Her fingers spread.

She did not want them to. They moved on their own. The drug was in her blood—deep now, past the stomach, past the intestines, into the veins, into the capillaries, into every nerve ending in her body. Her fingers found the waistband of her soaked panty. They pulled.

The cotton peeled away from her skin—wet, clinging, reluctant. It slid down her thighs. Over her knees. Off. She kicked it aside. It landed on the cold stone. A small, wet, ruined thing.

Her pussy was exposed.

It was hairy. Dark hair—thick, untrimmed, wild. It covered her mound. It ran along her inner thighs. It curled around her lips. The hair was matted with wet—not wine anymore, not sweat. Her own slick. The drug had forced it from her. Her body was producing moisture she did not consent to. Her lips were swollen. Pink. The inner lips peeked through the hair, engorged, sensitive, glistening with a thin sheen of clear fluid that caught the gray cave light. A single drop clung to the lowest point of her cleft. It hung. It grew. It fell. It landed on the stone. A tiny circle of wet on cold rock.

She looked at him.

At his violet eyes. At the blood still on his cheek. At the calm, ancient, impossible stillness of his face. He was looking at her pussy. At the hair. At the wet. At the swollen lips. At the drop that had fallen.

His coat was open. His trousers were unlaced. His cock was out.

She saw it.

Her breath stopped. Her eyes went wide. Her pupils dilated. The brown irises were swallowed by black. Her mouth opened. No sound came. Just air. Just a thin, shaking exhale that carried nothing but shock.

It was twelve inches.

Not seven. Not eight. Twelve. The shaft was thick. Veined. The skin was dark. The head was swollen. Purple. The slit was leaking—a clear, steady thread of pre-cum that hung from the tip and swung with the slightest movement. His balls were heavy. Full. They hung low in their sack, the skin tight, the veins visible. The cock was rigid. It stood upward, pressed against his stomach, the shaft pulsing with his heartbeat. Each pulse made it twitch. Each twitch made the thread of pre-cum swing.

She trembled.

"It is too big," she whispered.

Her hand went to his waist. Not to push him away. Not to pull him closer. Just to hold. To anchor. To find something solid in a world that had dissolved into sensation and fear and the impossible thumping of her heart.

"Wait—" she said. Her voice broke. "Wait— it is— hic— it is too big— I cannot— that will not— it is not possible—"

He pressed her down.

His hand found her shoulder. Gentle. Firm. He pushed. Her back met the cold stone. The chill shot through her—through her spine, through her shoulders, through her bare back. Her skin goosebumped. Every hair on her body stood. Her nipples were rigid. Dark. Pointing upward. The areolas were tight. Puckered. Aching.

His mouth found her breast.

He did not suck gently. He sealed his lips around her right nipple. The whole areola. He pulled. His cheeks hollowed. His tongue found the stiff peak. It flicked. Fast. Wet. Relentless. The tip of his tongue circled the nipple. It traced the edge of the areola. It pressed against the very tip. It pushed. The nipple bent. It sprang back. He did it again.

SLURP—

"Aah—!" Sera moaned. The sound tore from her throat. Her back arched off the stone. Her hips lifted. Her pussy throbbed. The drug amplified everything—the cold stone, the wet heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue on her nipple. She had never been touched there. Not by anyone. The sensation was a lightning bolt that traveled from her nipple to her clit to her spine to her brain.

"Hngh—!" she gasped. "What— what are you— ah— please—"

His hand went to his cock.

He positioned it. The head pressed against her entrance. Against the wet, swollen, hairy lips of her pussy. The heat was immediate. His cock was hot. Her pussy was hotter. The contact was electric. She could feel the head—the smooth, swollen, leaking head—resting against her opening. Not pushing. Not yet. Just resting. Just being there.

"I will not hurt you," he said.

His voice was quiet. Calm. The voice that had erased a man’s shoulder. The voice that had said "you are fine, you are okay." The voice that her heart was thumping to.

He grabbed her hands.

Both of them. He took her wrists. He lifted them. He pinned them above her head. One hand. His grip was iron—gentle iron, unhurried iron, the grip of a man who did not need to squeeze hard because squeezing hard was unnecessary. She could not move. Her arms were stretched. Her back was arched. Her breasts were pushed up. Her nipples were pointing at the gray sky.

He pushed.

One inch.

The head entered. Her lips parted. The swollen, sensitive flesh yielded. She could feel herself stretching. The head was thick. Thicker than anything she had ever imagined inside her. It pushed the walls of her pussy apart. It forced them open. The sensation was not pain. Not yet. It was pressure. Intense, overwhelming, impossible pressure. Her body resisted. Her muscles clenched. She was a virgin. She had never been penetrated. Her walls were tight. Untouched. Untrained.

"Ah—" she gasped. "Ah— wait—"

Two inches.

The head popped inside. The ring of muscle at her entrance—her hymen, what remained of it, thin and stretched from years of riding and training—resisted. Then it tore. She felt it. A sharp, quick pain. Like a rubber band snapping. Then it was gone. The head was inside. The shaft followed.

Three inches.

"Ngh—!" she cried. Her legs kicked. Her heels scraped the stone. Her hands twisted in his grip. "Stop—! Please—! It is— it is too—!"

Five inches.

Blood came.

It was not a flood. It was a trickle. Thin. Bright red. It ran from her entrance. It coated the shaft of his cock. It stained the dark skin—bright, wet, vivid against the dark veins. It ran down to her ass. It pooled on the stone beneath her. The sight of it—her own blood on his cock—made her head spin. Made her stomach clench. Made her pussy clench.

"Tight," he said. His voice was a murmur. His eyes were on her face. On her tears. On her open mouth. "Your pussy is tight."

"Please—!" she sobbed. "Please stop—! It hurts—! It is too big—! I cannot—! Please— hic— please—"

He kissed her.

His mouth came down on hers. Not gentle. Not brutal. Somewhere between. His lips sealed over her sob. His tongue pushed in. It found hers. It tangled. It claimed. The taste of him filled her mouth—copper, salt, something older. Something that did not have a name.

He pulled back. His lips were wet with her tears.

"Can you not let me enjoy it?" he said.

She trembled.

She looked at him. At his face. At his violet eyes. At the blood on his cheek. At the calm. At the beauty. He was beautiful. Even now. Even with blood on his face. Even with his cock inside her. Even with her blood on his shaft.

He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And she was asking him to stop. She was asking this beautiful, impossible, ancient creature to stop. And she felt—absurdly, impossibly, against all logic—that she was doing something wrong. That she was denying him.

That she was being ungrateful. That the man who had saved her, who had killed for her, who had erased a prince for her, deserved something in return.

’Why am I thinking this? Why do I feel like I am the one doing wrong? He saved me. He saved my life. He saved my body. And I am asking him to stop. What is wrong with me?’

She spread her legs.

Wider. She opened her thighs. She lifted her knees. She hugged him. Her arms—released from his grip—went around his neck. She pulled him close. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her nipples dug into his coat. Her face was in his neck. Her breath was hot on his skin.

"Please do not," she whispered. "Be gentle."

He pushed.

"Hnghhh~~?!!"