Jonathan’s eyelids felt sewn shut with invisible thread—no, not sewn. Pried open by cruel, invisible fingers that had jammed themselves beneath his lashes and levered his eyes wide against the raw, burning scrape of dry corneas.

He couldn’t blink. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even force his lids down far enough to summon the merciful dark.

Some cold, silent, absolute force clamped his gaze on the scene three feet away, pupils blown so wide the chamber light stabbed straight into his brain like needles.

And what he saw was Roxanne—his wife—naked and trembling like a goddess finally allowed to feel.

The deep-blue silk had slid from her shoulders and pooled at her feet like shed skin, leaving every lush, bruised inch of her body exposed in merciless detail.

Her full, heavy breasts rose and fell in violent, shuddering heaves, the left one dominated by the large, swollen handprint bruise he himself had left—deep, angry purple at the center where his fingers had crushed her soft flesh, fading into sickly yellow at the edges.

The skin there looked fever-hot, stretched glossy-tight, every tiny movement making the contusion throb visibly. Her dark areolae were pebbled into tight, hypersensitive rings scattered with tiny pinprick marks; her nipples stood out stiff and swollen, dark rose peaks pulsing with every frantic heartbeat.

The vivid violet bloom across her left ribcage stretched taut over swollen flesh, radiating waves of heat. The crescent-shaped welt high on her inner thigh burned raw and raised, shiny and inflamed.

Yellow mottling painted her collarbone, wrist, and wide hips—every mark pulsing in perfect, humiliating sync with the obscene, glistening mess between her legs.

Her pussy was a dripping, swollen, starving wreck for the boy who’d just tortured her. The outer lips were plump and puffy, flushed a deep, glossy, cock-hungry pink that darkened to angry red at the edges.

They quivered visibly, already parted, revealing slick, swollen inner folds coated in thick, shiny strands of her arousal. Her clit stood erect and throbbing—pebbled, hypersensitive, twitching visibly with every ragged breath.

It felt she was torturing him for eternity... because whenever she thought of her... all he’ll ever see is this scene and what would happen next!

He’ll be tortured by the memory of her hot, clear juice that poured from her tiny, fluttering entrance in slow, obscene strings, stretching and breaking, dripping heavily down her welted inner thigh in warm, glossy rivulets that traced over the crescent bruise and continued lower, coating the cleft of her round, full ass and making her tight little asshole glisten wetly... well he couldn’t see that!

The thick, musky-sweet scent of her desperate cunt flooded the chamber, so potent it made Jonathan’s stomach twist with nausea and unwanted, raging jealousy.

Phei approached like a man stepping toward something holy. He didn’t rush. Didn’t grab. Didn’t take.

One hand rose, hovering inches above the darkest bruise on her collarbone—the fresh, fiercely purple stain where Jonathan had slammed her into the doorframe two nights ago. His fingertips brushed the fever-hot skin.

The contact was barely there—yet Roxanne’s entire body exploded with pleasure she had never been allowed to feel from him.

A violent, full-body shudder ripped through her from toes to scalp. Her salvation had arrived. Her back arched hard, heels digging into the cold stone as her hips jerked forward involuntarily, shoving her dripping cunt toward Phei like an offering.

Without even realizing it, her thighs spread wider on their own—knees trembling apart in subconscious surrender, presenting her soaked, fluttering pussy completely, inner lips peeling open further as if her body already knew this boy was the one who would finally claim what it had starved for through centuries of frost.

Her heavy breasts bounced and jiggled violently, nipples scraping the air.

A raw, broken moan tore from her throat—"NNNGH—haaaahhh!"—deep, guttural, vibrating through her chest in a way Jonathan had never heard.

With just a single touch... he’d made her feel more pleasure than Jonathan has ever did.

Her thighs trembled violently, the welted one sending sharp sparks of pain-pleasure straight to her core. Fresh juice gushed from her pussy in a sudden hot jet, splattering loudly against her inner thigh with an obscene splat, dripping in thick, sticky strands onto the stone floor between her feet.

Jonathan cried... he’d never had her wet like that and produce that much.

Phei didn’t pull away.

He lowered his head and sealed his mouth over the bruise with agonizing, reverent tenderness.

Hot, damp breath washed across the sensitized skin first, then his soft lips pressed in a warm, wet seal.

His tongue flickered out—slow, deliberate—tracing the exact border where deep purple bled into yellow, tasting the hurt, soothing the fire, worshipping the mark Jonathan had made.

Roxanne’s reaction was immediate and beautiful in their sound.

"AAAAH—! Haaah—haaaah—!" A sharp, sobbing cry burst from her as her whole body convulsed.

Her hands flew up and clamped onto his shoulders, fingers digging in with white-knuckled desperation, nails biting through fabric as she yanked him harder against her bruised skin.

She didn’t know she was doing it—her hips rolled in tiny, instinctive circles, grinding her dripping cunt against the air as if begging him to take everything, her trust absolute and subconscious.

Her back bowed deeper, pushing her heavy, marked breast into his mouth with shameless need.

Her stomach clenched visibly, thighs shaking so hard her knees buckled slightly.

Another thick, hot gush of juice squirted from her cunt in a forceful arc, splattering her welted thighs and puddling noisily on the floor.

Her clit throbbed visibly, twitching harder, her inner walls visibly fluttering and clenching around nothing—subconscious spasms milking at emptiness, her body already surrendering every secret inch to the one who had finally thawed the ice.

Jonathan’s insides screamed.

The invisible force holding his eyes open felt like a red-hot vise clamped around his skull, pressure building behind his eyeballs until he was certain they would burst and leak down his face. His jaw was locked so tight his teeth ground together with an audible creak; he tasted fresh copper where he’d bitten clean through his lip.

Tears streamed hot and silent down his temples, tracked by the ice still sealing his mouth shut—a cruel, mocking gag that let him see and feel everything while stealing even the release of screaming.

That’s my wife. My fucking wife.