The world snapped back into a different, sharper focus the moment Althea's eyes landed on the white pastry box in my hand. The drive home, the metallic scent of blood that seemed to cling to the back of my throat like a prayer, the phantom screams of Marcus Riggs—it all dissolved, vaporized by the sheer, blinding gravity of her attention. Her gaze was a physical touch, warming the cardboard, and by extension, the cold, dead thing I called a soul. It was a lifeline thrown into the abyss I'd just crawled out of, and I clung to it with the desperation of the damned.
For you? my mind screamed, a silent, cacophonous riot. Everything is for you. The air I breathe is fuel to sustain me for you. The blood in my veins is a river I would divert to water your gardens. The empire I've built, brick by bloody brick, is a throne for you to sit upon while I kneel at your feet. It's all a shrine, Althea. I just didn't know how to worship properly until you forgot how to carve your hatred into my skin.
"Yes," I said, my voice thankfully steady, a masterful lie that betrayed none of the internal cyclone. "It's strawberry shortcake. Have you eaten dinner?"
Her face fell into an exaggerated pout, a performance so genuine it hurt to look at. "No, I waited for you. Mrs. Li already prepared it and said her goodbyes earlier." Her eyes, those vast, guileless pools, drifted back to the box, wide and pleading. "Hmmm, makes me wanna eat that cake first! Gimmiee!"
The childish demand should have been absurd. The old Althea would have sneered at such a display, would have commanded me to fetch it with a snap of her fingers, her tone laced with a contempt that felt like ground glass in my heart. This… this was a request, wrapped in a playful whine. It was a siren's call to my most primal, possessive instincts—the Alpha who needed to provide, the guardian who needed to protect, the obsessive who needed to control every morsel that passed her lips.
"No," I said, the refusal firm but layered with a tenderness that was entirely new. My tenderness. For her. "We have to eat dinner first. Doctor's orders. You shouldn't avoid your diet, Althea." I was using logic as a shield, a flimsy barrier against the tsunami of her want. My job. My purpose. To stand between you and any harm, even the harm of your own beautiful, unchecked desires.
She hmpf'd, crossing her arms, but her eyes sparkled with the thrill of the minor rebellion. "Hmpft. Fine. But you have to feed me!"
My internal world short-circuited, wires of duty and desire fusing into a single, white-hot purpose. Fine. I'll feed you. I'll hand-feed you grapes until your lips are stained purple. I'll chew your food for you like a bird if you asked, savoring the taste of it mixed with the anticipation of yours. You don't have to order me. Your desire is my command, your whims my holy scripture, the tilt of your head the only compass I need.
Externally, I raised a single, amused eyebrow, playing the part of the indulgent, slightly exasperated spouse. "What are you, a baby?"
She leaned forward, the playful pout melting into a look of such devastating, open affection it stole the air from my lungs and replaced it with helium. "I'm your baby," she declared, and the words were both a statement and a sacred vow, a gift she was placing in my bloodstained, trembling hands.
Yes. You are. You are my baby. My tyrant. My songbird. My redemption and my ruin. My everything. I will build a fortress around you so high the sun will have to ask for permission to touch you, and I will be the shadow at the gate, forever watching, forever keeping.
"If you insist," I managed, my voice a little rough, betraying the edge of the devotion that threatened to consume me.
We sat at the table, the domestic scene a stark, beautiful lie draped over the fresh violence of my afternoon. I scooped up a perfect bite of the roasted chicken and vegetables Mrs. Li had left. Althea obediently opened her mouth, a pink, inviting cavern, and I placed the fork inside.
And then I was lost. Truly, hopelessly lost.
I watched, mesmerized, as her lips—full, soft, a pale pink that reminded me of the inside of a seashell I'd once kept on my childhood windowsill—closed around the tines. I watched the subtle, hypnotic movement of her jaw as she chewed, a simple, biological process that I found utterly captivating. A tiny crumb clung to the corner of her mouth, a speck of imperfection on a perfect canvas, and the urge to lean over and lick it away was so powerful my fingers tightened on my own fork until the metal bit into my skin.
"I don't mean to say Mrs. Li's cooking is no better," she said, the words slightly muffled by the food, "but yours is always the best, Haven."
The old Althea had hated my cooking. She'd called it "pedestrian" and "uninspired," another mark of my fundamental failure to meet her refined, cruel standards. She'd preferred the chefs at Michelin-starred restaurants, their dishes as cold and complex as her heart had become.
"Don't talk while you still have food," I chided softly, my thumb reaching out, almost of its own volition, to brush the crumb from her lip. Her skin was electric under my touch, a live wire connected directly to my core. "You might choke."
She swallowed, her throat working in a graceful undulation, and obediently opened her mouth for the next bite, eyes locked on mine. I fed her, and then, driven by a compulsion I didn't understand and didn't wish to resist, I used the same fork to take a bite for myself. The taste of the chicken, the rosemary, the garlic—it was all secondary. What I tasted was her. The faint, metallic hint of her saliva on the fork. A primal, possessive satisfaction, dark and sweet, rolled through me. I am consuming her essence. Marking myself with her in the most intimate of ways. My body will metabolize this, and part of her will become part of me, forever. It was a perverse communion, and I was its willing, addicted disciple, taking my sacrament from a shared utensil.
After dinner, she practically vibrated with a gleeful energy as she tore into the cake box. I cut two slices, and she immediately, instinctively, pushed the plate with the most strawberries onto my side of the table. A tiny, selfless gesture that speared me through the heart. But her eyes, those traitorous, beautiful eyes, were locked on the glistening red fruits piled on my slice with a hunger that was almost comical.
"Haven," she said, her voice dropping to a sweet, pleading whisper that went straight to my groin. "Can you give me those fruits, please, please? I like them very much."
I was frozen, a statue of shock. The old Althea had despised anything strawberry-related. She'd loathed her own Vanilla Strawberry scent, seeing it as a symbol of the Omega biology she despised, the biology that made her a "baby-making vessel" in her own bitter, grief-twisted words. She'd worn harsh, Alpha-masking perfumes that smelled of sandalwood and ozone, trying to suffocate the sweet, gentle truth of her nature. To see this Althea, my Althea, not only accepting but craving the very fruit that represented what she was… it was a shock so profound it felt like a physical realignment of my universe.
She's so opposite. And I like this version more. No—I adore her. I worship this version of her. This is the ghost of the woman I fell in love with before the bitterness and grief and blame twisted her into a weapon aimed directly at my heart, before she learned to see my love as a cage and my touch as a chain.
I didn't protest. I couldn't have formed words. I simply forked the plump, perfect strawberries from my slice and transferred them one by one to hers, piling them high on the bed of white cream until her slice was a decadent, ruby-studded bounty.
Her eyes widened, comically large, and she looked from the obscenely generous portion to my face, a stunned, radiant smile breaking out like the dawn. "OMG, thank you!"
The joy in her voice was a drug more potent than any adrenaline. I would buy her a strawberry farm. I would have emeralds carved into the shape of strawberries. I would have the fruits flown in from every corner of the world daily, just to see which variety made her happiest. I would bathe her in strawberry juice and drink it from her skin if it made her look at me like that, like I am the source of all good things in her world.
"Why are you just staring at the dessert, Haven?" she asked, tilting her head, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. "You don't wanna eat them?"
The words left my mouth before I could cage them, a raw, unfiltered truth pulled from the deepest, most obsessive well of my being. "I already got full by the sight of you."
The moment I said it, I felt a jolt of pure panic. It was too much. Too revealing. Too desperately cheesy for the CEO, for the monster from the warehouse, for the broken woman who still heard her old insults in his dreams.
I saw the blush creep up her neck, painting her skin a delicious, warm shade of pink. She let out a flustered, happy laugh, the sound like bells. "Oh! Ah, haha! I never thought you'd be cheesy! Very not CEO-like!" Then her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing with a playful, calculating glint that sent a fresh thrill down my spine. "But we have to fix that. Wait, hmmm…"
She grinned, a slow, wicked curve of her lips, staring at me with an intensity that made my heart hammer a frantic tattoo against my ribs. What is this woman planning? What beautiful, chaotic, perfect scheme is unfolding behind those brilliant, amnesiac eyes? I think she's planning something, and I am her willing subject, her devoted servant. I am the clay, and she is the artist. Do with me what you will. Break me and remake me, just don't stop looking at me like I'm the center of your game.
And then she did it.
In one fluid, shocking motion that erased all coherent thought, she grabbed the hem of the oversized shirt she was wearing—my shirt—and pulled it over her head, tossing it to the floor in a heap of grey cotton.
She wasn't wearing anything underneath. No bra. Just a simple pair of cotton panties, white and innocent against the tan of her hips.
My brain ceased all higher function. The CEO, the predator, the hunter—they were all gone. She stood before me, bathed in the warm, forgiving light of the kitchen, her skin glowing like pearl, her body a perfect, breathtaking landscape I was only just beginning to map, every curve a territory I yearned to conquer and claim. And she was smiling, a shy, wicked, triumphant smile that said she knew exactly the nuclear weapon she had just detonated in the heart of me.
Then, with a calm that was madness itself, she picked up her slice of strawberry shortcake.
With a deliberate, sensual slowness that felt like a direct assault on my sanity, she began to dub the cake onto her skin. She smeared the thick white cream and crumbly yellow cake across the swell of her breasts, the cool contrast making her nipples peak into hard, dusky points instantly. She dragged a fat, juicy strawberry in a slow, tantalizing trail down the flat plane of her stomach, leaving a glistening path of red juice. She dotted cream on her collarbone, her neck, the hollow of her throat. She was making a mess, a beautiful, edible, sacrilegious mess of herself, and she was doing it with the focused intensity of a painter creating her masterpiece.
What the heaven am I seeing right now? Is she serious? This is insanity. This is…
…so fucking perfect. She's making herself a canvas. A feast. My feast. The cake was merely a precursor, a prophet announcing the coming of the main event, which is her, always her. I don't feel a shred of regret for the ruined dessert. It served its holy purpose.
She climbed onto the table, moving aside our empty dinner plates with a soft, definitive clatter. She sat amidst the remnants of our meal, a goddess of decadence and playful sin, and looked down at me from her throne, her cheeks flushed with power and a hint of nervous excitement.
"I'll be your dessert, then," she said, her voice barely a whisper, yet it was the loudest, clearest command I had ever received, laced with a boldness that set my blood on fire and my soul alight.
The shift inside me was instantaneous and absolute. The adoring, worshipful woman was still there, but she was now joined, consumed, by the predator, the conqueror, the obsessive creature who had just threatened a man's family and now wanted to devour his wife in a different, more literal way. The two halves of me—the monster and the lover—fused in the heat of her gaze, becoming one singular, terrifying purpose: possession.
I stood, my movements slow and deliberate, the calm before the storm. My eyes never left hers. "Then let me take my dessert."
My POV: The First Taste
I leaned in, my hands braced on the table on either side of her hips, caging her in. My gaze was drawn, magnetically, to the smear of cream on her neck, just above her fluttering pulse point. I lowered my head and licked it.
A full-body jolt went through her. A shiver that was the most honest, beautiful feedback I had ever received. Her skin was warm silk, the cream cloyingly sweet, but the underlying taste of her—that pure, intoxicating Vanilla Strawberry essence—was the real delicacy, the ambrosia I craved. I laved at the spot, cleaning it with my tongue, feeling her pulse hammer a frantic rhythm against my lips, a drumbeat synced to the one in my own chest.
I moved lower, to her breast. I took a nipple, cake crumbs and all, into my mouth and sucked gently, then bit down with careful, claiming pressure.
She gasped, her back arching off the table, her hands flying to my hair, not to push away but to anchor herself. "Haven!"
She's liking it. Her body is singing for me, a symphony of shivers and gasps. She's so responsive. So alive. So mine.
And it was in that perfect, blissful moment of claiming that the phantom struck, a ghost from the bitter past rising to poison the present.
Flashback: The Ghost in the Machine
The room is dark, the silence heavy with resentment. The old Althea is on top of me, but she isn't soft or playful. Her body is a weapon, all tense muscle and sharp angles. She smells of harsh, artificial sandalwood, a scent she sprays on to violently mask her own. It's an assault. She has my wrists pinned above my head with a grip like iron manacles. There is no kiss, no caress. Her eyes in the gloom are flat, dead pools of resentment and a grief so profound it has curdled into hatred.
"Just get hard, Haven," she snarls, her voice dripping with a contempt that flays me alive. "It's your only job. The only fucking use you have."
I try. God, I try. I love her, even like this, even broken and venomous. But my body rebels. The pressure, the palpable hatred, the sheer transactional horror of it all makes me sick to my stomach. When my shaft finally, pathetically, manifests, it's a weak, half-hearted thing, a symbol of my failure.
She scoffs, a sound of pure disgust, and reaches for the box on the nightstand. The box of toys. Artificial shafts, straps, cold, lifeless things designed to humiliate me, to replace me. She preferred them. She liked to tie my wrists, to force me onto my stomach, to make me the passive Omega in our dynamic while she took control with those silicone imposters. She would thrust into me with those cold, unfeeling things while I lay there, my face turned into the pillow, choking on the scent of sandalwood and my own shame, wishing I were anywhere else, anyone else.
"You're so weak, Haven," she'd spit, the words a lash that drew blood from my soul. "You shouldn't have been the Alpha. It should have been me! Why are you always so lucky? Fuck! While I'm just this… a baby maker. A fucking vessel. The one who's gonna carry the shit!" Her voice would crack then, with a pain that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the family she'd lost. "I should have died along with my family, not doing this with you! Why am I doing this with the person who was one of the reasons why my family died?!!"
Every time. Every single time we were together, it was this. A punishment. A blame session. Her family had died in a horrific fire after leaving a Hartwell-hosted gala. In her grief-maddened, traumatized mind, our family's invitation was a death sentence. I, by loving her, by marrying her, had become the living, breathing embodiment of that sentence.
"Fuck your family and fuck the cage you guys put me thru!" she'd scream, her body rigid and unyielding on top of mine, a statue of fury. "And now you can't even fulfill your job to impregnate me! Can you just do it? Impregnate me, you useless fool! So my job is done in this world! Impregnate me! So once I'm done and bought a Vale child, I'll be joining my family!"
When I did finally, miserably, enter her, it was always with a soul-crushing sense of dread. The lack of love, the palpable hatred, the pressure—it made true connection impossible. I would come too quickly, a mortifying, shameful release that never synced with the rhythms of her body, that made the deep, binding knot an biological impossibility. And she would slap me. A sharp, stinging blow to the face that was less about pain and more about erasure.
"Useless," she'd whisper, the word more damaging than any physical blow. Then she'd get up, a silhouette of disdain, and leave me there, lying in the cold, silent wreckage of our marriage, covered in the clashing scents of her self-loathing and my profound, unshakeable failure.
Present: The Tear in the Canvas
The memories crashed over me, a tidal wave of grief and shame so potent it was a physical weight on my chest. I froze, my mouth still on her breast, but I was no longer in the sunlit kitchen. I was in that dark bedroom, listening to the ghost of my wife tell me I was the reason for all her misery, the anchor dragging her down.
I felt the tears then. Hot, silent, they welled in my eyes—eyes she couldn't see—and spilled over, tracing slow, saltwater paths through the cake smears on Althea's skin, diluting the sweetness with my sorrow.
I felt her jolt beneath me in a different way. A concerned, panicked jolt.
"OMG, Haven," she breathed, her voice small and scared, the playful goddess instantly replaced by a worried lover. "Why are you crying? Oh gods, was I too much? Omg, sorry! I just wanted to be playful! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
Her hands came up, not to push me away, but to cup my face, her thumbs wiping clumsily at my tears. They were gentle, so unbearably gentle. She pulled my forehead to hers, a gesture of such profound, wordless assurance it shattered the last of my defenses completely.
"I'm sorry, Haven," I sobbed, the words tearing from a place I kept locked and buried beneath boardrooms and brutality. "It's not that. I just… I remember some stuff. The old you… she didn't do this to me. She wasn't… kind to me. I'm not used to this. I'm sorry."
I was breaking apart in her hands, showing her the cracked, fragile, pathetic thing I was beneath the CEO's armor, beneath the monster's skin. I was terrified she would see it—the weak Alpha, the failure—and recoil in disgust, just as the other one had.
But she didn't. She held me tighter, her arms wrapping around my neck, pulling me down against her sticky, cake-covered chest. "Oh, I'm sorry. Ahh, I don't know what the past me did, but I'm sorry, Haven. I'm sure she had her reasons, but I'm different now. I can assure you that." Her voice was firm, a lifeline thrown into my personal abyss. "And if my memories come back, I'll always try to come back to you, I swear. I always write a diary, and in case I remember, there's a note there on what I did every day. It will lead me back to you, okay?"
No. The thought was a silent, desperate scream that echoed in the hollows of my bones. No, don't say that. Don't promise that. I don't want that. I don't want you to have your memories back. You might not come back. The tyrant might overpower the songbird. The ghost in the machine might reboot and erase this beautiful, loving program. Please, Althea. Let me live in this dream forever. I am a selfish, terrible, monstrous woman, and I would rather have this beautiful lie, would rather keep you in this blessed amnesia, than face the painful, hateful truth of the woman who looked at me and saw a jailer. I would burn the world and salt the earth to preserve this version of you.
I didn't say any of that. I just let her hold me, let her whisper soft, nonsense reassurances until my sobs subsided into shaky, uneven breaths. Her kindness was a balm and a brand, healing the old, festering wounds while simultaneously marking me as eternally, hopelessly hers.
And then, from the ashes of that vulnerability, the obsession reignited, hotter and hungrier than before. This shared moment of fragility, this seeing of my broken parts and her choosing to hold them anyway—it was a new, deeper layer of intimacy. I needed to claim it. To sear it into both our bodies. To overwrite the old, painful memories with new, raw, blinding ones that would leave no room for ghosts.
I lowered my head back to her breast, my tears salt on her sweet skin. I sucked, harder this time, a deliberate, painful claiming. Mine. I needed to taste her, all of her. I nudged her legs wider apart with my knee, settling between them, the cotton of her panties a flimsy barrier. My gaze dropped to her core, glistening and untouched by the cake, a sacred altar. This was a different kind of dessert. The main course. The only nourishment I would ever need.
I lunged in, burying my face in her sweetness. The sugar and shortcake were a faint, irrelevant note. The taste of her was overwhelming. Musky, sweet, tangy, uniquely, addictively Althea. I bit and nibbled at her clit, making her cry out and buck against my mouth, her hands fisting in my hair. Then I drove my tongue inside her, fucking her with it, lapping at her essence until her thighs trembled and she came with a broken, sobbing cry, her release flooding my mouth, bitter and sweet. I drank it, gulped it down like a woman dying of thirst. This. This is the taste of her pleasure, given willingly. My new addiction. My only religion.
I felt my shaft materialize fully, painfully hard, straining against my trousers. Fuck. I wanna be inside her insides so bad. I want to be the source of that pleasure, to feel her come around me, to fill the space my tongue just left.
I pulled back, my breathing ragged, my chin glistening. I yanked my pants and panties down in one rough motion, freeing myself. My shaft was throbbing, an angry, ruddy red, aching for her. I pointed the tip to her entrance, which was already wet and fluttering, welcoming. I used my thumb to widen her, to feel the sticky, hot slickness of her, and then I pushed inside.
She's so fucking warm. I felt like I already came just from the first inch. The heat, the tightness, it's a shock to my system every time. Damn, I'm still the old, desperate me in some ways.
But I wasn't. To my own shock, I was still hard. More than hard. I was rock-solid, untouched by the specter of performance anxiety. The old, shameful ghost had been banished by her moans, her trust, her want.
Fuck. Her insides are so warm. It's sucking me in. It's so tight, it's choking me in the best way, a velvet vice that grants me immense, profound pleasure.
Althea was arching and gasping beneath me, her head thrown back, her hands scrambling for purchase on the smooth table. The sight of her, splayed out amidst our dinner dishes like a feast, covered in cake and her own arousal, her face a mask of ecstatic surrender, was so intoxicating I saw red at the edges of my vision, a possessive haze descending.
I wanna fucking ruin her insides and give her a flood of my cum. I want to pump this addicting woman so full of me she dreams of my Shaft. I want my scent to live in her womb.
I thrust into her like a piston, setting a brutal, possessive rhythm that had the table legs scraping against the floor. I saw her gasping, and each moan was a note in a symphony composed only for me.
Fuck you, Althea. Fuck this woman. I wanna fuck this woman for the rest of my life. I want to die buried inside her.
And her voice… she really was a songbird. Even in the throes of passion, moaning, she sounded like she was singing, a ragged, beautiful melody composed only for my ears. My name was her chorus, her mantra. "Haven… oh, Haven… yes!"
I don't wanna kiss her yet. I wanna hear her say my name until her throat is raw. I wanna hear her gasp it, sob it, scream it. I wanna hear her say she loves me, something the old Althea's tongue could never form, something her heart, poisoned by grief, could never feel.
As I felt the familiar, coiling tension in my gut, the burning promise of my release, I finally, desperately, leaned down and crushed my mouth to hers. My tongue danced with hers, claiming her mouth as thoroughly as I was claiming her body, tasting the ghost of strawberries and the reality of her.
Fuck, even her saliva tastes like heaven. If only I could make her saliva my water, then I would drink nothing else. I'd die of dehydration clinging to this cup.
And I came. I poured myself into her, a hot, endless, pulsing rush, and I felt her inner muscles clench around me in a rhythmic, milking pulse, coming with me, her cry swallowed by our kiss. We were one organism, one wave of sensation crashing on the shore of the kitchen table.
whenever I remember those scandals of her when she was not yet married to me—her links to those alpha women and betas and omegas, the tabloid pictures of her laughing on yachts, draped over someone else's arm, the whispers that she was a playgirl, a free spirit who belonged to no one—it makes me so mad I taste copper. No one should have touched you except me! No one should have tasted that laugh, basked in that light. All those news frames, painting her as a wild, untamable thing… I hate them. But I also love this. No, I cherish this. This innocent Althea, this blank slate who looks at me like I hung the moon. I'm gonna make her my slut. Mine. Oh, mine. I'm gonna own every gasp, every sigh, every shudder. You will be forever my songbird, and this life, this beautiful house, this body I worship—it's your gilded cage. And I will be your keeper, your warden, your most devoted lover. I will own you so completely that even if your memories return, your body will only sing for me.
Fuck. I felt like my shaft was the seed taking root in her very soul. Fuck you, Althea. Now have my seed, you beautiful slut. My slut. My everything. Fuck, don't you ever have your memories back. I'd rather have you as my blissfully ignorant, adoring slut than have you back as the woman who looked at me and saw a prison. I would sell my soul to keep you like this.
Shit, she's even sexier when she's panting and out of breath, her chest heaving, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes glazed with pleasure I gave her.
And I was still hard. The miraculous, impossible truth. The sight of her, thoroughly fucked and blissed out, our combined release leaking from where we were joined, was all the aphrodisiac I needed. I thrust into her again, my semi-hardness surging back to full, aching life. She was surprised, a little gasp escaping her lips, but I didn't give a damn. I put two of my fingers to her mouth, slick with her own juices and my spit.
"Suck," I commanded, my voice a guttural, possessive growl that brooked no argument.
And she did. Her eyes fluttered closed in submission, and she began to suck my fingers, her tongue swirling around them with eager curiosity, her lips creating a perfect, warm, tight suction.
Shit. Fuck. Good Althea. That's a good girl. Yes, suck my fingers. Clean them. Taste yourself on me. Make yourself a part of this filthy, perfect cycle.
I thrust into her, over and over, watching, mesmerized, as she serviced my fingers, until I came again, a second, slightly weaker but no less soul-deep release, my hips stuttering against hers.
She pulled my fingers from her mouth with a soft, wet pop. "Ha… more. Haven, take me from behind, please?"
I didn't respond with words. Words were for contracts and threats. This was pure instinct. I just moved. I pulled out, turned her over with hands that were probably too rough, but she went willingly, pliant as clay. The view was exquisite. The elegant curve of her back, the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, the tempting line of her spine descending to the glorious swell of her ass, still marked with faint cake smears.
Fuck. So sexy. So Althea. All mine! Every inch, every freckle, every scar I don't yet know the stories of.
I entered her again from behind, and this angle felt deeper, more primal, like I was reaching the very core of her. I could see everything. My gaze, hungry and relentless, fell to her other hole, tight and untouched, a pink pucker that seemed to beckon me. A new, dark, utterly possessive impulse seized me. I wanted it all. Every part of her. I reached down, slicked my fingers with her own arousal and our combined spend, and pressed one thick digit against her anal rosette.
Althea jolted, a full-body tremor. "Haven, what are you—ah!" she moaned, the sound ending on a high note of surprised, undeniable pleasure.
She wants it. She must. Her body is opening for me. She will give me everything.
I continued fingering her there, slowly, working the tight muscle, while I maintained my thrusts into her vagina. When I felt the resistant ring of muscle loosen, surrender, I added a second finger, stretching her carefully, scissoring gently. I felt her jolt again, her inner muscles clenching around my shaft in a vice-like grip of overwhelmed sensation.
I'm loosening you up, my love. Preparing you. Because when I'm ready, when I've fucked my fill here, I wanna enter that hole, too. I wanna claim every last inch of this woman. I want there to be no part of you that doesn't know the shape of me, that doesn't bear my mark.
I thrust faster, harder, driven by this new, filthy goal. I was multitasking, fucking her cunt and preparing her ass, and the dual sensations, the complete domination of her body, were driving us both to the brink of madness.
"I'm… I'm cumming, Haven!" she cried out, her voice strangled and desperate against the wood of the table.
Fuck. Whenever I hear her say she's cumming, my body magically, instinctively, wants to cum, too. Shit, I feel like we are in sync. Our biology, our pleasure, it's finally one. It's finally right.
We were. I came with a guttural, animal roar, and I felt her gush around me, a warm, copious flood that dripped onto the table with a sound that was obscenely erotic.
She squirted. I never thought I could make her do that. The old Althea never let go enough. This Althea… she gives me everything.
We were knotted, locked together in that most intimate of binds. In this moment of perfect, biological connection, I made my request. My voice was rough, stripped bare, pleading not as a CEO, but as a woman obsessed.
"Althea… can I enter you here, too? On your anal? Please say yes, Althea. Please."
She was panting, her body limp and boneless against the table, spent but still thrumming. "Uhm… ah, sure, Haven. But take it slow, okay? Uhm, I don't think I put anything there before, you know? It's gonna be tight, and you're so big, so it might be hard for me and you. So slowly, okay?"
She trusts me. Even now, like this, she trusts me with this vulnerability. She's giving me everything. Her body, her trust, her innocence in this act. It's the most precious gift I have ever been given, and I will treat it as such, even as I take it.
"Yes, Althea, I will. Don't worry. I just wanna claim every part of you that I wasn't able to before, when the past you, the pain, the walls… when they wouldn't let me."
"Okay, Haven," she whispered, turning her head to the side, her cheek resting on the wood, a picture of exhausted surrender. "I belong to you now. And I want to try it, too. With you."
Her consent, her whispered submission, was the most powerful, heady thing I had ever felt. It was a crown. With a sheer audacity that stunned even the monster in me, I pulled out of her vagina once the knot subsided. I positioned myself at the entrance of her anal. It was tiny, a tight, clenched pink pucker, virginal and intimidating. I pushed the slick, broad tip of my shaft against it.
Fuck. It is tight. Much tighter than her vagina. A different, searing kind of resistance. Fuck, I feel her shaking and jolting, her body instinctively fighting the invasion.
I saw her clench her fists on the table, her knuckles white.
Fuck. Sorry, Althea. But I wanted this. I need this. Just endure it for me, okay? It will be worth it. I will make it good for you. I will make it ours.
"Just go on, Haven," she said, her voice strained but firm, resolute. "No turning back now."
You're right. No turning back now. We cross this line together, and there is no returning to who we were before.
I pushed, slowly, inexorably, with a patience I didn't know I possessed. Half of my shaft was in. The pressure was immense, unbelievable, a hot, tight ring of fire consuming me.
Even here, it's so warm. I already came again, shit.
With one final, careful push, I was fully sheathed. A feeling of ultimate, primal victory washed over me.
I did it. I divirginized her here. Fuck.
"Are you okay, Althea?" I asked, my voice thick with concern and lust. "Does it hurt?"
"It does," she admitted, panting. "But it's okay. It's a good kind of hurt. It feels weird, but it's pleasurable, too."
Fuck. She trusts me so much. It's turning me on so, so much.
I began to thrust, slowly at first. I reached for the wet wipes we'd used for the cake, sanitized my fingers, and then, because I didn't want her front to feel lonely, I slipped them inside her vagina, fingering her in time with my anal thrusts.
The dual sensation made her moan, a long, low, decadent sound, and I moaned with her.
Fuck, this is a different kind of sensation.
I thrust and thrust, building a rhythm, until she cried out that she was cumming again. I felt her body convulse around my fingers and my shaft. I kept going, chasing my own peak, and when it came, I filled her anal channel, creampieing her there, marking this most intimate of territories as mine.
I pulled out and saw my cum already overflowing from the tight hole.
Fuck. What a sexy sight.
And I could hear her panting. Even her panting sounded like music!
The sight of her, thoroughly claimed, her Omega pheromones going wild with the intensity of our joining, made the base instinct roar to life. I wanted to bite her nape. To permanently mark her as mine. But not like this. Not in the frenzied aftermath. I still respected her. So I leaned down and bit her shoulder instead, a sharp, possessive sting, a revenge for how she'd marked me.
She was surprised, then chuckled, a breathy, exhausted sound. "Oh, Haven, getting possessive now?"
"So what if I am?" I growled. "I want to."
She smiled. "You're so cute. Now take me to the bath. I wanna shower. I feel so sticky from the cake and you. And you have to wash me, of course! And carry me!!"
She was just so cute. So perfect. I did as I was told, scooping her up in my arms, carrying my prize, my world, to the master bathroom. I ran the bath, and while it filled, I showered her under the spray, washing away the remnants of the cake and our lovemaking. Her skin was glistening, her nipples erect, and I was the reason.
Fuck, it makes me wanna fuck her more.
I was surprised when she reached for my shaft, which was, against all odds, still semi-hard. She took the soap and began to clean it, her touch shy but curious.
She's so cute.
Then, she did it again. She leaned forward and licked the tip.
Fuck.
She was playing with it now, stroking it and licking, exploring. Then, she took it into her mouth.
Fuck. This sight. It's so addicting. The old Althea never did this to me. She'd just stroke it, that's it, like it was a regular job. And this Althea is so caring, licking the right spots, and… fuck… she's deepthroating me.
I could feel her breathing through her nose, could feel her throat adjusting to my size.
Ah, it feels so good.
She was bobbing her head up and down, treating my shaft like a lollipop.
It's so hot and sexy. I feel like I'm cumming.
"Althea, I'm gonna cum," I warned her, my voice strangled. "You're so good at this, my good girl."
She increased her pace, deepthroating me faster, and one of her hands came around to finger my entrance, the dual stimulation pushing me over the edge.
I came into her mouth, a hot, pulsing release. "Ah, yes, Althea! Drink it! Drink it like a chalice! Drink my seed!"
I felt her gulping, swallowing every drop. Fuck, so sexy. My Althea.
And when she tried to pull away, I came again, a final, weak spurt that landed on her cheek and nose.
She was surprised, then grinned up at me, my cum on her face. Fuck. Look at the sight. My cum all over her pretty face.
"That was a lot, Haven," she teased, wiping at her cheek. "Are you that pent up at work today?"
How cute.
"Yea, I was," I said, the understatement of the century. "You know, paperwork and such. At first, it made me think I wanna stay home and not go to work, but you know I had to."
"Of course, you're responsible for me, after all! You have to make them money!" she said, her eyes sparkling. "Now, take me, carry me, fuck me, make love with me tonight. Here, Haven."
I did. I was her willing slave, her obsessed master. I carried her to the big bathtub, got in with her, and soaped her neck and breasts as I thrust into her again, the warm water adding a new dimension to our coupling.
I'm multitasking right now, huh? I never thought taking a bath would be much more fun than just taking a bath.
We moved together in the water until we both came again, spent and sated. I cleaned her properly then, washing her hair, soaping her back, tending to her with a devotion that was a form of worship. She was sleepy, her eyelids drooping, letting me care for her.
When we were done, I toweled her off, carried her to my room, dressed her in one of my shirts, and carefully dried her hair with the dryer. I loved taking care of this woman. It was a privilege.
I carried her to my bed and noticed she had fallen asleep, her breathing deep and even. She must have been exhausted.
I just stared at her then, in the dim light of the room. She was so pretty. So peaceful.
I hope if we have kids, they will look like her.
I cradled her to my chest, my arms wrapping around her, holding her as close as physically possible.
*I wish this dream would last forever.