Taken (A)

(A) – This story contains anal intercourse. 

Author’s Note

Thank you for taking the time to read our latest story! This story is drawn from fantasies and experiences we share and consent to as a couple. We are currently exploring Consensual Nonconsent (CNC) play as a married couple, within a loving and negotiated D/s (Dominance and submission) relationship.

This scene is inspired by Lauren’s real-life fantasy, which Master Joe tried to ensure was fulfilled for her. It was discussed at length beforehand, with clear rules and a safeword (“Saracen”) in place for safety.

We understand that not everyone shares the same interests or desires, and we mean no offence if the content is not to your taste. CNC play can be intense and requires deep trust, which we have carefully built together, rooted in scripture, love, respect, and our shared values.

We appreciate your understanding and wish you happy reading!

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Andrea stepped out into the crisp evening air, the late summer sky stretching its indigo veil across Juillac‑le‑Coq. The village was quiet this time of year, its limestone cottages pressed tight together as if bracing against the night. Gabriel had asked her very casually to fetch some cheese and a bottle of Pineau from the local shop. She’d felt a twinge of suspicion at how pointedly domestic his instructions were, but she shook it off. He was cooking tonight, after all.

Their friend’s 17th-century manor stood alone on the edge of the commune, an old place with high gates and a half-kilometre drive lined with ancient poplars. Andrea had borrowed the manor for a week, hoping for calm and privacy. Now she padded along the gravelled lane, balancing a paper bag in one hand, the other hooked in her cardigan pocket.

She barely noticed the dark shape gliding up behind her until headlights threw her shadow forward across the driveway. A black Mercedes Vito van rolled up silently, the engine muffled, tyres crunching the gravel like bone.

Her stomach flipped. A pulse of electric fear or was it anticipation shot through her.

The side door of the van slid open. A masked figure in dark clothes lunged at her, one gloved hand seizing her wrist with iron certainty. Andrea gave a startled cry, half resisting, half playing her part even before her mind caught up.

“Non! Arrête!” she yelled, twisting, but his other hand closed around her mouth, cutting off the words.

Andrea’s whole body went liquid at once, terror mixing with a strange, thrilling hope. Could it be Gabriel? The certainty vanished, leaving her stirred and vulnerable.

As he dragged her backwards, the paper bag fell from her hand, splitting open. A wedge of cheese rolled across the gravel. The bottle of Pineau clinked softly against the road and lay still among the crushed paper.

Left behind. Abandoned.

He gave her no more time to think, bundling her into the van. Andrea’s heart pounded against her ribs as the van’s door clanged shut. Within seconds, she was pressed against its padded floor, her wrists bound tight with cold zip‑ties. She let out a muffled gasp, part resistance, part anticipation, as a heavy black hessian bag was lowered over her head, plunging her world into impenetrable darkness.

She thrashed her arms, instinctively trying to break free. She pulled at the restraints, feeling the rough nylon of the zip‑ties against her wrists and the firmness of the padded floor beneath her back. Each struggle brought a sting of frustration, sweet tension between panic and arousal.

She heard a low, unrecognisable growl in French, harsh and predatory.

“Sale pute,” he spat.

The words weren’t just an insult. Being called his whore made her pulse flash with something fierce and urgent — how unexpected, she thought, to feel this heat from a single, degrading word. The degradation carried a harsh weight, reminding her exactly who she was in that moment — exposed, helpless, flooded with want. When he spoke, something wildfire‑bright sparked inside her, warmth pooling low and fierce. It wrapped around her like fire, sharpening every nerve and scattering her core.

Yet uncertainty clawed at her. The voice was too distorted, too rough, too cruel. It might be him, she thought; it has to be him. However, a tiny doubt shivered through her. What if it isn’t? That fear, twisted with raw desire, made her tremble.

“Gabriel… is that you?” she pleaded into the void. Her voice trembled, strained by fear and longing.

Silence followed. No answer. No comfort.

The van door slammed shut abruptly, and the engine roared as he climbed into the driver’s seat. The wheels screeched against the gravel, their tires spinning before finally gripping the uneven surface. The van jolted along the driveway’s pebbled path, gravel rattling underneath. She felt every bump reverberate through the padded floor as the vehicle travelled over uneven ground. At one point, the ride smoothed out, and she felt like she was on the motorway. Eventually, it slowed, and there was the mechanical whizz of a gate opening and shutting. She didn’t remember the chateau having an electric gate.

Then a sharp note cut through the darkness; her phone, somewhere in the van, started to ring. She froze, heart racing. Only one person would call at this hour, Gabriel.

She heard the door fly open, a hand reach for her pocket, snatching the phone, and it all went quiet.

Andrea whimpered, fear battling excitement.

The van’s stillness broke as Andrea shifted, trying to sit up and reach for the suffocating hood. Before she could peel it away, a stiff boot shoved against her ribs, sending her sideways so she crashed face-down onto the padded floor. The jolt rattled through her spine, leaving her breathless, heart slamming against her ribs.

“Tu es à moi ce soir.” You’re mine tonight.

The low growl wrapped around her like a steel band, squeezing until her thoughts went white-hot.

No time to think. No space to react.

His hands closed around her throat, squeezing until her pulse roared in her head, then drove her skull into the mat. His weight pinned her hips in place, heavy, impossible to shift. She felt him yank at her blouse with savage impatience, the buttons snapping, bouncing across the metal floor. Cold air flooded her flushed skin, and the next harsh tug snapped her bra strap, leaving her breasts bare to the dark, stinging air.

Andrea gasped, arching against the shock, her nipples hardening to painful points. Before she could process the shame of it, he flipped her roughly, pressing her down so her chest flattened against the mat, the hood pulling tight against her face.

Her skirt was jerked up in one violent motion, baring her completely. Then his palm came down, cracking across her arse so hard her vision blurred.

Another slap.

And another.

Pain burst through her in a bright, stinging flash, and something primal gave way — surrender rippling hot through her belly. A third, sharper strike made her cry out, the sound caught and twisted by the hood, half-animal, half-human.

No real attacker would do this, her mind whispered. Only Gabriel. That thin, secret certainty calmed the panic, letting her sink instead into a humiliating, hot rush of acceptance.

He forced her legs apart until the ties at her ankles bit into her skin, spreading her wide. Then the blunt, thick press of him nudged between her folds, forcing her open with a merciless thrust. She was moist, but not wet enough, and a sharp burn tore through her as he pushed deeper.

Andrea screamed, the sound swallowed by the hood, the stretch brutal and shocking. Pain braided into a dizzying, raw pleasure, twisting through every nerve.

He caught her wrists, jerking them behind her back, pinning them high so her shoulders strained painfully. The hurt only sharpened the pulsing ache between her thighs.

His other hand dug into her breast, squeezing hard enough to draw a helpless cry. He used her ruthlessly, hips slamming forward in a punishing rhythm. Each slap of flesh echoed in the metal shell of the van, mixing with her muffled, broken moans.

Andrea’s body betrayed her, rocking back to meet every savage thrust, shame flooding her veins, her mind caught between horror and helpless need.

His breath spilt hot against her ear through the fabric of the hood, voice thick and cruel:

“You dirty slut.”

The words made her heart seize — sharp, humiliating, perfect.

Trapped in darkness, no escape, no comfort, Andrea surrendered to him completely. Every inch of her was claimed, used, and undone — and somewhere deep inside, she knew this was exactly what she had permitted him to take.

The hood trapped her in suffocating darkness, each breath hot and thin as she struggled to catch it. There was no comfort there, only the raw sense of being claimed, of being nothing but a vessel for him to use.

Andrea felt his grip, dragging her legs across his thigh so she was twisted sideways, pinned like some helpless prize. His hands were unrelenting, guiding her hips to tilt until she was exposed completely.

He gave no warning, just the thick, blunt press of his cock as it entered her arse roughly. It flinched as his muscles flexed, claiming the space as his. His hands steadied her, one gripping the hair on the back of her neck, the other pushing her hip forward like a dainty pastry.

The first thrust speared through her, sharp enough to rip a muffled cry from her throat. He was deep, achingly deep, and so very wide. Her body seized, torn between pain and that humiliating, devastating need that made her burn.

He moved quicker and harder with no hesitation, each stroke branding her as his. Andrea could hear the slap of his body against her backside, the jolt of each collision pushing her forward into the mat. Her nipples scraped against the fabric, sending sparks through her chest with every punishing rhythm.

“You like this, don’t you?” he rasped, the voice unmistakably Gabriel’s now, dark and raw and full of ownership.

Andrea couldn’t form words, only half-broken sounds, her mind a whirlwind slipping more and more into subspace.

His grip shifted again, one hand closing possessively around her breast, twisting and pulling her nipple until she gasped, while the other anchored her hip, pulling her tight against him.

Her orgasm built with a savage, unstoppable force, coiling low in her belly like a wave about to break. She hadn’t expected it — not here, not like this. And yet the shocking mix of pain, submission, and the raw truth of her darkest fantasy made resistance impossible. The pressure clawed up through her, vicious and relentless, setting every nerve alight. She tried to hold herself together, but it tore through her, merciless, tearing down every wall she had ever built to protect herself.

Andrea shook violently, tears leaking hot and unstoppable beneath the hood. Her sobs tangled with ragged moans, each one a surrender, a confession of how completely she needed this. The powerlessness consumed her, eclipsing every other thought. She was nothing but Gabriel’s, reduced and remade in the darkness of his hands.

She felt herself shatter, every pulse of pleasure tinged with sharp, sweet pain, each convulsion a proof of her most profound need. Andrea cried out into the blackness, a wild, torn sound that echoed inside the van’s padded walls. Even as the last ripples of release burned through her, she was already undone, owned, marked, claimed in the only way that made her truly whole.

Even though Andrea was spent, Gabriel continued, although his movements grew more ragged and the punishing rhythm faltering as he neared the edge. His hands dug hard into Andrea’s hips, pulling her back to meet every relentless thrust. She felt him throb inside her, stretching her, claiming her so thoroughly that she trembled with the force of it.

He held her there, buried deep, shuddering against her as his release took him. A deep, raw groan tore from his throat, vibrating through her spine. His hips jerked once, twice, then stilled, keeping her pinned as if afraid she might slip away.

Andrea felt his cum, flooding into her, sealing the dark promise of their brutal, exquisite dynamic. The sense of being filled, of being used to the last drop, made her entire body quake as it slipped into a magical, happy place in her mind.

Gabriel exhaled a ragged breath, his body heavy and solid over hers. Slowly, he pulled back, leaving her arse hole gapping open. Her muscles clenched almost instinctively and his cum spilled out of her arse in a cascade that slid down her leg.

Gabriel traced his fingertips along Andrea’s dripping arse and gathered his cum in a puddle on her thigh. With the palm of his hand, he spread it across the curve of her backside and over her thigh, slow and deliberate, as if branding her with his tribute.

The gesture sent a shiver down Andrea’s spine, a raw, primal reminder that she belonged to him in every sense. It was as if he was marking her, laying a seal of ownership and devotion that no one else could ever undo.

“Thank you, sir,” she said through the fabric, slipping almost into sleep.

Gabriel eased away, hands gentle now. He removed the hood slowly, allowing cool air to touch Andrea’s tear-streaked face. She blinked, dazed, still trembling from the aftershocks.

“Breathe,” he murmured, brushing damp hair from her cheek, his voice calm and grounding.

He cut away the zip ties, massaging her wrists, then lifted her easily from the van.

Upstairs, he drew a warm bath and helped her sink into the water, supporting her aching body. A soft towel, soothing kisses, whispered praise: good girl, so brave.

Held in his arms, Andrea felt safe, cherished, and whole again.