Chapter 36: I’m not a s***[R18]

He didn’t push in slowly. He didn’t test the waters. With one brutal, unyielding thrust, Damon sheathed himself inside her to the hilt.

Arghhh

A scream ripped from Lily’s throat.

The pain was instant and all-consuming—a white-hot lance of tearing, stretching agony that blotted out every other sense.

Her body locked up, her fingers clawing into the velvet stool, her elbows straining against the wood. It felt like being split open.

"Fuck! God—Damon, stop! *Stop!* It hurts!" she sobbed, the tears coming in hot, frantic streams. This wasn’t the playful burn she’d imagined;

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause. He held himself there, buried impossibly deep inside her, letting her feel the full, devastating invasion.

His weight settled over her, pressing her further into the stool. His mouth was beside her ear again, his breath hot.

"Hurts?" he said, his voice chillingly calm amidst her distress.

"You spent all afternoon waving this sweet little cunt in my face. Did you think it was just for show? Did you think I’d pat your head and buy you a necklace?" He pulled back, a slow drag that made her whimper, then slammed home again.

AHHHHHHHHH!

The second thrust was worse. The initial tear was already there, and now he was grinding into the raw edges.

Please...

Lily cried out, a broken, gasping sound. But beneath the scalding pain, something else flickered—a deep, internal friction that sparked against a nerve she didn’t know she had. Her sob hitched.

"There," Damon grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her ass. He began to move, setting a ruthless rhythm that was more punishment than pleasure.

"There’s the slut behind the scream. You can cry all you want, but your body’s already accepting it. Isn’t it?"

"I’m not—ah!—I’m not a slut," she panted, the protest weak and watery.

"You’re a virgin bent over a stool in a boutique, getting fucked by a man," he said, driving into her with impactful strokes. Each one punched a sharp sound from her lungs.

"You’re Claire’s sister. You saw the life she got, the bed she sleeps in, and you thought, ’I want that.’ You didn’t want *him*. You wanted what he *has*. And you were willing to spread your legs in a dressing room to get a taste. If that’s not a greedy little slut, tell me what is."

His words were as merciless as his cock. They stripped away any pretense, any romantic fantasy she might have secretly harbored.

He was right. She’d seen the power, the indifference, the sheer pull Damon had, and she’d wanted it aimed at her. The method was almost incidental.

He shifted his angle, tilting her hips up higher.

The next thrust went deeper, brushing a spot inside her that made her whole body jolt. A shocked, pleasure-edged moan tore from her throat, mingling with the pain.

"*Ah!* Wh-what was..."

"That’s the spot that makes good girls forget their names," he muttered, a dark note of satisfaction in his voice. He aimed for it again, and again.

The pain began to blur, smeared into a overwhelming cacophony of sensation—the burning stretch, the deep, punishing friction, the shocking bursts of pleasure that seemed to originate in her very core.

Fuck! Fuck! Damon ! Ahh..

Her cries changed, losing their edge of protest, becoming lower, wanton.

"You like that?" he demanded, his rhythm growing harder, faster. The stool creaked ominously. "You like being used like this? Being your sister’s cheap replacement?"

"No!" she gasped, but her body betrayed her, pushing back against him to meet his thrusts.

"Liar," he snarled. He wrapped one arm around her waist, hauling her up so her back was flush against his chest.

The change in angle made him feel even bigger, even deeper.

His other hand snaked around her front, cupping her breast through the lace of her bra, his fingers pinching her nipple roughly. "Say it. Tell me what you are."

She was unraveling. The combined assault on her body—the deep penetration, the rough handling—was shattering her defiance.

"I’m... I’m a..." The word stuck in her throat, the last vestige of pride.

He bit the juncture of her neck and shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to sting. "Say it, you fucking tease."

"A slut!" she screamed, the admission torn from her as he pistoned into her. "I’m a slut! A greedy, shameless slut! Happy?"

"Getting there," he growled. His control was slipping. The thrusts gave way to a frantic, pounding pace.

He was chasing his own release now, using her tight, aching body for his pleasure.

The sounds were obscenely loud—the wet slap of skin, the creak of the stool, their ragged breathing, her high, keening whimpers that were now unmistakably pleasured.

"You take it better than she does," he grunted, his words slurred with exertion. "She fights the feeling. You... you fucking embrace it. Born for this."

The comparison was the final key. It unlocked something wild and competitive in her.

She pushed back against him wildly, meeting each drive with a roll of her hips, chasing that shocking, internal spark until it became a steady flame.

The pain was a distant memory, drowned out by a rising tidal wave of sensation that coiled tighter and tighter in her belly.

"Damon... I... I’m gonna..." she choked out, surprised by the intensity building inside her.

"Do it," he commanded, his voice guttural. "Come on my cock, you little bitch. "

It was the permission, the crude command, that tipped her over. The coil snapped.

Damon! Ah ah ah

Splash!

Her orgasm crashed through her with violent, unexpected force, wringing a screaming cry from her throat. Her inner walls clamped around him in pulsing spasms, milking him violently.

The sensation pushed him over the edge.

"I’m cumming . Take it slut."

Spulrt....

With a final, brutal thrust that shoved her hard against the stool, he stiffened, a harsh, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he emptied himself deep inside her, hot pulses marking his conquest.

For a long moment, they stayed locked together, both trembling, the only sound their ragged panting echoing in the quiet room.

Slowly, his grip loosened. He pulled out, the sudden emptiness feeling vast and strange. Lily slumped forward over the stool, boneless, her arms giving out.

She slid to her knees on the carpet, resting her forehead against the cushion.

She heard the soft rustle of fabric as Damon straightened his clothes. A moment later, a neatly folded handkerchief, , landed on the stool beside her head.

"Clean yourself up," his voice came, flat and calm once more, as if he’d just concluded a business meeting. "The car will be at the side entrance in five minutes."

She didn’t look up. She heard his footsteps, the door opening, and then closing softly behind him.

Alone, Lily finally lifted her head. In the mirrors, she saw a stranger—hair disheveled, makeup ruined, red marks blooming on her hips and neck, his release already beginning to trickle down her inner thigh.

A wobbly smile spread across her swollen lips. It hadn’t been romantic. It hadn’t been sweet. It had hurt like hell, and he’d called her every vile name in the book.

And it had been the most powerful, exhilarating experience of her life.

She picked up the handkerchief, a small, silken trophy. She was in the game now. Not on the sidelines, peering in. She was inside.

And as the soreness between her legs pulsed with every heartbeat, she knew one thing for certain: she wanted more.