Beyond Capacity

Pluto shoves me forward, and I stumble, landing hard on my hands and knees in the dust. The impact sends a fresh jolt of pain radiating from my core. Before I can even think to rise, his weight settles over me, his knees pinning my thighs apart as he straddles my ass. The position forces my hips up, presenting the aching, swollen flesh beneath my shorts to him.

One of his hands fists in my hair, pulling my head back, while the other finds the snaps at my crotch. I hear them pop open, one by one, each click a **** knell in the quiet desert. The dry air hits exposed skin, and I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for whatever comes next.

His hand stills for a moment, then I feel the rough pad of his thumb trace the swollen, protruding flesh of my prolapse. A low, considering sound rumbles in his chest. His fingers explore with a detached, clinical curiosity, tracing the length of the exposed tissue.

Then, without warning, his hand closes around it in a tight, possessive fist. He squeezes, the pressure a blinding, white-hot agony that steals my breath. A whimper escapes my throat. He gives a sharp, brutal yank, pulling the tender flesh taut before releasing it with a wet slap against my skin.

He doesn't push it back inside. Instead, his thick fingers hook around the swollen flesh, pulling it to the side, exposing my messy cunt. There's no preparation, no gentle touch. He guides himself with a single-minded focus, the broad, blunt head of his cock pressing against me. He shoves forward in one brutal, sheathing thrust, filling the empty, aching space Mercury had left.

The stretch is different, a deep, burning fullness that has me crying out into the dirt. He holds there, buried to the hilt, his body a heavy, immovable weight on top of mine. A shudder runs through him, a low groan of satisfaction vibrating against my back. Then he begins to move, a slow, relentless piston that claims what the other had lost.

His pace is not frantic, but it is devastatingly deep and hard. Each powerful drive of his hips stretches tissues already sore and abused, pushing them to a new, aching limit. He fucks with a possessive, rhythmic intensity, his hands gripping my hips to hold me still for his use. The loose, wet sound of our joining is loud in the quiet clearing, a stark counterpoint to the ragged gasps he pulls from my throat.

He takes his time, drawing out each stroke, letting me feel every inch of his claim. There is no tenderness in it, only a raw, physical dominance, a re-mapping of my body according to his will. The pain begins to blur into a strange, hollow ache, a sensation of being filled beyond capacity, stretched so thin I might tear.

His rhythm doesn't falter, it grows more deliberate, a deep, grinding possession under the vast, empty sky. Despite the pain and violation, a treacherous heat begins to uncoil low in my belly. It's a traitorous response, born of my own cursed nature, a hunger that awakens to the sheer, brutal **** of his taking. A slick warmth gathers between my legs, mingling with the mess already there, easing his passage.