The door crashed open with a violent crack that rattled the frame and slammed into the wall.
I barely had time to scream before they were on me.
Boots pounded against the floorboards.
Masks, black gloves, heavy breaths.
Hands …. too many hands — grabbing, wrenching, pulling me roughly from the couch onto the floor.

I fought.
I screamed.
I thrashed as hands pinned my wrists, dragged me up by the hair, forced me stumbling toward the bedroom.

They said nothing at first.
Only low grunts, snarled commands barked into the dark.
I heard belts unfastening, jeans dragging down thighs, the slick sound of skin being stroked, prepared.

The thin nightdress I wore was ripped open with brutal efficiency, leaving me exposed, shivering, naked under their heavy gazes.
Rough rope cinched around my wrists, tied tight to the headboard.
My legs were wrenched apart, pinned down against the bed, my whole body trembling as I was spread wide and helpless.

I sobbed.
Terror clawed at my throat.
Adrenaline burned through my veins like fire.
And beneath it all, filthy and beautiful, my pussy throbbed and dripped with shameful, desperate need.

One of them knelt between my spread thighs.
I felt his cock, hot and heavy, dragging through my soaked folds, gathering all the proof of my humiliation.
He teased me cruelly, slapping the thick head of his cock against my swollen clit, making me flinch and gasp.

Then, without warning, he thrust into me hard.

I screamed, the stretch burning, the wet slap of his hips against mine brutal and merciless.
He fucked me like I was nothing more than a hole to be used, pounding into me until the bedframe rattled against the wall.

Another man grabbed my hair, yanked my head back roughly, and shoved his cock between my lips.
I gagged, drool spilling down my chin as he used my mouth, thrusting deep into my throat without mercy.

Pinned, filled at both ends, used like a plaything.

I tried to pull away but the ropes held tight.
All I could do was take it.
Endure it.
Crave it.

The first man grunted as he emptied himself deep inside me, his cum leaking out before he was even finished.
Another took his place instantly, driving into my sloppy, ruined cunt without hesitation.

I was crying now.
Tears streaming down my cheeks, mixing with sweat and drool.
They ignored it.
They used me through it.
Their filthy words filled the air, snarling about how good my cunt felt, how tight I was, how desperate I sounded.

I was no longer a person to them.
I was a fucktoy.
A dripping, sobbing, soaking fucktoy pinned and ruined for their pleasure.

Through my tears, I caught a glimpse of him.

My Dom.
Standing at the foot of the bed, masked like the rest, silent, watchful.

My heart clenched.

He had made this happen.
He had promised me destruction, and he had delivered it.

I should have felt betrayed.
I should have felt fear.

But all I felt was love.
All I felt was pride.

I was giving him everything he asked for.
Everything he needed.
Everything he owned.

He approached, stepping between my spread legs.

“Hold her open,” he ordered.

Hands gripped my thighs, yanking them even wider, leaving me utterly, obscenely exposed.

He lined himself up against my dripping, leaking cunt and thrust inside with a brutal, savage force that knocked the air from my lungs.

I screamed again, sobbed again, but it was not from pain.

It was from the unbearable ecstasy of being filled by him.
By the one who owned me in every way that mattered.

He fucked me hard, hips slamming into mine, the wet slap of our bodies obscenely loud.
I felt another man shove his cock into my mouth again, choking me, stretching my throat wide.
I was filled, stuffed, completely helpless to resist the onslaught.

He growled above me, his cock pounding into my slick, overstretched hole with ruthless precision.
His hands grabbed my breasts, squeezing, slapping, marking me with his strength.

Another cock slid between my thighs alongside his, the stretch so intense I thought I would split open.
Tears streamed down my face, my body convulsing around them.

I lost track of time.
Of bodies.
Of how many times I was used, filled, emptied, and taken again.

All I knew was that I was his.
His to ruin.
His to rebuild.

When he finally grunted and spilled inside me, filling me so full it spilled out around his cock, I sobbed in relief.
But he was not finished.

He pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from my ruined hole, and then, with rough hands, flipped me onto my back.

“You think we are done, Princess” he growled, voice thick with hunger.

He gripped his cock, already hard again, slick with our combined mess, and slammed back into me.

I screamed, my body jerking against the sheets, but he grabbed my hips and pinned me down, using me, fucking me hard and deep, showing me I was still his.

The others touched me too, stroking my nipples, slapping my clit, whispering filth into my ears as he pounded into me.

I was gone.
Wrecked.
Broken.

And I had never been more whole.

---

The room slowly emptied.
Footsteps faded away.
Silence fell, heavy and fragile.

I lay there, trembling, sobbing quietly into the soaked sheets, wrists still bound loosely above my head.

The bed shifted.
Warm hands touched me — gentle now, reverent — and I flinched, not from fear, but from the overwhelming flood of sensation.

I heard the rope being untied.
Felt the brush of fingers checking my wrists, soothing the angry red marks.

He pulled me up against his chest, cradling me like something sacred.

The mask was gone.

I looked up through blurred, swollen eyes and found his face — raw, open, undone.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispered against my hair. “You did so well.”

I collapsed against him, too broken to speak, letting him rock me slowly, rubbing soft circles into my back as he whispered praise after praise into my ear.

When he lifted me and carried me into the bathroom, I clung to him.
I let him bathe me, warm water washing away the cum, the sweat, the tears.
His hands were tender, his kisses gentle, his love bleeding from every touch.

Later, curled up in his arms, wrapped in soft blankets and fading candlelight, he whispered filthy, sacred promises against my skin:

“Every mark on your skin is a promise. Every bruise, every ache, every ruined gasp a vow that you are mine.”

Always.
Forever.

His.