fiction: fragments of a story


The first time Eleanna and I met, M had my wrists and ankles shackled to a table in the massive living room, and he was impaled inside my vagina, fucking my body with such force as to make my breasts roll like ocean waves. She’d walked in, watched a while, and casually said, “I see you’ve met my husband.” Between moans, I nodded. Eleanna held my hand during the remainder of my violation, and soon I came in shudders. Grunting his last, M pulled out, his cum oozing out over my labia, dripping on expensive Tuscan marble.


It would be months later that Eleanna, again, would hold my hand as M was doing me in another relentless intercourse, and I would come to orgasm. And she would come too, just from holding my hand, feeling my climax as it rippled through me into her. She’d be standing in her swoon, her knees buckling a little, and blood would rush from her face. She’d then lay herself, shuddering, over my naked breasts, forming a cross with our two bodies, as if it was a sign of heaven.


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