Page 40 of Until You Break
“That’s it,” he murmured, steady. “Take it. You need it if you want to take me.”
“I don’t want—” I gasped, words breaking as his fingers curled just right. My hips bucked despite myself, chasing the touch. “I don’t want this.”
“You do. Your cock says you do. You’ve never been opened, never been stretched. And now you’ll never forget how it feels.”
His fingers scissored wider, then curled, stroking deep until my vision blurred. Every curl brushed a hidden spot inside me that sent sparks through my stomach, shocking cries from my throat no matter how I tried to hold them in. He caught my mouth with his then, kissing me slow and filthy, tongue pushing past my teeth as his fingers worked me open. The mix made mewhimper against his lips, torn between shame and the way my body arched into his hand. He licked into me like he was tasting the sound, whispering against my mouth between kisses: “Good. Taking me so well. That’s it,piccolo. Stretch for me.”
When he finally pulled his fingers out, my body clenched, empty and aching.
This time his mouth claimed mine, filthy and hard. His tongue drove deep, stealing what breath I had left as his hand slid back between my thighs. He fingered me open again as he kissed me, forcing my body to take more while my mouth was already conquered. Every curl of his fingers inside me matched the push of his tongue, making refusal impossible, drowning me in humiliation and heat until my hips pressed back without thought.
When he broke the kiss, spit shone between us, slicking my chin. His fingers withdrew, and fabric shifted. A zipper sighed. The heat in the room changed, the thick, human kind, even before he stepped close enough for his shadow to fold over mine.
“Look.”
I turned my head enough to see.
His cock. Thick. Veins swollen, running down the shaft like ropes. Head flushed dark, wet with slick, dripping heavy at the tip. His hand curled around the base, stroking once, spreading the wetness along the length until it shone. His balls hung heavy beneath, full, swaying with each slow pump of his fist.
“Look at what’s going to open you,” he said, voice sharp as velvet. “Every vein. Every inch. You’ll feel this cock for days. You’ll walk past them tomorrow and they’ll smell me inside you.”
Panic lit my chest. “You’re too big. It won’t fit.”
He kissed the side of my mouth then, slow and filthy, his cockhead pressed at my rim without entering. His breath warmed my cheek as he whispered, “Feel how I wait here foryou? You’re already soft for me. Already stretched for me.” He rocked his hips just enough to smear slick across me, teasing circles that made my thighs tremble. Each grind was promise and threat at once, dragging the moment longer until I shook with the need to know whether he would finally push in.
“It will.” His palm slid over my spine, firm. The other pressed across my chest, bar-like. “Breathe, Emilio. Let it hurt. You’ll remember it better.”
The pressure built, inch by inch. He pushed slowly, retreating a fraction, then pressing again, making me gasp with every attempt. Virgin walls stretched wide, untested, straining. He retreated a fraction, then pressed forward again, drawing it out until I sobbed into the sheets. My body quaked around the blunt head as it inched deeper, the burn mounting with each deliberate pause. He kissed my temple as he forced more inside, voice low, coaxing: “Good. Take it. You can.”
“Look at me.”
I did, half-turning, and his eyes caught mine, calm, anchored, merciless.
“You can,” he said. “You will.” His mouth brushed my temple, more possession than comfort. “Breathe for me.”
Air scraped in, trembled out. Breathing wasn’t mine anymore. He waited, patient and cruel, until my body shifted from refusal to something stunned. Then he pressed again, the head giving way to thick, veined heat splitting me open slow and certain.
“Good,” he murmured when my body finally yielded. “Learning. I could spend years watching how you refuse me.”
He pulled back, then pushed in again, deeper, veins dragging, the base grinding against me. He paused halfway, holding me impaled and groaning against my ear before driving in another inch. Each thrust forced sounds I couldn’t catch, muffled into the sheets. He slowed deliberately, grinding hiscock over that tender place, making me cry out again, drawing the angle until every sob was dragged from my chest. Every thrust was drawn out, every pause designed to make me feel how utterly he filled me.
One angle had me writhing, sharp as lightning under my skin. I tried to twist away, but my body betrayed me, shoving back for more. Every drag over that spot made my voice break into wrecked moans I couldn’t stop. Broken. Helpless.
He set a rhythm meant to break me. Every time my body tightened toward release, he stilled, hips locked, cock pulsing deep. The thick weight inside me did the damage without movement, veins throbbing against walls stretched too wide. My thighs quaked, cock leaking against the sheets, fists twisting linen tight enough to burn my palms. Each pause stretched long enough that I thought I’d snap, breath rattling, chest heaving, cock straining, and then he drove back in, crueler, deeper. Shame blurred into hunger, my body begging even as my mind refused.
Every time he hit it, my thighs shook, desperate, shame boiling into a hunger I couldn’t hide. I hated it. I needed it. My voice cracked on his name, half-sob, half-plea.
By the time he said, “Beg,” my voice was wrecked.
“Please. Please let me?—”
“Again.”
“Please. Let me come.”
He angled deeper, striking it again and again until I writhed against the sheets, grinding down on him without thought. The word please tore out of me like a wound, raw and helpless.
“Good boy.” His thrusts slammed into me harder, rough, relentless, and at the same time his fist wrapped around my cock, jerking me in rhythm with every drive. The double assault wrecked me, his cock splitting me open while his hand stroked me raw, the sync of it stealing my breath. “Now.”
