Taken by the Russian

Just another reason I must put my child in her womb. Now. I need it to be known by all that the angel is claimed. Provided for. That another man owns the place between her thighs. When she appeared on the staircase in that tease of white fabric, my pulse began rapping against the inside of my skull. Fuck her. Breed her. The impulse only grows louder, more persistent, every second she’s mine. It will never end. Never. My obsession is permanent.

The squelching sounds of my cock battering her pussy fill the room, almost drowning out the priest as he speeds through the ceremony. This is not how I pictured our wedding ceremony, but when she gripped my pulsing dick and asked for cum in that innocent voice, animal instinct took over. Even now, my love for Anya is demanding I marry her in the manner she deserves. But I’m addicted to her. Every pump of my cock is like entering heaven, her taut ass cheeks vibrating with each thrust against my belly.

“You’re going to be like fucking a virgin every time, aren’t you?” I burrow my mouth in her hair, breathing her scent, wishing I could bathe in it. In her. “Except you’re a horny little virgin who likes to challenge her man. Do you like where it gets you?”

“I l – like you inside me,” she murmurs brokenly. “It feels so good.”

“Nyet, Anya. You love it.” I wrap a hand around her throat and squeeze, noting when her pussy responds in kind. “None of this ‘like’ bullshit.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Her back arches, lifting her ass. “I love it.”

A growl of triumph passes my lips. Need is a monster inside me, and there’s only one name, one person who can soothe it. Anya. Anya. My cock pounds in her soft flesh, demanding ownership. And she gives it, spreading her legs as wide as the couch will allow. Good, little girl. Her high, pointed tits have bounced free of the white nightgown and jiggle on either side of her, slender fingers clutching at the couch cushions. Shit. How many nights did I stroke off to the image of fucking Anya doggy – style? Still didn’t know she’d be this sweet, this tight, this everything. My everything.

Except my wife. Not yet.

“Read faster, priest,” I grit out, checking to make sure his back is still turned. It would be a pity to murder a man of God. “Make her my wife while I make her a mother.”

The other man’s pitch increases, along with his speed. Slapping flesh mingles with Anya’s whimpers, scripture. My own grunts of desperation join the chorus as I near my own end. Sin swims through the room, colliding with salvation. But I’m only concerned with giving that salvation to Anya, so I release her throat to reach between our bodies, rubbing the pad of my middle finger on her clit.

“Oh!” she cries out, her cunt spasming around me. “Yes, please.”

“Repeat after me,” breathes the priest. “I, Sasha Mikhailov, take you, Anya Orlov, to be my wife, my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our friendship and love you today, tomorrow, and forever.”

Rolling her clit gentle between my thumb and middle finger, I groan the words in her ear, trying to stave off the hot cum that rises in my flesh. “Now you, Anya.”

“I, Anya Orlov, take y – you, Sasha Mikhailov…oh God…to be m – my husband…”

That’s it. Anya calling me her husband sends release rippling through me, robbing me of sight, of every vestige of control. Needing to get as close to her as possible, I drop my weight on her trembling body, pinning her to the couch and continuing to stroke her delicate clit as I pump, pump, pump my seed into her dripping wet cunt. “Finish the vows, little angel,” I growl. “Take Daddy as your husband.”

“…my partner in life and m – my one true love. Sasha. Please. I – I will cherish our friendship and love you today, tomorrow, and forever.”

Anya screams the final words and begins quaking with a full – body orgasm, bucking beneath me, just before the priest interjects with, “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife.”

A roar sounds in my head. One of triumph. Possession.

My middle finger is relentless on her nub of swollen flesh, the beast inside me savoring the way her ass squirms, her legs kicking out as if trying to unseat me. Not in this lifetime. When she’s finished whining and struggling, nothing but a limp pile of limbs on the couch, I flip my beloved wife over on the couch, tugging the nightgown back down to hide her pussy. She watches me through drowsy eyes, attempting to catch her breath, bite marks decorating her bottom lip. Zipping my pants back up, I reach into my pocket and retrieve two gold bands, sliding one onto each of our fingers. “Mine,” I say, through my teeth.