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Anaya's Pov

The sound of the rain had changed—softer now, but still constant, like a whisper I couldn’t silence. But it wasn’t the rain that made my skin burn.

It was him.

Kavish stood behind me, close enough that his breath stirred the damp strands of my hair. I could feel his gaze against my back like heat from a flame, though he hadn't laid a single finger on me.

Yet.

My kurti was soaked through, clinging shamelessly to the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist, and the tight, aching peaks of my breasts. I was aware of every inch of my body. Every part of me felt raw. Like my skin belonged to him before he even touched it.

“Turn around.”

His voice didn’t rise. It slid down my spine like a dark silk ribbon. There was no space to say no. Not really.

I turned, slowly, eyes flicking to his.

And then I couldn’t breathe.

Kavish’s eyes were cold fire—dark, devouring. He looked at me like he was deciding where to start.

I wanted to speak. I didn’t know what. Maybe don’t look at me like that. Maybe please touch me. But nothing came.

“You’re wet.”

He stepped forward.

I froze.

The fire behind me suddenly felt too hot. His nearness made the space around me shrink, fold in, trap me in his gravity.

“You know what that does to me?” he murmured. “Seeing you like this? Dripping. Trembling. Obedient.”

“I—I'm not—” I whispered.

“Strip.”

My heart stopped.

He didn’t say it cruelly. Not loudly. Just with that calm authority that somehow cut through the softest parts of me and made them clench with need.

I stared at him, breath caught.

He arched one brow.

I reached down, fingers brushing the hem of my kurti, and hesitated. Every second felt like a test. I wanted him to touch me. To rip the ache out of my body with those hands that looked like they could destroy.

I didn’t expect the shame to be so hot.

Pulling the kurti up felt like confession. My wet hair fell over my shoulders as I peeled it off, the fabric heavy from the rain. My nipples pushed forward through the lace of my bra—hard, desperate, exposed.

“Keep going.”

I stepped out of my palazzo pants. It clung to my thighs. My panties followed—soaked through. I could hear the soft wetness as I pulled them off. I knew he heard it too.

I was naked.

My arms instinctively came to cover my naked parts.

“Don't,” he said simply.

I dropped them.

He walked around me once, slow. His fingers never touched, but his eyes did. I felt skinned.

“You look like you’ve been waiting for this moment your whole life,” he said, stopping behind me. “Have you?”

I nodded, barely.

His hand caught my hair, pulled just enough to force my chin up.

“Use your words.”

“Yes, Kavish.”

“Yes what?” He slapped my right tit.

The slap was enough to make me flinch.

“Yes, I’ve thought about it. Wanted it. Every time you looked at me like that.”

He smirked. My stomach twisted.

“On your knees.”

I sank instantly.

The rug beneath me scratched my skin, grounding me in the reality of this moment. He stood in front of me, and all I could think about was the ache pulsing between my thighs—hot, desperate, shameful.

He reached down and brushed my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

Then he unzipped.

And I almost cried when I saw him.

Hard. Heavy. Just inches away. But he didn’t let me touch. Didn’t offer it.

“You want to taste?” he asked, eyes gleaming.

“Yes.”

“I bet you do.” He tucked himself back into his pants.

I whimpered.

“Stand up.”

My legs shook as I obeyed.

He pulled me to the edge of the lounge and bent me over it. My cheek pressed against the velvet, ass in the air. Open. Exposed.

“Do you know how beautiful you are when you obey?” he asked, voice low.

His hand trailed down my spine—hot, rough, leaving sparks.

Then—

SLAP.

His palm cracked against my ass. I cried out, shocked.

Then again. Making me cry.

Each slap made my thighs clench tighter. I bit my lip, trying to stay still, not sob while tears fell from both my eyes.

“You want to come, don’t you?”

“Yes—please—”

“Beg later.”

His fingers slid between my thighs.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

He touched me like a secret he already owned.

I gasped when he parted my folds. The air itself felt cold against my soaked heat, and I knew—knew—how slick I was. My thighs trembled. My breath came in soft, humiliated gasps.

“You’ve never been touched here,” Kavish said quietly. It wasn’t a question. He already knew. I heard the certainty in his voice, the satisfaction that twisted in every syllable.

I shook my head.

His fingers paused, still resting at the edge of me.

“Say it.”

“I haven’t,” I whispered.

His hand left me for a moment.

Then slap—sharp and hot—landed directly on my breast.

I cried out.

My body arched, unsure whether to flee or lean into it. The pain wasn’t brutal—but it was enough. Enough to make me gasp and remember that silence wasn’t allowed.

“Say it properly,” he said. “Or you’ll earn another.”

“I’ve never been touched there,” I said quickly, voice shaking.

“Never what?”

“Never touched. Not even by myself.” The confession burned.

Kavish exhaled, slow. I could almost hear the control in his breath.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “No wonder your body’s shaking like it’s starved.”

He stepped closer. I could feel the heat of him behind me again, just hovering.

I was still bent over the lounge, ass exposed, knees trembling, nipples throbbing.

I didn’t know how I was still upright.

He leaned over me, his hand sliding around to rest lightly against my lower belly, anchoring me.

“I’m going to open you,” he whispered against my ear. “And it’s going to hurt. Just a little. Not because I want to hurt you—because you’ve never been claimed. Because your body’s tight and untouched and mine.”

His fingers moved back to my center.

And then—I felt it.

One fingertip. Just at the entrance. Not even pushing yet. Just pressing.

"No please."

My breath caught so violently it felt like drowning.

“Relax.”

I couldn’t.

I was too aware. Of everything. Of his presence. My body. My heat. My shame. The unbearable ache that had been building in me for weeks. Months. Since the moment I noticed how Kavish looked at me.

I whimpered.

He didn’t withdraw.

“I said relax, Anaya.”

“I’m trying—” My voice was strangled.

He gave my thigh a warning tap. Then dragged the slick pad of his finger slowly down, to my clit.

A stroke. Gentle. Torturously slow.

My entire body jerked.

Then again. Back and forth. Featherlight pressure that teased and licked sparks up my spine.

My lips parted in a breathy moan I didn’t recognize as mine.

“You’re going to get used to this,” he murmured. “The feeling of having nothing left to hide. No control. No pride. Just this—” his finger returned to my entrance, slick now with my arousal “—and me.”

He pushed.

God.

My body resisted. It was too much. Too intimate. Too real.

They told me it would feel good—books, stories. They spoke of pleasure like it was everything. But they never warned me about the ache, the sting beneath the want. It burns—God, it burns—and not just my body. It’s deeper. It’s cruel. A sob clawed its way up and tore from my lips, uninvited, unstoppable.

I yelped, muscles tightening.

"Please sto..stop it hurts—"

But he didn’t stop. He held me steady, that hand still firm on my lower belly.

“Let me in,” he whispered, voice low and steady. “You can take it.”

Tears burned at the corners of my eyes—not only from pain, but the shock of being entered for the first time.

The invasion was slow. Careful. Intentional.

But still—

Still I sobbed softly, overwhelmed.

"It hurts."

His finger was really thick. Unfamiliar. Sliding inch by inch into a part of me that had never known anything.

And when he was fully in, buried to the knuckle.

I shook.

“Good girl,” he breathed.

I whimpered at the praise while tears streamed down my face.

And then he moved it. His finger.

Not in and out—not yet. Just curled it, slowly, deep inside, until a bolt of something hot and terrifying shot through my gut and made my knees buckle.

I gasped, hips jerking.

“Oh,” he said softly. “There you are.

He found it again.

That place inside me I didn’t even know existed.

And then—he pulled out.

I cried out but not from pain of something entering you first time rather from the loss, the emptiness, the ache.

But before I could speak, he grabbed a fistful of my soaked panties from the floor and pressed them against my mouth.

I gasped.

He didn’t stuff them in. Just held them there.

“Bite them if you need to scream.”

Then his fingers returned.

This time, two.

The stretch made me sob against the wet cotton in my mouth.

He fed them into me with dark, excruciating patience, twisting and curling until my legs shook and my body betrayed me.

I wanted it.

I hated how much I wanted it.

I’d never wanted anything more.

But he never let me fall apart. Never let me tip over that edge I was clawing for.

His thumb flicked my clit once—once—and I almost exploded.

Then he withdrew everything. Again.

I screamed into the fabric.

He leaned in close.

“You’re not going to come,” he said, voice cruelly gentle. “Not tonight. Not until I say.”

I was soaked. Empty. Ruined.

And still—his fingers grazed my folds, lingering just enough to keep the ache alive.

“I want you to remember this,” he said. “The first time someone touched you.”

His hand gripped my chin, turned my head.

“I want you to remember who broke you.”

Now i was soaked. More than soaked. Every nerve in me was alive, twitching, reaching for something I wasn’t allowed to have yet.

I writhed.

"Too much already?" he mocked. "And I haven’t even gotten started."

He pulled his fingers out of me—wet, slow, intentional. The absence was agony. My body clenched on nothing, desperate and humiliated by its own hunger.

And then—I felt it.

Warm. Wet.

He spat.

Right onto my ass.

I gasped, flinched. My whole body stiffened with the shock of it, heat blooming where it landed, sharp as fire. There was something so obscene, so wrong about it—and yet… my pussy pulsed in response. I hated how my body responded, how my skin burned for more even as my mind screamed no.

I didn’t have time to think.

His finger dragged through the spit—lazy, deliberate—and slid down to the tight ring of muscle that had never been touched before.

My entire spine locked.

He circled it slowly, like a predator playing with its prey.

"Kavish..." I whispered, voice trembling.

"Did you say, anything," he growled, his breath brushing against the shell of my ear. "Hmm, baby?"

I shook my head, panicked, shivering. "No—no, I didn’t—"

His finger pressed.

Just the tip.

The pressure was unbearable—tight, foreign, impossibly wrong. My thighs trembled, fighting the instinct to run, to close. My body was confused—torn between pain and surrender.

“Breathe,” he ordered, his voice low, implacable. “Let me in.”

I tried. God, I tried. I took one breath. Then another. And then—

He pushed.

I screamed.

It wasn’t a soft sound. It was ripped from me—high and helpless—as he slid past the tight resistance with a slow, merciless stroke.

My body lit with pain. It wasn’t sharp, it wasn’t violent. It was deep—a stretch that felt impossible, a wrongness that made tears spill down my cheeks.

“Kavish—it hurts—it hurts—”

He didn’t stop. His free hand curled around my neck from behind, not choking, but firm. Possessive. His grip anchored me, claimed me. Made sure I didn’t run.

“You’re crying already?” he murmured darkly. “One finger, Anaya. Just one. How are you going to handle my cock later?”

“I—I don’t know—I can’t—”

SLAP.

His hand cracked across my breast—sharp, stinging.

I choked on a sob, breasts swinging from the force, pain radiating through my chest. The sound of it echoed in the room, obscene.

“Try again,” he said coldly. “You don’t say I can’t. You beg. You obey.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

SLAP.

The other tit this time. Hot pain burst behind my nipple and I cried out again, a messy, broken noise.

“Use. Your. Words.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Please—it’s too much—it burns—I’m trying—please don’t stop—just—just slow—please—"

He groaned behind me, dark satisfaction pouring from his throat. “That’s better.”

He moved his finger deeper, slower now, but still relentless. My sobs turned into whimpers, breath shaking as I trembled under his control.

“I want you broken,” he whispered against my ear. “I want you crying because your body wants what your mind can’t process. I want you humiliated. Exposed. Used. And still begging for more.”

A fresh sob slipped out of me. My thighs were slick with arousal, my pussy clenched around nothing, and still—he kept his finger in the other place, moving in and out, slow, testing.

I couldn’t tell if the tears were from pain, or shame, or the unbearable need that coiled like fire in my gut.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked, mockingly soft.

“Yes,” I sobbed. “Yes—please—it hurts—”

He pulled his finger almost out.

And then pushed again.

He smirked and chuckled darkly while I screamed.

Not just from the pain.

From the fullness.

The complete surrender.

The way my body betrayed me and wanted it, even through the sobs.

“You’re so tight,” he muttered. “So untouched. And still—your cunt is dripping for me. You’re filthy.”

I wanted to deny it.

But I couldn’t.

I was.

He reached around and slapped my breast again. The sting was immediate, shocking, and made my clit throb in response. I cried out again, high and shaking.

"Answer me."

"Yes—I'm filthy—yours—please—"

He licked the tears from my cheek like they belonged to him.

“You think this is the worst I’ll do to you?” he murmured, the threat wrapping around me like a promise. “This is foreplay, Anaya. I haven’t begun to ruin you.”

And I believed him.

Every word.

Because even as I sobbed, even as his finger twisted inside me in a place no one had touched before, even as shame consumed me—I ached for more.

Even if it destroyed me.

I was sobbing. Not pretty, dainty tears—these were gasping, body-breaking sobs. My breath hitched in sharp, useless little gulps, and still—his finger moved inside me. Deeper. Firmer.

It burned. Not just physically—though that was sharp and constant—but emotionally. My shame was molten. My body writhed against the cushion, legs trembling, face buried in velvet, soaking it with salt.

And he—Kavish—was calm. Patient. Cruel.

He let me sob. Let me feel everything.

“Do you hear yourself?” he said softly, dragging his mouth along the shell of my ear. “Listen to your pathetic little noises, Anaya. Crying because my finger is in your ass, and your pussy’s soaking the goddamn rug.”

I whimpered.

"Speak."

"I—I can’t—"

SLAP.

The sting of his palm cracked across my breast again, sharp and punishing.

“You can. You just want to be told. You like when I force it out of you. So say it.”

My body jerked, mouth trembling.

“I’m soaked,” I whispered. “I’m crying—and I’m soaking the rug—and I don’t know why—”

“You do know why,” he growled. “Because I’ve claimed every inch of you. And now I’m going to own this too.”

His finger pressed deeper. I felt everything stretch, protest. I cried out again, loud, sharp, helpless.

And he moaned.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “The way your ass fights it? The way you clench around me like you don’t know if you want to cry or come?”

I shook, violently.

He reached down and spread my cheeks with one hand. My shame exploded—hot, feral.

“I could use another finger,” he mused aloud. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that yet, are you?”

My voice broke. “No—please—I can’t—”

“I didn’t ask what you could handle. I asked what I wanted.” His voice was cruel. Dominant. Scary.

His other hand returned—this time between my legs. His fingers found my soaked pussy again and slapped it lightly. Wet sounds filled the room. My body jerked, unsure if it was pleasure or punishment anymore.

“You’re dripping,” he said, mocking. “So wet it’s running down your thighs. You’re crying from one hole and begging from the other.”

And then—he spat again.

Right between my cheeks. The heat of it made me tremble.

“Know what I want, baby?” he whispered, voice a rasp. “I want to make you wear a plug next. Stretch you open and keep you that way. Fill you up until you forget how it feels to not be used there.”

I let out a sob. My head dropped low, hair falling around my face like a curtain of defeat.

“You’d wear it for me, wouldn’t you?” he said. “Under your clothes. During the day. At your family’s house. On campus. While you talk to people who have no idea I’ve claimed this tight, virgin hole of yours.”

I shook my head frantically. “I—I can’t—Kavish, please—please I can’t—”

"Hmm." SLAP.

Across my right breast now. My nipples throbbed. My whole chest burned from the punishment.

“You can,” he hissed. “You will.”

His finger twisted inside me again, pressing up, forcing me to feel every inch of him.

“Say you want it.”

I shook my head again, broken.

SLAP.

Tears kept falling ling down my eyes.

He grabbed my throat from behind, squeezing—not to choke, just to own. His other hand curled into my hair, yanking my head up.

“SAY. YOU. WANT. IT.”

“I want it,” I sobbed, finally. “I want it—please—I’m sorry—I want to be ruined—I want you in every part of me—”

He groaned like it physically affected him.

“That’s my good girl.”

He bent lower, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“I’m going to stretch this sweet little ass every night,” he said. “And every morning, you’re going to text me and beg me to stretch it again. You’re going to ache for it. And when I finally fuck you there—oh, Anaya”

He bit down on my shoulder, slow and possessive.

“You’re going to cry for real.”

I sobbed against the cushion, too overwhelmed to respond.

“Want to know a secret?” he said, pulling his finger out—slowly. The stretch burned on the way out.

“Yes—yes—please—” I knew the consequences of saying 'no' to him.

“I haven’t even touched myself yet,” he said darkly. “I’ve been so focused on ruining you I’m not even hard anymore.”

I gasped. My mind spun. Confused. Shattered.o

“You’ll beg for my cock, Anaya. But I’ll come only when I decide.”

Then—

He leaned down and kissed the curve of my ass—tender, almost reverent.

“You did good, for a first time.”

“You were made to be devoured,” he whispered. “But not tonight.”

He kissed my forehead—soft, infuriatingly tender. Completely different behaviour from whatever we did till now.

And I shattered.

Without touch. Without climax.

Just from knowing I was his.

And just like that—he left me there.

Naked.

Ruined.

Empty.

Crying.

Begging for something I no longer knew how to ask for.

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