He's still inside me.
The thought is a drumbeat, endless, merciless.
Every slow throb of his cock echoes it: mine, mine, mine.
I can feel the ridge of his crown dragging against my front wall, the thick vein along the underside pulsing against my swollen walls, the slick heat of his come mixing with mine, leaking out around him in slow, filthy rivulets that cool instantly on my thighs.
My body is no longer my own. It's a temple and he is the god desecrating it, and I have never felt more holy.
I used to think freedom was the absence of chains.
I was wrong.
Freedom is choosing the chains. Choosing the hand that locks them. Choosing to kneel before the only man who ever looked at me and saw not a weapon, not a prize, not a bargaining chip, but a woman worthy of worship and ruin in equal measure.
His fingers are still curled around my throat, not squeezing now, just resting there. A reminder. A crown. I can feel my pulse hammering against his palm, frantic and alive, and I know he feels it too.
Every frantic beat is a confession: I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours.
I hate how much I love this.
I hate how my cunt clenches greedily every time he shifts, trying to keep him inside forever. I hate how my back arches without permission when his thumb brushes the bite mark on my neck, how my nipples tighten painfully at the mere memory of his teeth.
I hate how tears keep spilling over my lashes, not from pain (though gods, there is so much exquisite pain), but from the overwhelming, terrifying certainty that I will never want another man again. Not after this. Not after him.
I have spent my entire life being
afraid of cages.
I have smiled at monsters while planning their deaths.
I have let men think they owned me while I held their hearts in my blooming hands, ready to crush them the moment they turned their backs.
And now I'm begging to be caged.
Master.
The word tasted like absolution when it tore itself from my throat. I didn't plan it. I didn't choose it. It chose me. It rose up from some dark, hidden place I've kept locked away my whole life, the part of me that always wondered what it would feel like to surrender completely. To trust someone enough to hand them the knife and bare my throat.
He took the knife.
He cut me open.
And instead of bleeding out, I bloomed.
I can feel the exact moment he decides to be cruel again. His hips still, buried to the hilt, and he just… waits. Lets me feel every inch of what I'm impaled on.
Lets me feel the emptiness waiting if he ever decides to leave. My body panics at the thought, clenching around him in desperate, fluttering spasms, trying to pull him deeper, trying to brand him inside me forever.
He chuckles, dark and low, and the vibration travels straight through my clit. "Greedy girl," he murmurs against my ear, lips brushing the shell, teeth catching the lobe hard enough to make me gasp. "You think if you hold tight enough, I'll never leave?"
I can't answer. My voice is gone, shredded from screaming his name. All I can do is nod, frantic and shameless, tears sliding into my hair.
His hand slides from my throat to my jaw, gripping hard, forcing my face to his. His eyes are black fire in the starlight. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, and it's not gentle. It's a vow carved in blood and bruises.
"You're mine now. Every breath you take, every heartbeat, every orgasm you'll ever have again; they belong to me. You'll wake up sore and dripping with me. You'll fall asleep with my come drying on your thighs. You'll walk through the world wearing my marks under your clothes and no one will ever touch what I've claimed."
The words should terrify me.
They don't.
They flood me with heat so intense I feel faint. My cunt spasms around him again, harder this time, and I realize I'm close to coming just from his voice.
Just from the truth of it.
I was never afraid of being owned.
I was afraid of being owned by someone unworthy.
But him?
Minato Namikaze, the man who could raze kingdoms with a flicker of thought, who holds the world in his palm and crushes it for sport; he looked at me and saw something worth keeping. Worth breaking.
Worth cherishing in the breaking.
I would let him destroy me.
I would thank him while he did it.
Another tear slips free. He catches it with his thumb, brings it to his mouth, licks it clean. The intimacy of it wrecks me more than any thrust ever could.
"I love you," I whisper before I can stop myself. The words are small, fragile, obscene after everything we've done. But they're true.
Terrifyingly, completely true.
His eyes soften for a fraction of a second, something ancient and tender flickering behind the storm. Then it's gone, replaced by raw possession.
"I know," he says simply. And then he moves.
Not gentle. Never gentle again. He fucks me like he's trying to fuse us together, like if he goes hard enough, deep enough, he can rewrite my DNA with his name.
My body is no longer mine to command. It's his instrument, and he plays it masterfully: teeth on my nipple, hand in my hair, cock dragging over that spot inside me until I see stars, until I'm sobbing and begging and coming again without permission.
He lets me.
He always lets me when I break beautifully enough.
And when he finally spills inside me again, when his roar vibrates through my bones and his teeth sink into my shoulder to muffle the sound, I feel it down to my soul:
This is devotion.
This is worship.
This is surrender.
And I have never been more alive.
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