She was underwater. No — not water. Something warmer, heavier. Silk and heat and the weight of him pressing her into the mattress, and she could feel it in that dreaming way, the way the body knows before the mind catches up. His mouth on her throat. His hands in her hair, twisting, claiming. The low sound he made against her skin, that growl that lived somewhere between his chest and his teeth.

"Sofi."

His voice in the dream was the same as it was awake — rough, certain, the voice of a man who'd already decided how this ended. She felt his cock slide into her, thick and slow, and her dream-self arched into it, greedy, shameless, the way she never let herself be with anyone else. The way she was only ever with him.

"That's it," he breathed, and she felt the words against her ear, felt them land somewhere deep and wet. "Take all of it."

He pulled out until just the head was inside her, then pushed back in, deeper this time, and she felt herself open for him, felt the slick heat of her own cunt gripping him, pulling him in. Her fingers found his back, nails raking down the muscle, and he growled and bit her shoulder, hard enough to sting, hard enough to make her gasp.

"You like that," he said. Not a question. "You like me marking you."

"Yes," she heard herself say, and it came out broken, desperate, nothing like the measured purr she used on camera. "Yes, Marcus, please—"

He fucked her harder, faster, the slap of his hips against her thighs filling the dream with sound, and she could feel herself building, that familiar coil tightening in her belly, spreading down into her cunt until she was clenching around him, pulsing, hungry.

"Come for me," he ordered, and she did — she came apart beneath him, crying out his name, her body shuddering as he kept thrusting, kept pushing through her orgasm until she was oversensitive and trembling and still he didn't stop.

"I'm going to fill you," he said, and even in the dream she felt the words like a physical thing, felt her cunt clench in anticipation. "I'm going to come so deep inside you that you'll feel it for days."

And she wanted it. God, she wanted it. She wanted to be full of him, wanted to carry him inside her, wanted to feel him leak out of her and know that everyone who looked at her would see it, would know she belonged to someone.

"Do it," she begged, and her voice was raw, wrecked, beautiful. "Fill me up. Make me yours."

He drove into her one last time, buried to the hilt, and she felt him come — felt the hot pulse of his cum flooding into her, filling her, overflowing, and she came again with him, her body clenching around his cock as he emptied himself inside her.

She woke to the feeling of being full.

The dream dissolved at the edges, and reality rushed in — the weight of him above her, the slide of his cock inside her, the unmistakable evidence of how many times she'd already come in her sleep, her cunt slick and swollen and full of him. He was fucking her slow, deep, a steady rhythm that had clearly been going on for a while, and she was so wet she could hear it, that wet sound that said he'd been inside her for a long time, that she'd been taking him without even knowing it.

"There she is," Marcus said, and his voice was rough with effort, with the pleasure of watching her surface. "Welcome back."

Sofi blinked up at him, her mind still catching up, her body still riding the last waves of the orgasm she'd had in her sleep. She could feel everything — the way his cock filled her, the slick evidence of her own arousal, the cum that had already leaked out of her and was smeared across her thighs.

"How long—" she started, and her voice came out hoarse, a stranger's voice.

"Long enough," he said. He thrust into her, slow and deliberate, and she felt it in her throat, in her chest, in the backs of her eyes. "You came three times in your sleep. I counted."

Three times. She'd come three times without even waking, her body so trained to him now that it knew what to do even when her mind was gone. And he'd just kept going, kept fucking her through it, kept filling her.

"That's—" she started, and he cut her off with a thrust that made her gasp.

"That's what happens when you're mine," he said. "Your body knows it even when you don't."

She should have said something sharp, something that put distance between them, reclaimed the ground she was losing. But she couldn't find the words. She could only feel him inside her, feel the evidence of how thoroughly he'd claimed her, and a sound came out of her that was half moan, half whimper.

"That's right," he said, and his voice was softer now, almost tender. He pushed her hair back from her face, and his thumb traced her cheekbone. "Let me take care of you."

She should be furious. She should be embarrassed. She was a professional — she'd spent years building walls, controlling every encounter, never letting anyone see her lose control. And here she was, waking up to find that she'd been fucking him in her sleep, that he'd watched her come apart over and over again while she was unconscious, that she was so full of his cum it was leaking out of her.

Instead, she arched into him and said, "Don't stop."

His eyes darkened. "I wasn't planning to."

He moved inside her, and this time it was different — he was watching her, really watching, cataloging every twitch, every gasp, every flutter of her eyelashes. She felt exposed in a way she'd never felt on camera, never felt with any client. This wasn't a performance. This was him seeing her, all of her, and she couldn't hide any of it.

"You were dreaming about me," he said, and it wasn't a question. "What was I doing to you?"

The heat rose in her cheeks, and she looked away, but he caught her chin with his fingers and pulled her gaze back to his.

"Tell me," he said. "I want to hear it."

"You were—" She swallowed. "You were fucking me. Filling me up. Telling me you were going to make me feel it for days."

He smiled, a slow, predatory thing that made her cunt clench around him. "Good dream."

"Shut up," she breathed, but she was smiling too, and he leaned down and kissed her, soft and deep, and she felt the kiss in her toes.

He kept fucking her slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world, and maybe he did. Maybe this was what it felt like to not be on the clock, to not be counting the minutes until she could escape. She let herself sink into it, let herself feel every inch of him, every stroke, every time his hips met hers.

"You feel that?" he asked, and he shifted his angle, hitting something that made her see stars. "That's where I've been all night. Right there, inside you, keeping you full."

She could feel it — the evidence of how many times he'd come inside her, the slick mess between her thighs, the way his cum had soaked into the sheets beneath her. She should be mortified. Instead, she felt a surge of something that was almost pride, almost ownership in reverse — he'd marked her, but she'd taken all of it, and she was still here, still wanting more.

"I want you to come again," he said. "I want to feel you squeeze me while I'm still inside you."

"I don't know if I—"

"Yes, you do," he said, and he reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, and she gasped, her hips bucking. "You've come for me three times already tonight. Four is nothing."

The pad of his thumb circled her, wet and insistent, and she felt the coil tightening again, impossibly fast, like her body had been waiting for permission. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging in, and he grunted and thrust harder.

"That's it," he said. "Let go. Give it to me."

She came with his name on her lips, her body clenching around him, and he groaned and drove into her, coming again, filling her even more, and she felt the heat of it spreading through her, felt the excess leaking out around him, felt completely, utterly claimed.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. He was still buried inside her, still pulsing, and she could feel his heart beating against her chest, or maybe that was her own. The room was quiet except for their breathing, the soft sound of the sheets, the distant hum of the city outside.

"You know what this means," he said finally, his voice low, almost a murmur.

"What?" she asked, and her voice was small, smaller than she meant it to be.

He pulled out slowly, and she felt the loss of him, felt the emptiness, felt his cum leaking out of her and onto the sheets. He settled beside her, propped on one elbow, and his hand came up to trace the curve of her hip.

"You dreamed about me," he said. "You woke up already mine. You came in your sleep, calling my name." He paused, and his eyes were dark, serious. "You're not a client anymore, Sofi. You haven't been for a while. But now it's real."

She should argue. She should point out that she was still a professional, that she had a business, that she couldn't just — that this wasn't how her life worked. But the words wouldn't come. All she could feel was the ache between her thighs, the evidence of him, the way her body had betrayed her so completely.

"What does that mean?" she asked. "What are we?"

He was quiet for a moment, and she watched his face, watched the way the low light carved shadows into his features. He looked younger in the dark, less like a fixer, less like a man who solved problems with his fists. He looked like someone she could keep.

"I don't know yet," he said finally. "But I know I'm not done with you. And I know you're not done with me."

He reached down, and his fingers found the place where his cum was still leaking out of her, and he pushed it back inside her, making her gasp. She felt his fingers inside her, felt him press his cum deeper, felt the possessive weight of the gesture.

"I want you to feel me all day," he said. "Every time you move, every time you sit down, every time you think about me. I want you to know I was here."

Her breath caught. "Marcus—"

"I know," he said, and he pulled his fingers out, brought them to his mouth, and licked them clean. The gesture was filthy, intimate, and she felt it in her cunt, felt herself clench around nothing. "I know you're not ready to hear it. But I'm telling you anyway. You're mine, Sofi. And I'm not letting you go."

She should have felt trapped. She should have felt the walls closing in, the familiar panic of someone trying to pin her down, make her belong to something. Instead, she felt something crack open in her chest, something that had been locked shut for so long she'd forgotten it was there.

"I don't know how to do this," she admitted, and her voice was barely a whisper. "I don't know how to be—"

"You don't have to know," he said. "You just have to stay."

He pulled her close, and she went willingly, curling into his side, her cheek against his chest, his arm around her. She could feel his cum still leaking out of her, feel the mess they'd made together, and for once, she didn't want to clean it up. She wanted to stay in it, stay in him, stay in this moment that felt like the first real thing she'd ever had.

She lay against him for a long time, counting his heartbeats, letting the warmth of him seep into her bones. The room had gone quiet in that way that only happened after something true had been said, and she could feel the weight of his words still hanging in the air between them, solid as furniture. Stay. She could do that. She could stay.

But the mess between her thighs was growing cold, and she could feel it seeping into the sheets, that evidence of him that she'd wanted to keep, and she shifted, trying to find a position that didn't feel like she was losing him drop by drop.

"You're fidgeting," Marcus said, and there was amusement in his voice, a low thrum of it.

"I'm leaking all over your bed."

"I know." He said it like it pleased him, and she felt her cheeks heat. "I like it."

"You would." She tried to sound annoyed, but it came out soft, and they both heard it.

He moved, shifting away from her, and she felt the loss of his warmth immediately, felt the cool air rush in where his body had been. She watched him sit up, the sheets pooling around his waist, the low light carving shadows across his chest. He reached for the nightstand, and she heard a drawer open, heard the sound of something being shifted around.

"What are you—"

He turned back to her, and in his hand was something she recognized immediately, something that made her breath catch in her throat.

A plug. Glass, she thought, or something like it — clear, curved, elegant. It caught the light and threw it back in a dozen directions, and she could see the flared base, the tapered tip, the sheer size of it.

"Where did you get that?" she asked, and her voice came out higher than she meant it to.

"I bought it," he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "A few days ago. After the park."

She stared at him, and he stared back, and she could feel the heat rising in her chest, spreading up her neck, flooding her cheeks. He'd bought a plug. For her. After the park, after he'd taken her against that dying oak, after he'd told her she was his and she'd let him lead her home.

"You planned this," she said, and it wasn't a question.

"I planned to keep you full." He turned the plug in his hand, watching the light slide across its surface. "I didn't know when, exactly. But I knew I wasn't done with you. And I knew I wanted to be inside you even when I wasn't."

Her cunt clenched at his words, at the casual possessiveness of them, and she could feel herself getting wet again, could feel the fresh slickness mixing with the cum that was still leaking out of her.

"That's—" She swallowed. "That's a lot."

"Is it?" He looked at her, and his eyes were dark, serious. "I told you I wasn't letting you go. I meant it. And this—" He held up the plug. "This is me making sure you remember that, even when I'm not here."

She should have said no. She should have pointed out that this was moving too fast, that she wasn't ready, that she wasn't sure she could be what he wanted. But the word that came out of her mouth wasn't no.

"Okay."

His eyes flared, and she watched something move in his face, something hungry and tender at once. He shifted closer, and she felt the mattress dip under his weight, felt the heat of him radiating toward her.

"Turn over," he said, and it wasn't a request.

She turned onto her stomach, and she heard him move behind her, felt his hands on her hips, guiding her up onto her knees. The position felt vulnerable in a way that made her breath catch — her ass in the air, her cunt exposed, the evidence of him still slick and shining on her thighs.

"God, look at you," he breathed, and she felt his hand on her ass, a firm squeeze that made her gasp. "So full of me. So wet. You're dripping, Sofi."

"Marcus—"

"I know." His thumb traced the edge of her cunt, and she felt it through her whole body, that electric jolt that only he could produce. "I'm going to put this inside you now. And then I'm going to fill you up again, and it's going to stay there all day. You're going to feel me with every step you take."

She should have been embarrassed by how much she wanted it, by the way her body responded to his words, her cunt clenching around nothing, hungry for the weight of him. But she couldn't find the shame. She could only feel the want, bright and sharp as glass.

"Do it," she said, and her voice was rough, wrecked.

He made a sound low in his throat, approval and hunger tangled together. She felt his hand leave her, heard the click of a bottle opening, and then she felt something cold and slick against her skin, his fingers spreading it over her ass, over the tight ring of muscle there.

"Just relax," he said, and his voice was soft, careful. "I'm going to go slow."

She felt the tip of the plug against her, cool and smooth, and she made herself breathe, made herself unclench. He pressed, and she felt the stretch, the burn, the way her body resisted before it gave. He didn't rush. He pushed in inch by inch, letting her adjust, letting her feel every moment of it.

"That's it," he murmured. "Taking it so well. So pretty."

The praise hit her like a drug, and she felt herself relax further, felt the plug slide deeper, felt the fullness of it settle inside her. When it was all the way in, he held it there for a moment, his hand pressed against the base, and she could feel it — the weight of it, the stretch, the way it filled her in a way that was entirely different from his cock.

"How does that feel?" he asked.

"Full," she breathed. "So full."

He pulled his hand away, and she felt the plug shift inside her, settling, and she made a small sound at the sensation. He laughed, low and pleased, and his hand came down on her ass, a sharp slap that made her gasp.

"That's for getting so wet about it," he said. "Now turn over. I want to see your face when I fuck you."

She turned onto her back, and he positioned himself between her legs, and she could see the plug's base nestled against her, a clear curve of glass that looked obscene and beautiful. He looked at it, looked at her, and the expression on his face was almost reverent.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he said, and his voice was rough, raw. "You have no idea how many times I've thought about this. About keeping you full. About making sure you can't forget me."

"Show me," she said, and she spread her legs wider, an invitation and a challenge. "Show me what you've been thinking about."

He leaned down and kissed her, hard and deep, and she tasted herself on his tongue, tasted the salt of her own arousal mixed with the musk of his cum. He pulled back, and his cock was hard against her thigh, thick and heavy, and she reached down and wrapped her hand around it, felt the heat of him, the pulse.

"I want you to come inside me first," she said, and she was surprised by her own boldness, by the way the words just fell out of her. "And then I want you to put your cock in my mouth and make me taste it."

His eyes went dark, and she watched the restraint in his face, the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands clenched in the sheets. "You're going to kill me," he said.

"Not yet," she said, and she guided him to her entrance, felt the head of his cock press against her, slick and insistent. "Not until you've filled me up."

He thrust into her in one smooth motion, and she felt the stretch, the fullness, the way the plug shifted inside her as he moved. It was different — so different — the sensation of being filled from both ends, the pressure of the glass against her walls, the way his cock hit her deep and the plug pushed back.

"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, Marcus—"

"I know," he said, and his voice was strained, his hips moving in a slow, deep rhythm that made her see stars. "I know. You feel so tight. So perfect. Squeezing me around that thing."

She could feel herself building already, the combination of the plug and his cock and the knowledge of what he had planned pushing her toward the edge faster than she'd expected. She clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging in, and he groaned and thrust harder.

"Already?" he asked, and there was a smile in his voice. "You're going to come already?"

"Shut up," she gasped. "Just—fuck—"

"Come for me," he said, and it was an order, low and certain. "Come around my cock and I'll fill you up. I'll give you so much cum it'll be running out of you all day."

The words pushed her over the edge, and she came with a cry, her body clenching around him, the plug pressing against her from inside. He kept thrusting through it, kept driving into her, and she felt him swell, felt the first hot pulse of him coming inside her.

"That's it," he groaned. "Take it. Take all of it."

He came with a sound that was almost a growl, his hips pressed tight against hers, and she felt him emptying into her, felt the heat of it spreading through her, felt the way the plug trapped it inside her, keeping it there. He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, and then he pulled out slowly, and she felt the loss of him, felt the cum leaking around the plug's base.

"Look at that," he said, and his voice was rough with satisfaction. He reached down and pressed the base of the plug, pushed it deeper, and she felt the cum shift inside her, felt it settle. "It's staying. You're going to feel that all day."

She looked down at herself, at the plug nestled between her thighs, at the slick evidence of him smeared across her skin, and she felt a surge of something that was almost pride. He'd marked her. He'd filled her. And now she was going to carry him inside her, every step, every moment, until he took it out himself.

"Get me a towel," she said, and her voice was hoarse, rough. "And then get back in this bed."

He laughed, and it was a real laugh, warm and surprised. "Bossy."

"You made me this way."

He kissed her forehead, soft and tender, a gesture that was so at odds with what he'd just done that it made her chest ache. "I did," he said. "And I'd do it again."

He got up, and she watched him cross the room, watched the play of muscle in his back, the way he moved like a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had no doubt he'd get it. She shifted, and the plug moved inside her, and she made a small sound at the sensation.

All day. He was going to be inside her all day.

She couldn't wait.

The bathroom door clicked open, and she heard the water run—short, efficient, the sound of a man who didn't linger. She lay there in the wreckage of the sheets, the plug a cool weight inside her, his cum still trapped behind it, and she let herself feel the shape of the morning. The light had shifted from gray to gold, that first thin wash of sun cutting through the blinds and laying a bright stripe across the bed. She watched dust motes drift through it, slow and lazy, and she thought: this is what it feels like to be kept.

He came back with a towel in one hand and something else in the other—something that caught the light and threw it back, clear and curved and deliberate. Her breath snagged.

"You bought two," she said.

He didn't answer right away. He set the towel on the edge of the bed and held up the second plug, turning it between his fingers the way he'd done with the first, letting the sun slide across its surface. It was smaller than the one inside her—sleeker, more elegant—but it was unmistakably the same intent. The same plan.

"I told you," he said, and his eyes found hers, dark and steady. "I planned to keep you full."

She watched him, the way the light carved the line of his jaw, the way his thumb traced the curve of the glass. The first plug had been for her ass, a claim she could feel with every step. But this one—this one was different. This one was for her cunt, for the place he'd already filled, for the cum she could feel shifting inside her every time she breathed.

"You want to put that inside me," she said, and it wasn't a question. "You want to plug me up like I'm a bottle you're trying to keep full."

"Yes." No hesitation. No shame. "I want to watch you carry every drop of me inside you. I want to know that when you walk, when you sit, when you go to the bathroom, you're going to feel it. You're going to remember."

She should have felt objectified. She should have felt used, reduced to a vessel for his cum, a thing to be filled and stoppered and kept. Instead, she felt her cunt clench around nothing, hungry for the weight of him, and she heard herself say, "Then do it."

He crossed to her, and the mattress dipped as he settled between her legs. She was still on her back, still spread for him, the first plug pressing against her from inside, and she watched him look at her—really look, the way he always did, like he was cataloging every inch of her for later. His gaze dropped to her cunt, slick and swollen and still leaking around the base of the first plug, and she saw his jaw tighten.

"Look at you," he breathed. "So full of me. So fucking wet."

His thumb traced the edge of her cunt, and she felt the jolt of it through her whole body. He pressed, just barely, and the cum that had been trapped inside her seeped out around his finger, slick and warm.

"You're leaking," he said, and there was something reverent in his voice, something almost worshipful. "I filled you up and you're already leaking."

"Then stop talking about it and do something about it."

He laughed, low and rough, and she felt it against her skin. He picked up the second plug, and she watched him hold it beside her cunt, measuring, the glass catching the light. It was cool against her, a shock of sensation that made her gasp, and he didn't rush.

"Tell me if it's too much," he said, and his voice was soft now, careful. "I'll stop. Just say the word."

"I don't have a word," she said, and she heard the roughness in her own voice, the raw edge of wanting. "I told you. No safe word. Just—" She swallowed. "Just put it in me."

He pressed the tip against her entrance, and she felt the cool glass against her slick heat, felt the way her body opened for it, greedy, shameless. He pushed, and she felt the stretch, the fullness, the way it slid inside her—smooth and cold and perfect. The cum that had been pooling inside her was pushed deeper, trapped by the glass, and she felt it settle, felt the weight of it, felt the way the plug filled her in a way that was entirely different from his cock.

"There," he said, and his voice was rough with satisfaction. He pushed it in until the base was nestled against her, and she felt it—felt it—the pressure of it, the fullness, the knowledge that every drop of him was sealed inside her. "Now you're not leaking."

She lay there, full and sealed and utterly his, and watched him look at his work. The second plug sat nestled between her thighs like a jewel set in gold, the glass catching the morning light and throwing it back in a thin bright crescent. He didn't move. He just stood over her, a towel forgotten in one hand, staring down at the place where he'd put himself inside her, and she saw something shift behind his eyes—something darker than satisfaction.

"Don't move," he said, and his voice had gone low, almost careful. "Don't move a muscle."

He set the towel on the nightstand and crossed to the dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. She heard the slide of wood, the soft clink of something metal, and when he turned back he was holding a camera—not a phone, an actual camera, black and compact and professional, the lens hood already off. Her breath caught and held.

"You want to watch," she said, and it wasn't a question.

"I want to remember." He came back to the bed, the camera hanging from one hand, and his eyes never left her cunt. "I want to look at this later, when you're not here. I want to see exactly what I did to you."

She should have said no. She was a cam girl—she knew every angle of her own body, knew how to arch and spread and perform for a lens. But this wasn't performance. This was evidence. This was him keeping a piece of her the way he'd kept his cum inside her, sealed and undeniable. And the thought of it made her cunt clench around the glass plug, made her hips shift against the sheets.

"Take them," she heard herself say. "Take as many as you want."

He raised the camera, and the shutter clicked—a sound so familiar it made her chest ache. But there was no set, no ring light, no timer counting down her performance. Just her, wrecked and full, his cum trapped inside her by a curve of glass, her thighs slick and parted for him.

"Spread yourself for me."

She reached down and took hold of her thighs, pulling them apart, opening herself for the lens. The plug shifted inside her, a slick pressure that made her gasp, and she saw his jaw tighten as he watched her do it.

"There," he breathed. "Just like that. Hold it."

The shutter clicked again. And again. He moved around the bed, finding angles, crouching low to capture the way the glass base pressed against her, the way her cunt was swollen and pink and still slick with the evidence of him. She watched him work and felt something twist in her chest—not shame, never shame, but a raw and terrible exposure. He was seeing her the way no one ever had. He was seeing all the way in.

"Turn over," he said. "On your hands and knees. I want to see the other one."

She rolled onto her stomach and pushed up onto her knees, arching her back the way she'd done a thousand times for a camera. But this was different. This was his camera, his eyes, his claim. She felt the first plug press against her from inside, a constant reminder of where he'd been, and she heard his breath catch behind her.

"Jesus," he said, and the word came out like a prayer. "Look at you. Look at the way you're holding me."

The shutter clicked, capturing the curve of her ass, the base of the plug nestled between her cheeks, the way his cum had leaked down her inner thigh despite the seal. He reached out and traced the edge of the plug with one finger, and she shuddered at the contact.

"You're full of me," he said, and his voice was rough, almost reverent. "Both holes. Sealed up tight. Carrying every drop."

"Yes." She heard the word come out of her own mouth, hoarse and shameless. "I'm full of you."

He took another picture, and then another, moving closer, the lens nearly touching her skin. She felt the cool glass of the plug against her inner walls, felt the weight of his cum shifting inside her with every small movement, and she thought: this is what it means to be owned. Not a collar, not a contract. This—his cum inside her, his pictures in his hands, his claim written in the way she opened for him.

"Marcus." His name came out of her like a question, and she felt him go still behind her. "Marcus, I want to see them."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then the bed shifted as he set the camera down, and she heard his voice, low and careful. "You want to see what I see?"

"Yes."

He came around the bed and sat beside her, holding the camera up so the screen faced her. She looked at it—at the image of her own body, her ass raised, the plug visible between her cheeks, the slick evidence of him smeared across her skin. It was obscene. It was beautiful. It was the truest picture anyone had ever taken of her.

"I'm going to keep these," he said, and it wasn't a request. "Every time I look at them, I'm going to remember exactly what you are to me."

She looked at him, at the raw hunger in his eyes, and she felt the plug shift inside her, a constant pressure, a constant reminder. "And what am I to you?"

He set the camera down and reached for her, pulling her into his lap, his hands finding the curve of her hips. "You're mine," he said. "Every inch of you. Every hole. Every drop of cum I put inside you. Mine."

She should have laughed. She should have pushed him away, reminded him that this was a transaction, that she didn't belong to anyone. But the words settled into her like the plug had settled into her cunt—a weight she couldn't ignore, a fullness she didn't want to lose.

"Show me," she whispered. "Show me what you see."

He picked up the camera again and turned it toward her, and she watched the screen as he framed her face—flushed, wrecked, her lips parted, her eyes dark with wanting. The shutter clicked, and she saw herself the way he saw her. Not a performer. Not a business. Just a woman, full of him, claimed in the most intimate way a body could be claimed.

"There," he said, setting the camera aside and pulling her close. "Now I have you. Even when you're not here, I have you."

She turned in his arms and kissed him, slow and deep, and she felt the plugs shift inside her, felt his cum trapped and sealed, felt the weight of his claim pressing against her from every direction. When she finally pulled back, she was breathing hard, and her voice came out rough and raw.

"Then take me again," she said. "I'm still full of you. I want to be fuller."

His eyes went dark, and she saw the hunger in them, the same hunger she'd seen in the red room, in the park, in every moment he'd ever taken her. "I planned to," he said, and his hands found her hips, guiding her down onto the bed. "I told you. I planned to keep you full all day."

She lay back and spread her legs for him, the plugs still inside her, his cum still sealed in her cunt, and she watched him shed his clothes with a kind of desperate urgency. Her body was a vessel he'd filled and marked and claimed, and she wanted more. She wanted to be so full of him she couldn't remember what empty felt like.

"Then come fill me again," she said, and her voice was steady, certain. "I'm yours. So come take what's yours."

He lowered himself over her, his cock already hard and leaking, and she felt the weight of him press against her thigh. He didn't enter her—not yet. He just held himself there, his eyes locked on hers, and she felt the raw power of the moment, the knowledge that he could take her any way he wanted and she would let him.

"I'm going to fuck you so full of me," he said, and his voice was a growl, rough and possessive. "You're going to feel me inside you for days. Every time you move, you're going to remember who put it there."

"Then do it," she breathed. "Stop talking and do it."

He reached down and pulled the second plug from her cunt with a slick, obscene sound, and she gasped at the sudden emptiness, the loss of the glass weight. But before she could mourn it, he was there, his cock pressing against her entrance, slick with her own wetness and his cum, and she felt the stretch as he pushed inside her.

"Fuck," she gasped, her back arching, her hands finding his shoulders. "Yes. Yes."

He drove into her, deep and hard, and she felt his cum—his own cum, still inside her—push deeper, felt the way his cock sealed her, filled her, claimed her all over again. He set a rhythm, hard and relentless, and she met him thrust for thrust, her body greedy for him, hungry for the fullness only he could give her.

"That's it," he groaned, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot on her skin. "Take it. Take all of it. Take me."

She felt the pressure building, the familiar coil of heat low in her belly, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I'm close," she gasped. "Marcus, I'm so close."

"Come for me," he said, and his voice was a command, rough and certain. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you."

She came with a cry, her cunt clenching around him, and she felt him follow her over the edge, felt him empty into her, felt the hot flood of his cum mixing with what was already inside her. He stayed inside her, his hips pressed tight, and she felt the two of them breathing together, tangled and sweat-slick and utterly claimed.

When he finally pulled out, she felt his cum leaking from her, slick and warm, and she looked down at the mess of it, at the evidence of him smeared across her thighs. He reached for the second plug and pressed it back inside her, sealing him in again, and she gasped at the sensation.

"There," he said, his voice rough and satisfied. "Now you're full again. Full of me."

She lay there, plugged and dripping and utterly his, and she thought: this is what it feels like to be kept. Not just fucked. Not just paid for. Kept. Claimed. Sealed.

"Good," she whispered, and she reached for him, pulling him down into the wreckage of the sheets beside her. "Now stay."

He stayed. Of course he stayed. She felt the weight of him settle beside her, the heat of his body bleeding into hers through the wreckage of the sheets, and for a moment she let herself just breathe him in—the salt of his skin, the musk of sex, the particular scent of him that she'd come to know the way she knew her own reflection. The plugs were still inside her, twin pressures that shifted with every small movement, and she could feel his cum sealed in her cunt, warm and heavy, a secret she carried in the most intimate part of herself.

She should have been sated. She should have been drifting, that boneless aftermath that usually followed a night like this, when the client was gone and she was alone with the money in her account and the hollow in her chest. But she wasn't drifting. She was lying there, plugged and full, and she could feel the want coiling in her belly again—not the sharp, desperate hunger of before, but something deeper, something that had been sleeping in her for so long she'd forgotten it existed.

"Marcus." His name came out of her like a question, and she felt him shift beside her, felt his hand find her hip.

"I'm here."

She turned to face him, and the morning light caught the planes of his face, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the dark weight of his gaze. She reached out and traced the line of his collarbone, felt the pulse beating there, steady and real.

"I want more."

His eyes darkened, and she watched the understanding move through him, slow and certain. "You want more," he repeated, and it wasn't a question.

"I want to be so full I can't think." The words came out raw, honest in a way she'd never been with anyone. "I want to feel it with every breath. I want to look down and see myself—" She swallowed, her throat tight. "I want to see how full you've made me."

He was quiet for a long moment, and she felt the weight of his attention on her, cataloging her, measuring the shape of what she was asking. Then he moved, shifting over her, his body blocking out the light, and she felt the familiar thrill of being pinned beneath him.

"You want me to fill you until your skin bulges," he said, and his voice was low, rough, almost reverent. "You want to see it. You want to watch yourself take all of me."

"Yes." The word came out broken, desperate. "Yes, Marcus. I want to be so full of you that I can't tell where you end and I begin. I want to be able to see it—" She reached down and pressed her hand against her lower belly, felt the plugs shifting inside her. "I want to see you inside me."

He watched her hand on her stomach, and something moved behind his eyes—something hungry and tender at once. "That's a lot of cum," he said, and there was a smile in his voice, but it was a serious smile, edged with promise. "You know that, right? Filling you until you can see it means I have to come in you a lot. More times than I've ever come in anyone."

"Then do it." She held his gaze, let him see the want in her, the need that she'd spent years burying under performance and control. "I'm not anyone. I'm yours. So fill me up until I'm so full I'm spilling over, and then fill me some more. I want to see it. I want to look down and see you bulging inside me."

He made a sound low in his throat, a growl that vibrated through his chest and into hers. "You're going to kill me," he said, and his voice was rough, wrecked. "You're going to kill me and I'm going to die happy."

He kissed her then, not hard and deep but slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that wasn't asking for anything. His mouth moved over hers like he had all the time in the world, like the morning light spilling across the sheets was theirs alone, like there was nowhere else he needed to be. She felt the shift of his weight as he settled more fully against her, his chest a warm wall against her breasts, his thigh sliding between her legs. The plugs shifted inside her, a reminder of how full she already was, and she moaned into his mouth, her hips rolling up against him on instinct.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he said against her lips, and the words were a low rasp, intimate, like he was asking her to let him in somewhere he'd never been allowed.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, and the want was still there in his eyes, but there was something else too, something softer that made her chest ache in a way she didn't have a name for. "I'm thinking," she said, and her voice came out smaller than she meant it to, "that I've never asked anyone to stay. Not once. And I've never meant it when I said it before."

His thumb traced the line of her jaw, a slow, deliberate stroke. "And now?"

"Now I mean it." The words felt like stepping off a ledge, like the moment before the fall when your stomach drops and you know there's no going back. "I mean it so much it scares me."

Something moved behind his eyes, that hunger and tenderness tangled together again. "Good," he said, and the word was rough, almost reverent. "I want you scared. I want you to know exactly how much this matters."

She should have bristled at that, should have reminded him that she didn't belong to anyone, that she was the one who set the terms. But the truth was she'd stopped belonging to herself the night he'd walked into her apartment and taken her apart with his hands and his mouth and the patient, relentless way he'd refused to let her hide. She'd been his since then, and she was done pretending otherwise.

"Then show me," she said, and her voice was steady, certain. "Show me how much it matters. Fill me up until I can't think. Until I can't remember what it felt like to be empty."

He held her gaze for a long moment, and then he moved, shifting down her body, his mouth trailing a line of fire down her sternum, over the curve of her ribs, across the soft swell of her belly. She felt him settle between her thighs, felt his breath hot against the slick skin of her inner thigh, and she arched into him, her fingers finding his hair, gripping the dark strands.

"You're already so full," he murmured, and she felt the words vibrate against her skin. "I can feel it. The plugs are still in you, still holding all of me inside. But you want more."

"Yes." The word came out broken, desperate. "God, yes."

He kissed the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate, his mouth a brand against her skin. "I'm going to give you more," he said, and his voice was a low growl, rough with promise. "I'm going to fill you until you're dripping with me, until you can't close your thighs without feeling how full you are. And then I'm going to fill you again."

She whimpered, her hips bucking against the air, seeking him. "Marcus, please—"

"Please what?" His teeth grazed her skin, a sharp, sweet sting. "Tell me what you want. Say it."

"I want you inside me." The words tumbled out, raw and unguarded. "I want your cock in my cunt. I want to feel you stretching me, filling me, pushing deeper than anyone's ever been. I want to feel you come inside me again and again until I'm so full I can't tell where I end and you begin."

He made a sound low in his throat, and she felt the vibration of it against her thigh. "That's it," he said. "That's what I wanted to hear. You're so greedy for it, aren't you? So greedy for my cum."

"Yes." The confession was easy now, the shame burned away by the heat of him. "Yes, I'm greedy. I want all of it. I want to be so full I'm spilling over, and I want to watch it happen."

He pulled the first plug from her ass, slow and careful, and she gasped at the sensation, the sudden emptiness where the glass had been. Then he was shifting up her body, his cock heavy against her thigh, slick with his own pre-cum, and she felt the familiar thrill of being pinned beneath him, of being completely at his mercy.

"Look at me," he said, and she did, her eyes finding his, dark and hungry. "I want you to watch. I want you to see exactly where I put myself."

He reached down and pulled the second plug from her cunt, and she felt the gush of his cum, warm and slick, spilling out of her onto the sheets. The loss of it was almost unbearable, the emptiness aching, and she whimpered, reaching for him.

"Please," she breathed. "Please, Marcus, put it back. Fill me up again."

He didn't answer with words. He just pressed the head of his cock against her entrance, slick with her wetness and his own release, and she felt the familiar stretch as he pushed inside her. She cried out, her back arching, her hands finding his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin.

"Fuck," she gasped. "Yes. Yes, that's it. That's it."

The stretch of him was everything—that first thick inch breaching her, then the slow, inexorable push that had her seeing stars behind her eyes. She felt every ridge of him as he sank deeper, felt her inner walls grip him, pull him in, hungry and slick and desperate to be filled again. The emptiness he'd left when he pulled the plugs was gone now, replaced by the solid, aching fullness of his cock, and she could feel the loss of his cum still wet on the sheets beneath her, a slick reminder of what he'd already given her.

"That's it," he breathed, and his voice was wrecked, raw. "God, you feel like heaven. You feel like you were made for me."

She couldn't answer. Her mouth was open, a silent scream caught in her throat as he seated himself fully inside her, his hips flush against hers, his balls pressing against her ass. She could feel him everywhere—the weight of him, the heat of him, the impossible fullness of him stretching her to the point of pain and pleasure tangled together until she couldn't tell them apart.

"Look down," he said, and his voice was a command, low and rough. "Look down and see."

She did. She looked down between their bodies and saw the place where they joined, saw the way her flesh stretched around his cock, pink and slick and swollen. She saw the ridge of him bulging inside her, saw the way her belly rose slightly, a subtle distortion that made her breath catch in her throat.

"Oh," she whispered, and the sound was small, broken. "Oh, Marcus."

"You see it?" He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, until only the head of his cock remained inside her, and then he pushed back in, harder this time, and she watched herself take him, watched her body open for him, watched the bulge of him disappear inside her. "You see how you take all of me?"

"Yes." The word was a sob. "Yes, I see it. I see you."

He set a rhythm then, slow and deep, each thrust a deliberate claim. She lay beneath him, her hands fisted in the sheets, her eyes fixed on the place where they joined, watching herself be filled over and over again. Her fingers found her belly, pressing against the slight swell of him moving inside her, and she felt the pressure of his cock against her hand through the thin wall of her flesh.

"I feel you," she gasped. "I feel you right there—" She pressed harder, and he groaned, his rhythm faltering for a moment. "I can feel you through my skin."

"Fuck." The word was torn from him. "You're going to make me come. You're going to make me come so fast."

"Don't." She reached up and grabbed his hair, pulling his face down to hers. "Don't come yet. I need more. I need you to fill me up until I can't take any more, and then I need you to keep going."

He kissed her then, hard and desperate, and she tasted herself on his lips, tasted the salt of his skin and the musk of their sex. His hand found her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of who was in control, and she moaned into his mouth, her hips rolling up to meet his thrusts.

"Tell me," he said against her lips. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to come inside me." The words were a prayer. "I want to feel you flooding me, filling me up until I'm dripping with you. I want to be so full I can't walk straight. I want to look down and see your cum leaking out of me and know that it's all yours, that I'm all yours."

He made a sound that was almost a growl, and his thrusts quickened, harder, deeper, each one driving the breath from her lungs. She clung to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper, wanting him as far inside her as he could possibly go.

"I'm close," he gritted out. "I'm so close, Sofi."

"Come in me." She looked him in the eye, let him see the want in her, the need that was beyond shame now, beyond anything she'd ever allowed herself to feel. "Come in me, Marcus. Fill me up. Make me yours."

He buried his face in her neck and thrust one final time, deep and hard, and she felt him come inside her—felt the hot pulse of his release flooding her, filling her, spilling out around the base of his cock. She cried out, her own orgasm crashing over her like a wave she hadn't seen coming, her cunt clenching around him, milking him, drawing every last drop of him into her.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled together, both of them breathing hard. She could feel him still inside her, still hard, still pulsing with the aftershocks of his release. She could feel his cum pooling inside her, warm and heavy, a weight that made her feel impossibly full.

"More," she whispered, and the word was barely a breath.

He lifted his head, looked at her, and she saw the hunger still burning in his eyes. "You want more?"

"I told you." She reached down and pressed her hand against her belly, felt the swell of him inside her, felt the heat of his cum sealed beneath her palm. "I want to be so full I can't think. I want to look down and see myself bulging with you. I want to be dripping with you for days."

He kissed her, slow and deep, and she tasted herself on his lips again, tasted the salt of his skin and the musk of their sex. His hand found her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of who was in control, and she moaned into his mouth, her hips rolling up to meet his thrusts.

She felt him everywhere. The weight of his chest against hers, the scrape of his stubble along her jaw, the steady, relentless rhythm of his hips as he drove into her again and again. And beneath all of it, the fullness—the impossible, aching fullness of him inside her, the heat of his cum pooling in her belly, the slight swell she could feel against her own palm.

"You feel it," he said, and it wasn't a question. His voice was rough, wrecked, the voice of a man who'd spent himself inside her more times than she could count and still wanted more. "You feel how full you are."

"Yes." The word came out broken, desperate, nothing like the measured purr she used on camera. "I feel it. I feel you. I feel—" She pressed her hand harder against her belly, and she could feel the ridge of him moving inside her, feel the shape of his cock through the thin wall of her flesh. "God, Marcus, I can feel you through my skin."

He groaned, a low, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into hers. "That's it. That's what I wanted. I wanted to be so deep inside you that you couldn't tell where I ended and you began."

He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, and she gasped at the loss of him, the sudden emptiness that ached even as his cum leaked out of her onto the sheets. Then he pushed back in, harder this time, and she felt the stretch, the fullness, the way her body opened for him like it had been made for exactly this.

She watched him pull out again, the thick head of his cock dragging against her slick walls, and the emptiness that rushed in was almost unbearable. His cum spilled out of her in a warm, lazy stream, pooling on the sheets beneath her, and she felt the loss of him like a physical ache. Then he was pushing back in, and the fullness returned, and she let out a sound that was half sob, half prayer.

"Again," she breathed. "Marcus, again. I need—I need more."

He gave it to her. His hips found a rhythm that was slower now, deeper, each thrust seating him to the root and then pulling back until only the crown remained, teasing her with the promise of emptiness before he sank in again. She felt every inch of him moving inside her, felt the way her body clung to him, reluctant to let him go even for a moment. Her hand stayed pressed against her belly, and she could feel the shape of him through her skin, the ridge of his cock moving in a steady, hypnotic pulse.

"Look," he said, and his voice was rough, strained. "Look at yourself."

She looked down. Her belly was distended, rounded, a subtle but unmistakable swell that hadn't been there before. She could see the outline of him moving inside her, the way her flesh gave way to accommodate him, and the sight made her cunt clench around him so hard that he groaned.

"Oh, God." The words came out on a shuddering exhale. "I'm so full. I'm so fucking full, Marcus."

"Not yet," he said, and there was something dark and hungry in his voice. "You're not full yet."

He pulled out completely this time, and she whimpered at the loss, the emptiness yawning inside her. Before she could protest, he reached for the plug he'd removed earlier, the one he'd filled her with and then taken out to replace with his own cock. She watched him hold it up, the silicone slick with her juices, and her breath caught in her throat.

"You want this back inside you?" he asked, and it wasn't really a question. "You want to feel yourself stuffed full of me and this both?"

"Yes." The word was out of her before she could think. "Yes, please, Marcus. I want—I want to be so full I can't think."

He positioned the plug at her entrance, and she felt the pressure of it, the wide base stretching her in a way that was different from his cock. Then he pushed, and she cried out as the plug sank into her, filling the space he'd just vacated, the fullness returning with a vengeance. He pushed it in until the base was flush against her, and she could feel it sitting inside her, a solid, unyielding weight that made her feel impossibly stretched.

"There," he said, and his voice was thick with satisfaction. "Feel that? Feel how full you are?"

She nodded, unable to speak. She could feel the plug inside her, could feel his cum still leaking around it, warm and slick against her thighs. She was so full she thought she might burst, and yet there was still a hunger in her, a need for more that she couldn't name.

He shifted on the bed, moving up her body, and she felt the head of his cock pressing against her ass, slick with the lube he'd used earlier. She tensed for a moment, the memory of his fingers there, his tongue, the stretch of him filling her, and then she forced herself to relax, to open for him.

"You want this too," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You want me in your ass. You want to be filled in both holes."

"Yes." The word was a whisper, but it was certain. "Yes, Marcus. I want it. I want all of you."

He pushed, and she felt the head of his cock breach her, the stretch sharp and burning and then impossibly good. She cried out, her hands fisting in the sheets, her body arching against him as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until he was seated fully inside her. She could feel him in her ass, could feel the plug in her cunt, both of them filling her at once, and the sensation was overwhelming, too much and not enough.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice wrecked. "You feel so good. So tight. So perfect."

He began to move, slow and deliberate, each thrust driving him deeper into her ass. She could feel the plug shifting inside her cunt with every movement, the two pressures working in tandem, and she was drowning in sensation, her mind blank, her body nothing but a vessel for him to fill.

"More," she managed, the word a broken plea. "Please, Marcus. I need more."

He gave her more. His pace quickened, his thrusts harder, deeper, each one driving her further into the mattress. She could feel herself stretching around him, could feel the plug in her cunt pressing against his cock through the thin wall of flesh between them, and the sensation was so intense she thought she might come apart.

"I'm close," he said, his voice strained. "I'm so close, Sofi."

"Come in me," she begged. "Come in my ass. Fill me up. I want to feel you flooding me, filling me until I'm dripping with you."

His rhythm stuttered, the careful control he'd held for so long fraying at the edges. She watched his face change, the strain around his eyes, the way his jaw went tight, and she knew he was holding on, waiting for her permission even now, even with his cock buried in her ass and the plug pressing against him from inside her cunt.

"Don't you dare hold back," she said, and her voice was steel wrapped in silk. "You wanted me full. Now fill me."

He drove into her one last time, seating himself to the root, and she felt him come—felt the hot pulse of him flooding her ass, felt the way his body shuddered against hers, felt the low, broken groan that tore out of his throat. She clutched him, her legs wrapped around his hips, her hands fisting in his hair, and she felt the heat of him spilling inside her, filling her, and still she wanted more.

When he finally pulled out, she felt the loss like a hole torn open in her. His cum spilled out of her, warm and thick, running down her thigh, and she reached down without thinking, pressing her fingers against her asshole, trying to hold it in. The plug was still in her cunt, a solid weight, but the other hole was empty now, gaping, and the emptiness was unbearable.

"No," she breathed. "No, Marcus. Put it back. Please."

He looked at her, his eyes dark and dazed, and for a moment she thought he might refuse. Then he reached for the other plug, the one he'd used on her ass earlier, and she watched him hold it up, the silicone slick with lube and her own juices. Her breath caught. She wanted it. She wanted to be filled in both holes, sealed shut, stuffed so full she couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't be anything but his.

"You want this?" he asked, and his voice was still wrecked, still rough, but there was a thread of satisfaction in it now. "You want me to plug you up like a good little thing, keep all my cum inside you?"

"Yes." The word was a sob. "Yes, Marcus. Please. I need it. I need to feel you inside me, all of you, forever."

He positioned the plug at her entrance, and she felt the pressure of it, the wide base stretching her in a way that was different from his cock. Then he pushed, and she cried out as the plug sank into her ass, filling the space he'd just vacated, the fullness returning with a vengeance. He pushed it in until the base was flush against her cheeks, and she could feel it sitting inside her, a solid, unyielding weight that made her feel impossibly stretched.

"There," he said, and his voice was thick with satisfaction. "Feel that? Feel how full you are now?"

She nodded, unable to speak. She could feel the plug in her ass, could feel the plug in her cunt, could feel his cum still leaking around both of them, warm and slick against her thighs. She was so full she thought she might burst, and yet there was still a hunger in her, a need for more that she couldn't name.

He shifted off the bed, and she heard the rustle of his movements, the click of a drawer opening. She watched him through half-lidded eyes, saw him return with something in his hand—a length of silk, dark and gleaming. He held it up, and she recognized it as a scarf, soft and expensive, the kind of thing a man bought for a woman he wanted to keep.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said, and his voice was low, measured, the voice of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. "You think you're full now? You think you've had enough?"

She shook her head, a wild, desperate motion. "No. I want more. I want everything."

He smiled, a slow, dark curve of his lips. "Good." He moved back onto the bed, settling between her legs, and she felt the weight of him above her, the heat of his skin against hers. He wrapped the silk around her wrists, binding them together, and she let him, her arms stretching above her head as he tied the ends to the headboard. She felt the restraint, the loss of control, and it made her cunt clench around the plug so hard she whimpered.

"You like that," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You like being tied up, being helpless, being at my mercy."

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, I like it. I like it so much, Marcus."

He kissed her, slow and deep, and she tasted herself on his lips again, tasted the salt of his skin and the musk of their sex. His hand found her throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of who was in control, and she moaned into his mouth, her hips rolling up to meet his. But the plugs held her, kept the cum inside her, and the fullness was maddening, a constant pressure that made her want to come undone.

"I'm going to fuck you again," he said, and his voice was rough, wrecked. "I'm going to fill you again, and again, until you're so full you can't move, can't think, can't do anything but lie here and take it."

"Yes," she said, the word a prayer. "Yes, Marcus. Do it. Fill me. Use me. I'm yours."

He moved down her body, his mouth trailing kisses along her ribs, her hip, her inner thigh. He pressed his face against the plug in her cunt, licking around the base, and she felt the vibration of his groan through her flesh. He pulled the plug out slowly, and she cried out at the loss, the emptiness yawning inside her. Then he pushed it back in, harder, and she felt it seat against her, full and unyielding.

"I want to taste you," he said, and his voice was thick. "I want to taste your cum mixed with mine."

He pulled the plug out again, and this time he brought it to his mouth, licking it clean, tasting her, tasting them. She watched him, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Then he pushed it back in, and she felt the fullness return, and she let out a sound that was half sob, half prayer.

"Please," she managed. "Marcus, please. I need you inside me. I need your cock. I need to feel you filling me again."

He moved up her body, and she felt the head of his cock pressing against the plug in her cunt, pushing it deeper, and she cried out at the pressure. He pulled the plug out, just enough, and then he was pushing into her, his cock sliding in alongside the plug, and she felt the impossible stretch, the fullness of both of them inside her at once.

"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, Marcus. That's—that's so much. I can't—"

"You can," he said, and his voice was a growl. "You can take it. You're made for it. You're made for me."

He began to move, slow and deliberate, each thrust driving the plug deeper into her, each pull back bringing it almost to the edge before he pushed it back in. She was drowning in sensation, her mind blank, her body nothing but a vessel for him to fill. She felt the pressure building, the heat coiling low in her belly, and she knew she was close, so close, and she didn't want it to end.

"I'm going to come," she breathed. "Marcus, I'm going to—"

"Come," he said, and his voice was a command. "Come for me, Sofi. Come on my cock and the plug. Come so hard you forget your own name."

She came, her body arching, her cunt clenching around him and the plug, her ass clenching around the other plug, and she cried out his name, a broken, desperate sound. He kept thrusting, driving her through it, and she felt a second wave building, and then a third, until she was coming so hard she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.

He came inside her again, his hips slamming against hers, and she felt the heat of him flooding her, mixing with his cum and hers, spilling around the plug. He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comfort, his breath hot against her neck, and she felt the silk around her wrists, the plugs inside her, the cum leaking out of her, and she was full, so full, and she was his.