He doesn't have a choice

He shoved me through the locker room door, the scent of stale sweat, chlorine, and teenage angst hitting me like a physical blow. He kicked the door shut behind us, the sound echoing ominously in the sudden, oppressive silence. We were alone. Trapped. He pushed me up against a row of cold, metal lockers, his body pressing against mine, his erection, thick and hard, grinding against my thigh through our clothes. His mouth crashed down onto mine, a brutal, bruising kiss that tasted of stale beer and triumph. I whimpered, trying to turn my head away, but his hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back, forcing me to submit.

And then... the curse took over. Completely. The last vestiges of Ethan Riley’s resistance, his horror, his disgust, were simply... erased. Swallowed by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated, programmed lust. My body, no longer fighting, melted against his. My lips, moments ago trying to evade his ****, parted, softened, began to kiss him back with a ****, hungry urgency. My hands, instead of pushing him away, snaked around his neck, pulling him closer.

“That’s more like it, slut,” Marcus growled against my mouth, sensing the shift, the surrender. He ripped my hoodie off over my head, exposing my large, heavy breasts, straining against the flimsy fabric of a sports bra Liam had managed to find for me. Marcus groaned, his eyes devouring them. He tore the sports bra away, his rough hands closing over my bare flesh, squeezing, kneading, his thumbs finding my already pebble-hard nipples, rolling them, pinching them until I screamed, a sound that was no longer fear, but pure, unadulterated, cursed pleasure.

He pushed me towards the showers, the cold tiles a shock against my bare feet. He turned on one of the taps, a weak stream of lukewarm water sputtering out. Then, he started stripping off his own clothes, his eyes never leaving mine, a look of smug, possessive triumph on his face. I watched him, my body trembling, my pussy aching, my mind a blank slate, wiped clean of everything but a single, screaming imperative: Need. Want. Submit.

He was fully naked now, his erection jutting proudly before him, thick and veined. He grabbed me, spinning me around, pushing me face first against the cold, tiled shower wall, my cheek pressed against the damp grout. He spread my legs, his hands rough on my thighs.

“You’ve wanted this, haven’t you, Riley?” he snarled in my ear, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine. “Wanted a real man to show you what you’re good for. Wanted to be bent over and fucked like the little bitch you’ve become.”

“Yes... please... Marcus...” I heard myself whimper, the words automatic, programmed, yet undeniably, terrifyingly, reflecting the ****, aching need coursing through my veins. My ass, round and full and undeniably female now, instinctively pushed back against him, inviting him, begging him.

He entered me then, a single, brutal, unprepared thrust that ripped a scream from my throat. He was big. Bigger than Liam. Bigger than the delivery driver. He filled me completely, stretching me, tearing me. The initial pain was sharp, intense, but it was instantly swallowed by a wave of overwhelming, cursed pleasure. My body arched against the wall, my pussy clenching around him, milking him, drawing him deeper. He began to fuck me, his rhythm hard, fast, relentless. He didn’t speak, just grunted with exertion, his hips slamming against my ass with a **** that made my teeth rattle. His hands gripped my hips, bruising them, holding me in place as he pounded into me, using me, owning me.

And I... I loved it. Every degrading second. Every painful thrust. Every humiliating grunt. The curse had completely rewired my brain, transforming me into a mindless vessel of depraved, submissive desire. My own moans mingled with his grunts, a symphony of violation and unwilling, undeniable ecstasy. I screamed his name, begged him to go harder, faster, deeper, reveling in the pain, the pleasure, the utter, abject surrender. He flipped me around, pushing me onto my knees on the cold, wet shower floor, my face pressed against the grimy tiles. He took me from behind again, his thrusts even more brutal now, more animalistic. He pulled my hair, yanking my head back, forcing me to look up at him, to see the look of cruel, triumphant satisfaction on his face as he used me, as he broke me. My orgasm, when it finally came, was a cataclysmic explosion, a shattering of self, so intense it felt like my very soul was being ripped from my body. I screamed, a raw, animalistic sound, my body convulsing violently around his cock, my vision whiting out. He roared his own release moments later, collapsing on top of me, his weight pinning me to the cold, wet floor.

We lay there for a long time, tangled together, the lukewarm water still sputtering from the showerhead, washing away the sweat, the semen, the shame. Or rather, what should have been shame. But all I felt, in the hazy, blissed-out aftermath, was a strange, profound sense of... emptiness. Completion. Like a program that had successfully run its course. Marcus stirred, rolling off me with a grunt. He didn’t say anything. Just stood up, grabbed a towel, and began to dry himself, his back to me. He didn’t offer me a towel. Didn’t even look at me. I was just... a used object. A conquered territory.