Page 37 of Tricked By Jack
Every inch he claims feels like a countdown to something I can’t stop.
Movement flickers at the corners of my vision—hooded bodies swaying, grinding, mimicking what he’s doing to me, like we’re just the prototype, the blueprint of their depravity.
His fingers reach the apex of my thighs, and I bite my lip to hold back a sound that would betray me as he cups my pussy.
I buck and writhe, uselessly trying to get away from his probing hand. But it’s too late. He knows I’m wet, knows my body is responding to the danger and the darkness despite my mind’s rebellion.
“Stop it!” I demand on a scream. “Just fucking stop it. I did not consent to this.”
A low chuckle vibrates against my back as his fingers slide through my slickness. “Just as I thought,” he observes, pressing his cock against my ass through his clothes. “Fighting it with your mind, begging for it with your body.”
I try to shift away, but his arm across my waist holds me firmly in place. The movement only serves to push me back against him, the hard length of him grinding against me in a way that sends unwanted heat spiraling through my core.
Without warning, I feel him unfastening his pants. The cool air touches my exposed skin for just a moment before something hot and hard presses against me from behind.
“No,” I beg, but the word is drowned by the drumming that has grown louder, more insistent. “P-please don’t do this.”
He thrusts into me with brutal purpose, splitting me open inch by inch. Thick and unforgiving, like he’s carving his name into the softest part of me. My breath catches on a sob as every vein drags fire through my walls, forcing me to stretch around him.
My body opens to him with humiliating ease, wet and willing in ways my mind still denies. I want to claw it back—this response, this heat—but it already belongs to him. Fuck.
His arm clamps around my waist like an iron vise, anchoring me in place as my breath shatters. I brace myself against the altar as each thrust slams through my body. But it’s the cruel contrast, the devastation paired with desire, that shreds me.
I hate how much I can feel him. How my body aches for more even as my mind claws for escape.
“Do you vow to claim her pain and pleasure alike, to enslave her will and make her body your altar?” The priest’s voice slices through the thick air. “To mark her with pain and pleasure, to possess not only her body, but the remnants of her soul?”
“I do,” my Groom growls.
“And do you, Eve Mortis, vow to be taken and transformed, to surrender your freedom to the one who now claims you?”
I shake my head violently, my jaw tightening as I prepare to unleash a torrent of words that would tell him exactly where he can shove that vow. But instead of the searing reprimand I intended, a strangled moan escapes my lips.
A wave of overpowering sensation crashes over me as my Groom strikes that electrifying spot within, making my vision explode into a dazzling array of stars.
“Then let this blood become the bond. Let this taking become the seal.”
Around us, the stage blurs with motion—robed figures dancing, writhing, simulating acts of violence and sex that mirror what my Groom is doing to me.
The candles flicker more frantically now, shadows leaping and twisting across the stage. I want to shut it all out. The drumming, the chanting, the swaying bodies grinding in mimicry. Butsomething deep inside me won’t let go. Won’t look away.
“You feel so good,” he groans. “So tight. So wet. So fucking perfect.”
I hate the way my body yields, responding eagerly to his words, as my muscles involuntarily tighten around him and a warm, insistent heat gathers low in my belly. I loathe how my hips seem to have a will of their own, instinctively tilting to meet his every thrust, a rhythmic dance beyond my control.
The sounds that threaten to spill from my lips, those soft whimpers of pleasure, press insistently against the back of my throat, demanding to be swallowed back before they escape into the charged air around us.
He groans low in my ear, a deep, primal sound more animalistic than human, resonating through the air like a growl from the depths of a forest.
His hips hammer into me with ruthless rhythm, each thrust punching the air from my lungs, the tip of his cock battering the spot that makes me cry out. I moan, unable to hide how deep he’s fucking me.
One of his hands ventures upward, sliding over the fabric of my dress to gently cup my breast. His thumb begins to circle my nipple with deliberate, teasing motions. Oh, God. It feels incredible.
My Groom’s thrusts grow relentless, plunging deeper and harder, thick and punishing, dragging a choked moan from my throat every time he bottoms out.
My thighs are on fire, muscles locked in a feverish grip as a scorching heat spirals tight within me. The intensity is overwhelming, rising with a ferocity that threatens to consume me. I fight desperately to delay the inevitable—but I’m helplessly slipping over the edge.
A figure steps forward, cradling a black velvet cushion. Upon it rests a ring—a band of dark metal inlaid with what looks like obsidian. He’s quick to take it, holding it up so it catches the candlelight.
