Page 93 of Devil's Doom

He spreads my cheeks roughly. Warm spit lands on my back hole, and careful fingers work it in while magic sinks into my flesh. I gasp when I feel my muscles relaxing, unnatural slickness covering me there. More magic pours in until I moan, my entire lower back melting in deep relief.

When he slides inside me, the stretch is uncomfortable, hot and cold tingles running up my spine. I whine and try to squirm, unable to take the fullness, but he doesn’t stop. He pushes deep until the flat, harmless thorns at his base press into my buttocks, and then he spreads me open wider and goes just that bit deeper.

“Ah!”

“Different, isn’t it? At least you can stop being so fucking scared.”

He sets a slow rhythm, and despite his magic that helps me relax and makes me wet, I still struggle. He’s big, and I’ve never had anything shoved in my ass before. Shivers crawl down my back, a faint ache nestling deep in my belly every time he bottoms out. And yet, it’s perfect. I relax, knowing there’s no chance I will get pregnant this way, even if he tampers with my scars.

When the last of my discomfort fades away, Woland reaches around my hip to pinch my clit. His other hand wraps around my hair and pulls slowly until my head lifts, just on the edge between uncomfortable and deeply relaxing. The way my hair pulls at my scalp feels obscenely good.

I come with a hoarse cry, my muscles tightening around him. That’s when he loses control. Measured, even disinterested before, he makes a low, obscene noise in the back of his throat, thrusting hard until our bodies smack together.

“My witch,” he breathes, his violent pace sending jolts down my spine. They are so powerful, I feel them in the back of my skull. “Fucking finally. Nothing ever felt better. Your body is my new fucking shrine, the only one where I’ll visit in person. Those who pray to me can kneel in front of you. Squeeze me tight again, sweetheart. You feel so fucking good.”

He pounds into me, long, jarring thrusts making my whole body shake, and I lose my voice and sense of space, becoming a shapeless ball of crushing sensation.

“Just like this. Just like this, love. You please me so much.”

He slams deep with a beastly grunt and spends himself inside me. His thorns pierce my skin, dozens of thin, venomous needles, and I cry out from debilitating pain and even worse bliss. A long, drawn-out orgasm almost makes me black out. He breathes hard on top of me as I come again, squeezing him so tightly, we both moan and shake.

When it’s over, Woland releases my arms and legs, turning us until we’re on our sides, his body molded to mine. The thorns stay embedded inside me, and I wonder why, since their purpose is to facilitate conception.

“I’m sober at last,” he says into my hair. “Time for confessions is over. I’ll fuck you again once my thorns release, and you can sleep until then. Goodnight.”

Sober.Not once did he seem drunk. His speech didn’t slur, his movements were sure, and yet, he claims belladonna affects him like a strong liquor. My head whirls with questions—what’s true and what’s a lie? It’s impossible to tell. I drift off to sleep, my body heavy and warm, intimately connected to him.

In my dream, Woland laughs at me, cruel and mocking. His laughter sounds distorted, low and growly, and his teeth are sharper than normal as he opens his mouth wide, howling with mirth at my expense.

I feel so small as I shake from the cold, hugging myself, and he laughs and laughs. I want to leave, but there’s nowhere to go. There is only infinite darkness, his shadows barring my way, and his horrible laughter echoes off far walls of the dungeon.

I wake with a start to him moving within me, his hot body pressed to my back, his legs tangled with mine.

“There, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

I realize my face is wet, my throat tight. When I take a shaky breath, he thrusts deep and stills, his careful hand pushing tear-moistened hair off my cheek.

“Did you have a nightmare?”

“I don’t know.”

The dream wasn’t scary in an obvious sense. After all, it was just him, laughing. And yet, the feeling of utter desolation, of being completely alone while he mocks me, stays in the pit of my stomach, freezing me from within. Woland’s warmth at my back and the bulk of him inside me don’t melt the cold.

He fucks me slowly, caressing my face and breasts, and I do my best to forget everything. When his thorns pierce me again amidst pain and ecstasy, I finally ask him.

“You said it’s to make sure a pregnancy takes. So why are you using them now?”

He presses me closer, caressing my stomach until his fingers inevitably stray to my scar. “They just come out. Maybe it’s because I like it inside you so much. Sleep, pet. I’ll fuck you again in an hour.”

This night is breathless and dizzying as I drift in and out of sleep. Woland doesn’t leave my body even for a moment. As soon as his thorns release, he moves again, and I sleep through some of it, only waking when he speeds up, jarring me with rhythmic thrusts. It’s sweaty and confusing, his hot breath and curious fingers my only anchors in the absolute darkness.

He is mostly silent, and when he murmurs sweet words in my ear, I tune him out. The door opens when he fucks me leisurely for the fourth or seventh time, the sheets thrown off our sweaty bodies. Heavy steps thud on the floor, and he doesn’t stop. I’m too woozy to immediately understand that someone’s here.

“Should I come back later?” Draga asks politely, standing by the bed.

“Come back tomorrow,” Woland answers, slamming deep. “She’s excused today.”

“Of course, master.”

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