Page 34 of Hollowed

“Owned.”

“Say who you belong to.”

“You.”

He fucked me harder.

His hips slammed into my ass, his balls slapped against my soaked pussy, and still it wasn’t enough. I clawed at the stone, my nails scraping raw, my insides squeezing him so tight I could feel every inch, every ridge, every groan he bit back.

“This body is mine,” he said. Voice low. Ragged.

“Yes,” I sobbed.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours.”

“Louder.”

“It’s yours.”

He bit my neck. My shoulder. The curve of my back.

He marked me with teeth and scripture and ruin.

And when I came, it was like burning alive. My pussy pulsed around his cock, my scream echoed through the chapel, and I didn’t care who heard.

He followed.

His roar wasn’t human.

It was holy.

He spilled inside me like he was branding me with his cum. Filling me until I couldn’t remember a time I hadn’t belonged to him.

He collapsed over me.

Still inside.

Still hard.

Still his.

And I whispered, not because I needed to be heard, but because it was truth:

“I never wanted gentleness. I wanted you.”

He kissed the back of my neck.

And stayed.

The ache didn’t leave.

It lingered like a bruise under my skin, like the echo of his growl in the hollow of my throat. He had filled me so completely I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Because every time he took me, he didn’t just fuck me—he rewrote me.

I lay on my side, sweat cooling on my skin, his cum leaking from between my thighs in a slow, revenant drip. The bruises he left across my hips were already darkening, his bite marks pulsing like sacred sigils carved in flesh. I wore them like scripture.

He sat at the edge of the robe, half-dressed, head bowed. His back rose and fell with measured breath, but I knew he wasn’t calm. I could feel the storm in him, held down by discipline he no longer needed to wear.

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