Chapter 4: Marking His Property
The word hung in the damp air between them, a frail thread now pulled taut. Lamar’s smile didn’t widen so much as deepen, a satisfied settling into a known truth. “Good,” he said, the single syllable a soft command.
In one smooth motion, his hands moved from my hips. He guided me, turned me, my back coming to rest against the cold, rough-hewn planks of the cabin wall. The wood bit into my skin, a hundred tiny splinters whispering threats. He pressed his body against mine, pinning me there, the heat of him a shocking contrast to the damp chill seeping through the planks. His erection, that monstrous length I’d just confessed to wanting, was a hard ridge against my lower back.
“Hands here,” he murmured, taking my wrists and placing my palms flat against the wall above my head. “Hold yourself open for me, Brandy.”
The new name lanced through me. A sissy name. I didn’t protest.
He stepped back, and the loss of his heat made me shiver. Moonlight from the crooked, cracked window sliced across the floor, carving a jagged path over his shoulders as he moved. He took the lubricant again, the sound of the cap clicking open obscenely loud in the silence. I heard the slick, wet sounds as he stroked himself, coating his length.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice a low, intimate rasp near my ear. He pressed close again, but not inside. Not yet. His hands came to my waist, then slid down to my thighs, gripping. He lifted me, my feet leaving the floor with ease, my slight body offering no resistance. “All tensed up against this old wall. You feel that grain? That’s all you are right now. Something rough for me to use.”
My caged dick gave a useless, aching twitch, a faint smear of moisture beading at the tip. I was horrifyingly hard inside that pink prison.
“Gonna make you ride it,” he whispered, the words hot against my neck. “Gonna make you take every inch on your own terms, backwards. You wanted it. You said the word. Now prove you meant it.”
He guided me, lowering me until the broad, slick crown of him nudged against my hole. I gasped, my fingers scrabbling against the splintery wood. The pressure was immense, a blunt, stretching demand.
“Do it,” he urged, his tone shifting from coaxing to command. “Sit on it, Brandy. Take your first real cock like a good girl.”
I bore down, a low groan tearing from my throat. It was a fight, a brutal, burning invasion. My body resisted, clenching tight, but he was implacable, holding me steady as I sank. The stretch was a white-hot wire drawn through my core. I felt myself open, a gradual, agonizing yielding. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, filling a space I never knew existed.
“Fuck,” I choked out, my head falling back against his shoulder.
“Yeah,” he hissed, his own breath shaky with restraint. “There it is. Just the head. Feels like you’re being split, don’t it?”
I could only nod, a pathetic jerk of my chin. He let me hang there, impaled and trembling, letting me feel the full, stretching ache of just that first part of him.
“Now the rest,” he said, and his hands tightened on my thighs. “Do it. All the way.”
I pushed down, a slow, excruciating slide. The burn intensified, a searing fullness that obliterated all thought. A sharp cry escaped me, strangled and high. He swallowed it, his mouth against my temple. “Breathe, baby. Breathe through it. It’s just your body learning its new job.”
Inch by terrible inch, I took him, until my ass was pressed flush against his pelvis. I was full, stuffed, a core of molten pressure and stretching pain. I hung there, speared, my legs shaking.
“Good fucking girl,” Lamar moaned, his composure cracking for a second. He recovered, his voice going dark and deliberate again. “That’s it. That’s what you are now, Brandy. A warm, tight cocksleeve for a real man. You feel that? That’s my dick rearranging your insides. Making room for itself.”
He began to move me then, his hands on my hips setting a brutal, rocking rhythm. He wasn’t fucking me; he was making me fuck myself on him, using my body like a toy. Each upward drag was a near-complete withdrawal, each downward plunge a harsh, bottoming-out slam that knocked a sound from my lungs. The rough wood of the wall grated against my shoulder blades.
“You see that window?” he grunted in my ear, the pace increasing. “That cracked glass? That’s you. Broken in. Held together by something stronger. My rules. My cock.”
The pain began to mutate, threaded through with sharp, unexpected pulses of shameful pleasure. Each drive touched something deep, a spark that jumped the gap to my trapped, weeping dick. A choked sob escaped me.
“You crying, sissy?” he whispered, his breath hot. “Good. Cry. Let it out. This is your truth. A tiny, caged little clit and a hungry ass. This is all you’re for.”
His words coiled inside me, venomous and true. The rhythm became punishing, a steady, deep pounding that shook my frame. My own pleasure, when it came, was a humiliating betrayal—a sharp, dry convulsion inside the cage, a spurt of nothing against the pink plastic, my body convulsing around the very thing that was dismantling me.
He felt it. “That’s it,” he snarled, his own thrusts becoming erratic, harder, losing the polished control. “Cum from getting fucked like a bitch. Cum from being used.”
His hands clamped on me like vices, holding me still as he pistoned up into me, deep, final strokes. With a guttural groan that was half a shout, he buried himself to the hilt and shuddered. I felt the hot, urgent pulse of his release deep inside me, a flooding claim that seemed to go on and on.
For a long moment, the only sounds were our ragged breaths and the drip of the leaky roof syncing with the drip of his spend from my used body. He stayed inside me, softening, a final weighty reminder.
Slowly, gently, he lowered my shaking legs until my feet found the floor. I sagged against the wall, held up by his hands and the planks at my back. My entire being felt inverted, rewired.
He leaned close, his lips brushing my ear, his voice soft again, almost tender. “You took it all, Brandy. Every inch. You’re mine now.”
He pulled out, a slow, wet, devastating withdrawal. I slid down the wall to sit on the cold floor, a pool of moonlight and shadow swallowing me. He stood over me, looking down, his expression unreadable in the dark. He didn’t reach to help me up. He just let me sit there, feeling the cool air on my exposed skin, the deep, throbbing ache inside me, and the terrifying, hollow truth of his last words echoing in the new, silent emptiness of my head.