think pretending you didn’t scream for his cock makes you clean?"
Bambi flinched, curling tighter, trying to disappear into the plush duvet. Shame washed over her in a hot, sickening wave, worse than the pain. Because Elia was right. The phantom weight of Chris, the brutal stretch, the raw power pinning her down – the memory alone sent a treacherous throb between her legs. She had screamed. She had come. Violently. Against her will. Against everything she thought she wanted with Elia. "It hurt," she whispered, a desperate justification. "So much."
"And you fucking loved how much it hurt," Elia countered flatly, no trace of sympathy. Their hand shot out, not to touch her sex, but to grip her bruised shoulder. Bambi cried out, genuine pain flaring. "Felt him own you. Felt that huge fucking dick split you open and claim your cunt. Felt him make you swallow his load like the little slut you are." Each word was a lash. "Admit that felt good. Admit you want to feel owned like that again."
Bambi squeezed her eyes shut, trembling violently. The words were knives, but they scraped against a raw, exposed nerve deep inside. The forbidden thrill. The surrender. The sheer, terrifying size of him filling her beyond capacity. "Yes," she sobbed, the admission ripped from her. "God, yes. It hurt… but it felt… full. So fucking full. Like I was nothing. Just a hole." Saying it was like vomiting poison. Relief and horror twisted together.
Silence descended, thick and charged. Elia released her shoulder, their breath ragged. They stared at Bambi’s tear-streaked face, the raw vulnerability, the undeniable truth of her corrupted desire reflected back at them. The image of her submitting to Chris, wanting his brutal possession, ignited a furnace inside Elia – jealousy warped into a dark, voyeuristic craving. They wanted to see it. They wanted to own her submission to it.
"Get up," Elia commanded, their voice thick. "Get in the shower. Wash his fucking stink off you. Now."
It wasn’t comfort. It was an order. Bambi scrambled off the bed, movements stiff and pained, clutching the torn camisole to her chest. She stumbled towards the small ensuite bathroom, the air still humid from Elia’s earlier panic. The cheap, floral body wash smell couldn’t mask the lingering musk of sex emanating from her own skin. She turned on the water, flinching at the initial cold spray, stepping under the stream, hoping it would scour her clean, inside and out. She lathered soap frantically over her bruised thighs and belly, scrubbing at the sticky residue between her legs, the rough cloth scraping her sensitive, swollen flesh. Tears mixed with the shower spray.
Elia watched from the doorway, leaning against the frame. The steam curled around Bambi’s slight frame, highlighting the purple fingerprints on her shoulder, the red marks on her hips. The water sluiced over her small breasts, her flat stomach, rinsed the suds from her dark curls. Watching her try to cleanse herself was hypnotic. Degrading. Incredibly arousing. Their own body tightened, a low thrum of anticipation building.
"Harder," Elia said, their voice cutting through the water’s roar. Bambi froze, soapy hands stilling on her inner thigh. "Scrub where he was inside you. Get all his filthy fucking come out." The order was obscene. Bambi whimpered but obeyed, fingers sliding roughly between her labia, pressing deep inside her still-tender passage, her face contorted in a grimace that wasn't entirely pain.
Elia pushed off the doorframe. Steam coated their skin as they stepped into the small cubicle fully clothed. Their t-shirt darkened immediately. They didn’t touch Bambi, just loomed, watching her frantic, self-punishing ablutions. The heat was oppressive, thick with soap and Bambi’s distress. "Did he make you taste it?" Elia asked, their gaze fixed on her mouth. "His load? Did he shove that big fucking cock down your throat until you gagged?"
Bambi nodded miserably, water streaming down her face. "Y-yes," she choked out. "Told me to swallow… told you he’d make me swallow it…"
The confirmation sent a jolt through Elia. Possessive fury roared back, mingling with the dark thrill. They reached out suddenly, gripping Bambi’s wet chin, forcing her to look up at them. "Open," they demanded. Bambi’s eyes widened in confusion and fear. "Open your fucking mouth." She did, trembling. Elia spat, hard and deliberate, straight into Bambi’s open mouth. "Swallow it," they growled. "Swallow my spit where his fucking cum was."
Bambi gagged, eyes watering, but she obeyed, her throat working convulsively. The humiliation was scalding. Worse than Chris’s invasion. This was deliberate debasement from the person she loved. Tears spilled anew, mixing with shower water and spit. Elia watched the ripple in her throat, the absolute submission, and the dark coil of desire in their gut tightened. They released her chin, trailing wet fingers down her neck, over the top curve of her breast, stopping just above her nipple. Not touching. Just… claiming. "Clean," Elia murmured, the word thick with sarcasm and something else. "You’re still filthy."
They stepped back out of the shower spray, leaving Bambi shaking under the water. Elia grabbed a towel, rough and thin, and threw it at her. "Dry off. Now." They turned, walking back into the bedroom, dripping onto the rug.
Bambi fumbled with the towel, her hands numb. She wrapped it around herself, the coarse fabric rasping against her bruised skin, and followed Elia numbly. The soft sanctuary of their bedroom felt like a trap. Elia stood by the large ornate mirror again, their back to her, posture rigid. Bambi stopped a few feet away, clutching the towel, shivering despite the apartment’s warmth. The silence stretched, taut as a wire. She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, the faint dripping of water from her hair onto the floorboards. She could smell Elia’s damp shirt, the lingering scent of Chris beneath her frantic scrubbing, her own fear. Elia turned slowly. Their eyes, dark and unreadable, raked over her from head to toe: the damp hair plastered to her skull, the towel barely covering her, the bruises stark against her pallor. The hunger in that look wasn't love. It was assessment. Possession. A terrifying curiosity about how much ruin she could endure.
"Take off the towel," Elia said, their voice devoid of inflection. Flat. Final. They didn’t move towards her. They just waited, their gaze a physical weight pinning her to the spot. The command hung, heavy and suffocating, in the quiet room. Bambi’s fingers tightened on the rough terrycloth edge. Her knuckles turned white. She looked at Elia’s face, searching for mercy, for the person she loved behind the cold mask. Finding none. Only that unnerving, predatory stillness. A tremor ran through her, starting deep in her belly. Slowly, jerkily, her fingers loosened their death grip. The towel began to slip.