Page 116 of Make You Mine

I’m left in nothing but my bra.

That’s until he leans forward again, placing both arms around me, as if hugging me, and causing me to arch my back toward him. With another simple move, he unclasps my bra with his fingers, and it drops to the ground.

My nipples harden as a chill runs down my spine.

I’m exposed—though the abundance of tattoos on my skin, courtesy of him—help cover me up. The ‘Devon’ scribbles around my breasts, and sex is technically a bra and panties set of their own.

“You’re so beautiful.” He stares me up and down, knife in hand. “And you’re all mine.”

I don’t try to cover myself or run, despite everything. I’ve seen what he can do, and that’s enough to root me in place against the lockers.

He switches the knife to his other hand and rubs his fingers through the fresh wound on his arm, gathering some of the blood.

“Since you don’t want my mouth on your pussy, you’ll have my blood.”

“W-what?” I rasp.

“I need to get you ready, somehow, my wife.”

“R-ready for what?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

His body moves impossibly closer to mine—it’s me, the lockers, and the blade to my jugular again. His hand finds my throbbing core, the heel of his palm presses into my clit, and I purr as he rubs it with circular motions.

When I attempt to thrust against it, he stops. “Careful, or you’ll get hurt.” He presses the blade a bit deeper against me, reminding me he’s in control. “Let me do my job. Just relax.”

He slides his bloody fingers across my slit, making me sticky and wet from the friction.

I moan, and a sharp pain follows as he inserts his fingers inside me without warning.

He doesn’t give me enough time to adapt before he starts moving them. My pussy tightens around them, long and thick and bloody, softening the friction that should be present.

He’s using his blood as lube.

The thought should disgust me. But it doesn’t. It’s sick—and it’s intimate, too.

He doesn’t let me catch a breath. His fingers slam inside, and he curls them, attempting to hit my G-spot.

I succumb to the pleasure, my mind plagued with thoughts I shouldn’t be having.

If his fingers feel this good inside me—will his cock feel just as good? Will it be better?

Will it hurt as he rips through my folds? How far am I willing to go to find out?

I find myself being greedy as he speeds up his movements. “More.”

I can’t deny my body the pleasure.

“Fuck, you are enjoying this, aren’t you? I’m going to stretch you so good,” he says. “Such a naughty little whore for her husband.”

“Yes.”

“Give in to it, my wife.”

I’m so deep in my pleasure, so focused on it, staring with half-closed eyes at the masked man I’m sure I manifested with my diary, that I don’t notice how his fingers are thicker, fill me up more, and slightly hurt. They’re not soft but rough, hard—almost like plastic.

I startle and press my hands to my neck—there’s no blade against it. Only flesh, stretching around it, giving me a false sensation of tightness that, while lost in the moment, didn’t make me question anything.