“Please,” I moan. “Don’t stop.”
A gloved finger pushes slightly inside my ass. “I don’t plan to,” he whispers. Then he slams his cock inside my pussy.
A gasp escapes my throat. The echo tuned with my feet lifting off the stone floor. His cock stuffed in my pussy, his finger pushing deeper in my ass.
“So tight.”
“I’m on the pill,” I blurt.
He chuckles, pushing my back lower as he grips my hips to keep my toes from touching the floor. “I didn’t ask.” He pulls out fast and then slams his cock inside. He fucks me. He fucks me harder and harder.
I scream from the pleasure. It builds with every thrust. The walls of my pussy grip him tight. My fingers hold the rail tight as he thrusts harder and harder. The slaps of his hips hitting my thighs mix with his grunts and my moans like a chorus.
“I’m coming,” I blurt, my orgasm slamming into me hard.
He doesn’t stop until the last wave. He pulls out along with his thumb from my ass, and pushes the head of his cock inside my ass.
“Saint,” I moan as cum slides down the insides of my thighs, his cock stretching me inch by inch. “You’re too big.”
“Every hole, remember.” He slides one hand around my stomach, and his hand dips until his finger finds my clit. “Look up, Amy.”
I do. My eyes land on the wooden door at the entrance, knowing anyone could walk in, but Saint isn’t the type to care.
His finger rubs my clit. Another orgasm builds by the second. My ass fills impossibly full. The pain mixes with pleasure.
“Some come here to pray,” he says, “some come to confess. Some come to say their vows.” He pulls out and slams completely inside my ass. “This is mine.” His final words float across the church.
I arch my neck and scream.
“Scream, Amy. Confess how much you like me breaking you. Confess how much you like being saved.”
Amy
The campus changes before anyone says her name.
Something is wrong. I feel it the second I step out of class. Like the world outside the bubble Saint had me in last night burst, and reality set in. I’m Prey, and the soreness between my thighs tells me things between Saint and me will never be the same.
The courtyard is too crowded for the hour. Students gather in clusters instead of moving toward the dining hall or the library or wherever people go when the day still belongs to them. Phones are out. Voices are low. Security officers cut across the stone paths with radios pressed to their mouths, their expressions carefully blank, as if they know something and have been told not to say it.
Something is wrong.
I slow near the steps. Two girls from my psychology class stand beside the fountain, one crying into the sleeve of her sweater while the other keeps looking toward the dormitories.
“She wouldn’t just leave,” the crying girl says. “Not without her phone.”
My stomach tightens. “Who?” I ask before I can stop myself.
They both look at me.
The blond one swallows. “Monica.”
The name lands with a strange, sharp weight.
Monica. I can’t say that I’m a fan, for obvious reasons, but what happened to her?
“What happened?” I ask.
“They don’t know.” The girl wipes her face. “No one knows where she is. Her phone is in her room. It’s like someone took her or something from the way her room was destroyed. No one knows anything.”