Page 103 of Safe Word

A thick stream of gel slithered over her folds with a noise so lewd it made my breath stall. It dripped over her, down the shaft, pooling where the machine met her body – coating her with fresh, gleaming wetness. Too much. Filthy. Dripping. Like holy water from the wrong source.

She gasped, back arching again, her blindfold already damp with sweat. The machine adjusted, registering the change – thrusting harder, deeper, as if responding to the mess I had made of her.

Pulling the mask over again, I moaned. Silently.

‘Touch yourself for me,’ she whispered.

Damn it! She was the devil, and I was the sinner in the desert, begging for mercy.

My hand moved to my trousers, and I finally gave in. Unzipped, freeing myself, my cock already aching, flushed, needy. Wrapping my fist around it, I began to stroke, slow and tight, watching her body bounce with every mechanical push.

I inched closer, standing over the machine – close enough for my mind to twist the sight, to believe it was me inside her instead.

She was close. I could hear it in her whimpers. See it in the way her stomach tightened, the way her lips parted like a silent cry to God.

But I was the one listening.

I was her God.

And in this moment, no one had ever looked so perfect.

So fucking ruined.

So mine.

Yes. That was it. That was what had changed – tonight I had made her mine.

Her breath stalled, then broke.

A sob tore loose, part pleasure, part disbelief. Desperate. Her thighs shook violently as her body seized with release. The machine adjusted for the final rhythm: shorter thrusts, faster, unholy, programmed to finish without overstimulation. Her mouth fell open, cunt pulsing around the slick shaft as the final strokes pushed her over.

And drove me to the edge with her.

Fist tight around my cock and my jaw locked behind the modulator, I groaned as raw heat surged through me. I stepped closer just as the machine slowed to its programmed end, piston slowly retracting with a wet hiss.

And I spilt over her.

Ropes of my release striped her stomach messily, her thighs, the tender line where her pelvis met the seat.

She didn’t know it. She couldn’t.

She was an altar, carved in soft flesh and unknowing grace. And I – filthy, shaking – had spilt sacrilege across her. Worship turned to ruin, and there was no undoing it.

But I gave her my all and took all she gave me.

My blessing. My curse.

My angel.

My slut.

And now, like all sacred things ruined, she had to be returned to the dark.

Made pure again.

Unmade by the only hands that truly loved her.

My gaze slid to the backpack in the corner. The knife inside thrummed like a second heart. A prophecy. A final act of devotion.