Bite Marks on My Mind – Gape Story

“You’re staring again,” he said, not looking up from his book.

I hadn’t realized my fingers had stilled on the keyboard until he pointed it out. The screen had dimmed—how long had I been watching him? His shoulders flexed under his shirt as he turned a page, the motion effortless, like he didn’t even think about the way his body moved. I swallowed.

It wasn’t the first time. There were habits, rituals, things I did without meaning to. The way I’d linger in the bathroom after a shower, fingertips tracing the edge of the towel rack while my mind wandered. The way I’d pause mid-sentence during meetings, distracted by the memory of his hands—broad, sure—pressing into my hips last night. The way I’d catch myself watching his mouth when he spoke, wondering how it would feel if he bit me just hard enough to sting.

I used to think desire was simple. You saw something you wanted, and you reached for it. But the longer I spent with him, the more I understood how hunger could twist into something else entirely—something closer to worship. I didn’t just want him. I wanted to be ruined by him.

The first time he fucked me hard enough to leave me sore the next morning, I’d pressed my fingers between my legs in the shower and come so fast it almost hurt. Afterward, I’d stood under the water, trembling, unable to stop thinking about the way he’d looked at me when he pushed in—like he knew exactly how much I could take.

The shower water had gone cold by the time I finally turned it off, but I didn’t care. My skin was still humming, my thighs sticky where I’d touched myself. I wrapped the towel around my body loosely, not bothering to tuck it in, and caught my reflection in the fogged mirror—cheeks flushed, lips parted. I looked ruined already, and he hadn’t even touched me today.

That was the thing about obsession: it didn’t need fresh fuel. It burned on memory alone.

I thought about the way he’d stretched me open last week, fingers working me slow until I was gasping, until I was begging for it. The way he’d paused just to watch me—my hole punched wide around his knuckles—before pushing in deeper. I’d come like that, with his hand buried in me, my body clenching around nothing when he pulled out. The emptiness afterward had been almost as good as the stretch.

Downstairs, I heard the couch creak as he shifted. The sound sent a jolt through me, like my body was tuned to his frequency. I could map his movements by memory alone: the way he’d stretch his legs out, the way his fingers would tap against the armrest when he was thinking. I wondered if he knew how much power he had—how easily he could turn me into a mess with just a look.

I padded barefoot into the bedroom, the towel slipping a little as I moved. My ass still felt tender from last night, a dull ache that flared when I sat on the edge of the bed. I liked that, too—the reminder. The way my body held onto him even when he wasn’t there.

The towel slid off entirely as I leaned back on my elbows, the sheets cool against my bare skin. My knees fell open without thought—habit, reflex, hunger—and I exhaled sharply through my nose. The ache between my legs had nothing to do with soreness now. I dragged a hand down my stomach, fingertips catching on the dampness already gathering there.

*You’re ridiculous,* I thought, but the insult had no heat. I’d stopped pretending shame years ago. Some cravings weren’t meant to be civilized.

Downstairs, the couch groaned again. A pause. Then—footsteps. My breath hitched. He always took the stairs two at a time when he knew I was waiting.

The bedroom door swung open without ceremony. He stood there, one shoulder braced against the frame, eyes darkening as they traveled over me. His gaze lingered where I wanted it most: my thighs, my pussy, the way my fingers were already teasing circles around my own clit like I couldn’t help myself.

He didn’t say anything. He never did, not at first—just let the silence thicken between us until my skin prickled with it. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was imagining the weight of me already. I arched my back slightly, letting the curve of my throat catch the light, and watched his jaw tighten. He liked that—when I pretended I wasn’t desperate for him, when I made him work for it even though we both knew I’d fold the second he touched me.

The mattress dipped as he knelt between my legs, his hands sliding up my thighs with a possessiveness that made my breath stutter. His thumbs brushed the inside of my knees, pressing just hard enough to leave faint marks, and I exhaled sharply through my nose. He knew exactly how to ruin me—slowly, deliberately, like he was savoring the way I came apart under his hands.

“Still sore?” he murmured, fingertips skating over the faint bruises his mouth had left last night. I shivered, nodding, and his mouth curved in that way that made my stomach flip. “Good.”

His palm settled heavy over my pussy, the heel of his hand pressing just enough to make me whine. I rocked against him instinctively, chasing the friction, but he held me still with his other hand splayed across my hipbone. “Not yet,” he said, and the command in his voice sent a jolt through me. He could reduce me to this so easily—aching, pliant, *his*—and the knowledge twisted in my chest like a living thing.

His fingers traced the curve of my hip, deliberate, teasing—like he was memorizing the give of my flesh beneath his touch. I knew that pause, that calculated stillness. He was deciding how far to push me tonight. The thought alone made my breath hitch, my thighs tensing around nothing.

Last night’s bruises throbbed in time with my pulse, a dull echo of his mouth on my skin, his hands twisting in the sheets behind me. I wanted to tell him I could take more, that I’d been thinking about it all day—the stretch, the burn, the way my body would remember him long after—but the words caught in my throat. He liked it better when I showed him instead.

His thumb brushed lower, skirting the edge of where I wanted him, and I arched off the bed with a sound I didn’t recognize. He chuckled, low and warm, and the vibration of it traveled straight to my core. “Impatient,” he murmured, but his fingers were already slick with me, already circling the tight furl of muscle that clenched reflexively at his touch. I used to be shy about this, about how easily my body opened for him—now, the hunger was too loud to ignore. The first press of his fingertip was careful, testing, and I moaned, pushing back against him shamelessly.

“Look at you,” he said, voice rough. His free hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back so I could see the dark approval in his eyes. “You’re already so fucking greedy for it.” He wasn’t wrong. My body had become a map of his preferences—the way I’d learned to relax into the initial sting, the way my breath hitched when he paused to watch me take him. He crooked his finger inside me, slow, and I whimpered, my toes curling into the sheets. The stretch was exquisite, a bright, sharp pleasure that bordered on pain, and I clutched at his wrist like I needed the anchor.

He added a second finger without warning, and I cried out, my thighs shaking. The burn was intense, almost too much, but I rocked back against him anyway, chasing the fullness. He groaned, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he worked me open, his breath hot against my skin. “Fuck, you feel—” He didn’t finish the thought, just twisted his fingers deeper, and I sobbed, my vision blurring at the edges. This was the part I craved most—the moment when my body surrendered, when the tension melted into something liquid and yielding. His thumb rubbed soothing circles over my clit, a counterpoint to the relentless stretch, and I came suddenly, violently, my back bowing off the bed.

The aftershocks rippled through me in slow, syrupy waves—my body still clenching around nothing, still trying to pull him deeper even as he withdrew. He didn’t let me catch my breath, didn’t give me time to recover. His fingers slid out with a wet sound that made my cheeks burn, and then his thumb was there, pressing against me in a way that had me gasping before I even registered the intention behind it. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick with something between awe and hunger. “Already so open for me.”

I knew what he wanted. I always knew. It was in the way his gaze darkened when I arched my back, in the way his fingers trembled just slightly when he touched me like this—like he was holding himself back from ruining me completely. He dragged his thumb down, pressing gently at the rim, and my hips jerked off the bed instinctively. “Shh,” he soothed, but his other hand pinned me firmly to the mattress, his grip just shy of painful. “Let me see.”

The first press of his thumb was deliberate, slow—a question more than a demand. I whimpered, my thighs shaking, but I didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. The stretch was sharper here, more concentrated, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening on my hip. “That’s it,” he murmured, his thumb circling gently, coaxing. “Just like that.”

I’d never gotten used to the way it felt—the initial resistance, the slow give, the moment when my body finally relented and let him in. His thumb pushed past the tight ring of muscle, and I cried out, my fingers twisting in the sheets. The stretch was dizzying, overwhelming, but I forced myself to relax, to breathe through it. He rewarded me with a low groan, his forehead dropping to my thigh as he worked his thumb deeper. “Fuck,” he breathed, his voice ragged. “You take it so well.”

The stretch of his thumb was nothing compared to what came next. He withdrew slowly, his fingers slick with me, and I could feel the absence like a physical ache. The mattress dipped as he shifted his weight, the sound of his belt buckle clinking against itself sending a jolt through me. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know what he was doing—the rustle of fabric, the sharp inhale as he freed himself, the way the air between us thickened with anticipation. My thighs trembled, still spread wide, still aching.

He didn’t ask if I was ready. He knew. The first press of his cock was deliberate, agonizingly slow, and I gasped, my fingers scrambling for purchase on the sheets. He paused, his breath hot against my neck, his hands anchoring my hips. “Look at me,” he demanded, and I did—my vision blurry, my lips parted. His expression was dark, possessive, and it sent a thrill down my spine. He pushed in deeper, the stretch bordering on pain, and I whimpered, my body arching instinctively.

The stretch burned—bright and searing—but I welcomed it, my body arching up to meet his as he pushed in deeper. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave marks, and I knew I’d wear them tomorrow like a secret, something to press into when I was alone at my desk and remembering how he felt inside me. He exhaled sharply through his nose, his forehead pressing against mine as he bottomed out, and for a moment, we just breathed together—his chest rising and falling against mine, the heat between us unbearable.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his voice rough, and I could feel the way his cock twitched inside me, like he was fighting not to come already. I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles behind his back, and he groaned, low and guttural. “You feel—” He didn’t finish the thought, just rolled his hips in a slow, devastating grind that had me crying out, my nails biting into his shoulders. He liked it when I marked him, too—when I left evidence of my hunger on his skin.