Page 88 of Cracked Doll

Rhys looms over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other already sliding up my thigh beneath the heavy silk. "This tomb was made for kings and priests, Ophelia. And tonight it’s ours. I’m going to fuck you on the grave of a holy man who spent his life praying for salvation. I’m going to desecrate every inch of it with your cunt and my cum."

His fingers hook into my underwear and yank them down my legs. He balls the damp fabric and slips it into his coat pocket with a wicked grin. Then he reads the inscription carved into the stone above my head, voice low and reverent, almost mocking. I know it's in latin so he must know latin to translate it.

"Pray for the soul of the Right Reverend Father in God, Abbot Thomas de Kirkby, sometime Lord Abbot and faithful shepherd of this Holy Monastery, who departed this transitory life on the Feast of Saint Hilda, in the Year of our Lord 1422. Through his devotion, this sacred choir was vaulted in stone, and the Great Altar adorned. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, rest in the eternal peace of Christ. Amen."

He laughs, dark and delighted. "Hear that, Father? I’m about to fuck my little cracked doll right on top of you. I’m going to spread her legs on your holy stone and bury myself so deep she’ll never forget who owns her. Your prayers won’t save her. They’ll only make it sweeter."

He pushes my gown higher, bunching the silk around my waist, exposing me to the cold night air and the watching dead. His hand slides between my thighs, fingers parting me, and his eyes never leave mine as he positions himself between my legs, the hard line of his cock pressing against my entrance.

"Scream for me, Ophelia," he whispers, voice shaking with lust and madness. "Let the abbot hear every filthy sound you make while I fuck you on his grave.”

Midnight presses down like a curse. The altar tomb is freezing beneath me, marble carved with forgotten prayers and the weight of centuries. Rhys stands over me, coat open, shirt half-unbuttoned, and the look in his eyes is pure madness. He reaches down, unfastens his trousers with deliberate slowness, and pulls his cock free. It’s thick, heavy, already flushed dark with blood. He wraps his hand around it and strokes once, twice, slow and obscene, letting me watch every movement.

"I belong to you, Ophelia," he says, voice low and shaking with something unholy. "Just as you belong to me. Every inch of this cock is yours. Every drop of cum I spill tonight is yours. I’m going to fuck you on the grave of a holy man who spent his life in chastity, and I’m going to make you scream so loud his bones rattle. I’m going to desecrate this sacred stone with your cunt and my seed until the abbot himself rises to watch."

He leans over me, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my thigh. He pushes my legs wider than he ever has before, spreading me until my hips ache, until I’m completely open beneath him. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, hot and insistent.

"I’m going to fuck you like I want to kill you," he whispers, eyes black and wild. "I’m going to bury myself so deep you’ll feel me in your soul. On the grave of a high priest, in the ruins of an abbey, while the dead listen and the sea howls. You’re mine, Ophelia. Mine to break. Mine to ruin. Mine to fuck until you forget your own name."

He thrusts in hard, one brutal stroke that knocks the breath from my lungs. I scream his name, the sound echoing off stone and bone. He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He fucks me like a man possessed, hips snapping forward, cock driving deep with every thrust. The altar tomb grinds against my back, cold and unyielding, and I can feel the Latin inscription beneath my spine like a prayer turned curse.

"Yes," I gasp, grabbing fistfuls of his coat, pulling him closer. "Fuck me, Rhys. Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you dare go easy. I want it all. I want you to ruin me on this holy stone. I want the abbot to feel every filthy thrust. I want you to fuck me until I can’t walk."

He growls, low and animal, and slams into me harder. My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back. I bite his shoulder through his shirt, tasting cotton and salt, and he hisses, fucking me even deeper. I’m on fire for him, cunt clenching around his cock, every nerve screaming for more. The fear of this place, of him, of the sheer size of him stretching me open only makes me wetter. I claw at his back, nails raking through fabric, and beg without shame.

"Harder," I cry. "Fuck me like you hate me. Fuck me like you want to break me. Don’t stop, Rhys, please don’t stop."

He obeys. He fucks me with savage precision, each thrust punching a scream from my throat. My orgasm crashes over me without warning, white-hot and shattering. I scream his name loud enough to wake the dead, body convulsing around him, cunt pulsing and dripping. He gives me three more brutal thrusts, then buries himself to the hilt and comes with a guttural groan. I feel every pulse, every hot spurt flooding me, filling me until it leaks out around his cock.

Rhys pulls out of me with a wet sound that echoes off the tombstone, and we both watch as his cum drips from my swollen cunt onto the ancient stone. "Look at that," he murmurs, voice thick with lust and madness. "My little doll, dripping all over the abbot’s tomb. His holy altar, desecrated by your cunt and my cum. The faithful departed will taste us tonight."

I reach down without hesitation, wrap my hand around his cock—still slick with my juices and his seed—and begin to stroke him. I look him dead in the eye, biting my lower lip, and smile like the broken, horny thing he’s made me. "More," I whisper. "I want you to scare me again. Then fuck me again. On every grave in this abbey if you want. I’m yours, Rhys. Completely."

He laughs, dark and delighted, and leans down to kiss me like he’s claiming my soul all over again.

His hands are rough as he flips me onto my stomach, yanking my hips up until I'm on my knees, arse in the air and face pressed against the cold marble. The gothic Victorian dress bunches around my waist, and I feel the night air on my exposed cunt.

"Look at you," he growls, voice thick with obsession. "My perfect little cracked doll, bent over the abbot's grave like you were made for this. I'd build you an altar of bones and gold, Ophelia. I'd worship at your feet every fucking night if it meant I could keep you like this—dripping, desperate, mine."

He slams back into me without warning, cock driving so deep I scream. His hips snap forward with brutal force, each thrust shoving me harder against the stone. My hands scrabble for purchase on the carved surface, fingers digging into ancient inscriptions as he pounds me senseless.

"You have me completely," he pants, voice shaking with madness. "Every thought, every breath, every drop of cum I have belongs to you. I'm yours, Ophelia. Your devoted slave. Your psychotic worshipper."

His hand cracks down on my arse, the sting sharp and sudden. I gasp, then moan as his finger finds my arsehole, pressing against the tight ring before pushing inside. The invasion makes me jolt, a strangled sound tearing from my throat.

"This is the only hole I haven't claimed yet," he snarls, working his finger deeper while his other hand reaches around to rub my clit in tight circles. "But I will. I'll fill every part of you until you're marked inside and out."

He fucks me harder now—cock pistoning into my pussy, finger thrusting into my arse, thumb working my swollen clit with relentless pressure. The triple sensation is overwhelming, my body caught between pleasure and the edge of pain.

"Say it," he demands, voice hoarse. "Tell me I'm yours. Tell me you own me."

"You're mine," I cry out, voice breaking as he drives into me. "I'm yours. Rhys—fuck—I own you!"

He growls in satisfaction, pace becoming punishing. My orgasm hits like a lightning strike, cunt clenching around his cock as I scream his name into the night. He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding me with hot pulses of cum.

His thrusts slow, then stop. He spanks my arse one final time, the sound sharp in the quiet graveyard. Then his hand fists in my hair, yanking me upright. He turns my face to his and kisses me like he's trying to devour my soul, tongue claiming my mouth with the same desperate hunger he's shown my body.

Rhys doesn’t let me rest. He lifts me off the altar tomb just enough to spin me, then slams me back down so my hips are bent over the cold stone, my upper body still sprawled across the carved surface. My gothic Victorian dress is bunched around my waist, the soaked fabric clinging to my ribs while my bare arse and cunt are exposed to the night air. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a pair of heavy steel handcuffs that glint under the moonlight. Without a word he snaps one cuff around my left wrist, then threads the chain through the iron ring of a massive Celtic cross mounted on the side of the altar tomb. The other cuff clicks shut around my right wrist, locking both hands to the cross so I’m stretched forward, half my body still on the stone, the other half dangling over the edge. My toes barely touch the ground.