Chapter 12: The Claiming
From that moment on, Tariq fucked Marie in various positions.
The giant pounded her pussy from behind again, his hands braced on the headboard, the carved patterns biting into his palms. Then he flipped her onto her back, dragging her to the edge of the bed, her legs hooked over his shoulders as he drove into her in a relentless, deep-stroking missionary that made her toes curl and her voice break. Each time, after he’d spent himself inside her with a guttural groan, he would slide out, still half-hard, and guide her mouth back onto him. “Clean it up,” he’d murmur, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes as she licked and sucked him back to full, daunting rigidity. He tasted of herself, salty and foreign.
Despite her fatigue, a deep, humming pleasure allowed Marie to continue. Her body responded to his with a shameful autonomy. When he lay back and pulled her astride him, she moved on him, her hair stuck to her damp neck, her breasts swaying. He just watched, his hands on her hips, a faint smile on his lips as he let her do the work until her thighs burned and she collapsed forward onto his chest. He took over then, rolling her beneath him again.
He never seemed to tire. He ejaculated several times, sometimes in her pussy with a fierce, claiming pulse, sometimes pulling out to spill across her belly or, once, across her parted lips, which he then forced her to lick clean. The room was a haze of sweat and spent breath and the relentless, spicy scent of him.
Marie didn’t say anything when Tariq took out his phone from the nightstand. The screen glowed in the dim light. He held it up, filming her as she knelt between his legs, her head bobbing, her eyes closed. The soft, mechanical click of the shutter sounded absurdly loud.
“For my collection,” he said casually, as if discussing a stamp album. “You look good like this. Desperate.”
She kept her eyes shut, a hot tear tracking through the mess on her cheek, but she didn’t stop. The humiliation was just another layer of the experience, viscous and inescapable.
It was almost 1 a.m. when he made her get on all fours. The distant city lights through the window had multiplied, a scatter of diamonds against velvet black. Every muscle in Marie’s body protested, a symphony of aches. He positioned himself behind her, his enormous cock resting heavily on the swell of her buttocks, a warm, threatening weight.
“Now,” Tariq said, his voice roughened by hours of use, “I’m going to take care of your ass.”
A jolt of pure, sobering fear shot through her fatigue. Despite everything she had let him do, every boundary he had vaporized, this one felt different. Final. “No,” she said, the word cracking. She tried to crawl forward, but his hand, broad and immovable, splayed on the small of her back, holding her in place. “Tariq, no. It’s too big. You’ll… you might kill me.”
He chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through her. “I know what I’m doing.” He reached for a small bottle on the nightstand. The sound of the cap snapping open was obscenely clinical. She heard the wet squelch as he coated himself generously.
The cold touch of the lubricant against her anus made her flinch violently. “Please,” she begged, her face pressed into the crimson sheets. “Please, don’t. I’ll do anything else. Anything you want. Just not that.”
“I want this,” he said simply.
He placed the bulbous head at her tight entrance. She clenched, every muscle locking in protest. “Stop!” she cried, a real panic rising in her throat.
He began to push, ignoring her words. There was a burning, stretching pressure, a sense of impossible invasion. She swore, a stream of ragged, French curses into the linen. He pushed harder. The lubricant did its work, and with a sickening, yielding pop, the head finally slipped past the ring of muscle.
Marie gasped, the air stolen from her lungs. The feeling was one of being split open. “Putain,” she hissed, her knuckles white where she gripped the sheets.
“So tight,” Tariq commented, his voice a mix of strain and cool observation. He held himself there, buried just to the head, letting her adjust. “Like a virgin. Your husband never touched this, did he? This is all mine.”
With small, gentle, deliberate thrusts, he advanced further. The stretch was agonizing, a deep, internal burn. She felt impossibly full, stretched around a thickness she could not comprehend. Slowly, inexorably, his enormous penis entered her completely, until his hips were flush against her buttocks.
He was still inside her throat. He was inside her everything.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just let her feel it, the overwhelming, cork-stopping presence of him. Then he withdrew, an inch, then sank back in.
A shockwave travelled through her. Not just pain. Something else, sharper, buried beneath the ache.
He began to move in and out, slowly at first, a grinding, profound friction. The pain began to mutate, twisting and transforming with each retreat, each return. It sparked along nerves she didn’t know she had. The initial burning subsided into a relentless, full sensation that began to pulse in time with his thrusts.
He went faster.
And then it happened. A pleasure she had never known, dark and deep and utterly illicit, washed over her. It wasn’t the clenching, release of her pussy; this was a steady, building current, a raw electricity that seemed to ignite from the core of her violation. It flooded her, drowning the last remnants of protest.
Her scream into the pillow wasn’t one of pain. It was a raw, ragged cry of pure, shocking pleasure as Tariq fucked her.