Page 40 of Breaking Ophelia
“Cum for me,” he says, “while you choke on my cock.”
I do. The orgasm rips through me, violent and raw, tearing a scream from my throat that’s muffled by the meat of him. My whole body convulses, and for a second I’m blind, white heat burning out every other sense.
He groans, loses his rhythm, then pulls out and jerks himself, coming in thick ropes across my face, my lips, the hollow of my throat. The heat of it shocks me, and I nearly come again from the intensity.
He collapses to his knees, spent. For a second, neither of us moves.
Then he leans in and kisses me, tongue licking the mess off my lips, the taste of him and me mingling in a way that’s disgusting and—fuck me—intimate.
He pulls back, wipes my face with the soft hem of his t-shirt, and looks at me with a softness that makes me want to cry.
“What a good little wife you’re going to make,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the line of my jaw.
He stands, tucks himself away, then reaches down to haul me upright. I stagger, legs still jelly, but he steadies me, one hand on my hip, the other at the back of my neck.
He kisses me again, slower this time. I taste salt, skin, and something like victory.
“You’re a mess,” he says, but there’s something almost affectionate in it.
I glare at him, defiant even as a missed drop of cum drips down my chin.
He crouches, bringing us eye to eye. “You want to know what this is about?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “It’s about making sure you never forget who owns you. I’m training you to be the perfect wife.”
I spit the taste of him onto the carpet before wiping the drop off my chin and smearing it on his shirt. “You don’t own me.”
He smiles, all teeth. “Not yet. But I’m working on it.”
He’s still watching, something dark and alive behind his eyes.
I want to hit him, to wipe the smug off his face. Instead, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing the last of him away.
“Is that all?” I ask.
He laughs, soft. “For now.”
I turn to go, but he stops me with a hand on my arm. This time, the grip is gentle. “You’re stronger than they think,” he says. “And we’re going to party.”
I don’t know if it’s a compliment or a warning.
All I can do is stare, every inch of me trembling with hate, and want, and a strange, wild freedom.
He didn’t break me.
But I think he’s right.
He’s working on it.
And on the night of the Hunt, he will.
“Let’s go show them what I’ve done to you,” he says, voice gentle now.
He drags me to the bathroom, combs my hair out so it fans around my face, and then leads me down the stairs, hand firm at the small of my back, like I’m a trophy he’s just won.
I want to scream, to run, to die.
But all I do is walk, head high, eyes forward, every step a declaration that I am not broken.
The party has mutated since I went upstairs. The atmosphere is thicker, every window fogged by body heat and spilled liquor. The lights are lower now, and the music’s gone tribal—just bass, drums, and the intermittent moan of a vocalist I can’t understand. It feels less like a house party and more like the inside of a predator’s ribcage.
