Marked 🌶🌶🌶
My body registers him before my mind does.
The gravity of his presence, the slow, deliberate cadence of his steps, the way the air thickens as he closes the distance. My body is already responding, already attuned to the shift in energy. My skin tingles, raw from what’s already been done . . . and undone.
Tonight, he let them watch.
Tonight, I was his, on display—servile, docile, dripping under his command. I had been offered, and he had made sure I was seen. His perfect little pet, his possession, existing purely for his pleasure.
And yet…
It’s not enough.
Because though he put on the show, though I obeyed and performed exactly as he trained me . . .the final chef’s kiss, the last, inevitable claim hovers like a naughty angel at the portico of heaven.
I exhale shakily as his fingers trace the places the others left on me—the phantom touches of hands that did not belong to him. My supple skin is a canvas of his exhibition: finger-shaped imprints where they held me open, subtle red streaks where my body arched and twisted with their exploration. I don’t belong to them, but they were permitted to trespass his prized princess.
That is what he must rectify.
A strapping hand grips the back of my neck, fingers curling, possessive and firm. Not gentle. Not soothing. A collaring.
“I let them see,” he murmurs. His voice is low, dangerous silk. “I let them touch.”
A pause.
“But I will be the one you wear.”
I barely have time to inhale before he turns me, before my spine meets the cool surface of the mirror behind me. The chill makes me shiver—or maybe it’s his breath, his heat, his sheer overwhelming presence as he cages me in.
His hand is at my jaw, thumb pressing against my bottom lip, prying it open slightly—forcing me to feel my own surrender.
His eyes drop, admiring my wreckage. The way I look. Ruined. Wanton. His.
He fists my hair and angles my face toward the mirror.
“Look.”
I do.
And I see myself as he does—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown wide with the weight of everything I have given him. My breasts, bare and marked. My thighs, trembling, slick with the consequences of obedience.
He sees it, too—and the need for restitution.
His hands claim my hips, pulling me into place with practiced ease, spreading me with his sizable foot, positioning me exactly how he wants. My legs wrap around his waist out of instinct, body already arching, already aching for him to correct what has been done.
Then—a growl and …
A resolute thrust.
I have chosen a good lion. The best of the pride. My cry shatters against the mirror. He’s so deep I can feel him in my ribs, in my throat, in the marrow of my submission. His hands bite into my hips, the beast pulling me into his thick protrusion.
There it is.
The possession I needed.
The correction I craved.
Oh how he knows me! How I ache to lose myself in the inconceivable pleasure of his unbearable pain.
He drives into me, rapacious, unyielding. My body is shaking, a pliant desperate plaything in his grip, my thighs flexing against his sides, my nails clawing at his back. The only sounds in the room are skin, breath, and the obscene, wet, unrestrained proof of my devotion.
He buries his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. I can feel his lips wrap my skin like seaweed around sushi as his teeth scrape, as his tongue soothes the sting—as he gorges himself like a viking on what belongs to him.
“I’ll mark you properly,” he grits, pulling back only to thrust deeper. “They will never wonder again.”
I barely manage a breath before I feel his teeth, sharp against my shoulder, biting, bruising, branding, the great lion clamping the scruff of his cub.
The sting sends me spiraling, and I gasp—arching, offering. I don’t know whether my body or my voice surrenders first. But the second I shatter around him, the moment I tremble and moan his name—he breaks, too.
A final, ferrous thrust. A howl of conquest. And then—creamy heat, pulsing inside me, filling me, coating me from the inside out.
I shudder, breathless, legs limp around him as I let the sensation consume me.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t withdraw. Just stays, buried deep, his forehead resting against mine, his breath uneven and victorious. His scent, his potion, his claim— inside me, on me, part of me.
Then, after a long pause—his voice, softer now, but no less undeniable:
“Oh, my forbidden cupcake, being this good to me will only get you everything that you've ever tried to hide or forget because it was too perfect....too fucking consuming. The smile that your lips elate to emote is of bottle-fed pride...melting away worlds and decorum. You exist to be filled by me.”
And I feel free, whole. At peace.
xoxo, Firefly ❤️🔥
p.s. In the vein of “consensual non-consent,” have you ever wished to be handled like this?