Page 98 of Cracked Doll

‎The position is degrading, raw, and absolutely perfect. He reaches around, his large hand gripping my throat, squeezing just enough to make me gasp for air, while his other hand finds my clit, rubbing it with a brutal, fast friction that sends sparks of agony and pleasure shooting through my spine.

‎"My Ophelia," he whispers harshly into my ear, his breath hot and smelling of obsession. "A little cracked doll that I've found and claimed. I'll fuck the memories of your father out of you. I'll fuck the grief out of your blood. You belong to the dark now. You belong to me."

‎I’m sobbing now, but they aren't tears of sadness. It’s a psychological collapse. I can feel my mind fracturing, the walls I built around my heart crumbling under the sheer force of his possession. I love it. I fucking love how he treats me like a piece of meat, like a toy he can break and rebuild.

‎

‎He shifts his grip and turns me around, pulling my legs up over his shoulders, stretching me open wider than I thought possible. The bed is shaking violently now, practically dancing across the floor, the thud-thud-thud of the headboard against the wall sounding like a heartbeat.

‎"I can feel you shaking," he sneers, his thrusts becoming faster, shallower, more frantic. "I can feel your walls clamping down on me, begging for more. You're a little doll for the madness, aren't you?"

‎"Yes!" I moan, my voice a wrecked whisper. "Yes, please... just... don't stop... fuck me until I disappear!"

‎The tension builds into a crescendo of psychotic energy. We aren't just having sex; we are engaging in a ritual of mutual destruction. I can feel the orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat that threatens to swallow me whole. Rhys is losing it too; his breathing is erratic, his movements becoming jagged and wild.

‎"I've got you," he roars, his voice breaking. "I've finally fucking got you!"

‎He delivers one final, devastating thrust, burying himself as deep as he can go, and he erupts. I feel the hot, thick jet of his cum flooding my insides, filling me to the brim, pulsing inside me like a living thing. At the same moment, my own climax hits—a violent, shaking explosion that makes my entire body arch off the bed. I scream until my throat is raw, my vision going completely black as the world dissolves into a blur of pleasure and pain.

‎As the echoes of our screams fade, the bed finally stops shaking. We collapse into each other, a tangle of sweaty limbs and ragged breath. The silence that follows is heavy, oppressive, and strangely intimate.

‎I lie there, my face pressed into the pillow, feeling the warm slick of his seed leaking out of me and onto the sheets—the same sheets where I used to cry myself to sleep. But the air feels different now. The ghosts are gone. Or maybe they're just terrified of him.

‎I shift, looking up at him. His chest is heaving, his eyes still wide and manic, but there's a flicker of something else there. Something that terrifies me more than his violence.

‎"Rhys," I whisper, my voice trembling.

‎"What?" he asks, though he doesn't move from on top of me.

‎"I... I don't know when it happened," I say, a tear finally escaping and rolling down my cheek. "I don't know when I started caring about you. I think... I think I'm falling in love with you, you fucking monster."

‎I let out a shaky laugh, a sound of complete psychological surrender. "Maybe you finally did it. Maybe you broke me so completely that there was nothing left, and you just... put me back together exactly how you wanted me. You've got me. You've finally fucking got me."

‎Rhys freezes. Then, a slow, terrifyingly wide smile spreads across his face. He leans down, his lips brushing against mine, but there is no sweetness in the gesture. It is a claim.

‎"Love?" he chuckles, a dark, melodic sound that sends shivers down my spine. "Love is for the weak, Ophelia. What we have is far more permanent. This is an obsession that transcends the grave. You aren't 'put back together'—you're rewritten. I've erased the girl you were and replaced her with something that only breathes for me."

‎He bites my lip hard enough to draw blood, tasting the copper.

‎"You're my masterpiece, Ophelia. And I'm never, ever letting you go. If you ever try to leave, I'll burn this whole fucking town to the ground just to find the ashes of your soul."

‎I shiver, pulling him closer, wrapping my arms around his neck. I'm terrified. I'm broken. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I'm exactly where I belong.

‎ The thrusts continue. Deep. Long.

‎I shift my weight, my nails digging deep into the meat of his shoulders, pulling him closer, wanting to merge into his fucking skin. The air in the room is thick, smelling of sweat, desperation, and that dark, metallic scent that always seems to cling to Rhys when he’s like this—completely gone, lost in the psychotic void of his need for me.

‎He’s not just fucking me; he’s trying to break me, to claim every single atom of my being. His thrusts are violent, rhythmic hammers, each one slamming my spine against the mattress with a force that makes my vision blur. The old bed—the one I’ve clung to for years, the one that held my grief and my ghosts—is shrieking. The wooden frame is groaning under the sheer, manic weight of his aggression, the headboard thudding against the wall like a frantic heartbeat. Bang. Bang. Bang.

‎"You're mine," he growls, his voice a guttural, distorted wreck of a sound. He grips my hips so hard I know there will be bruises tomorrow—dark, purple marks that will remind me exactly who owns me. "Tell me, Ophelia. Tell me you're fucking mine."

‎"I'm yours!" I scream, the words ripped from my throat, raw and desperate. I don't even care that I'm sobbing, that my breath is coming in jagged, pathetic hitches. I want this. I want the violence of it. I want him to erase everything else until there's nothing left but the feeling of his cock stretching me open, filling the void where my soul used to be. "I'm yours, you fucking psycho! Just don't stop! Don't you dare fucking stop!"

‎He lets out a sound that isn't human—a predatory roar—and his pace accelerates into something blindingly fast, something lethal. He’s slamming into me with everything he has, his entire body shaking with the effort of his obsession. I can feel the tension building, a coil of white-hot electricity winding tighter and tighter in my gut, mirroring the strain on the furniture beneath us.

‎The bed is screaming now, a high-pitched, splintering wail of protesting wood. I can feel the frame shuddering, the joints beginning to give way under the rhythmic assault of his hips. But we're too far gone. We're orbiting the edge of a cliff, and we both want to jump.

‎"Rhys!" I shriek, my head tossing back, my eyes rolling into my head as the first wave of the orgasm hits me. It’s not a release; it’s an explosion.