Page 89 of Cracked Doll

‎"Hold it," he snarls, shoving the cold iron into my palm. My fingers close around the cross while he drags handcuffs from his coat. One cuff snaps around my wrist and the other locks to the cross itself, pinning my arm above my head against the carved stone. My other hand stays free only so I can grip the cross for leverage, knuckles white. Half my body still sprawls across the altar tomb, dress bunched at my waist, bare arse and cunt exposed to the freezing air.

He yanks my hair with the other, forcing my head up so I’m staring at the moonlit abbey ruins. His cock is already hard again, thick and slick with our mixed cum, and he doesn’t wait. He drives into me in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The force knocks the air from my lungs. I cry out, the sound echoing across the graveyard.

"Pray," he snarls, voice low and unhinged.

‎"Hail Mary, full of grace…" he orders, voice low and vicious. He slams into me again, harder, the head of his cock battering my cervix. "Say it in Latin while I fuck you like the little heretic you used to be. Pray to the Virgin to save you from me.”

Yes, I used to go to church. That was before my sisters died. I have never been to a church since,or prayed to any deity. How he knew that, I can't try to understand right now.

He slams back inside without mercy, the thick head of his cock stretching me wide again. The cross bites into my palm as he pounds, each thrust shoving me forward so the stone scrapes my ribs. I choke out the words, voice shaking.

My voice shakes as I start, the words tumbling out between gasps. "Ave Maria, gratia plena…" Each syllable is punctuated by the wet slap of his hips against my arse. He fucks me without mercy, the cross digging into my wrists, the stone scraping my stomach. The cold night wind bites at my exposed skin, but inside me he’s a furnace, stretching me open, ruining me.

He drives deeper, hips snapping like he wants to split me open. My cunt clenches around him, dripping fresh slick down his shaft.

‎"Louder," he growls, yanking my hair so my head arches back. "Pray like you mean it. Beg her to stop me.”

"Dominus tecum," I scream, the words breaking into a moan as he angles deeper, grinding against that spot that makes my vision white. “...benedicta tu in mulieribus.” My thighs tremble. My cunt clenches around him, dripping down his balls and onto the ancient stone. He leans over me, breath hot against my ear.

"Louder," he demands, yanking my hair so hard my scalp burns. "Let the Virgin Mary hear you beg her to save you from the devil who owns your cunt.”

“...et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus.” The words fracture as he fucks me harder, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the gravestones. My thighs tremble. My free hand grips the cross tighter, using it to push back, angling my hips so he can sink even deeper. Every brutal thrust knocks the breath from my lungs.

He leans over me, lips at my ear. "She won’t save you, Ophelia. No one will. Now pray to me instead. Pray that I make you come so hard you black out. Pray that I use your body like a toy until you’re nothing but a dripping, broken mess. Pray that I break you and put you back together exactly how I want—my perfect little cracked doll, my obsession, my property. Pray I’ll shatter you and rebuild you exactly how I want—mine, ruined, dripping, screaming."

The blasphemy makes my head spin. I should be horrified. Instead my pussy floods around him, soaking his cock even more. I choke out the words he wants. "Rhys… make me come… use me… break me and put me back together… please…"

‎My voice cracks but I go again, the blasphemy burning hotter than the cold. "Rhys—please—make me come—use my cunt—break me—put me back together however you want—”

He laughs, dark and unhinged, and slams in so deep my vision whites out. “That's right, Ophelia. And now, I will answer your fucking prayer.”

He growls, a sound that vibrates through his chest into my spine.

His free hand slides under the bunched dress, finds my breast, and squeezes hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh until I whimper, fingers squeezing my breast hard enough to bruise, thumb flicking the nipple while he rails me without rhythm or mercy. He twists my nipple, then slaps the side of my tit, the sting sharp and perfect. The cross rattles against the stone with every thrust. My screams tear through the graveyard, raw and shameless.

His hips never slow. He pounds into me like he’s trying to fuck me through the stone, the cross rattling with every thrust. My wrist burns from the cuffs. My cunt aches, stretched and used, but I push back against him, arching my back so he can go deeper, so the head of his cock bruises my insides.

"Scream my name," he orders. "Wake the fucking dead. Let every corpse in this graveyard know who owns you."

I lose it. "Rhys! Rhys! Fuck—Rhys!" My voice cracks, raw and desperate.

‎"Rhys—Rhys—fuck—Rhys!" I wail his name like a prayer, louder than the wind, certain it’ll wake the dead. My body locks up, cunt pulsing around him in violent spasms. Pleasure rips through me so sharp it feels like pain, my thighs shaking, toes curling inside the wet boots. The orgasm builds like a storm, pressure coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps. I come screaming, vision fracturing, every nerve lit up and raw.

My whole body seizes. My cunt spasms around him, milking him, squirting down his thighs and onto the tomb. I scream his name again and again, the sound echoing off the abbey walls, probably waking every ghost in Whitby. My vision tunnels. My heart hammers so hard I feel it in my teeth. Tears streak my face, mixing with sweat and sea spray.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, brutal and relentless, until I’m sobbing, overstimulated, my body twitching with aftershocks.

He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt and flooding me with hot, thick pulses. Only then does he let go. He buries himself to the root and comes with a guttural snarl, flooding me with hot, thick pulses. His cock twitches inside me, pumping load after load until it leaks out around his shaft and runs down my thighs in sticky rivulets. I feel every spurt.

When he finally pulls out, a thick strand of cum stretches between us before snapping. It pours from my swollen cunt, coating my inner thighs, dripping onto the stone between my spread feet. My legs shake so badly I can barely stand. My wrist is raw from the cuffs. My dress is ruined, half soaked in seawater and half in sweat and cum. My hair is a tangled mess. My mind is blank, floating somewhere between terror and bliss. My heart feels cracked open, raw and exposed, but it beats only for him.

Half-dressed, half-cuffed to a cross on a tomb, I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter. My mind is gone—blank, floaty, owned. My heart hammers like it’s trying to escape my ribs, yet every beat whispers his name. I’ve never felt more terrified. I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never wanted him more.

I’m shaking, crying, dripping, and I’ve never felt more alive. The night wind chills the mess on my thighs, but inside I’m burning. I turn my head as much as the cuffs allow and look at him over my shoulder, eyes glassy, lips parted. "More," I whisper, voice hoarse. "Please, Rhys… don’t stop."

Rhys smiles like the devil who just won my soul, and I know the night is far from over.

He plucks a black rose from inside his coat and offers it like a sacrament. He has me smell it then places it on my cuffed hand, next to the other black rose.