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The forest was quiet, the warm air heavy with the smell of damp earth and ripe fruit. Sandor grabbed her wrist before her fingers could close around the peach she had just washed in the stream.
The strength of his hand stopped her in her tracks, an anchor of flesh and bone that made the world shrink to that point of contact. She looked up, a silent question in her clear eyes, but he wasn't looking at her. His face, marked by fire and fury, was turned toward the thicket, the muscles of his jaw tight under his weathered skin.
"Don't move," he growled, the voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in the still air.
It was a voice that admitted no discussion. She felt her pulse quicken against the pressure of his fingers, not out of fear of him, but because of what that tension in his shoulders meant. Something or someone else was there.
"What's going on?" she whispered, letting the peach fall into the wicker basket between them.
Sandor didn't answer immediately. His eyes, gray and hard as flint, scoured the trees. He had been relaxed, almost sleepy, while she spread the blanket and unpacked her stupid picnic with those perfect fruits and that cheap wine he liked. She was wearing that dress, of course. One of those soft, light rags that clung to her curves when the breeze blew right, that let you see the shadow of her legs when she moved. He loved seeing her like that, a burst of softness and color against the brutality of the world, and at the same time it made him boil inside. It was a temptation, a weakness, a fucking illusion that refused to fade.
And now, something threatened that illusion.
A flash of movement among the oaks, thirty paces away. It wasn't an animal. Instinct, sharpened by decades of violence, screamed in his ear. A man. Lurking. Watching their clearing, their peace, her.
A wave of anger, black and bitter, rose in his throat. It was a familiar heat, an old friend. But this time it came mixed with something else, something sticky and possessive that squeezed his chest. Jealousy. The word disgusted him, but there it was, sour in his mouth.
"Sandor," she insisted, her voice a little louder.
"Shut up," he cut her off, and action followed words.
In one brusque movement, he pulled her back, passed an arm like an anvil around her waist, and sat her with her back to him on his lap. His own body, massive and covered in leather and steel, enveloped her completely. A sound of surprise escaped her, but his left hand, wide and scarred, closed over her mouth before she could form a word. Not with brutality, but with an absolute firmness that eliminated any possibility of protest.
"There," he whispered, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. His breath was hot, rough. "Among the ferns. Do you see it?"
She struggled, an instinct of confinement, but he only pressed her harder against his torso. The size difference was absurd. He could completely envelop her, break her with a careless gesture. And at that moment, with adrenaline pumping, he felt every one of those inches of advantage, every pound of muscle. He felt other things too.
His own arousal, hard and relentless, had risen against the fold of her ass, barely muffled by the layers of his clothes and the thin fabric of her dress. He pulled her even closer, making her buttocks sink against his crotch. A muffled moan vibrated against his palm.
Fucking hell, he thought, as a flashback crossed his mind like lightning. Her, months ago, at the door of his hut, with a bowl of that bland soup, blushing when he insulted her. Persisting. Always fucking persisting. Another memory: one day he was rude to her. Her face, normally lively, still and pale, her gaze downcast. The void left by her constant chatter was more deafening than any battle. It had hurt him. A deep, stupid pain he couldn't name.
And now she was here, in his arms, warm and lively, her heart hammering against his forearm. The contrast between her fragility and the fury that boiled in him was dizzying.
"He's getting closer," Sandor murmured, his eyes fixed on the dark spot among the vegetation that now moved clumsily. The idiot wasn't leaving. He had seen him. He was seeing this. The idea made the anger transform into something darker, more deliberate. An old grudge and an even older desire tangled in his chest.
His free right hand slid from her waist. Not gently. With possession. He felt the curve of her side, went up the arc of a rib until he found the full softness of her breast, covered by the fabric of the dress. Her small, perfect breast fit easily in his hand. He squeezed. It wasn't a caress. It was a claim.
She arched, an involuntary movement that rubbed her ass against his erection. Sandor held back a growl.
"Stop moving," he ordered her in a harsh whisper. But she didn't. She squirmed again, seeking that friction, and he could feel the heat of her ass through the fabric. Little shameless whore. She was at the mercy of a stranger, and yet her body responded.
His hand left her breast and went down, sliding over the fabric of the dress that had swirled around her thighs. He found the junction of her legs, the warm, soft pressure there. His fingers cupped over her sex, pressing the thin fabric of her panties against her slit. It was hot. Wet. The moisture was already soaking the fabric, a fact that made his own cock jump painfully.
"Sandor... wait," she gasped against his hand, her words muffled. "He... he can see us."
"That's the idea," he roared in her ear, and this time he didn't whisper. He let the sound, charged with rage and desire, filter through the trees. "Let that piece of shit see who you belong to. Let him see what happens when they look at what's mine."
His hand on her mouth adjusted, his calloused fingers pressing on her cheeks, not to hurt, but to control. To silence. He played with that control, squeezing a little more each time she made a sound. It was a dangerous game, and it set their blood on fire. He could feel her breath becoming faster, more shallow, against his skin.
With the other hand, he pushed her thighs apart. He wasn't gentle. He used his own leg as leverage, forcing her to open while she was sitting on his lap, exposing even more the place where his fingers pressed. The fabric of her panties, already soaked, stretched and sank into the fold of her lips with the pressure.
"Look how easy it is," he whispered, and now his voice had a mocking, resentful tone, coming from years of wanting and rejecting at the same time. "Look how small you are. I could turn you over and split you in two. I could shut you up once and for all. All this time... bringing me food. Talking non-stop. Those fucking tears."
Each accusation was a push of his fingers, the fabric of the panties rubbing against her swollen clit. She moaned, a long, trembling note of surrender that he felt in his whole body. His own hips pushed up involuntarily, his hard cock finding the hollow between her buttocks, craving more.
Flashback of Sandor; Her, laughing, with her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, healing a villager with sure hands. Her, defying him with her gaze when he said her compassion was stupid. Her, sleeping confidently next to him in a cave, so fragile that it scared him to breathe.
It was that fragility that drove him crazy. It made him hold back when everything in him screamed to seize, to break, to take. Now, with an enemy in the shadows, that restraint was cracking. He was taking it out on the world, on the stalker, on her, on himself, and the only language he had was this: physical, raw, possessive.
His middle finger found the soaked center of her panties and stopped there, applying firm, circular pressure. The fabric yielded, thin and elastic, but it was still a barrier. He could feel the cleft of her cunt underneath, hot and promising. He pushed, not to enter, but to mark. The fabric sank a little, dragged by the pressure of his finger, rubbing her outer lips.
"Are you going to let it?" he asked, his voice barely a thread of sound, but loaded with fierce intensity. "With him there watching? Are you going to let them see how you moan for me? How your little cunt gets wet for me to feel through this shitty fabric?"
She couldn't answer. Her body did it for her. She shuddered, a violent shake that ran through her back and was transmitted to his own body. Her head fell back, against his shoulder, and he felt how her eyelids closed through the trembling of her eyelashes against his neck. Her mouth, still covered by his hand, opened in a silent scream.
The sound of some branches breaking came from the ferns. The stalker, retreating. Scared. Or maybe too excited. Sandor didn't care. At that moment, only the woman trembling in his arms, the heat between her legs, and the rage that was slowly transforming into something deeper, more dangerous, mattered.
He let his hand slide from her mouth, going down to wrap her throat, not squeezing, but holding. Feeling the wild beat of her pulse there. His other finger continued its torturous circle, the fabric of the panties now clearly wet and hot, stuck to her skin.
"Look at him go," he growled, his lips on her temple. "Because he knows that if he takes one more step, I'll tear him apart. And this..." He pushed his finger harder, the fabric yielding another millimeter, "...this isn't for him. It never was."
The sound of crushed leaves was lost among the trees, followed by a charged silence. Sandor didn't relax his grip. His muscles, hard as bowstring, kept the woman immobilized against his torso. He could feel the wild beat of her heart through the thin dress, a frantic rhythm that synchronized with the fury that still boiled in his own veins.
"He's gone," he growled, his voice a harsh echo in the stillness. His breath, hot and fast, stirred the loose strands of her hair. "The coward is gone. But he already saw what he needed to see."
She tried to turn her head, but the hand that covered her mouth adjusted, his calloused fingers pressing firmly on her cheeks. A muffled sound, between question and complaint, vibrated against his palm.
"What's the matter, eh?" Sandor whispered, his mouth so close to her ear that his lips brushed her skin. His tone was low, mocking, loaded with a bitterness he knew well. "Are you scared that he's gone? Or are you scared that I have you like this, and now there's no one to pretend this isn't what you've always wanted?"
She shook her head, a minimal movement of denial. He let out a snort that wasn't laughter.
"You're lying." Slowly, he withdrew his hand from her mouth. In its place, his grip went down to her throat, not squeezing, but surrounding it, the base of his palm resting on her collarbone, his fingers anchored in the nape of her neck. A constant reminder of his size, of his control. With his other hand, he grabbed her chin, forcing her to keep her head up, looking toward the empty clearing. "Look at them. There's no one. Just you and me. And all that shit you carry inside."
"Sandor, no..." Her voice was a thread, trembling.
"No what?" He interrupted her, the growl deeper. "Don't tell me the truth? Don't admit that you've been following me for months, years, like a bitch in heat? With your stupid picnics and your pretty dresses." His thumb passed over her lower lip, a gesture that was meant to be dismissive but stopped a moment too long. "I thought you were an naive kid. A girl playing at being a healer. But here you are. Trembling. But not from fear."
To prove it, his hand left her chin and went down. He grabbed the hem of her dress, that soft, clear fabric he both hated and craved, and lifted it with a jolt. The cool air of the forest brushed her thighs. Sandor held his breath.
Her panties, of simple, thin cotton, were soaked. A dark oval of moisture spread in the center, stuck to her lips, outlining them with an obscene frankness. The fabric became transparent where the liquid saturated it, showing the curly hair and the hidden cleft underneath.
"Gods," he spat, and the word sounded like a blow. Flashback: Her crying silently, cleaning her healing tools, her shoulders slumped after he told her her compassion was a stupid weakness. The sharp, senseless pain that pierced him when he saw a tear fall. He wanted to stop her. He didn't. "Look at this. Look at it."
She moaned, trying to close her legs, but her own position sitting on his lap and his leg that kept them open prevented her. "Please..."
"Please what?" His right hand rested on the wet cotton, completely covering her sex. The heat emanating from it was intense, animal. He squeezed, and a low, wet squelch filtered through. She shuddered violently. "Stop? No. I want to feel to what extent those eyes of yours lied to me. All that insistence on helping me, on talking to me... was it just for this? To have my cock near your soaked cunt?"
"It's not like that," she gasped, but her body arched toward his hand.
"Of course not." His sarcasm was a sharp blade. With expert fingers, clumsy only in appearance, he found the elastic edge of her panties. He slipped underneath. The skin of her lower belly was soft as silk, a brutal contrast to his scarred hands. She held back a scream when his fingers found, directly, the swollen and hot lips of her sex.
She was soaked. Sandor's fingers slid effortlessly between her folds, picking up the thick moisture. Schlick. The sound was shameful, intimate, and made his cock throb with a painful need. His middle finger located the small hard knot of her clit, swollen and throbbing. He stopped there, applying firm, circular pressure.
"There it is," he murmured, his voice now hoarse, losing part of the mockery to become something darker, more amazed. "The proof. It turns you on that I control you. That I put you in your place. That that poor bastard saw us and knew you're mine."
"Sandor... I can't..." Her words broke when he increased the speed of his circles. Her breathing became an irregular gasp, her head falling back against his shoulder. He could feel the contractions inside, the muscles of her channel clenching around nothing, wanting to be filled.
"Of course you can," he corrected, and his tone changed again, sliding toward something dangerously close to admiration. "You're a good girl for me, aren't you? Take everything I give you. Look what a perfect cunt you have... so tight and wet. Made to be used." The words of praise, interspersed with the crudeness, made her let out a louder moan, her hips pushing uncontrollably against his hand.
It was too much. Sandor's restraint, that constant struggle against himself, cracked with an audible sound. With brusque movements, he used his free hand to unfasten his belt and lower his thick leather pants enough. His erection, freed, jumped out, thick and heavy.
It was a massive penis, like the rest of him. Long and very thick, with a stretch of prominent veins that throbbed along the shaft. The head, wide and dark red, peeked out from under the foreskin, shining with a drop of pre-cum. An animal of flesh and need that exactly reflected the mind of the man who possessed it.
He didn't penetrate her. Instead, he pulled her body, moving his wet hand out of her panties to grab her hip. He guided his cock toward the place where his finger had been. The head, enormous, found the soaked bulge of her panties and stopped there, pressing against the thin cotton that separated her skin from hers. He pushed her back, using his weight to keep her still, and placed the tip right in her cleft.
A deep, guttural moan vibrated in Sandor's chest. Gods. She was on fire. Wet as a spring. He could feel her outer lips, swollen and sensitive, caressing the glans.
He didn't enter. He stopped there, breathing hard, sweat coming out of his temples. He played with control, rubbing the head up and down her slit, picking up the moisture that flowed from her, spreading it. A wet, low sound accompanied each movement: schlick... schlack...
"Feel it?" He breathed heavily, "Feel what you want? What you've been looking for with all your healer games and your silly conversations."
She nodded, breathless, her glassy eyes fixed on nothing. "Yes..."
"Then take it." He pushed forward.
The fabric of the panties, already tense and saturated, yielded under the pressure of the head of his penis. It didn't break, but stretched, sinking into the fold of her lips and dragging them with it. It was a strange, intense sensation; the fabric formed a second tight skin around his glans, rubbing both him and her through the barrier. A low, wet thwup marked the advance of a millimeter.
She screamed, a sound of surprise and overwhelming pleasure torn from her. The pressure against her clit, amplified by the fabric and his relentless thickness, was overwhelming.
Sandor growled, his hips pumping in small, short thrusts, each one gaining a little more ground against the elastic resistance. The fabric became hotter, stickier, soaked by her juices and his pre-cum. He could feel the outline of her lips, the opening of her channel just below, so close but still not penetrated. Frustration and ecstasy intertwined.
"Like that," he gasped in her ear, the dirty talk now flowing like a torrent of resentment and desire. "Trembling for me. Moaning for me. And for what? Because a man looked at you and I claimed you. You're that easy, huh? A little needy whore who just wants to be filled."
His words, hard and degrading, seemed to shoot directly to her center. Her vaginal muscles spasmed violently around the fabric and the tip of his penis. A new flow of hot moisture soaked the cotton even more.
"You're going to come!" He declared it as an accusation, squeezing her neck a little more, not to cut off air, but to make her aware of every gasp. "With your panties on? With my cock pushing like an animal against your little cunt? Let yourself go. Let me see how dirty you are."
It was the final order. Her body, already on the edge, broke. A violent tremor ran through her from head to toe, her legs stretched out and then cramped, her fingers clung to the steel arm that surrounded her. A long, torn cry came out of her throat, a sound of pure surrender. Sandor felt how her cunt throbbed and contracted again and again against the fabric and the head of his penis, bathing him in a warm wave.
He looked at her as she came, her beautiful face distorted by pleasure, her eyes closed, tears appearing in the corners. Flashback: Her sad face, her head down. Never again. A wave of something that wasn't fury invaded him. Something more dangerous.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice now unexpectedly soft, harsh with emotion. "My good girl."
The sound of crushed leaves was lost among the trees, followed by a charged silence. Sandor didn't relax his grip. His muscles, hard as bowstring, kept the woman immobilized against his torso. He could feel the wild beat of her heart through the thin dress, a frantic rhythm that synchronized with the fury that still boiled in his own veins.
His hand, wide and scarred, didn't stop after the last tremor of her orgasm faded among the trees. He felt her, small and exhausted, sunk against his chest, her breathing still ragged. The heat between them was a palpable mist, charged with the smell of sex, of earth, and of the moisture of her torn panties.
He didn't say anything for a long moment. He was watching the nape of her neck, the delicate line of her gathered hair now undone, the dark strands stuck to the sweaty skin of her neck. Flashback: That same nape, bent over a bowl of herbs, concentrated. Then, crouched in silence, picking up his things the day he made her cry. A muscle in his jaw tensed.
With a movement that wasn't gentle, but wasn't brutal either, he slid the hand he had on her throat to grab her hip. With the other, still stained with her moisture, he grabbed the soaked edge of her panties.
"This is done," he growled, his voice hoarse with contained tension.
A dry, sharp rrriip cut the silence. The thin cotton fabric, already weakened by moisture and tension, yielded under his fingers as if it were nothing. He tore it with a yank, from the side seam to the waist elastic, leaving exposed the curly pubic mound and the swollen, shiny lips of her sex, now completely exposed to the cool air of the forest and his gaze.
She let out a muffled sound, a cross between surprise and protest, at feeling the sudden change. The torn fabric now hung in useless shreds from her thigh, most of it ripped off and abandoned in the grass.
"Sandor... the panties..."
"Shut up," he cut her off, but his tone had changed. It was no longer the jealous fury of the beginning. It was something denser, more loaded with intention. A dangerous calm. His cock, still hard as iron and shining with a mixture of her juices and his pre-cum, throbbed against the bare skin of her buttock.
Without letting her go, he moved.
It wasn't a gentle movement. He used his weight and his strength to lift her from his lap as if she weighed less than a sack of flour. She groaned, her legs weak from the recent orgasm, staggering. He didn't give her time to regain her balance. He pushed her forward, against the rough trunk of an old oak that was two steps away. The impact made her gasp, the air coming out of her lungs. The rough bark bit the thin fabric of her dress on her back.
He pressed her against the tree with his whole body, his forehead against the wood, her arms trapped at her sides by the cage of his arms. His mass enveloped her, crushed her. The size difference was, as always, overwhelming. He could see how her small shoulders shrank, how her spine curved under his weight.
His hand went back to her mouth, covering it, but this time not from the forehead. He placed himself at her side, his body aligned with hers, and brought his hand to her face, squeezing again. "Be still," he whispered, his mouth in the only ear that wasn't against the tree. His breath burned. "Now yes. No witnesses. No games."
With his other hand, he grabbed her right thigh. His fingers sank into the soft flesh, lifting it with an effort that didn't show on him. He bent her leg, opening it, and hooked it around his own hip, brutally exposing her. The position was vulnerable, obscene. One foot on the ground, the other in the air, her sex open and accessible to him.
He adjusted himself, pushing his thick leather pants down a little more. His erection, imposing, sought the place. The head, wide and dark red, found the soaked entrance of her cunt. There was no fabric to mediate now. Only skin against skin, heat against heat. He pushed her back, using his weight to keep her still, and placed the tip right in her cleft.
A deep, guttural moan vibrated in Sandor's chest. Gods. She was on fire. Wet as a spring. He could feel her outer lips, swollen and sensitive, caressing the glans.
He didn't enter. He stopped there, breathing hard, sweat coming out of his temples. He played with control, rubbing the head up and down her slit, picking up the moisture that flowed from her, spreading it. A wet, low sound accompanied each movement: schlick... schlack...
"Look where you are," he murmured against her ear, and now his voice had a strange tone, mocking but tense, as if he were fighting something inside himself. "Against a tree. With your panties torn. And my cock about to burst that little cunt that's made me suffer so much."
She tried to move her head, a weak gesture of denial, but he had her immobilized.
"Ah, no," he continued, rubbing a little more firmly, making her shudder. "You remember, right? Of all those times you talked. About the children. About wanting a family." A growl escaped his lips, devoid of humor. "I told you no. That I didn't want kids. That I wasn't going to bring another broken beast like me into the world."
Flashback of Sandor; The hut, at sunset. Her, with a cup of tea in her hands, talking softly about a future he believed impossible. "You could be a great father, Sandor. You're not what you think." He had laughed, a harsh, cruel laugh. "Me? A father? The only thing I know how to do is break things, woman. Including people." The pain in her eyes, quick and well hidden, had given him a sharp blow in the stomach.
Now, with the tip of his penis about to violate that same woman who believed in fantasies, the memory tasted like ashes.
"But you," he whispered, and now the mockery mixed with something bitter, "you kept dreaming. With your little house. Your garden. Your baby." He pushed forward, only an inch. The huge head made its way between her outer lips, stretching them. A muffled, intense scream was drowned against his palm. He felt the incredible tightness, the heat that enveloped him, the internal muscles throbbing around just the tip. Fucking hell.
"Maybe," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh murmur, loaded with enormous crudeness, "maybe I should give you what you want. Huh?" Another push, slow, relentless. Another inch of his thickness disappeared inside her, stretching her, filling her in a way that made her arch and moan uncontrollably. "Maybe I should leave you pregnant right now. Against this tree. With the marks of the bark on your back and my milk in your belly."
Her eyes opened wide, visible to him at his angle. It wasn't fear. It was surprise. A total shock, as if she had just received an unexpected blow. He saw the flash of understanding, of an old and buried desire that came to light under the crudeness of his words. She did want that. She had said it. And now he, the one who denied it, was offering it in the most brutal language possible.
The idea terrified him. It excited him to madness. The responsibility, the danger, the permanence of it made his cock give a painful jump inside her tight channel.
"So you wouldn't have to keep dreaming," he added, his tone now a mixture of contempt and something that could be... pity? No. It was darker. "You'd have your baby. Half Clegane. Destined for a shitty life. But it would be yours. Is that what you wanted all this time, healer? My seed?"
She couldn't speak. Her tears, this time not of sadness but of an overwhelming storm of emotions, flowed silently and hotly, wetting the fingers of him that covered her mouth. Her body, however, spoke for her. Her hips pushed back, a fraction of an inch, seeking more of him. An involuntary, instinctive movement of acceptance.
Sandor growled, a cornered beast by his own desire. His control, that constant struggle, was cracking. He lowered his hand from her mouth, sliding it to grab her chin, forcing her to turn her head enough for their lips to be close to hers.
"Ask me for it," he roared, his breath mingling with hers. His cock withdrew almost completely, only the wide, purple head remaining at the entrance, shining and soaked. "If you really want me to fill you, to leave you swollen with my cum, say it. Ask me to give you a baby."
The silence after his demand was absolute, broken only by her ragged breathing and the roar of blood in Sandor's ears. His words—ask me to give you a baby—hung in the humid air of the forest like a spell, a curse, a promise.
Her eyes, overflowing with tears, fixed on his. The surprise still throbbed in her gaze, but now it mixed with a new shine, of deep and reckless acceptance. Her lower lip trembled. Sandor could feel the unbearable heat of her cunt around the tip of his penis, that wet embrace that called him inward, toward madness.
"Yes," she gasped, the word coming out like a broken sigh. "Yes, Sandor. Fill me."
It wasn't a scream. It was a clear surrender. And it was all he needed for the last wall of restraint to crumble.
A guttural roar tore from his chest. His hand on her chin tensed, and then moved. Instead of keeping her still, he turned her. He used his brute strength to twist her body against the tree, until her back hit the bark and he could see her face head on. Her eyes were glassy, her mouth half open, tears marking clean paths on her dirty cheeks.
"You wanted to see me," he roared, his voice loaded with a fury that was no longer just jealousy, but the storm of everything repressed. "Well look at me. Look at me while I fuck you and leave you with my child in your belly."
With a brutal movement, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her. Her legs, one still hooked on his hip, opened more due to the change of position. He adjusted her, pressing her back against the oak, and then, without further preamble, pushed.
This time there was no deliberate slowness, no control game. It was a deep charge, a single movement of his powerful hips that buried his cock, at once, to the bottom of her.
A dry, wet sound—schlump—accompanied the penetration. Her scream was muffled, cut off by the impact of the air that expelled her from her lungs. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth opened in a silent 'O' of shock and overwhelming pleasure. Sandor felt how her cunt stretched around his thickness, adjusting to him in a way that seemed impossible, so tight and hot that it made him see stars. The head of his penis hit a soft, resistant bottom—her cervix—and a brutal shiver ran through him.
"Aaah, God...!" she shouted, when she finally recovered her breath.
He didn't give her respite. Each movement of his hips was an affirmation, a conquest of that small body that was crushed against the bark of the tree with a dull, wet thud. He pulled out his cock almost completely, until only the wide, purple head peeked out between her outer lips, shiny and soaked with her own juices, and then he sank it again, slowly, relentlessly, to the bottom. Schlick. Thwap.
"Like that," he gasped, his hot, harsh breath against her cheek. His gray eyes, like flint, drilled into her. "That's how you wanted it, right? Here. In the fucking forest, with the smell of rotten earth and your fresh cunt in the air." He pushed again, deep, feeling how her internal muscles clung to his shaft like a fist of hot, viscous silk. "My baby." Smack. "In your belly." Smack. "I'm going to raise her here, among the wolves and the mud." Smack. "I'm going to teach her to be strong. To be a fucking beast, like her father."
His words were a whip, mixing with the wet sound of their unions. Her thin dress of worn cotton, was wrinkled around her waist, the fabric stained with earth and moss. Her bare back rubbed against the rough bark with each charge, a distant sensation of pain that was lost in the maelstrom of pleasure that shook her belly.
She couldn't form words, only moans. A sharp, broken sound that rose from her throat every time he filled her completely. Her hands, which before hung inert, now clung to the thick arms that held her, her thin fingers sinking into the hard leather of his guards.
"S-Sandor... it's... it's too much," she managed to articulate, her voice a hoarse whisper.
A twisted smile, loaded with bitterness and triumph, crossed his face marked by the fire. "Too much? Of course it's too much. It's me." He lowered his head and sank his teeth into the fleshy curve of her neck, not to break the skin, but to leave a mark, a bruise that declared ownership. She screamed, a short, sharp sound, and her body arched violently toward him, her small breasts crushing against his chest. "You're going to be left with my mark on the outside," he muttered against her skin, his tongue licking the imprint of his teeth. "And on the inside. Full of my milk."
The rhythm intensified. His hips began to move with a brutal power, losing the long cadence for a series of short, fast thrusts that kept his cock buried in the deepest part of her. Thwap-thwap-thwap. The tree creaked. The sound of their skins colliding mixed with their gasps, with the dripping of their mixed fluids falling on the dry leaves of the ground.
"Ask me again," he demanded, his voice a hoarse growl. He moved his mouth away from her neck to look at her fixedly. His cock throbbed inside her, so swollen and sensitive that each beat felt like a hammer blow in her entrails. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to fill this girl. Are you a woman already? Does that cunt bleed between your legs already?"
His words were an ice dagger wrapped in fire. The cruelty in his words, made a shiver run down her spine, but not from fear. From something more complex, dirtier. A deeper heat ignited in her lower belly.
"Answer me!" he roared, stopping his thrusts for an instant, keeping her impaled, full, on the edge. His cock pulsed inside her, a massive and undeniable presence.
She opened her eyes. The initial fear, the doubt, had vanished. Only remained a voracious acceptance, a desire so pure that it burned. She looked at him directly, her eyes shining with tears of effort and ecstasy. "Yes," she gasped. "Yes, I already bleed... I'm your woman. Please... please, Sandor. Give it to me. Fill me. I want to feel you come inside me. I want your baby."
It was the spark that ignited the gunpowder.
A guttural roar tore his throat. His arms, already strong, squeezed her with a ferocity that made her lose her breath. He enveloped her completely, as if he wanted to melt her against his chest, break her and rebuild her in his image. His hips lost all control. They became a wild piston, pumping inward with a blind fury, keeping his cock nailed in the maximum depth of her channel.
"Take it, girl!" he shouted, and the world exploded in a white, hot sensation.
The first wave was a torrent of liquid fire. Sandor felt how his cock turned to stone, how the skin of the thick shaft stretched even more with the internal pressure. The ejaculation was not a jet, it was a flood. A powerful and thick discharge that flowed from his urethra in violent pulses, filling the tight space that enveloped him. He felt how his own seed, hot and sticky, pushed against the walls of her cunt, forcing its way in, to occupy every nook and cranny.
She screamed, a long, torn sound that came from the deepest part of her lungs. Her body shook in an orgasm so violent that her legs, tangled around his hips, trembled like leaves. The muscles of her interior convulsed around his cock, rapid and strong spasms that squeezed and released, milking every last drop of his cum with an instinctive avidity.
Sandor continued pumping, pouring without stopping. He could feel it. He could feel how her belly, before flat and tense under the pressure of her muscles, began to change. A new fullness, a soft but noticeable bulge, formed just below her navel. His cum was so voluminous, so thick, that it no longer fit inside her. The excess began to filter, hot and thick, between their joined pelvises, forming a sticky puddle that dripped down her inner thighs and stained the wrinkled dress.
"Look at yourself," he gasped, his voice hoarse and broken by the effort. With one arm still around her waist, he used his other hand to press firmly just above her pubis. His big fingers sank into the soft flesh, and a audible glup, wet and obscene, resonated between them. A new trickle of white, milky semen sprouted from where their bodies joined. "You're already full. Swollen with my milk. Do you see? You're already pregnant with me. It shows."
She looked down, her glassy eyes. The bulge was real. Her belly, always so small, now showed a smooth, distended curve. The heat that radiated from her interior was scorching. A short, convulsive hiccup came out of her chest, a mixture of disbelief, pain and a pleasure so deep that it bordered on agony.
Sandor didn't move. He remained inside her, his cock still semi-erect and throbbing, keeping the plug of flesh that prevented the torrent inside her from escaping completely. He was panting, his forehead resting against the tree next to her head, the cold sweat of the afternoon mixing with the heat of their bodies.
"You're going to regret this, little girl," he murmured, his voice now low, almost tired. The tone from before, of fury and possession, had given way to something more somber. "When winter comes and your dress doesn't close. When you feel it kicking inside you. When you look at the creature in the eyes and see my face, my mark... you're going to regret having insisted so much. Having left that damn cake at my door. Having rubbed yourself against me like a bitch in heat every time I passed."
She didn't answer. She just squeezed her eyes shut, feeling how the hot liquid inside her settled, how her sensitive and overloaded uterus seemed to shrink around the warm mass. A small, convulsive hiccup shook her shoulders.
"Are you happy now?" he asked, and for the first time, there was something that sounded genuinely like a question in his voice. Not rhetorical. He needed to know. "Is this what you wanted? A son of a monster, conceived against a tree like a beast?"
She opened her eyes. The tears finally overflowed, cleaning furrows in the dust and sweat of her cheeks. But when she spoke, her voice, although weak, didn't waver.
"Yes."
The warmth of his semen inside her was a palpable sensation, a thick, living presence that filled her to the brim. Sandor remained still for a long moment, his forehead resting against the bark of the tree, his breathing still agitated. He could feel the slow, hot dripping that escaped from their union, an unstoppable leak that stained her inner thighs and the wrinkled thin dress.
She could barely think. Her body was a whirlwind of sensations: the dull pain in her back from the bark, the burning in her neck where he had bitten her, the overwhelming sensation of being full in a way she had never experienced before. And, above all, a deep and reckless happiness that made her smile against the leather of his guard.
"Sandor," she murmured, her voice hoarse from the screams.
He grunted in response, a sound that seemed to come from very deep inside. Slowly, as if it cost him a titanic effort, he withdrew his cock from her interior. The sound was wet, a low schlorp followed by a small, more audible trickle of thick liquid that fell on the dry leaves of the ground. She moaned at the emptiness, the instant sensation of loss.
Without saying a word, Sandor lowered her. Her legs faltered, unable to sustain her, and she clung to his arms not to fall. He held her, his big hands wrapping her elbows, keeping her standing in front of him. His gray eyes, now clouded by the effort and something else, scoured her face, then went down to her belly, to the mixture of fluids that shone between her legs.
"Come on," he said finally, his voice harsh but devoid of the fury from before.
"Where to?" she asked, her mind still in the fog of pleasure and promise.
"To the stream. To clean you up."
The words shook her like a bucket of cold water. Clean you up. Rejection immediately sprouted, instinctive and fierce.
"No," she said, gritting her teeth. She tried to step back, but her legs gave way and he held her more firmly. "I don't want to."
He looked at her fixedly, an eyebrow raised in an expression she knew well: disbelief mixed with annoyance. "You're a mess. And you smell like sex and forest. Come on, girl"
"No!" This time her voice was louder. She freed herself from his grip, staggering, and managed to stay on her feet by her own effort. She crossed her arms over her chest, a childish and defiant gesture. "I'm not going to clean myself. Leave it there."
He blinked, as if he didn't understand the language. "What?"
"Your seed," she said, and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but she kept her gaze. "I want it to stay. It has to stay."
Slow and dark understanding settled in Sandor's eyes. His expression hardened, but not with anger. It was something more complex: alarm, maybe, or a brutal conflict. "That's a stupid idea," he growled, but his tone wasn't convincing. "It doesn't work like that."
"And what do you know?" she retorted, her stubbornness growing with every word. It was the same stubbornness that had made her follow him for months, the one that made her prepare picnics that he pretended to disdain. "I want to secure it. Every drop."
Sandor took a step toward her, and the size difference became more overwhelming than ever. From below, she could see how the marked jaw tensed, how the muscles of his neck corded. "You're going to get sick," he said, but it was a poor excuse and they both knew it.
"I'm a healer," she replied, with a hint of her old pride. "I know what I'm doing. And what I want." She lowered her gaze to her own belly, then raised it again to challenge him. "I asked for it. You gave it to me. Now it's mine. Don't touch it."
He let out a frustrated sound, a low growl that was lost in his chest. His hand went up, not to hit, but as if he were going to grab her. He stopped halfway, his fingers trembling.
"You're impossible," he spat, but there was a surrender in his voice. "A stubborn, stubborn and..."
"And yours," she finished for him, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You said it. On the outside and on the inside. Well let it stay inside, Sandor."
The mention of his own words seemed to hit him. He stepped back half a step, looking at her as if she were a strange and dangerous animal. She took advantage of the moment. With clumsy but determined movements, she crouched down—a difficult task with her legs so weak—and picked up what was left of her torn panties. She crumpled them in her hand, feeling the moisture of both, and then brought them to her nose, inhaling deeply, without breaking eye contact.
The action was so obscene, so deliberately crude, that Sandor held his breath. His eyes widened a fraction.
"Look what you did to me," she murmured, showing him the soaked fabric. "And what you gave me. I'm not going to wash this. Or what's inside."
"Woman..." he warned, but the word lacked force.
She straightened up, throwing the torn panties aside. She approached him, ignoring the pain and weakness. Her head barely reached his chest. She raised a hand and placed it on his forearm, over the hard leather and the scars underneath.
"Take me wherever," she said, her tone changing from rebellious to pleading. "But not to the stream. Please."
Sandor looked at her small hand on his arm. He looked at her in the eyes, at that mixture of dried tears, stubbornness and a hope so fragile that it broke something inside him. A wave of something similar to panic ran through him. He had acted out of fury, out of jealousy, out of a bestial desire that overwhelmed him. He had said things, done things, that he couldn't undo. And now she, instead of getting scared or regretting it, clung to the consequences like a treasure.
"You're crazy," he whispered, but his big hand rested on hers, covering it completely. His skin was hot, rough. "Completely crazy."
She nodded, a trembling smile appearing on her lips. "Yes. For you."
He closed his eyes for a second, as if looking for strength. When he opened them, the decision was made. With a fluid movement that still surprised her, he crouched down and lifted her in his arms, as he had done before, but this time with a different cadence. It wasn't a wild possession, but a practical lift, almost... careful. One of his hands closed under her knees, the other around her back, avoiding the painful area where the bark had hurt her.
She let out a small cry of surprise and then sank against his chest, her cheek against the leather. He smelled of sweat, of iron, of him. And of her.
"Not to the stream," he growled, starting to walk with long, firm steps that barely altered his weight. "But I'm not going to carry you like this to the hut smelling like a freshly fucked whore. There's a puddle further up, where the water is almost stagnant. I'll clean you up just enough."
She wanted to protest again, but the tone of his voice didn't allow for discussion. Besides, being in his arms like that, after everything, was a victory in itself. She limited herself to curling an arm around his neck and clinging.
"Just enough," she repeated, burying her nose in his neck. "But don't touch anything inside."
Sandor didn't answer. He just gritted his teeth and kept walking, going deeper into the forest, away from the oak that guarded the secret of their mutual surrender.