Page 23 of Bred By the Masked BRATVA
A broken sound escapes my throat. Shame and want tangled together. Because God help me, I want it. I want him. I want all of it.
His words coil around me, low and dark, seeding images I can’t shake: swollen with his heir, ink-stained with secrets only he could give me, crowned in blood and power.
I should fight them. I should fight him. But his cock is still inside me, thick and twitching, and every beat of him inside me drags me further under.
Ivor’s hand strokes my hair back, his lips grazing my ear. “You’ll have your stories, little dove. Names that will bury senators. Judges. Police chiefs who kneel to us already. I’ll give you so much truth the world won’t know what to do with it.”
He grinds his hips up, and I gasp as his cock hardens again inside me, swelling, thickening, stretching me all over again.
His voice turns filthier, a growl against my throat. “And while you write it all, I’ll bury my enemies one by one. Deep graves, shallow graves, it doesn’t matter. They’ll rot. And then I’ll bury myself in your sweet little cunt. Drink from it. Live in it. Until you’re dripping full and begging me to stop.”
A broken sound tears out of me, half shame, half desperate want. My hips roll on him without my permission, milking him as he stiffens further inside me.
He chuckles, the sound dark and pleased. “Hear that?” His hand covers my stomach again, pressing me down onto him. “Your body already knows. It’s pulling me deeper, begging to be bred again. Greedy little queen.”
I moan, burying my face against his chest, but it only makes him laugh, low and wicked. His cock jerks hard inside me, fully hard now, stretching me to the limit all over again.
Then he shifts.
Before I can catch my breath, his hands slide up my arms, gripping just above my elbows, and suddenly he’s holding me above him. My breasts hover just above his chest, my spine arches, and the angle changes as he thrusts up from beneath me.
I cry out, sharp and startled, the new depth stealing my breath.
“Look at you,” he growls, fucking up into me with brutal precision. His grip on my arms pins me in place, forces me to take every inch as he drives into me from below. “Open. Bound. Taking me so deep you’ll never forget who owns this pussy.”
The bed creaks under the force of his thrusts, his hips slamming up into me again and again until I’m dizzy, gasping, clawing for balance. Every stroke spears me higher, harder, his cock grinding against every tender place inside me.
My vision blurs. My moans turn into cries. And still he pounds up into me, relentless, holding me by my arms like a vessel he intends to fill until I can’t hold another drop.
“I’ll fuck you like this,” he snarls, sweat forming at his temples, “until you’re round with me, aching with me, milking me. And then I’ll fuck you harder, Natasha. Because a queen doesn’t get rest. A queen gets worship.”
My tits bounce harder and harder, my nipples sliding over his hard chest with every furious thrust. He looks down at my creamy mounds and lower to where his cock slides in and out of me with ferocious precision.
When his eyes come back to mine, his dark to my light, I can see they are heavy with arousal, with that need to let go.
He cums again, quieter this time as his body writhes with the effort. His face twists into a grimace, as though it’s causing him pain.
“Fuck, Natasha,” he finally gasps. “I can’t handle how good your cunt makes me feel.”
He flips me over onto my back, dropping kisses over my jaw, my collar bones and shoulders. He makes a hot trail right down to between my thighs.
“Come one more time for me, little dove,” he says against my wet folds. “While you’re full of my seed.” He reaches up and pulls a pillow from beside my head, then lifts my hips to slide it beneath me. “Your orgasms will pull my cum up to where it needs to be.”
Then his mouth is on me again, and I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry.
“Ivor, I can’t,” I say. “Please, I can’t come again.”
“Yes, you can,” comes his reply as he lowers his hot mouth and begins sucking my clit. When he pushes his thick fingers into my dripping channel, I’m not sure I’m even in my own body anymore. I watch from elsewhere as this terrifying man tears another orgasm out of my spent pussy.
Ivor
The bell tolls. Midnight.
The masquerade is ending, masks slipping away one by one, but I don’t need mine anymore. I left it on the nightstand, forgotten the moment Natasha sat on my face for the first time.
Now I walk her out into the grand hall, her hand clamped tight in mine, her hair wild, her lips swollen. Every eye turns. Every voice dips into a whisper. They don’t see the reporter who lied her way in here, they see the woman who left on my arm.
Good. They can choke on it.
