Chapter 6: Possession Claimed
The slam of the apartment door echoed through the stale air, a period at the end of Joshua’s exit. The silence he left behind was different this time—charged, brittle. Vanja stood in the center of the cluttered room, the phantom sensation of his final, dismissive kiss still on her lips. Her body hummed with a dangerous current. The words she’d spoken hung between her and Manuel, a challenge she hadn’t known she was capable of issuing.
I’ll decide who fucks me.
Manuel hadn’t moved from where he leaned against the kitchenette counter. He watched her, his eyes dark pools in the dim afternoon light filtering through the dusty blinds. He didn’t look angry. He looked calculating, like a chess player assessing a surprising but not unwelcome move.
“You’ll decide,” he repeated, his voice a low rumble. It wasn’t a question.
Vanja’s chin lifted. The soreness between her legs was a grounding ache, a testament to everything she’d just allowed, everything she’d begged for. This felt different. This was about the aftermath. “Yes.”
He pushed off the counter and took a single, slow step towards her. Then another. The space seemed to shrink. “And what have you decided, Vanja?”
She held her ground, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “I haven’t.”
A slow smile spread across his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “See, that’s the problem with issuing declarations. They demand follow-through.” He was in front of her now, close enough for her to smell the sex and salt on his skin. He didn’t touch her. “You think because you took both of us, because you screamed for it, you’re in charge?”
“I think my body is mine.” The words felt thin, even to her.
Manuel’s hand shot out, not to grab her, but to press flat against the wall beside her head, caging her in. “Is it?” His other hand followed, planting on the other side. He leaned in, his mouth inches from her ear. “Your body is a fucking wonder. A miracle. It does things on the pitch that make men like me feel obsolete. And off the pitch…” He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing her hair. “Off the pitch, it’s a feast. And you just invited two very hungry men to the table. You don’t get to be shocked when they start fighting over the bones.”
His language carved into her, crude and devastatingly accurate. She turned her face, her cheek against the cool, rough wallpaper. “I’m not a thing to fight over.”
“Aren’t you?” His knee nudged her legs apart. She didn’t resist. “You were the one on your knees. You were the one begging us to fill you up. That makes you something, Schatz. Something we want. And now you’re pretending you get to dictate the terms?” He laughed, a short, humorless puff of air against her neck. “That’s cute.”
Anger, hot and clean, cut through her confusion. She shoved against his chest. “Fuck you, Manuel.”
He barely budged. His arms were like iron bars. “Maybe later. Right now, you’re going to understand.” His hands left the wall and gripped her hips, spinning her around to face it. The move was swift, brutal. Her palms smacked against the faded floral print, steadying her. “You decided to play this game. Now we play by my rules.”
He yanked the sweats she’d borrowed from him down to her thighs in one sharp motion. The cool air hit her exposed skin. She was still wet, a slick, sticky mess from their earlier use. He didn’t bother with preamble. He unzipped his jeans, freed himself, and pressed the thick, blunt head of his cock against her.
“You want to decide?” he growled, his body pressing against her back, pinning her. One hand fisted in her dark blond hair, pulling her head back. The other guided himself. “Decide this. Tell me no. Right now. Push me away. Tell me to stop.”
Her mouth was dry. Her mind screamed a dozen contradictions. Her body, traitorous and alive, pressed back instinctively, seeking the fullness that had come to define the last few hours. A low whimper escaped her.
“That’s not a no,” he whispered, his voice dripping with dark triumph. He pushed forward, not with a single thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure, stretching her, filling the sore, sensitive space with a fresh, burning stretch. She cried out, her forehead dropping to the wall.
“It’s not a yes, either,” she gasped, the words muffled.
“In my world, it is.” He began to move, a deep, grinding rhythm that had less to do with pleasure and everything to do with possession. Each drive of his hips slammed her into the wall, the old plaster digging into her cheekbone. “This is what you get. This is what you are. A tight, wet cunt for us to use when we want. A set of perfect tits to grab. A mouth to fuck.” His pace increased, the slapping sounds obscene in the quiet apartment. “You decided to be ours. Now you live with it.”
Tears of frustration and a degrading, coiling heat welled in her eyes. She tried to rally, to find the defiance from minutes before. “Joshua—“
“Joshua left,” Manuel cut her off, snapping his hips hard, making her gasp. “He walked out that door. He got his. I’m still here. And I’m not done.” He released her hair, his hand sliding around her throat, not squeezing, just holding. A collar of flesh. “You think he’s any different? He just hides it better. He wanted to ruin you first. I just want to keep you.”
The confession, wrapped in brutality, stunned her. His movements became more frantic, less controlled. This wasn’t the calculated fuck from before; this was something raw, almost desperate. His mouth was on her shoulder, biting, sucking, marking her. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hip, sure to leave bruises.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his breath ragged. “Come on my cock, Vanja. Show me this is what you decided.”
She fought it, clenching her teeth, hating him, hating the way her body was betraying her yet again, coiling tight around his invading length. But the rhythm was relentless, the friction against her oversensitive clit unavoidable. It built like a storm, a wave of shameful, unbearable tension. She choked back a sob as it broke, her body seizing around him, her knees buckling. He held her up, fucking her through the violent contractions, his own release following with a guttural roar, hot pulses deep inside her that seemed to go on forever.
They stayed like that for a long minute, both panting, pinned against the wall by his weight. Slowly, he softened, slipped out of her. He rested his forehead between her shoulder blades, his hands still gripping her.
The sound of a key in the lock was absurdly loud.
The door swung open. Joshua stood there, a paper bag of groceries in one arm. He took in the scene: Vanja pinned against the wall, pants around her thighs, Manuel behind her, both of them glistening with sweat. His expression didn’t change. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and walked to the kitchenette, placing the bag on the counter.
“Forgot the milk,” he said, his voice utterly normal.
Manuel slowly straightened, pulling up his jeans. Vanja, trembling, yanked the sweats back up, not turning around, her face burning with a fresh layer of humiliation.
Joshua pulled a carton of milk from the bag and put it in the fridge. He then leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, looking at them. “So. Did she decide?”
Manuel zipped his fly, a smirk playing on his lips. “She’s deciding.”
Joshua’s gaze shifted to Vanja. She finally turned, meeting his eyes. There was no apology in them, no anger. Just a calm, deep assessment. He’d known, she realized. He’d known exactly what would happen when he left.
“Good,” Joshua said simply. He pushed off the counter. “I’m making pasta. You’re both staying.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was an edict. The domesticity of it, after what had just transpired, was more unsettling than any violence. Vanja looked from one man to the other. Manuel’s possessive heat still radiated from her back. Joshua’s cool authority filled the space in front of her.
I’ll decide who fucks me.
The thought now felt like a child’s fantasy. She wasn’t deciding between them. She was trapped in the gravity of their combined want. The fight hadn’t been about who got to have her. It was about which part of her they each claimed. And as she stood there, feeling Manuel’s come leak down her thigh, watching Joshua fill a pot with water as if this were any normal evening, she understood the terrifying truth.
The decision had never been hers at all.
The decision had never been hers at all. The smell of garlic hitting hot oil cut through the sex-thick air, a bizarre slice of normalcy. Vanja stood frozen in the middle of the room, a sticky ache throbbing between her legs, as Joshua busied himself at the stove.
“Sit,” he said, without turning around. “You’re in the way.”
Manuel nudged her towards the rickety table, his hand lingering on the small of her back. It wasn’t a gentle gesture. It was a statement of relocation, moving a possession to a more convenient spot. She sat on the edge of the chair, the wood cold through the thin sweats. Manuel took the seat opposite, his eyes never leaving her face, watching the play of confusion and shame there.
Joshua brought over three plates of spaghetti, the steam rising in faint curls. He sat at the head of the table, creating a triangle. For several minutes, the only sounds were the scrape of forks and the hum of the ancient refrigerator. Vanja stared at the tangled mound of pasta, her stomach churning.
“Eat,” Joshua instructed, his tone mild. “You’ll need your strength.”
Manuel smirked around a mouthful. “For what?”
“For whatever comes next.” Joshua finally looked at Vanja. His gaze was clinical. “You’re a mess. But that’s fine. It’s honest.”
She put a forkful in her mouth. It tasted of nothing. She chewed mechanically, swallowing past a lump in her throat. The domestic scene was a sick parody, a layer of calm over a fault line. Manuel reached across the table with his fork and speared a meatball from her plate, popping it into his mouth. The act was so casually proprietary it made her skin prickle.
“We have training tomorrow,” Joshua said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “You’ll be sore. You’ll be tired. You’ll think about this all day, every time one of us looks at you across the pitch.”
“I won’t,” she whispered, the defiance pathetic even to her own ears.
Manuel laughed. “You will. You’ll feel me in you every time you sprint. You’ll remember his cock down your throat every time you bend over to tie your cleats.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. “And you’ll get wet all over again. You know you will, you filthy little slut.”
The crude words, delivered so casually over dinner, sent a jolt straight to her core. She squeezed her thighs together, a useless defense. Joshua watched the reaction, a faint flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He pushed his empty plate away.
“Clean up,” he said to her, nodding towards the kitchen.
It was a test. A small, mundane order. Vanja stood, her legs unsteady, and gathered the plates. She felt their eyes on her back, on the sway of her hips. At the sink, the warm water ran over her hands. The mundane task felt like the strangest part of the day. She heard the scrape of chairs, the low murmur of their voices behind her. She couldn’t make out the words.
A body pressed against her from behind. Joshua. His hands settled on her hips, his chin resting on her shoulder. “You did good today,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. His erection was a firm line against her ass. “Taking everything we gave you. But you’re still trying to hold a piece of yourself back. That piece doesn’t belong to you anymore.”
He turned her around, lifting her onto the narrow counter beside the sink. Dishes clattered. He pushed her legs apart, his hands rough on her inner thighs. “Manuel marked you against the wall. That was about him.” Joshua unbuttoned his jeans. “This is about you. And what you really are.”
He didn’t bother removing her clothes. He just yanked the borrowed sweats and her panties down to one knee, exposing her. She was still swollen, glistening. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and drove into her with a single, deep stroke. The air left her lungs in a shocked gasp.
“See?” he breathed, his face inches from hers. His thrusts were slow, deliberate, and devastatingly deep. “You don’t even flinch. Your body opens up like it’s been waiting for me. Because it has.” He gripped the back of her neck, holding her in place. “Tell me what you are.”
She shook her head, tears spilling over. He fucked her harder, the counter digging into her back. “Tell me.”
“Yours,” she sobbed, the word ripped from her.
“Louder.”
“I’m yours!” The confession was a wretched, liberating scream.
“And what does that mean?” His pace was punishing now, each thrust jolting her body.
“It means you can fuck me whenever you want!” she cried, the words a torrent of filth and truth. “It means my cunt is yours, my mouth is yours, you can use me, you can come in me, I’m just a thing for you to use!”
“Good girl.” His approval was a dark benediction. His rhythm broke, becoming frantic. He was close. “Now, look.”
He turned her head, forcing her to look past his shoulder. Manuel was sitting at the table still, chair tilted back, slowly stroking his own hard cock as he watched them. His eyes were black with hunger. “He’s next,” Joshua grunted. “And you’re going to thank him for it.”
The dual humiliation—being used and watched, being scheduled—tipped her over the edge. Her orgasm was a silent, shuddering convulsion that clenched around Joshua’s pounding length. He followed with a groan, pulsing inside her, his body heavy against hers.
He pulled out, leaving her feeling empty and dripping. He didn’t help her down. Manuel was already there, his hands replacing Joshua’s on her thighs. Joshua picked up a discarded kitchen knife and the near-empty jar of tomato sauce. He dipped the tip of the blade into the red paste.
As Manuel lifted her hips and slammed into her soaked, stretched cunt, Joshua pressed the cold, sauce-tipped knife to her lower abdomen, just above the junction of her thighs. He dragged it slowly, leaving a thick, red, vertical line. Then he carved a harsh, perpendicular line across it, marking her skin with a crude, sticky ‘T’.
“There,” Joshua said, his voice flat. “Now you’re properly branded. Team property.”
Manuel fucked her through her tears, through the sensation of the sauce drying on her skin, through the utter annihilation of any last pretense. She was nothing but a used, marked hole, and the terrifying part, the part that shattered her completely, was the relief that flooded her as she finally stopped thinking and just let the feeling consume her.
The relief was a silent, hollowed-out thing. It echoed in the empty space where her pride had been. Manuel finished with a final, grinding thrust, his release a lukewarm trickle joining the rest already leaking from her. He rested against her, his sweat mixing with hers on the sticky, sauce-smeared skin of her stomach. The crude ‘T’ had smeared into a vague rust-colored stain.
Joshua watched, the knife still loose in his hand. He looked at the mark, then at Vanja’s face. Her eyes were open, fixed on the water-stained ceiling tile above the sink, but they saw nothing. A single tear broke from the corner of her right eye, tracing a clean path through the grime on her temple. Then another. She didn’t make a sound. The silence was broken only by their ragged breathing, and then by a quiet, hitching intake of air from Vanja that trembled on the edge of a sob.
Joshua dropped the knife into the sink. The clatter made her flinch. He looked from her tear-streaked face to the messy, degrading mark on her abdomen, now blurred by sweat and semen. His own words—Team property—echoed in his head, suddenly stripped of their power, revealing the cheap, ugly cruelty beneath. A cold knot tightened in his gut.
“Fuck,” he muttered, the word toneless. He turned and walked to the table, sitting heavily, running both hands through his hair. He stared at the empty plates, the mundane remnants of the meal now seeming like artifacts from a different world.
Manuel slowly pulled out of her. The sound was wet, obscene. He looked at Joshua’s bowed head, then down at Vanja. Her quiet crying had begun in earnest now, her shoulders shaking, her breath catching in ragged, helpless gasps. The violent energy that had possessed him drained away, leaving a strange, leaden hollowness. He saw the raw redness between her legs, the bruising beginning to bloom on her hips where his fingers had been, the pathetic, smeared symbol on her skin.
“Hey,” Manuel said, his voice rough but lower than before. He gently pulled her sweats back up over her hips, his movements awkward. “Hey, Schatz. Stop.”
She couldn’t. The tears came in a soft, relentless wave, a physiological reaction she had no control over. It was the exhaustion, the overload, the sheer systemic shock of it all. She curled in on herself on the counter, her arms wrapping around her stomach, her body trembling.
Manuel looked at Joshua, who hadn’t moved. “Get a cloth. Warm one.”
Joshua stood, his movements stiff. He wet a clean dish towel under the hot tap, wringing it out. He brought it to Manuel, their fingers brushing, avoiding each other’s eyes. Manuel took it and began to carefully wipe the sticky sauce from Vanja’s skin. The red came away easily, leaving just the faint, irritated trail of the knife’s dull edge. The mark was gone. The act of removing it felt more significant than making it had.
“I’m sorry,” Manuel said, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. He wasn’t looking at her face, focusing on cleaning her skin. “That was… too much. The knife thing. That was fucking stupid.” He tossed the stained cloth into the sink. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her down from the counter. Her legs buckled immediately, and he caught her, holding her upright against his chest. She buried her face in his shirt, her cries muffled now, her fists clenched weakly against him.
Joshua watched, the cold knot in his gut twisting. He’d wanted to break her, to own her, to simplify the maddening complexity of wanting her into something brutal and clean. Seeing her broken, though, felt like a loss. It felt like they’d broken something that belonged to them, something irreplaceable. “Vanja,” he said, his voice strained.
She didn’t respond, her body wracked with exhausting, silent sobs against Manuel.
“She’s done,” Manuel said, looking over her head at Joshua. His tone held no victory, only a flat finality. “Just… help me.”
Joshua nodded, the motion sharp. Together, they guided her stumbling, boneless form the few steps into the bedroom. The unmade bed was a testament to the day’s first rounds. Manuel sat on the edge and pulled her down onto his lap, cradling her like a child. He rocked slightly, a slow, steady rhythm. “Shhh. It’s over. Sleep now. Just sleep.”
Her crying slowly subsided into hiccupping breaths, then into deep, shuddering sighs. The emotional storm had burned through the last of her fuel. Her eyelids, swollen and pink, fluttered closed. Her weight settled heavily against Manuel, completely yielding.
Joshua stood in the doorway, a spectator. He watched Manuel brush the tangled, damp hair from her forehead. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender it felt like a physical blow. He turned and walked back into the main room, shutting the bedroom door softly behind him.
Alone with her, Manuel adjusted his hold. He laid her down on the less-disheveled side of the bed, pulling the sheet over her. In the deep twilight of the room, her face in sleep looked younger than eighteen, stripped of all its fierce defiance and desperate hunger. She was just a girl, used to the point of collapse.
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her breathe, the rise and fall of the sheet. The scent of sex and sweat and tomato sauce clung to both of them. He knew Joshua was right; tomorrow at training, every look, every casual touch would scream with what they’d done here. But for now, there was only this quiet, the profound stillness of a battlefield after the fighting is done. He didn’t join her under the sheet. He just sat, keeping watch as the room darkened completely, until her breathing was the only sound in the world.