Chapter 57 - FIFTY SEVEN

Chapter 57: Chapter FIFTY SEVEN

ANGEL

Damien pulled out of me. The sudden emptiness made me gasp — a sharp intake of breath that turned into a moan when he slammed into my pussy without warning.

The difference was immediate and overwhelming. After being stretched so impossibly in one place, the familiar feeling of him filling my pussy felt almost easy. But "easy" was relative when his cock was this thick, this hard, this demanding.

He was already swelling inside me, growing harder with each thrust. I could feel every ridge, every vein, the heat of him radiating into my core.

"You like that, don’t you?" His voice was dark gravel, possessive and cruel. "Going from your tight little ass to this wet cunt. You’re dripping for me even after everything I just did to you."

"Yes, Daddy," I moaned, the words coming out broken and desperate.

"Yes, what?" He slammed particularly deep and I cried out. "Tell me what you are."

"I’m your slut, Daddy. Your whore."

"That’s right." His fingers dug into my hips so hard I knew they’d leave perfect impressions. Five little bruises on each side — his fingerprints tattooed into my flesh. "My property. My toy. Say it."

"I’m your property. Your toy. Yours, Daddy. Only yours."

He fucked me with brutal intensity, each thrust punishing and perfect. Then without warning he pulled out and pushed back into my ass.

I cried out — the sound sharp and high — at the sudden intrusion. But this time there was less pain tearing through me. His semen from before coated everything, made the slide easier even though the stretch still forced the air from my lungs.

"Feel that?" he growled. "Feel how my cum makes it easier? Your body’s learning, Angel. Learning that it exists to take my cock however I want to give it."

"Yes, Daddy. My holes are good for you."

"Good?" He laughed darkly, the sound sending shivers down my spine. "There’s nothing good about what we’re doing, baby girl. This is depraved. This is wrong. And you fucking love it. You love my meat claiming both holes?"

"I do," I gasped out. "I love it. I love being depraved for you."

Back and forth he went, alternating between my pussy and ass like he couldn’t decide which one he wanted more. Using me exactly how he wanted. And I let him. I surrendered so completely that there was nothing left of resistance, nothing left but the need to please him. I was moaning in euphoria each time he rammed into me with harsh thrusts. It felt more than his cock, almost like I could melt from the heat of his possession.

"Count them," he commanded suddenly. "Count how many times I switch holes."

"One," I whimpered as he pulled from my ass and slammed into my pussy.

"Louder."

"Two!" I cried as he reversed direction.

"That’s my girl. Keep counting. I want you to remember exactly how thoroughly I used you."

"Three! Four! Five!"

His grunts filled the air — primal sounds that came from deep in his chest. Each one sent electricity through my nerve endings because it meant I was pleasing him. Each grunt was proof I was worth keeping. Worth this. Worth him.

"Such a good little whore for Daddy," he growled. "Taking my cock in every hole like you were made for it. Were you made for this, Angel? Made to be my personal fucktoy?"

"Yes, Daddy! I was made for it."

"Then prove it. Beg me to keep using you. Beg me to never stop."

"Please, Daddy," I sobbed, losing count somewhere around twelve. "Please keep using me. Don’t ever stop. I need you like this."

"Need what specifically?" He grunted.

"Your cock filling every hole. I want you making me yours over and over."

He came again, this time his hot pulsating cum filling my pussy, and the warmth spreading inside me felt like a brand. Like he was marking me from the inside out, claiming territory that would forever belong to him. It was a wonder how his cum was still this thick, in this copious amount that kept gushing out of me.

"Feel that?" he panted. "That’s the third load I’ve put in you. And I’m not done. Not even close."

Then he was in my ass again, fucking me harder, chasing another release. The filthy words pouring from his mouth should have made me ashamed — slut, whore, cocksleeve, cumdump — but instead they made me wetter, made me clench around him, made me push back to meet his brutal thrusts. Until I came, squirting around his cock, my own mess soaking around us.

"You know what you are?" he snarled, his pace becoming erratic. "You’re a fucking masterpiece of depravity. I’ve broken you so perfectly."

"Yes, Daddy. You broke me. You own the pieces."

"Damn right I do."

I lost count of how many times he came after that. Lost track of which hole he was filling at any given moment. Time became meaningless, marked only by his grunts and my moans and the obscene wet sounds of him fucking me in places overflowing with his previous loads.

I was just a soaked mess. Cum leaked from both places, mixing together as it dripped down my thighs, pooling on the desk beneath me in spreading wet patches. The wood was slick with it.

"Fucking take it," he snarled, his voice ragged with exertion and lust. "Take every drop Daddy gives you. This is what you’re for. This is all you’re good for."

"Yes, Daddy. Please. More. Give me more."

"Greedy little slut. How much more can you take?"

"All of it. Everything. Whatever you want to give me."

I meant it with every destroyed piece of my soul. I wanted more. For him to use me until there was nothing left, until I was just his broken toy that existed only for his pleasure. Camilla could never. Maria could never. They performed for him. I bled for him. There was a difference, and my ruined body was the proof.

When he finally came inside me one last time — I thought it was my pussy but I couldn’t be sure anymore. There was no way to tell the difference through the haze — he stayed buried deep for a long moment. Both of us breathing hard.

We were covered in sweat. The air was thick with the smell of sex and both our cum.

"You did well, such a good girl" he said quietly, and the praise made my chest swell with warmth despite everything. Two words. That’s all it took to make every second of agony worth it. Two words and I’d do it all again.

"Thank you, Daddy," I whispered, my voice completely raw from all the screaming, my throat parched.

Then he pulled out his cock slowly and I felt the immediate loss.

The emptiness was worse than the fullness had been. My body had already forgotten how to exist without him inside it.

"Don’t fucking move. I want to see you like this when I come back."

"Yes, Daddy."

I heard him zip up his pants, heard the rustle of fabric as he straightened his clothes. Composed. Put together. As though he hadn’t just spent the last hour destroying me.

Then, the door opened. And closed.

He left.

I lay there on the desk, still spread open, my body aching and used and completely destroyed. Every muscle screamed in protest but I didn’t dare move. He’d told me to stay and so I would stay even if it killed me.

I shifted only slightly, turning so my back was against the desk instead of my stomach. The wood was cold against my overheated skin, sticky with our combined fluids. But I kept my legs spread because he’d told me not to move and I interpreted that as specifically meaning don’t close your legs, don’t hide what I did to you.

My eyes closed as I tried to catch my breath. Each inhale hurt. Each exhale shuddered out of me.

My mind felt disconnected from my body, floating somewhere above the wreckage, observing from a distance because being fully present in my destroyed flesh was too much to handle.

I don’t know how long I lay there. Minutes. Maybe longer.

My eyes were growing heavy, so I closed them.

Sleep was only a breath away when I heard the door open again.

My lazy eyes remained closed when his hands touched my thighs, his warm palms against my sticky skin — and I moaned softly before I could stop myself.

My body responded immediately despite the exhaustion and soreness, already preparing to take whatever he wanted to give me. Trained. Ready. His.

But something about the touch felt wrong.

Different.

These hands were smaller. The touch was softer. Gentler. Almost hesitant.

I felt a face buried between my thighs, then the first tentative lick of a tongue catching the cum that was actively trickling out of me.

My eyes flew open.

It wasn’t Damien.