Haunt Me Like You Mean It

Introduction:

Some inherit houses. Sofia inherited a letter with the house.

It came in the form of a blood red wax seal, an address that didn't exist, and a key that remembered her touch. No explanations. No condolences. Just a summons.

So she went up the mountain, into the storm, chasing something ancient through fog and frost.

She didn't know if she was going toward a legacy or a trap.

Only that something was waiting.

And it wanted her.

.............................................................................................................................................................

The wind screamed down the mountain like a curse, high and mean, biting at Sofia's face as if nature itself wanted her gone. It didn't howl like a warning it shrieked like a dare.

She ignored it.

Shrugging her coat tighter against her frame, she powered up the gravel path with stubborn, purposeful steps. Frost cracked beneath her boots; dead leaves crumbled like brittle bones. The duffel bag on her shoulder dragged her slightly off balance with every step, packed to bursting with camera gear, two fingers of cheap wine, a half used bottle of lube, and what was left of her patience. It swung like a pendulum of poor decisions. Her thighs were already going numb in the cold, her breath fogging out in short bursts but her determination burned hot, flaring brighter with each gust of wind that tried to turn her around.

"Perfect," she muttered, glancing up at the looming silhouette ahead. "Hell of a place to die in. Or get fucked by a ghost. Who knows maybe both."

She hadn't even known she had a great aunt Katarina until the letter arrived two weeks ago real parchment, bleeding ink, sealed with wax so dark it looked like dried blood. The envelope had smelled like lavender and old fire. Inside, a single iron key had been tucked beside the letter, cold and oddly warm at the same time, as if it remembered her fingers before she touched it.

And the message.

Just one line, scrawled in elegant, spidery handwriting:

You have inherited the house.

No explanation. Just the key, the warning, and an address that didn't exist on any map until she typed it into a browser she no longer had access to.

It had felt theatrical. Gothic. Possibly cursed.

And just slightly erotic in that way things were when they flirted with danger and velvet in the same breath.

She went because she had nowhere else left to go.

No family. No friends she hadn't burned.

Her mother died when Sofia was seventeen. Her father ghosted before she could spell his last name. She'd learned early that names were just anchors for grief. The state gave her a diploma, a dented camera, and a shrug. She gave herself everything else.

And when that letter arrived dripping with history and the heavy promise of the unknown she felt something she hadn't in a long time.

Called.

So here she was.

A camera, a key, a bag full of bad ideas. And the very real possibility that she'd walked straight into the mouth of something that could either save her or kill her.

The estate loomed like it had grown straight from the stone beneath it, hunched and brooding against the gray sky. Three stories of blackened stone, every inch soaked in dread. Spires jabbed upward like the claws of something buried that still wanted to rise. The stained glass windows glared down, cold and unblinking depictions of saints long forgotten, eyes hollow with judgment, faces twisted in divine disappointment. Ivy strangled the walls like veins on a corpse, curling into the cracks like it had been feeding on whatever lived inside.

The front door stood massive and uncaring, warped with age, its iron hinges thick with rust. It didn't whisper don't enter. It dared her to try.

It wasn't just unwelcoming.

It was hungry.

Sofia took a long breath then exhaled through gritted teeth, braced herself, and shoved the door open with her hip.

The air inside greeted her like a breath drawn after centuries of silence. Cold, and deliberate. It slipped over her skin like silk pulled too tight, wrapping around her throat and wrists with the intimate pressure of something unseen.

The house didn't breathe.

It waited.

Sofia froze just inside the threshold, blinking into the dim foyer. Dust danced in shafts of pale light like ashes in a cathedral. Shadows clung to the corners, deep and thick as oil. The air tasted like old wood, candle smoke, and rose petals buried under tombstones.

She whispered, "Okay. Not creepy at all."

Silence replied but it wasn't hollow.

It listened.

Her boots thudded against the marble as she stepped forward, every sound magnified, echoing like footsteps from another time. Overhead, chandeliers hung like cages of bone and crystal, glittering faintly in the gloom. The grand staircase curled up into darkness, carved from oak so dark it looked scorched. It reminded her of a spine. Something once alive.

She could smell the wealth here not new, but ancient. Stale perfume and leather bound secrets. Money left to rot.

It smelled like history.

Like loneliness with a price tag.

She let the duffel drop with a graceless thud onto a velvet chaise that looked like it had never known a wrinkle, much less the abuse of cheap zippers and wine bottles. It creaked delicately beneath the weight, offended but obliging. The fabric was plum colored, lush, and absurdly expensive looking the kind of antique that came with its own ghostly dowry.

Sofia pulled out her phone and tapped the screen.

Black.

No bars. No Wi Fi. No GPS. Just a battery icon fading like a dying star.

"Of course," she muttered, and dropped it on top of the bag.

The house probably blocked signals out of spite.

Like everything about this fucking place.

She tugged her oversized sweater lower over her thighs, the hem catching against her hips as if it too was reluctant to keep going, and padded deeper into the manor's interior.

It wasn't just big. It was vast. An estate, really. A world built inside itself. Each room she passed seemed designed to seduce and disturb in equal measure wood polished to an impossible gleam, chandeliers that glittered with the promise of secrets, and furniture that practically moaned under its own history.

The velvet on the chairs was too red. The wood on the tables was too dark. The gold on the mirrors was too bright. Everything whispered, touch me and bleed.

She caught her reflection in one of the taller mirrors and paused. It didn't just show her. It studied her. Her body wavered in the glass, sharp then soft, framed by golden filigree that curled like claws. She stepped away before she saw something she couldn't unsee.

The oil paintings were worse. Painted eyes followed her, not with curiosity but with recognition. Saints, sinners, ancestors who knew but they stared like they knew her, like they'd been waiting.

She moved faster.

Even the clocks conspired against her. Each tick from a grandfather clock sounded too loud, too alive. The kind of ticking that wasn't just time passing it was time watching.

So she decided to drop her bags in the bedroom first. The space was vast but strangely intimate high ceilings, antique molding, and a four poster bed draped in gauzy curtains that danced in the occasional breeze slipping through the cracked window. Dust clung to the heavy furniture like skin on bone. She left her things untouched on the bed, feeling as though unpacking in this house might be too presumptuous.

Curiosity itched beneath her skin, so she wandered.

The house unfolded like a dream room after room revealing itself with a kind of eerie elegance. Hours slipped by as she explored, her fingers brushing over cold banisters, aged wallpaper, frames thick with grime. The more she uncovered, the heavier it all felt. Like the walls were watching. Like the house was remembering her.

By late afternoon, weariness settled into her bones. The ornate mirrors, the slanted sun filtering through lace curtains, the endless portraits with eyes too knowing it was all too much. She showered in a claw foot tub that groaned beneath her weight, the water lukewarm and quick to run cold. Afterward, she curled into the unfamiliar bed, its mattress strangely warm, like someone had been there before her.

Sleep was uneasy.

But morning came, and with it, a stubborn clarity. She rose and resumed her wandering, more deliberate now, determined to understand this place. She ate from the small stash of food she had packed cheese, bread, apples and stood by the kitchen window as she chewed, the garden calling to her just beyond the glass.

The garden was a wild kind of beautiful, overgrown but not ruined. Vines twisted over wrought iron arches, and white roses bloomed where they shouldn't. A fountain coughed up water like it hadn't breathed in years, yet it flowed. She stayed out until the sky bruised violet and the shadows began to stretch long across the lawn.

And then she went back inside.

That was when she noticed it. Upstairs, the air had shifted.

The temperature dropped not the sort of chill that came from bad insulation or a cracked window. This cold was intentional. It wasn't in the walls. It was on her skin. Under it. The kind of cold that slid beneath her clothes, crawled down her spine, and settled at the small of her back like a hand.

It felt personal.

The hallway stretched before her like a mouth about to swallow. Closed doors lined the corridor like unspoken things. Each one pulsed with a presence, like breath caught behind wood. She passed a music room, its double doors slightly open. Inside, a piano exhaled a single note, soft and sorrowful, though no one touched the keys. It was less a sound than a sigh.

She didn't linger.

Next was a nursery, the air behind its half open door tinged with powder and memory. A rocking horse tilted forward, then back, as though someone had just slipped off its seat. She didn't look too long.

There was something just behind her, always just behind, but when she turned, the hall was empty.

She walked faster.

And then she reached it.

The study.

The door loomed at the end of the hall, darker than the others, heavy with significance. She didn't need a map to know this was the room. She knew it the way a body knows it's being watched.

Her hand reached for the doorknob before she told it to.

The door was heavy oak, carved with a pattern she didn't understand thorns? vines? veins? and when her fingers touched the handle, the wood felt strangely warm, like it had been waiting for her. It opened under her hand with a slow groan, the kind that usually preceded either sex or death in an old movie.

But the room beyond didn't push back.

It pulled.

The study welcomed her like a mouth welcomes a kiss dark, soft, and full of breath held too long. Thick velvet drapes framed the tall windows, letting in only slivers of dying daylight. The light cast long, lascivious shadows, all wine and rust and secrets pressed into fabric.

There was no fire in the hearth, but the air carried heat not from flame, but from memory. Old warmth. Familiar in a way that made her skin prickle. The space around her felt inhabited, though no one stood there. The weight of presence, like something just out of view, brushing its fingers along her shoulder.

She stepped further in, boots silent on the thick carpet, drawn without meaning to the far wall.

And then she saw it.

The portrait.

It dominated the room not by size alone, but by gravity. Everything else was arranged in subtle reverence around it: shelves of ancient books sagging with weight, a high backed leather chair poised just beneath as if someone still sat there, waiting to be addressed.

She crossed the room like she was entering a dream she wasn't sure she'd wake from slow, silent, every breath shallow, measured. Her boots made no sound on the thick rug, as if even the house conspired to keep this moment undisturbed.

And she felt it.

That strange, electric stillness in the air tense and humming. Like the second before lightning cleaves the sky. The kind of energy that sinks into your skin, coils along your nerves, and whispers you're not alone.

The portrait's frame dominated the far wall, swallowing the space around it in decadent menace. It was baroque ornate to the point of violence. Carved gold leaf coiled into twisting thorns and roses so intricate they looked like they'd bleed if touched. It was the kind of frame that didn't just hold a painting. It caged it.

And within it...

Him.

Her breath caught halfway up her throat and stayed there.

He was there was no other word devastating.

Black hair swept back from a widow's peak, sharp and elegant, like some infernal prince drawn from a fevered dream. His cheekbones were blade sharp, his mouth curved in a suggestion of sin, not quite a smile. And his eyes God his eyes were molten gold. Bright. Aware. Intelligent in a way that felt ancient and intimate.

They didn't just stare outward.

They saw her.

Her hand drifted to her stomach, breath growing ragged as heat flared low in her belly. She stepped closer. Closer still. Close enough to reach out and she did, one hand trembling slightly as she pressed her palm to the thick film of dust that veiled his face.

"Holy fuck," she breathed, barely a whisper.

She wiped slowly, dragging a clean line through years of silence, and revealed his face like an artifact unearthed in a forbidden temple.

Beneath the frame, on a tarnished brass plaque, the name glinted through the grime:

Stefan the VII

The syllables hit her like a note struck deep inside her body low and resonant, vibrating between her thighs like a secret chord only she could hear. Something old. Something remembered.

She stepped back, unsteady, her pulse spiking.

That was when it changed.

The air shifted subtle at first. Then unmistakable.

Thicker.

Warmer.

It moved around her, through her, like a breath drawn just behind her ear. She heard nothing... but her body knew.

Her nipples tightened beneath her sweater, achingly hard. A flush crawled up her throat. Her thighs squeezed together, trying to ignore the slow, aching throb blooming between them. It wasn't fear she felt it was awareness.

Primal. Erotic. Laced with danger.

And the portrait...

Had his expression shifted?

His lips seemed just slightly more curved now. His gaze less neutral, more focused. Hungry. Possessive. As if the man in the painting had tasted her in a dream once and remembered every flavor.

She couldn't look away. She didn't want to.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she whispered, "Who were you, you sexy bastard?"

Then

The high backed leather chair by the unlit fireplace creaked. Loud. Sudden. The sound of weight shifting. Of something unseen moving, watching, waiting.

But there was no one in it.

Not that her body believed that.

Goosebumps prickled along her arms. Her heartbeat galloped against her ribs. Every instinct screamed leave.

But her curiosity her desire was louder.

Her voice dropped to a murmur, lips parted, breath catching like it mattered to someone:

"... Stefan?"

The air exhaled.

Soft, deliberate. Like a lover's sigh against the nape of her neck.

And then behind her a voice.

Low. Velvet wrapped steel. Each word curved and coiled, slipping into her like smoke under a door. There was no mistaking the tone commanding, carnal, cruelly intimate.

"Come to me, little one."

She spun, heart lurching in her chest, breath catching on her tongue.

No one.

The study stood empty quiet, composed, as if it hadn't just breathed her name.

But her body told a different story.

Her thighs clenched together of their own accord, tight and trembling. Her lungs refused to fill. Her clit throbbed with sudden, startling urgency. Wetness bloomed between her legs, slick and obscene, and all from a voice. Just a voice.

A voice that spoke directly to the place inside her that ached to be known.

It was like he'd said it before. Like he'd said it many times before. Like he'd already memorized the exact cadence that would unravel her.

Her hand moved before she could think drifting down, fingers sliding under the hem of her oversized sweater, the fabric dragging over hypersensitive skin. Her palm pressed to the warmth between her thighs, cupping herself through her leggings, and her breath stuttered at the contact.

She was soaked.

She froze shaking, caught between logic and lust. Between fear and the pull of something ancient, something she didn't understand but needed.

And then she felt it.

Not wind. Not atmosphere. Not imagination.

A touch.

A hand distinct. Bold. Ghostly, yes, but unmistakably male. It cupped her hip with slow, possessive intent, fingers tracing the curve like they had every right. The heat of it was real. Not cold like the air. Not gentle like curiosity. It was claiming.

Sofia moaned sharp and involuntary, more reaction than choice.

She whipped around again, gasping, chest heaving looking for him, for anything but the room remained maddeningly, cruelly empty.

Nothing moved.

Except her.

Except the pulse thrumming in her throat, in her pussy, in her mind where his voice still echoed.

And still... the portrait.

It hadn't changed.

Not really.

But it felt different now. His gaze more alive. More knowing. Lips parted just a little wider, like he'd just whispered into her ear and was savoring her response.

Watching.

Waiting.

Welcoming.

Sofia left the study, but it didn't leave her.

Even as she stepped back into the hallway's hush, the echo of that voice wrapped around her spine, curling inward like smoke. She could feel it in her chest, in her stomach, between her legs a slow, molten pulse that refused to fade.

Come to me, little one.

The words weren't just memory. They lingered, poured into her bloodstream like a spell, warm and slow and wicked. Her body still buzzed with the aftershock, thighs slick, skin flushed with that unmistakable sensation of being touched... and wanted.

What the fuck was that feeling.

She wandered the upper floor like a woman enchanted, barefoot now, the cool wooden floors pressing into her soles as if grounding her but failing. Her sweater had vanished somewhere behind her, discarded. At some point she'd uncorked a bottle of dusty wine from a locked cabinet and started drinking without thought, without question. Her grip on it was loose, her movements fluid. Drunk not on alcohol but on him.

The house stretched on endlessly. Bedrooms too ornate for rest. Parlors that reeked of dust and faded perfume. Gilded chairs that had not known bodies in centuries, yet still carried an impression of heat. Every doorknob she touched pulsed beneath her palm, every mirror turned her glance into something voyeuristic. The walls whispered not with words, but with breath. With presence.

The manor was beautiful.

And beneath that beauty, it had teeth.

She passed under a crystal archway that hadn't been there before and paused in front of a long, tarnished mirror framed in curling brass. The hallway behind her stretched on too far. Longer than it had been. The glass before her was warped, clouded with age, but it caught her reflection perfectly too perfectly.

Her tousled hair clung to damp skin. Her cheeks were pink, her lips parted. She looked like she'd just been kissed. Hard. Her nightgown thin, satin, pale blue clung to her like a secret. She hadn't planned to wear it. She wasn't sure when she'd slipped it on.

She looked debauched.

Haunted.

Aroused.

And then there. Behind her. In the mirror's depth.

A flicker.

A ripple in the air, like heat rising off skin. Something just behind her shoulder, impossible to see directly. She turned quickly nothing. The corridor remained empty.

But the mirror told a different story.

In the glass, the air moved again subtle but deliberate. Like breath warming her nape. Like someone stood just behind her, not touching... yet.

She stared, heart stammering in her chest.

Slowly, she lifted her hand, fingertips grazing the hollow of her throat.

That's when it happened.

The satin strap of her gown slipped.

Not from her fingers.

On its own.

Her breath caught. Her hand remained frozen against her collarbone as the fabric fell in a whispering slide, revealing her shoulder, then the slope of her breast.

Then the other strap followed deliberate, gliding down like fingers tracing reverently across her skin.

And she wasn't moving.

The nightgown slid lower, parting down her chest like an invitation accepted. It bunched at her waist, silk pooling like spilled moonlight around her hips. Her breasts were bare, nipples drawn tight, flushed and aching in the cool air.

She whispered, "Holy shit," not to the empty hall, but to her reflection because it stared back at her with wide, dilated eyes and parted lips. Not afraid. Just hungry.

Then came the touch.

So light it might've been imagined but it wasn't. She knew the difference now.

Fingertips. Invisible, but present. They brushed her belly, a teasing caress. Traveled upward, slipping between the curves of her breasts, lingering there just long enough to make her knees weaken, then dipping low, tracing the curve of her hip with reverent hunger.

She gasped, one hand bracing against the wall.

The mirror fogged just over her shoulder. Right where someone's mouth might be if they were whispering into her skin.

Then came the voice again. Closer. Lower.

No lips touched her, but she felt the breath, warm and intimate.

"You wear your body like sin, kitten. Let me remember it."

Her knees almost buckled.

Pleasure rippled through her in thick, molten waves, stealing her breath and unraveling her composure. The gown slid the rest of the way down her hips, pooling at her ankles like a silk offering, forgotten.

She stood bare in the hallway naked beneath the eyes of no one and everything. Wrapped not in fabric but in shadow and rising heat. Her skin flushed, lips parted, pulse pounding so loudly she could hear it. Her only witness: the mirror, silvered and fogged, reflecting her back in soft candlelit blur, a woman possessed by invisible touch.

She was being held. Touched. Explored.

Lifted onto her toes by unseen hands that stroked her thighs, cupped her breasts, teased her nipples until they ached. Her breath hitched, caught between moan and prayer. One hand subtle but insistent slid down her belly, then between her legs. Fingers parted her with reverence, opening her slowly like a secret.

A thumb pressed to her clit slow, circling, maddening in its restraint.

Sofia moaned aloud, soft and aching, hips rocking gently in search of more, chasing friction she couldn't see but could feel with every fiber of her being.

Her head tipped back. Her eyes fluttered closed.

And when she opened them again

She wasn't in the hallway anymore.

The mirror had taken her.

Swallowed her whole.

She stood in a room drenched in candlelight deep red and gold flickering across velvet drapes, gleaming off polished wood. A bed dominated the space, its headboard carved and gilded, its sheets the color of dried roses. The air smelled of myrrh, sandalwood, and perfume that didn't belong to her.

Her skin glowed in the firelight, but it wasn't just the light that was different.

It was her.

She looked down her hands still her own, but the nails were longer, lacquered a rich garnet. Her body fuller, softer, curved like sculpture. Breasts round and heavy, hips wide and aching with need. She was someone else.

Not possessed but inhabited.

A woman's life wrapped around her like a gown. One that remembered how it felt to be touched. To be wanted. To be loved.

Then the door opened.

And he entered.

Stefan.

Alive.

No longer bound to canvas and oil but flesh and bone, walking with that same devastating elegance. He wore a black silk waistcoat, tailored to perfection, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose a line of throat and collarbone she knew her teeth had once touched. His eyes gold, lit from within met hers with a look that belonged to no stranger.

Her breath this borrowed woman's breath shuddered in her chest.

She turned toward him, helpless against it. Her body moved as if on strings, not manipulated, but remembering. Muscles answering a call older than thought. Her thighs pressed together, nipples tightening again at just the sight of him.

Stefan crossed the room slowly, each step a promise.

When he spoke, his voice was human now richer, darker, grounded in breath and heat. But the hunger... that same hunger still simmered beneath every syllable.

"Come, my darling. One last time."

Sofia's mouth opened, but no sound came.

And then another voice answered. Soft. Low. Accented and trembling with both desire and dread.

"Take me. Please... before the curse claims you."

Sofia's heart clenched.

This wasn't fantasy. It wasn't dream.

This was memory.

She was reliving another woman's last night with him the final flicker of love before fate claimed its debt.

He reached for her, pulled her into him, and kissed her like salvation. Hard. Desperate. His hands cradled her face as if afraid she would vanish before he could taste her again. His mouth stole her breath, his teeth grazed her lip, and the moment shattered the last of her control.

Her knees gave. Her body melted.

He carried her to the bed, laid her down on satin sheets with reverence, and knelt between her thighs like a man come to worship.

And worship he did.

He kissed her inner thighs, slow and unhurried, each press of his lips building heat until she was trembling, crying out in that other voice raw and pleading. His tongue found her with a lover's memory, every movement practiced, perfect. Her hips bucked. Her fingers knotted in the sheets. She came once from just his mouth hard and helpless, sobbing into a pillow that smelled like him.

Then he moved over her, body flush to hers.

And when he entered her

It was like being filled with fate.

Thick, slow, each thrust deeper than the last. The bed rocked. Her body sang. His hand closed gently around her throat, grounding her. Their eyes locked, and he whispered her name not Sofia's, but the other woman's. A name full of reverence and ruin.

He made love to her like it was the last thing he'd ever do.

And for him, maybe it was.

Sofia felt it all.

The pleasure. The ache. The desperation. The impossible pull of love tangled with doom.

She came again shattering back arched, body convulsing, crying out in a voice that wasn't quite hers anymore. Her soul cracked open under the weight of it.

And then

"I love you," he whispered, voice thick with sorrow.

And the world fractured.

The candlelight tore away.

The scent vanished.

The bed dissolved.

Sofia jolted upright in bed, gasping her bed, her room, sweat cooling on her bare skin.

She was back.

In her body again.

Gasping. Sweating. Wet.

The sheets stuck to her thighs. Her nipples ached. Her clit pulsed.

The mirror across the room showed her reflection naked, flushed, marked by phantom hands.

A voice whispered:

"That was the beginning, little one. Next time... I'll be inside you for real."

She stared into the mirror.

And smiled.

The fire had burned low in the hearth by the time Sofia opened her eyes again, its amber glow flickering soft and low across the high walls of the master bedroom. Shadows stretched like fingers across the ceiling. The silence around her was heavy, intimate like the room was still holding its breath.

She lay sprawled in the center of the vast bed, the sheets tangled around her ankles, her body bare and gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat. The cool air licked across her flushed skin, making her nipples tighten, her breath catch.

Her thighs were slick. Her lips swollen. Her pulse a slow, erratic drumbeat in her ears.

She didn't feel rested.

She felt ruined.

And ravenous.

Her body ached but not with fatigue. It was deeper than that. A slow, gnawing ache that radiated from her core outward. Not soreness. Not exhaustion.

Hunger.

Her breath came in shallow, trembling gasps as she reached between her thighs, fingers brushing the wetness there, confirming what she already knew.

She was still pulsing.

Still open.

Still stretched from a man who hadn't truly been there except that he had. The echo of him throbbed in her bones, in the place inside her that still fluttered around emptiness. Her skin felt kissed, marked, memorized. Her neck tingled where his mouth had ghosted across it. Her thighs still trembled from how he'd spread them open in the vision no, not a vision.

A memory.

A possession.

She'd been fucked by a ghost.

Fucked by a man long dead, long gone and she wanted him back.

More.

The shadows in the room deepened rippling along the walls, pooling in the corners. Then, subtly, they shifted. Like something within them breathed. Or exhaled.

Sofia sat up slowly, her pulse spiking. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a warning or an invitation. Her hair clung to her neck, damp and wild. Her mouth parted.

The mirror across the room tall, ornate, looming began to shimmer.

Not with her reflection.

With heat.

A ripple, like rising steam. The surface wavered as if something behind it was burning, straining to come through. She stared, transfixed, skin prickling with sudden awareness.

Then footsteps.

Heavy. Measured. Deliberate.

Boots against stone, getting louder. Closer.

The air shifted again. Thickened. Warmed.

That same scent rose up around her roses, yes, but decayed. Wilted petals steeped in wine and something darker. Something feral. She inhaled sharply, thighs clenching in instinctive response.

And then

He stepped out.

Right from the mirror.

No ceremony. No whisper of magic. Just arrival.

Tall. Solid. Terrifying in his beauty.

Stefan.

He didn't emerge like a ghost. He formed like smoke pulled into muscle, like shadow sculpted by lust. The black coat he wore hung open, revealing a chest carved in sharp, pale lines scars painting a map across his skin, glowing veins of gold pulsing faintly beneath the surface like embers beneath marble.

His presence stole the air from the room.

His eyes locked on her.

Predatory.

Possessive.

And starving.

"Stefan..." she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. Her mouth was dry. Her body soaked.

He didn't answer.

He just looked.

At her.

At the curve of her hips. The soft rise of her breasts. The slick heat glistening between her parted thighs.

And then he moved.

Faster than thought.

In a blur, he was at the edge of the bed, one hand tangling in her hair, the other braced against the mattress beside her. His mouth crashed onto hers with brutal grace, kissing her like he'd waited centuries. Like time itself had been the cage and she was the key.

She gasped, and he devoured it.

His kiss was not gentle. It was claiming. Carnal. His teeth grazed her lip, and she whimpered into him, clutching at his coat, needing more all of him. He kissed her like he meant to erase every name that had ever passed her lips but his.

The world narrowed to heat, to breath, to the weight of him pressing her down.

And Stefan...

Was very much real.

Then he broke the kiss just barely. Just enough for his lips to hover over hers, breath hot and trembling with restraint.

His voice dropped into a growl low, dark, and full of possession.

"Finally mine."

It wasn't a question.

It was a truth. A brand.

Sofia whimpered, the sound caught somewhere between fear and aching need.

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes."

That was all he needed.

He pushed her down onto the bed with a force that was all control, no violence like a god arranging worship. Then he followed, crawling over her on hands and knees, his long coat fanning out behind him like wings made of shadow and silk.

He moved like temptation incarnate.

Like sin.

His body hovered just above hers, radiating heat and hunger. His hands came down on her hot, heavy, real. One wrapped around her throat, thumb pressed lightly to her pulse, claiming her breath without taking it. The other slid with reverent slowness down her side, over the flare of her hip, across her trembling thigh.

Then higher.

Higher.

She arched up into him, helpless with want. Her body begged before her mouth could.

"Say it," he growled, voice rough, ancient, edged with barely restrained power.

She moaned, already half undone.

"Yours," she gasped. "I'm yours."

His smile was sharp. Beautiful. Dangerous.

Then he kissed her again harder this time, all tongue and teeth and need. He devoured her mouth, stole her breath, and left her gasping for more. His fingers found her center, slick and swollen, and when he parted her folds with practiced precision, he groaned into her mouth like he'd just tasted divinity.

"So fucking wet," he growled. "All for me?"

She nodded, breathless. "Yes. God, yes."

His voice dropped to a whisper against her cheek, dark and velvet and laced with absolute knowing.

"You've been begging for this. Every time you touched yourself in the dark. Every time you dreamed of being taken. Owned. Ruined."

He pressed his thumb to her clit once. Just once.

The jolt shot through her like lightning.

She arched, hips jerking, a gasp tearing from her throat as the bed creaked beneath her.

"Let me ruin you, little one."

She didn't have time to answer.

His mouth was already on her.

Between her thighs.

And fuck, he didn't hold back.

His tongue moved with terrifying, exquisite precision long, slow strokes that lapped at her like she was something sacred, followed by quick, wicked flicks that had her crying out, thighs shaking, fingers clawing at the sheets.

"Fuck fuck, Stefan!"

But he didn't stop.

He devoured her.

One hand locked her hip to the bed, the other slid two thick fingers inside her deep, unrelenting, curling just right to stroke that hidden spot that made her see stars.

He moved like he knew her. Like he'd studied her from the inside. Like this was his last night on earth and she was the only thing he wanted to die tasting.

Her orgasm ripped through her like fire screaming, shaking, soaking his mouth and hand with her release. But he didn't stop.

Didn't let her go.

His fingers kept thrusting, curling, dragging her higher as his tongue circled her clit again, again, again

And she came again harder, louder, legs kicking against the mattress, her cries echoing through the room like broken prayers.

Then again.

Her voice shattered. Her limbs spasmed.

And still he didn't stop.

Not until she lay there undone boneless, wide eyed, her breath a ragged whisper against her own skin, slick and spent and trembling.

Only then did he lift his head.

His mouth glistened with her release.

He licked it clean slowly. Deliberately.

Then smiled, eyes molten gold and full of promise.

"Now you're ready."

He stood, the air cooling instantly in his absence.

Then, with a shrug of his broad shoulders

His coat dropped.

And fuck.

Sofia's breath caught hard in her throat.

Her eyes widened. Her thighs twitched.

He was huge.

Thick. Heavy. Long enough to make her gasp before he even touched her. His cock stood rigid between them, flushed a deep, angry red, veins throbbing along the length. The head was blunt, wide, and already glistening with precum. He was curved just slightly upward perfectly like his body was designed to hit every spot that mattered.

No. Not designed.

Sculpted.

He looked less like a man and more like a weapon forged to ruin.

Her pussy clenched at just the sight of him, her inner muscles fluttering in frantic anticipation, already aching to be filled. Stretched. Split.

"Are you going to be good for me?" he asked, voice low and wicked as sin, crawling over her again with slow, feral grace.

The thick weight of his cock dragged along her soaked folds deliberately. Lazily. The head nudged her clit, smeared slick over her entrance, made her jerk and whimper.

"I I don't know if it'll fit," she whispered, her voice barely there, lost between panic and aching need.

Stefan's eyes burned into hers.

"It will," he said darkly, the words curling around her spine like a spell. "You were made for me. Your body was built to take every inch. Every fucking inch."

And then

He pushed in.

Slow.

Unforgiving.

Deliberate.

The head breached her, thick and unrelenting, and she screamed into his mouth as he kissed her through it holding her jaw, swallowing the sound like it fed him.

Her cunt stretched around him, trembling, spasming, her walls struggling to accommodate the impossible thickness sliding deeper with each grinding inch.

She sobbed, not from pain but from the overwhelming, all consuming fullness.

He didn't stop.

He kept going.

Until he was buried inside her, to the hilt. Every inch. Every vein. Every unforgiving ridge locked inside her, stretching her so wide she could barely breathe.

Sofia shook beneath him, pinned to the bed by the sheer weight of his cock.

She wasn't full.

She was stuffed.

"Good girl," he growled against her throat, nipping her skin with blunt teeth. "Fucking perfect."

And then he moved.

Hard.

He didn't give her time. Didn't ease her into it. He began to fuck her with a brutal rhythm, deep and punishing, cock dragging along every hypersensitive inch inside her before slamming back in again.

Each thrust made her cry out, gasp, twitch beneath him.

His hands gripped her wrists, slammed them into the mattress above her head, holding her down like she might try to escape though she never would. Couldn't.

Not from this.

His weight bore down on her, powerful and possessive. Every thrust punched the air from her lungs, rocked her bones, cracked her mind wide open.

Her eyes rolled back.

Her breath hitched.

And then

"I'm going to mark you. Fill you. Make you mine in every fucking way."

His voice wasn't just promise. It was prophecy.

One hand slid from her wrist to her throat, wrapped around it not tight, just enough to remind her who owned her breath. Who owned everything.

She came.

Hard.

A scream tore from her throat as her pussy clamped down around him, soaked him, tried to hold him still but he didn't stop.

He fucked her through it. Used it.

Then he flipped her.

In one fluid motion, he turned her over, pulled her hips up, forced her knees apart. She barely had time to gasp before

Crack.

His palm landed on her ass, sharp and punishing.

She yelled, the sound primal.

And then he slammed into her again from behind, harder than before, deeper. His cock bottomed out with every thrust, the head slamming into her cervix with rhythmic, ruthless precision.

She sobbed into the pillows.

"F fuck Stefan too much"

"No," he growled behind her. "Not enough."

His hand reached beneath her, between her trembling thighs, found her clit and slapped it.

Sofia screamed.

Her orgasm hit like a bomb.

She convulsed, went limp but he held her up, one hand on her hip, the other never letting her fall. He fucked her through the aftershocks, forced her body to keep moving, to keep taking him.

"You're going to take my cum," he snarled. "You're going to beg for it."

"Yes," she sobbed, broken and desperate. "Please please fill me "

He slammed into her once. Twice.

And then he stilled.

Deep.

So deep.

And he came.

She felt it.

Hot, thick ropes flooding her pussy. Pulse after pulse of molten heat poured inside her, coating her walls, marking her from the inside out. Her cunt clenched hard, milking him, holding him, refusing to let go.

Sofia moaned long, low, shattered.

She collapsed onto the bed, arms limp, legs shaking, mouth open and silent.

Fucked.

Filled.

Owned.

And beneath her skin, she swore she could feel it

His cum sinking deeper.

His name written in her womb like a curse.

Sofia didn't know how long she'd been lying there time had lost its meaning somewhere between her third orgasm and her final, broken moan.

The air in the room was thick. Heavy with sex and shadow. The scent of sweat and cum and something older something unnamable hung like incense in a temple built for ruin.

Her thighs were soaked, slick with his release and her own, smeared down to her knees. Her skin shimmered with sweat, breath fogging softly against the pillow beneath her cheek. Her heart stuttered inside her chest, struggling to find rhythm after so much more.

Stefan was draped over her, no on her. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his chest flush to her back, one hand tangled tight in her hair like a leash he had no intention of unclipping. His cock still throbbed inside her, so deep, so full, as if her body had been built to cradle him and never let go.

He was solid. Grounded. Real in all the most devastating ways.

And yet... something shifted.

The air didn't settle it hummed.

Power buzzed through the room, not fading, but gathering. Thickening like the charge before a storm.

Sofia stirred beneath him, body twitching from overstimulation. Her hips shifted involuntarily, her pussy fluttering around his cock, begging for more even as her nerves crackled with exhausted warning. Her mind whispered stop but her body moaned please.

Then she felt it.

Another hand.

Not Stefan's.

A second hand, warm and possessive, sliding along the outside of her thigh.

She stiffened. Her breath caught. Her head lifted, eyes flying open.

At the foot of the bed stood another him.

Another Stefan.

Identical down to the impossibly golden eyes and that same cruel, knowing smirk that could make her come on command.

But this one was already bare cock in hand, stroking himself slowly, deliberately, watching her like prey he'd already claimed.

Her voice trembled out, raw. "What the "

"Shhh..." the Stefan inside her whispered, mouth brushing her ear, voice a purr of pure corruption. "You're mine now. Body. Mind. Soul."

His teeth grazed the shell of her ear, just enough to make her hips jerk.

"That means I don't have to share you."

A pause. A breath against her throat.

"But I can."

A third hand touched her.

She gasped.

Lifted her head again.

A third Stefan stood beside the bed, bathed in shadow and candlelight. His gaze wasn't cruel his eyes held something closer to reverence. Hunger, yes. But also awe. Worship. His beauty was the same, but softer in its intensity. No less dangerous.

And his cock already hard hung heavy and thick between his thighs, veins taut, the head flushed and leaking, as if he had been waiting too long to touch her.

Three of them.

Her breath stuttered. Her mind splintered.

How is this real? Am I dreaming? Am I possessed?

Do I care?

The thought hit her hard, a sudden flash of knowing.

He's splitting himself.

Multiplying.

Because one Stefan wasn't enough to wreck her.

He needed more.

And fuck so did she.

The Stefan still inside her slid out with a wet, obscene sound that made her entire body flinch and whine with loss. She whimpered, trying to chase him back with her hips but he was already flipping her over, cradling her head, kissing her with a slow, searing depth that stole whatever resistance she had left.

When he pulled back, his eyes were molten.

"You're going to take all of me," he said, voice thick with hunger and promise. "Every version. Every desire. Every shade."

And behind him, the other two smiled.

The one at the foot of the bed stroked himself harder now, precum glistening on his tip like a reward she hadn't earned yet. The one beside her leaned down, brushing her cheek with his knuckles, so tender it made her eyes water.

Three mouths.

Six hands.

Three cocks.

All him.

All hers.

All coming for her.

Sofia's body responded before her mind could make sense of what was happening instinctively, helplessly. As if every nerve in her skin, every pulse between her thighs, already knew what to do.

She spread her legs, thighs falling open like petals to sunlight.

She arched her back, spine curving in invitation, slick folds pulsing in desperate anticipation.

She didn't speak she didn't have to.

Her body begged for them without a single word.

The second Stefan predatory smirk carved into his face, cock thick and gleaming with anticipation crawled onto the bed like a beast who knew his prey had already surrendered.

He grabbed her hips with a bruising grip, possessive, unforgiving.

And without a word, without warning, he slammed into her pussy.

Sofia screamed a raw, keening sound torn from the deepest place in her, pure overwhelmed ecstasy.

The stretch was brutal again. Her pussy clenched around him, struggling to accommodate the thickness, the force, the impossible fullness. But he gave her no time to adjust. No rhythm. No tenderness.

He fucked her like she was nothing but a hole meant to be filled.

Like he'd been waiting too long and had no patience left.

His thrusts were savage, relentless slapping skin against skin, shaking the bed with each brutal, beautiful stroke. Her breasts bounced beneath her, slick with sweat, her hands clawing at the sheets, knuckles white.

And then

Another presence.

The softer Stefan the one who looked at her like she was something sacred even as she was being split open knelt beside her. His fingers brushed her cheek with a reverent touch, lifting her face, cradling it in both hands.

"Let me show you how worship feels," he whispered, voice silk wrapped and holy.

His cock just as thick, just as hard brushed against her lips, smearing pre cum across them like anointing oil. She opened without hesitation, without thought, lips parting on a gasp. And he slid in.

Slowly.

Deeply.

Hot and heavy on her tongue, stretching her mouth, filling her throat with patience and purpose.

And suddenly she was held.

Pinned between two extremes of the same man.

One behind her, pounding her like she was nothing but flesh to be used, a wet, willing hole for him to bury himself in. The other before her, fucking her mouth with aching gentleness, stroking her cheek as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, brushing her hair back like a lover.

Sofia was caged in pleasure. Claimed at both ends.

And still the third Stefan stood apart, just out of reach. Watching. Eyes half lidded, hands behind his back like a prince waiting to give judgment.

She was drowning.

Her cunt was stretched tight around the second Stefan, spasming with every savage thrust. Her throat opened around the first, jaw wide, tongue flattened beneath him. Her moans were choked, swallowed around the thick length fucking her mouth, and yet somehow, it still wasn't enough.

This is insane. This is divine.

I'm being used, possessed, worshipped by the same man, over and over. I should be terrified. I should be running.

But fuck... I've never felt more alive.

The Stefan behind her groaned through gritted teeth, hips slamming forward harder, deeper, pushing against the very limit of her body. He slapped her ass once hard and she jolted, gasping around the cock in her throat.

He leaned in, breath hot in her ear, and growled:

"You're so fucking tight. You like this, don't you? Being split open by us. You like being turned into our personal fuckhole."

She moaned around the cock filling her mouth deep, desperate, broken.

The softer Stefan cupped her jaw, brushed her tear streaked cheek with his thumb, his voice warm and tender even as he gently rocked into her mouth.

"You're doing so well, kitten. Look at you. Look how beautifully you take us."

Her eyes fluttered, pleasure surging, stomach tightening

And then the air shifted again.

The fourth arrived.

And everything changed.

He was different.

Darker.

Taller, somehow. His golden eyes burned hotter. His smile was crueler, curved with something unholy. His hair was wild, tousled like he'd come from battle or from fucking something into madness.

Sofia looked at him and shuddered.

Her whole body reacted. Pussy tightening around the cock inside her. Mouth twitching around the one fucking her throat.

Oh fuck.

He said nothing at first.

Just climbed onto the bed beside her, one knee bent, one hand trailing over her belly. He didn't rush. Didn't touch her like the others.

He studied her.

Like he was about to break a spell by stepping inside it.

Then he touched her.

Fingers drifting over her breasts, teasing one nipple, pinching until she cried out. Then trailing lower... across her slick, stretched folds. Past the place already being filled.

Down.

Between her cheeks.

His smile widened as she flinched, twitching against the touch.

"No one's claimed this yet," he murmured, voice like oil and fire.

And his hand drifted lower.

Lower.

And then

She felt it.

A pressure at her rim, firm and intent. A finger pressing gently, directly to her ass.

She stiffened, back arching, eyes flying wide instinct bracing her for something she couldn't yet name.

But there was no teasing.

No build up. No gentle coaxing.

The fourth Stefan was not a man who asked. He took.

He spit into his palm loud, wet, primal and stroked his cock with lazy, deliberate purpose, smearing slick over his thick length. The sound made the others moan in unison, a sound that vibrated through her bones.

Then he leaned in and pressed the wide, blunt head of his cock to her asshole.

Sofia sobbed around the cock in her mouth, body seizing with sensation, tears streaming down her cheeks as her body began to open.

Slowly.

Brutally.

The stretch was intense hot, thick, invading. Her muscles fluttered around him, resisting, then yielding. Inch by relentless inch, he pushed deeper, carving space where there had been none.

Her body trembled.

Shook.

Accepted.

Until he was buried in her ass, filling her in a way that shattered thought, shattered everything.

She was full.

So full.

All three holes taken.

All three used.

Three cocks inside her her throat, her cunt, her ass driving into her in perfect rhythm, perfect ruin. Different bodies. Different voices. Different aspects.

But all the same soul.

All him.

Oh God, I'm being gangbanged by one man. By four sides of him. I didn't know I could feel this full. I didn't know I could want this much.

And then it began.

The rhythm.

The thrusting.

A brutal, holy symphony.

Her mouth.

Her pussy.

Her ass.

Fucked. Fucked. Fucked.

Their movements syncopated never breaking, never slowing. Each thrust matched the others like a dark ritual written in her blood and desire. Her body rocked between them, helpless, overwhelmed, and completely theirs.

Hands were everywhere.

One tweaked her nipples until she screamed.

Another slapped her thigh, marking her flesh.

Fingers brushed her clit, pinched it. Rubbed circles around it as she wept and begged and shook.

Her neck was kissed. Her hair stroked. Her hip grabbed hard enough to bruise.

She was surrounded by pleasure, drowned in possession.

"Such a good girl," murmured the Stefan in her mouth, his voice thick with reverence, lips brushing her cheek between strokes.

"Greedy fucking whore," snarled the one buried in her cunt, slamming harder, deeper, the words twisted with affection and lust.

The one in her ass said nothing.

He just growled.

Low.

Animal.

And fucked her harder.

Her body couldn't keep up.

Her mind shattered first.

She went limp.

Then arched.

Then screamed loud and raw and real.

Her orgasm tore through her like a lightning strike. Sudden. Blinding. Violent.

She convulsed between them, throat choking, pussy gushing, ass clenching, milking all three cocks as she came hard, soaking the sheets beneath her.

But they didn't stop.

They didn't even pause.

They kept going.

Relentless.

Unforgiving.

Devoted.

Their hands kept her upright, their bodies used her like a sacred vessel. And her body took it. Somehow. Again. And again.

A second orgasm built impossible.

Then a third earth shattering.

Sofia cried out, her voice slurred and broken, her throat raw around the cock still moving gently in and out of her mouth.

"Too much too much "

And then

The fifth Stefan arrived.

Quiet.

Beautiful.

Terrible.

He stepped from the shadows like a god made of candlelight and sorrow, his golden eyes heavy with love and ruin. He moved to the bed without a word and knelt beside her.

Lifted her face.

And kissed her.

Not hard. Not hungry.

Soft.

Slow.

Devastating.

"You're beautiful like this," he whispered against her lips. "Destroyed. Loved. Ours."

His hand slid between her trembling thighs. Found her clit. Rubbed it slow, precise, coaxing.

And the other three

Fucked her harder.

Faster.

Like they knew it was the end.

Her body gave out but they held her up. Used her. Praised her. Broke her.

And Sofia?

Sofia screamed.

Her final orgasm erupted through her like fire. Her eyes rolled back. Her body shook uncontrollably. Her mouth opened around the softening cock and let out a soundless, wordless cry of surrender.

And the Stefans

All of them

Came with her.

One came down her throat hot, thick, demanding. The first pulse made her gag, her throat clenching around the impossible heat. She swallowed instinctively, tears slipping from her lashes as he kept spilling into her, each jet a mark, a claim, a promise she'd never speak another man's name again.

The second finished inside her pussy buried to the root, thick and deep and trembling. She felt it everywhere the warmth blooming in her womb, thick ribbons of release painting her insides until she couldn't tell where he ended and she began. It leaked out around him as he pulsed, overflowing from the place he'd stretched and owned and ruined.

The third emptied into her ass with a groan that sounded like possession. His cock twitched violently as he came, thick spurts forcing their way into the tightest part of her, slick and primal. The stretch only made it more intense she felt every throb, every drop leaking out around her rim, her body unable to hold even half of what they gave her.

They didn't just fuck her.

They filled her.

Utterly.

Completely.

Overflowed her.

And then slowly, one by one they withdrew.

Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as their cocks slipped from her gaping holes, dripping with their shared claim. Her mouth hung open, lips raw and swollen. Her cunt ached, stretched and dripping down her thighs. Her ass twitched with emptiness, twitching around the last ghost of him. And the rest of them just came all over her body painting her in cum.

And Sofia she collapsed.

Boneless.

Soaked.

Her body stretched to its limits and left wide open. Every inch of her marked. Her skin a canvas of sweat and saliva and semen. Her thighs trembled, her nipples rubbed raw from so many hands. She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

She was ruined.

Utterly.

Perfectly.

And yet held.

The fifth Stefan moved in, gathered her against his chest, one arm around her back, the other brushing her damp hair from her face with infinite care. His touch was impossibly gentle fingertips smoothing sweat from her brow, lips ghosting over her temple like a blessing.

"You did beautifully, kitten," he whispered, voice low and warm, soaked in pride and possession. "And we're not done."

Sofia didn't respond.

Couldn't.

Her body was wrecked, but her mind was quieter than it had ever been.

No questions.

No fear.

Just sensation. Afterglow. The strange, holy silence of knowing you've been claimed.

She lay there in his arms, still trembling, still dripping, surrounded by the lingering presence of all of them.

Used.

Owned.

And yet somehow for the first time in her life

Whole.

The Morning After

Sunlight bled lazily through the cracked curtains, slanting in with guilty hesitation like it was ashamed of what it had found here. Golden beams cut across tangled sheets and stained silk, spotlighting the scene of soft, blissful ruin left behind.

Sofia lay sprawled in the center of the oversized bed, limbs flung wide in perfect, obscene surrender. One arm dangled over the edge. Her hair was matted to her cheek with sweat and other fluids she no longer cared to identify. Her mouth hung slightly open, a soft moan caught somewhere between breath and dream. Beneath her closed lids, her eyes fluttered with flickers of dreams that had teeth.

Her entire body ached not from pain.

From pleasure.

Deep. Radiating. Glorious ruin.

Time had become meaningless. Hours? Days? She couldn't say. The clock had stopped keeping track sometime after the fourth orgasm, or maybe the fourteenth. Stefan and all five incarnations of him had taken her again and again, a relentless tide of need and command, worship and devastation. They'd wrung her out until she was nothing but pulse and whimper, until her body could no longer remember how to not come.

Her pussy was sore, stretched, and dripping. Her ass throbbed with delicious aftershocks, raw and tender. Her throat ached in that specific, slutty way she would never admit aloud but would absolutely remember with her legs crossed tight in a bath later.

Cum leaked from every hole. Still warm. Still there. It dripped down her thighs, smeared across her stomach, clung to her hair. The sheets beneath her were ruined soaked and sticky, reeking of sex and sin. She didn't even want to think about how she looked.

A spectral cumshower.

A baptism in ghost seed.

An unholy anointing.

She blinked her eyes open slowly, vision swimming, ceiling spinning just enough to remind her that her body had been used in every possible way and had loved it.

"I need therapy..." she croaked, voice wrecked and hoarse. "And electrolytes."

With a groan, she tried to sit up.

Her abs said no.

Her thighs screamed no.

She collapsed back into the mattress like a limp puppet, a strangled laugh bubbling out of her chest. The kind of laugh that bordered on hysteria and afterglow. Somewhere deep in her sex wrecked brain, a single coherent thought echoed:

You need to leave this place.

Sofia groaned. Rolled to one side. Every inch of her protested.

The carpet was cool against her knees almost painfully so. She knelt there, trying to remember how clothing worked, how standing worked, how being human worked. Her fingers fumbled for the tattered remains of her sweater.

Gone.

The fabric was shredded. Her underwear had simply ceased to exist.

Buried beneath a pile of ghost orgasms and questionable life decisions.

Fine. Naked it is.

She grabbed the nearest thing she could find a dusty throw blanket from a velvet chair and wrapped it around herself like a sinner sneaking out of church.

Limping toward the door, every step reminded her of just how thoroughly she'd been fucked. The ache was everywhere. Inside. Beneath her skin. Between her ribs. She could still feel them his hands, his cocks, his mouth.

She paused, breathless, leaning against the wall for a moment.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

No creaks. No whispers. The usual ambient murmurs of haunting were gone as if even the manor had climaxed and collapsed into post coital exhaustion.

But Sofia?

Sofia was done.

"I am leaving," she muttered, limping down the corridor. "You haunted me. You came in me. You wrecked my ability to sit like a functioning adult, and I get it. You made your point. But now? I'm out."

She turned corner after corner, searching for the exit. But the halls weren't the same. They'd shifted. Warped.

Paintings she hadn't noticed before stared down at her with knowing smiles. Doors led to the wrong places a parlor that bled into a ballroom, a staircase that spiraled straight into a wine cellar... that circled back into the bedroom she'd just left.

"No. Nope. Absolutely not," she hissed. "No more horny ghost mazes."

Frustration built. Her legs trembled. Her pussy ached. Her nerves were frayed.

And then

She saw it.

A door she hadn't noticed before.

Blood red.

It stood at the end of a corridor that hadn't existed a moment ago.

No handle. No keyhole.

Just a presence.

It opened for her.

Silently. Obediently.

Inviting.

She stepped closer, the blanket slipping off one shoulder, pulse ticking loud in her ears.

Inside

A woman's room.

Not just a bedroom a shrine. Ornate. Lavish. Trapped in the velvet breath of another century. It smelled like powdered lilac and decay, like secrets sealed in lace and sex.

Dust coated everything like a forgotten spell. The floorboards were scuffed by heels long disintegrated. Cobwebs shimmered like veils over a towering canopy bed draped in velvet so black it seemed to swallow the light.

A boudoir table stood near the window, its mirror cracked like a jagged grin. Scattered across its surface broken perfume bottles, their crystal throats shattered. Lipsticks melted to waxy nubs. A feather fan splayed open in an eternal gasp. An old corset, laces snarled like a lover's fingers. Stockings, yellowed with age, hung from the bedposts like wilted flowers drying in the afterglow.

And on the bed

A body.

No. A corpse.

Perfectly preserved.

Pale as moonlight. Lips tinted just enough to look kissed. A dark haired woman in an elaborate black gown, hands folded over her narrow waist in the universal posture of the dead serene, silent, waiting. It looked like she had simply laid down one night and decided never to rise again.

But Sofia's breath caught not from fear.

From recognition.

Her name came before the voice. As if something whispered it directly into her blood.

Dragana.

Then

"So this is the girl who made him come so hard he cried."

The voice wasn't spoken aloud. It slid into her skull like silk and smoke. Feminine. Arrogant. Hungry. The sound of a smirk with centuries of satisfaction behind it.

Sofia spun around, eyes wide.

No one there.

The mirror trembled its reflection not quite aligned.

The air shimmered.

And then she appeared.

Not the corpse.

The spirit.

Dragana.

She manifested like a flame catching air slow at first, then sudden. A glowing outline in the dust heavy gloom, hovering just behind Sofia's shoulder. Her figure was radiant, not with light, but with dark glamour. Her hair was long and black as oil, her mouth curved in a smile that promised danger and delight in equal measure. Her eyes deep, endless burned with knowing.

Wicked. Gorgeous. Deadly.

"What the fuck are you " Sofia breathed, stumbling back.

"His mistress, darling," Dragana purred. "His obsession. His curse."

She floated forward closer her presence brushing Sofia's bare shoulder like breath. Not cold. Not warm.

Just there.

"And now..." she whispered, circling her. "I need you."

Sofia's spine went rigid. "Excuse me?"

"I want to feel again." Dragana's tone was silk, but the hunger beneath it scratched like claws. "Touch. Moan. Come. All the things he denied me in death."

Her essence drifted around Sofia like perfume, like a net.

"You want to escape?" Dragana asked sweetly, lips inches from her ear. "Then let me use your body. Just once. One taste. One orgasm. And I'll open the door."

Sofia's mouth went dry.

One orgasm.

Just one?

But something in her trembled not with fear.

With want.

Dark and terrible and ancient.

Dragana saw it. Smiled wider.

"I'll feel everything you feel," she murmured. "And you'll feel everything I've been denied. Centuries of hunger, pleasure trapped in bone and ash. You'll come like you've never come before, girl."

Sofia's heart raced.

She should say no. She should run. She should

But the thought of that pleasure...

Of sharing it...

Of being used one more time...

It thrilled her.

She nodded.

"Fine," she whispered.

Dragana's smile turned molten.

"Then let's begin."

The possession wasn't violent.

It wasn't invasive in the way Sofia had feared.

It was seductive.

Dragana's spirit slipped into her like steam over skin, like silk being pulled slowly through the eye of a needle. There was no tearing, no resistance just heat. A rush of molten sensation swept through her limbs, and a gasp tore from her lips before she could stop it.

Then darkness.

Not unconsciousness.

She was still there present, awake, watching.

She just couldn't move.

Her body stood up with graceful confidence, spine lengthening, shoulders rolling back. Her own hands lifted to cup her breasts, thumbs grazing over sensitive nipples with teasing strokes. Sofia felt it all every whisper of sensation, every pulse of nerve endings lighting up like stars but it wasn't her moving.

It was Dragana.

She stretched like she hadn't touched flesh in centuries because she hadn't. A shiver ran down their shared spine as she ran her fingers down Sofia's torso, nails grazing the soft skin of her belly.

"Mmm... this is delicious," Dragana purred aloud, her voice emerging from Sofia's throat in a sensual, reverent sigh. "Soft. Responsive. Perfectly ripe."

Sofia wanted to scream. Wanted to speak. But she couldn't. Her mouth was no longer hers.

Dragana heard her thoughts, though. Felt her protests, her confusion, her hidden thrill.

"Relax, darling," she whispered with a smile. "I'm only borrowing this. I'll give it back... eventually."

Then her hand drifted lower.

Fingers slipped between her thighs.

A jolt of pleasure shot through both of them, sharp and sweet as lightning. Sofia's legs buckled, but Dragana steadied her their body fluid and composed even as nerve endings flared.

She moaned a deep, guttural sound that wasn't quite Sofia's. It came from her mouth, yes, but it carried centuries of denial, of want.

"Oh, gods, yes," Dragana groaned. "I missed this. The slickness. The ache. The heat..."

Two fingers slid into Sofia's pussy without hesitation.

And stars exploded behind her eyes.

Sofia could only scream inside as her body writhed around the intrusion tight, pulsing, already soaked. Dragana curled the fingers slowly, deliberately, savoring every flutter of resistance.

"Look at this greedy cunt," she whispered, her tone more lust than mockery. "Already clenching. Already dripping. You love being touched, don't you, Sofia?"

Sofia tried to push back, to say no

But her hips rolled.

Her thighs trembled.

Her back arched ever so slightly, presenting herself to empty air as Dragana fucked her with her own hand.

The ghost laughed.

It was beautiful. Cruel. True.

"You're wetter than I was on my wedding night," she purred. "And you love it. Even when you're not in control."

The fingers inside her began to pump deeper now, faster. Her palm cupped her mound, heel grinding against her clit in rhythmic strokes. Her other hand found her breast, pinched a nipple until she whimpered around her own breath.

Sensation poured in from every direction.

She was inside her body and outside it all at once.

Trapped in the passenger seat of her own pleasure.

Dragana's voice purred through her mouth again:

"Let's see how many times I can make us come... shall we?"

Sofia screamed inside her own skull as the first orgasm hit fast and wild and stolen. Her body trembled, clenched, spilled around her own fingers as the wave crashed over them both.

And still the fingers moved.

The hips rolled.

The pressure built again.

The door in the room silent, red, ancient creaked open an inch wider.

And Dragana?

She was just getting started.

Dragana dressed Sofia's body with slow, reverent precision.

She found the corset near the back of the wardrobe black as ink, sheer enough to tease and tempt, boned in a way that sculpted rather than restricted. She cinched it tight, lacing it up with elegant brutality until Sofia's breasts spilled over the top, pushed high and proud like an offering.

No panties.

No stockings.

Just skin.

Just slickness.

Her thighs still gleamed with the aftermath of her earlier orgasm, and her pussy still pulsed, raw and dripping with possession. She didn't clean it.

She wore it.

Proud.

A warning. A promise.

Let him smell her. Let him know.

She walked through the manor with bare feet and unshakable authority, each step echoing like a ritual. Her hips swayed with deliberate grace, her back straight, her chin tilted in amusement. The sheer corset caught the candlelight, turned her into something between ghost and goddess.

Every mirror she passed shimmered. Their reflections rippled not distorted, but reverent. The house saw her. Knew her.

It remembered its mistress.

Every candle flared when she passed, flames rising in greeting, as if the walls themselves were exhaling after a long, unsatisfied wait.

She smiled sharp, feral, home.

And then

He appeared.

At the top of the grand staircase.

Half manifested, his form shifting with light and shadow. Eyes burning gold. Chest bare beneath a black coat that moved like smoke. He looked down at her like he always had hungry, possessive.

"Kitten," he growled, voice low and rough. "Back for more so soon?"

But Dragana didn't flinch.

Didn't blink.

Didn't yield.

She ascended the staircase slowly, one step at a time, each movement deliberate, the sway of her hips hypnotic. Her smile grew, predatory and sweet.

"Missed me, baby?"

Stefan froze.

For a heartbeat, something in his face cracked confusion. Then disbelief. Then a flicker of recognition.

His eyes narrowed.

"Dragana?"

She tilted her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. The candlelight caressed Sofia's body, but the soul within burned brighter.

"Surprised to see me?"

He opened his mouth but she didn't give him the chance to speak.

She closed the distance in two steps, her hand moving with lethal speed, curling around his cock through his trousers already hard, already throbbing.

He shuddered.

Dragana squeezed, just enough to remind him what it meant to be wanted by her.

"Still eager, I see," she purred, voice silk wrapped around iron. "Good. I've waited long enough."

She pushed him hard backward into a hallway choked with shadow, the walls pressing close like the house itself was watching.

He stumbled, caught between arousal and disbelief.

She didn't let him regain control.

She took it.

Pressed him to the wall.

Dropped to her knees.

Looked up at him through long lashes with Sofia's flushed cheeks and Dragana's wicked soul burning behind her eyes.

"Let's see if you still taste like sin."

Her fingers made quick work of his trousers, pushing them down just far enough. His cock sprang free thick, heavy, dark with blood and hunger.

She didn't hesitate.

She opened her mouth and devoured him.

One slow drag of her lips down his length, tongue swirling, throat already relaxing to take him deep. She moaned around him low, deliberate and watched his head tip back, a growl tearing from his throat.

Sofia felt it all.

The stretch in her jaw.

The slick heat of his cock on her tongue.

The pulse of his desire, familiar and maddening.

And somewhere inside, she trembled.

Not from fear.

But from the shared, rising need.

Because this wasn't just about reunion.

This was about reclamation.

Stefan stood frozen in shock, every muscle locked tight, cock throbbing in Dragana's grip as she sank Sofia's mouth around him with no preamble no tenderness.

Just claiming.

Wet. Deep. Violent with intent.

His hips jerked helplessly forward, driven by instinct and memory, even as his mind screamed warning. But it was too late her throat had already swallowed him, wrapped around him like satin and heat, like she remembered every contour of his body and wasn't here to worship.

She was here to feed.

And beneath that perfect, rhythmic suction, Dragana felt it.

A spark.

His essence. The magic he used to dominate, to manifest, to control. The thing that made him more than a memory.

Mine now, she whispered into the space between them, into his soul.

The Wrathful Stefan

He was the first to lunge.

Snarling like an animal off its leash, eyes molten gold, fists clenched at his sides. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Rage poured off him like heat, and it wasn't directed at her it was in him, boiling, a wrathful echo of the original who had never forgiven her for dying, for denying, for defying.

But Dragana didn't cower. She grinned. Opened her arms like a temptress on a throne.

"Come on, beast," she purred, voice dripping venom and invitation. "Show me what your rage tastes like."

He was on her in a flash.

Hands like iron gripped her arms, slammed her back against a bookcase that groaned behind her. Dust rained down. Books scattered. But she only laughed loud and delighted as he yanked her leg up around his waist and shoved two fingers inside her dripping cunt without a word.

Squelch. Deep. Rough. Fast.

Her head fell back against the wood, eyes fluttering.

Inside, Sofia moaned with her drenched in shared lust, unable to stop the wave of God, yes use me fucking ruin me.

"You're soaked," he hissed, finally speaking. His voice was gravel and violence. "You wanted this. Wanted me to break you."

"So do it," Dragana taunted. "If you think you can."

He growled and she laughed just as he pulled his cock free, thick and pulsing with fury.

And then he shoved inside her.

No warning.

Just raw, brutal force.

Sofia screamed behind Dragana's grin, body stretched in an instant, cunt clenching around him as he slammed home. Their hips met with a crack of flesh. Her back arched. Her leg wrapped tighter around him, pulling him deeper.

"Fuck," he groaned, rutting into her like she was just a tight wet hole to vent his rage.

But she was more.

She was a trap.

"Yes," Dragana moaned, tongue licking her lips, "Give me all of it. Fuck the hate right into me."

He grabbed her throat. Slammed her against the shelf. Fucked her harder.

She took it.

Smiling.

Writhing.

Loving every savage thrust.

"You never could control me," she gasped, nails dragging down his back. "But now I own your cock. I own this fury."

And she did.

Because even as he pounded into her deep, merciless, unforgiving his movements began to falter. The rhythm fractured. His breath hitched.

"No," he snarled. "No, you don't "

"Oh, but I do," she purred, clenching around him like a vice, milking every inch. "Your balls are going to empty into me. And when you come? You'll cease to exist."

He tried to pull out.

She locked her legs.

"No escape," she whispered. "Now come."

And he did.

With a roar of fury and helpless ecstasy, he came deep inside her cock twitching, hips jerking, cum flooding her cunt in pulsing waves.

And as he did his form shimmered.

Cracked.

Flickered.

"Yes..." Dragana moaned, eyes rolling back. "Let it go. Give it all to us."

Sofia came with him helplessly, gasping, clenching around the orgasm that wasn't even hers.

And the wrathful Stefan vanished.

A burst of light.

A groan swallowed by silence.

Gone.

Fed to her body.

Power surging in her veins.

Dragana turned, sweat slicked and radiant.

"Next."

The Dominant Stefan

He stepped forward like he was already in charge.

Hair slicked back. A perfectly tailored coat stretched over his shoulders. Gloves on his hands. Every movement was calculated. Clean. Commanding.

His cock hung heavy between his thighs thick, measured, aching with quiet authority but he didn't rush. He didn't need to.

"On your knees," he said. Calm. Certain. The voice of a man who'd never been disobeyed.

Dragana tilted her head, amused.

Inside, Sofia squirmed arousal prickling sharp and sudden, God yes, her mind whispering before she could stop it.

And Dragana obeyed.

Slowly.

Not because he ordered it. But because she wanted him to believe she'd surrendered.

She knelt with theatrical grace, back straight, tits pushed up in her corset, mouth already parting. She looked up at him through thick lashes, her expression the perfect picture of obedience.

"Good girl," he murmured, stroking himself.

Dragana smirked.

He stepped close.

Pressed the head of his cock to her lips.

"Open."

She did. Let him slide in inch by inch. Hot. Heavy. Commanding.

He fucked her mouth with the same precision he carried in every movement controlled thrusts, just deep enough to hit the back of her throat, just rough enough to assert power. One hand tangled in her hair, the other tapped her cheek lightly every few strokes.

"There. Take it. Just like that. Don't move unless I say."

But her eyes never lost their gleam.

And Sofia?

Sofia loved it.

She moaned around the thick length in her mouth, throat relaxing to take more, tongue swirling under him as wet, obscene sounds filled the air. Spit dripped down her chin. Her nipples ached. Her pussy clenched around nothing.

He groaned above her, composure cracking slightly.

"You like being used, don't you?" he growled. "You like kneeling. Being told what to do."

Dragana pulled off with a wet gasp, licking her lips slowly, deliberately.

"I like watching you think you're in control."

Then she stood.

Taller than him now. Mouth slick. Eyes blazing.

She turned around and bent over the arm of a velvet chair arched her back, spread her legs, presented herself like an offering and looked back over her shoulder.

"Now be a good boy and fuck me."

He didn't speak.

He obeyed.

With a growl, he stepped behind her, grabbed her hips, and shoved himself inside her dripping cunt in one sharp thrust.

Sofia's scream echoed inside her skull half pain, half filthy, aching bliss.

He began to pound into her. Ruthless. Deep. Hips slapping against her ass, hands gripping her waist like reins.

"This pussy's mine now you fucking brat," he growled.

"Then prove it," Dragana moaned, clenching around him. "Mark it. Fill it. Lose yourself in it."

His rhythm faltered slightly. He picked up speed, slamming into her so hard her breasts bounced against the chair, her toes lifted off the ground.

And still Dragana pushed back against every thrust.

"Fuck," he gasped. "You're so tight so wet "

"Because you want me to be," she hissed. "Because I need your cum. And you need to give it to me."

"No "

"Yes," she growled, meeting him stroke for stroke. "Come for me, sir. Let me own your title."

He came with a grunt deep inside her, hands shaking, control unraveling as his cock jerked and pumped heat into her cunt.

She milked it out of him.

Clenched.

Drained him.

And his form flickered faded face twisted in awe and helpless surrender.

One last gasp.

Then gone.

Another surge of power spilled through her veins.

Another ghost claimed.

Dragana straightened, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Who's next?" she purred.

The Romantic Stefan

He stepped forward slowly.

Unlike the others, there was no fire in his eyes. Just warmth.

Gold, yes but soft, almost sad. Like he already knew he was about to be unmade.

He didn't reach for her. He offered his hand instead, palm up, waiting.

And Dragana?

She took it.

Sofia's breath hitched inside her caught between arousal and something deeper, more dangerous. This one loved. This one remembered.

Dragana pulled him in, chest to chest, skin to skin. She kissed him first not hungry. Not sharp. Slow. Their lips met in silence, breath shared, bodies pressed in something close to reverence.

"You always came last," she whispered against his mouth. "You watched the others. You let them ruin me. But you never touched."

"Because I wanted you whole," he murmured. "I wanted you to come to me willingly."

She smiled. Soft. Beautiful.

Deadly.

"Then have me. All of me. For just one night."

He lifted her in his arms carried her.

Not dragged.

Held.

And laid her down on a low divan beneath the arched window. The moonlight spilled across her corseted form like water over silk. He touched her thighs like they were breakable. Kissed the insides. Bit gently at the curve of her hip.

Sofia was weeping now inside, overwhelmed by the tenderness, the sweetness of it. Her nipples ached for a different reason. Her cunt throbbed not just for cock, but for meaning.

He climbed over her slowly, cock already hard, flushed and full.

"May I?" he asked.

Dragana stroked his cheek.

"You may. But only if you know what it'll cost."

"Everything."

And he pushed inside.

So slowly. So deep.

The stretch was the same but the rhythm wasn't. His hips rocked gently, filling her completely, grinding into her clit with every pass. His hands cradled her face. His eyes never left hers.

He whispered her name not Sofia's.

Dragana.

Over and over like a prayer.

"You feel like heaven," he moaned. "Warm. Alive. Mine."

"Then come inside heaven," she gasped. "And die in it."

Her legs wrapped around him. Her arms pulled him down.

She met every gentle thrust with her own.

But it wasn't enough.

Not yet.

She rolled them smooth, practiced and rode him with slow, deep rolls of her hips. Her hands on his chest. Her cunt swallowing him again and again.

"You want to give it to me," she said, voice trembling now. "You ache to."

"Yes," he gasped. "Yes, please "

"Then give me your love. All of it. Right now."

And he did.

With a choked sob, his cock pulsed deep inside her, warmth flooding her womb, his hands grasping at her arms as if he could anchor himself.

She let him.

Let him hold her.

Let him love her.

As his form began to shimmer. Blur. Dissolve.

And when his orgasm ended

So did he.

He faded with a smile.

Peaceful.

Grateful.

Devoured gently.

And Sofia?

Sofia cried as she came softly, silently her heart cracking open even as her body clenched around his final gift.

Dragana stood again. Eyes wet. Smile sharp.

"Three down."

She turned toward the shadows.

"Two to go."

The Cruel Stefan

He stepped out from the shadow like sin wrapped in skin.

This Stefan wasn't warm.

He was ice.

Lean muscle beneath dark leather, black gloves on his hands, eyes the color of a storm you don't survive. His cock was already hard thick, flushed, veined and he stroked it slowly as he looked at her.

But not with desire.

With disdain.

"Still a needy little whore after death?" he sneered. "Still aching to be ruined?"

Dragana smirked, walking toward him with her hips swaying like bait.

"You think I haven't been waiting for this version of you, darling?"

He didn't answer.

He just grabbed her.

Fisted her hair. Pulled her hard against him.

"You don't get sweet words from me. You get used. You get fucked like the filthy little cum dump you are."

Inside, Sofia gasped aroused in spite of herself. The bite of those words hit. Dragana licked her lips.

"Then ruin me."

He didn't kiss her.

He shoved her to her knees.

Grabbed her by the throat and forced her to look up.

"You're going to take me up that tight little ass. No prep. No lube. Just spit and pain."

"Promise?" Dragana grinned.

He slapped her. Hard. Just once. The sound echoed.

Her cheek burned.

She moaned.

"Fucking slut," he growled, spinning her around and bending her over the arm of the nearest chaise. Her ass arched perfectly, gleaming under the soft candlelight, holes still twitching from use.

He spat. A thick string of it. Landed right between her cheeks.

Then again.

Then rubbed the head of his cock in the mess, smearing it along her tight, clenching hole.

"You're not even trying to close up," he laughed darkly. "Your ass is begging for it."

"Because it knows what I'm about to take," Dragana hissed over her shoulder. "So give it to me."

He grabbed her hips.

And slammed in.

Sofia screamed inside body seizing as her ass was stretched open in one brutal thrust. No mercy. No slow. Just in.

All the way.

Dragana gasped, hands gripping the chaise, back arching, ass pushing back.

"That's it," he growled. "Take every inch. This is what you were made for. Not love. Not worship. Just pain."

He fucked her hard.

Fast.

Every thrust brutal. His hips slapped her ass raw. His hands left bruises on her hips. Her tits bounced with every brutal stroke, her moans going from guttural to whimpering to delighted.

"Your asshole is gripping me like it wants to bleed."

"Then make it," Dragana spat. "Split me open. Fuck the hate into me."

He laughed, cruel and perfect, reaching down to slap her clit once. Then again.

She screamed.

Sofia screamed with her.

"You love this," he panted, pounding into her now, breath ragged. "Being a hole. Being nothing."

"I love using you," Dragana gasped. "You think you're breaking me? I'm drinking you in. Every drop of your hate."

He fucked her even harder desperate now. Desperate to win.

"You're going to feel me in your ass forever."

"Not forever," she moaned, throwing her hips back. "Just until I make you come."

He grunted. His thrusts stuttered. His body trembled.

"No. No "

"Yes," Dragana purred. "Come in my ass, sadist. Spill your rage and disappear."

And he did.

With a broken, furious cry, his cock throbbed deep inside her, unloading in vicious, pulsing waves. His nails dug into her hips, body jerking, form flickering.

He didn't fade gently.

He was ripped from her. Torn apart by his own orgasm.

A howling, hateful flash of white.

And then gone.

Dragana slumped forward.

Panting.

Cum leaking from her twitching, bruised asshole.

Sofia sobbed inside wrecked, aroused, trembling.

"Who else is left now," Dragana gasped.

Then looked up with a savage grin.

"Bring me the obedient one."

The Obedient Sub Stefan

He stepped from the shadows silently.

No swagger. No malice. No defiance.

He lowered his gaze before hers like a dog trained to wait for permission. His chest was bare, lean muscle stretched tight beneath pale skin. His cock stood stiff between his thighs already hard, already leaking but untouched.

He didn't dare.

He waited.

Dragana stepped forward slowly, hips rolling, cunt still dripping with stolen cum. Her body was a mess of bruises, bites, and divine ruin but her smile was serene. Vicious.

"Well," she said, circling him. "Aren't you the pretty one."

He stayed silent.

"On your knees."

He dropped instantly.

No hesitation. No pride. Just obedience.

"Look at me."

He did golden eyes wide, needy, reverent.

"You want to serve?"

He nodded.

"You want to please me?"

"Yes, mistress," he whispered, voice hoarse.

Dragana exhaled a long, satisfied breath.

Inside, Sofia whimpered wet, raw, overwhelmed by the calm intensity of it. Her body throbbed for something softer than pain, but deeper than love.

"Then open your mouth."

He did.

She straddled his face without warning dropping onto his tongue, grabbing his hair, grinding her soaked, pulsing cunt against his mouth with a sigh of pure indulgence.

"Eat."

And he did.

Eager. Desperate.

His tongue plunged between her folds, circling her clit in slow, perfect circles. He licked her like prayer, like a man drowning in the only thing that could save him. His moans vibrated through her core as he sucked and kissed, nose pressed to her skin.

"Mmm, fuck, good boy," Dragana purred, rocking her hips. "Make it messier. I want your whole fucking face soaked in my pussy."

He groaned.

Obeyed.

Sofia writhed with her feeling every swipe of that tongue, every suck, every trembling gasp. Her thighs shook. Her back arched.

"That's it," Dragana gasped. "Yes, fuck yes, right there make me come all over your fucking face."

He whined.

Sucked harder.

Her orgasm hit sharp and fast body clenching, thighs gripping his head as she screamed, riding his tongue through the waves of it. Cum gushed over his mouth, and he drank it.

Didn't stop.

"Fuck, you're perfect," she panted, sliding down from his face, her legs shaking. "Now take off your pants."

He did.

Without a word.

His cock sprang free red, needy, twitching with restraint.

"Touch yourself."

He wrapped his hand around the shaft.

"But don't come until I say."

"Yes, mistress."

He stroked. Slow. Controlled.

Dragana stepped in front of him, tits out, stomach slick with sweat and spit, pussy still swollen. She knelt and spat on his cock.

"Make it wetter."

He moaned.

"You're going to come for me, aren't you?"

"Yes, mistress."

She wrapped her hand around his, jerking him in rhythm rough, fast, pumping him hard as his breath broke.

"Where do you want it?" she teased.

"On you. Please on your face. Your tits. Anywhere please "

"Good boy," she whispered, stroking faster. "Then come for me. Paint me. Now."

He exploded.

With a long, desperate cry, he came in thick ropes splattering her cheeks, her chest, her mouth, dripping down her collarbones and corset. She moaned as the hot release streaked her skin.

"Fuck, look at you," she cooed. "So fucking pretty when you beg. So easy to drain."

And as he knelt there cock still twitching, cum still dripping from her tits his form began to blur.

Fade.

Mouth open in awe.

"Thank you, mistress..."

Gone.

Another surge of power slammed through her.

Dragana licked a streak of cum from her lips.

"And now..."

She turned.

The final figure stood in the doorway.

"It's your turn, darling."

The Original Stefan

Until only he remained.

Stefan.

The original.

The one who had started it all.

The one who held the thread of every echo, every desire, every spell.

He stood alone at the edge of the ruin, chest heaving, cock still hard, still slick with power and memory and restraint. His eyes met hers and for a breath, something passed between them.

Love. Hate. Worship. Regret.

But none of it mattered.

Not anymore.

Dragana didn't approach him like a lover this time.

She turned her back to him.

Stepped backward slowly. Let her bare ass brush against the heat of his cock. Let him see her open, inviting, powerful. Her body was soaked in the essence of every version of him she had drained. Cum clung to her thighs. Her ass was still red from slaps. Her pussy dripped with conquest.

"Time to finish what we started," she said, voice honeyed and lethal.

She straddled him reverse cowgirl, reaching between her legs to guide his cock into place. Her fingers wrapped around him thick, hot, twitching and she lined him up with her slick, ruined pussy.

He gasped when the head kissed her folds.

"Still holding on?" she purred, looking back over her shoulder, eyes glowing. "Good. That makes this so much more fun."

She lowered herself.

Slowly.

Not sweet.

Not tender.

But taunting.

Her wetness spread over the thick crown of his cock, teasing him, stretching just enough to make him feel every aching second.

He groaned, body arching, hands twitching on her hips but she didn't let him take control.

"Ah, ah," she cooed. "You don't fuck me, darling. I fuck you."

And then she sank down.

All the way.

Her pussy took him to the hilt in one deep, wet slide. The stretch was exquisite. The pressure perfect. Her ass pressed to his hips, their skin meeting with a slap.

Inside, Sofia screamed the intensity too much. Her body felt like it would split apart from pleasure. Like her cunt had been made for this exact cock. Like she was being fucked by both of them at once.

Because she was.

Dragana moaned loud, wild, obscene and began to ride him.

Reverse. Brutal. Relentless.

Her ass bounced, round and slick, slapping against his thighs. Stefan grunted beneath her, jaw clenched, hands gripping the sheets, the sight of her destroying him slowly unraveling every thread of his restraint.

"Look at you," she gasped, glancing back. "Watching me bounce on your fat fucking cock like it's the last thing keeping you alive."

"You feel... fuck... perfect," he groaned.

"I know," she said, rolling her hips. "Because I made this pussy for you. Just so I could steal everything when you finally gave in."

She leaned forward, planting her hands on his thighs for leverage.

Then slammed down.

Over. And over. And over.

Her ass rippled. Her cunt milked him. Her body used him like a toy she'd waited lifetimes to reclaim.

Stefan tried to hold on.

He fought for it.

His hands clutched her waist, tried to slow her rhythm but Dragana didn't allow mercy. She rode faster, harder, until his eyes rolled back and his moans went hoarse.

"I'm gonna fuck, I'm gonna come "

"Not yet," she snapped, clenching tight. "I come first."

And she did.

Her orgasm tore through them both like a storm her cunt spasming, clamping down hard, rippling around his cock in wet, desperate waves.

Sofia came with her.

Helpless.

Her back arched.

Her vision went white.

It felt like her body was being split in two dragged between two spirits, two hungers, people that were the same for different reasons.

She was fucking them.

They were fucking her.

All of it at once.

And when her orgasm hit?

Power.

Dragana glowed.

The house groaned around them.

The magic cracked.

And she turned flipped around, straddling Stefan face to face.

Her hands slammed onto his chest. Her nails dug in.

"Seems you managed to make me cum before you, now you are done darling."

She rode him again, even faster her tits bouncing, her hair wild, her voice gone raw.

"Give it to me," she moaned. "All of it. All of you. Let me feel your soul leave your cock."

Stefan screamed.

"Is this what you wanted?" Dragana growled, her voice half wild, half worship. "To have me whole? To make me beg for pleasure?"

Her hips slammed down hard, relentless, shattering the rhythm with raw violence.

"Now look at you," she hissed. "Helpless. So fucking close."

Stefan writhed beneath her.

His jaw clenched, teeth bared. His golden eyes were unfocused barely able to hold onto her as his body started to betray him. His hands clawed at her hips, trying to grab, trying to ground himself but Dragana wouldn't let him. Wouldn't give him anything.

She rode him like she was casting a final spell with every bounce of her soaked pussy, every slap of her ass against his thighs. Her body took him like it had waited lifetimes for this one fuck.

Inside, Sofia panted.

Burned.

Begged.

"Harder," she whimpered inside herself. "Faster. Drain him. Please let me be free. Please fuck him harder. Use me better."

Dragana laughed.

The sound was wild, feral, soaked in divine pleasure and something even darker power.

"Hear that, Stefan?" she purred, leaning down until her lips brushed his trembling ear. "She wants this. Your sweet little kitten wants to be ruined. She wants me to finish what you started."

She snapped her hips down.

Once.

Twice.

A brutal rhythm that stole the breath from his lungs.

He groaned loud, wrecked his body arching up off the floor, cock twitching deep inside her, jerking like it was already trying to give in.

"You always held back," she hissed, grinding her hips in a slow, cruel circle, her clit pressed to the base of his cock. "Always teased me. Fucked me just enough to keep me hungry."

She sat up, hands braced on his chest, tits bouncing with each savage ride.

"But she's not hungry anymore."

She bounced harder.

"She's starving."

Sofia whimpered, overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness, the rising tide that wasn't hers but was.

"And I'm going to feed her you," Dragana moaned. "Every drop. Every moan. Every piece of power you've ever tried to hoard like it belonged to you."

Inside, Sofia cried out.

Her clit throbbed. Her nipples tingled. Her pussy clenched around him like she was the one riding.

"He's close," she begged. "Mistress Dragana please don't stop. Take it. Take everything."

Dragana's smile turned savage.

"I know, Sofia. I feel it. His cock's twitching. His balls are tight. He's so fucking close."

She bent over him again bit his bottom lip between her teeth, pulled until he gasped.

"You want to come, don't you, love?" she whispered. "Want to fill this greedy cunt one last time? Want to give up everything inside me?"

His mouth opened trying to say yes.

But no words came.

Just a sound.

Raw. Desperate.

She snapped her hips down harder.

"Then come, you beautiful, selfish bastard," she snarled. "Let me feel it. Let her feel it. Die for it."

And he did.

His back snapped off the bed. His cock pulsed like a live wire inside her. He screamed louder than anything he'd made before. Not a moan. Not a groan.

A scream.

Ripped from the pit of his soul.

A scream like a man being fucked out of existence.

Cum poured inside her in thick, searing pulses, coating her walls, overflowing her cunt, dripping between her thighs and still he came. Still she took.

And Sofia?

Sofia exploded.

Her orgasm hit like lightning white hot, body obliterating. She screamed inside herself as her pussy clenched, her stomach clenched, her heart clenched. It felt like being split open from the inside, like Dragana and Stefan were fucking through her.

She was the vessel.

And they were pouring into her.

And then

The flash.

A searing burst of golden light.

Holy. Horrible. Final.

Their spirits tore free.

Dragana's essence ripped from Sofia's body like fire flaring through a broken furnace, tangled with Stefan's orgasm and soul, their bodies still cumming in midair. They twisted around each other, convulsing in slow motion, glowing bright and bright and brighter

Until they disappeared.

Gone.

Sofia collapsed.

Hard.

Onto the soaked floor. Onto centuries of lust and grief and power.

Her body shook.

Her breath caught.

Her cunt still throbbed, still stretched. Cum leaked out of her in steady waves. Her skin burned. Her nipples tingled. Her thighs trembled.

Every inch of her ruined.

But free.

No voices.

No shadows.

Just her.

Fucked.

Claimed.

But her own again.

The silence was deafening.

No voices in her head.

No spectral breath on her neck.

No hands curling inside her mind or between her legs.

Just... stillness.

Sofia lay sprawled on the soaked bed, every inch of her tingling in the echo of what had happened. Her skin glistened slick with sweat, with cum that wasn't hers, with memories that didn't belong to this life. Her throat was raw, scraped by phantom screams, and her breathing came in short, broken gasps, like even air needed to be relearned.

Her body trembled.

Her thighs were sticky and parted, trembling from overuse. Her cunt still pulsed in slow, aching spasms fucked, stretched, filled past the point of reason. Her nipples were tight, sore, marked by lips and fingers and tongues that no longer existed.

Her ass twitched without permission.

And yet...

She was herself again.

No whispers coiling through her thoughts. No ghost fingers stroking her inner thigh. No pressure in her spine. No seduction in her blood.

Dragana was gone.

And so was Stefan.

What remained was her.

Tired. Touched. Torn.

But intact.

She blinked slowly, staring up at the canopy overhead, letting the afterglow pulse and fade, letting sensation return to her body in waves gentle and horrible. Her limbs ached. Her vision swam. Her thighs clenched and fluttered like her muscles hadn't caught up to the news that it was over.

But it was real.

It was hers.

She sat up.

The bed creaked beneath her, soaked through with sex and spectral sweat. Her body still dripped. Cum slid slowly down her thighs as her stomach fluttered with delayed aftershocks. She groaned.

Then her eyes landed on the far corner of the room.

A portrait.

Not there before. Or maybe it had been, waiting for the right moment.

A woman in black. Dark hair coiled over her shoulders. Red lips. A smile like a secret and a weapon. The eyes knew too much. The poise was practiced.

Her.

The plaque beneath read:

Dragana, Mistress of the Manor.

Sofia stared.

Then smirked.

"Thanks for the assist, bitch."

She swung her legs off the bed, nearly collapsed from the soreness, then laughed bitterly as she stood. Her nightgown was somewhere in ruins, a tattered stretch of silk soaked with ghost seed. Her sweater had been shredded in the battle between pleasure and eternity.

Nothing worth saving.

She grabbed a sheet and wrapped it around her body like a makeshift toga. One tit popped out. She tucked it back in with a sigh and limped toward the door.

Barefoot. Half wrecked. Free.

Each step hurt. Her legs protested. Her hips wobbled like they weren't entirely convinced they were done being fucked. Her pussy gave the occasional twitch like her body hadn't gotten the memo that the orgy was over.

But she kept walking.

Down the stairs, past the chandelier that once loomed like a predator. Through the main hall, where portraits watched with silent approval. The house didn't moan. Didn't shift. Didn't whisper.

It let her go.

The great doors were open.

Of course they were.

The wind outside was cold and clean. Mist rolled across the stone steps, curling around her ankles like the last lover reluctant to release her. She stepped out anyway.

The moment her feet hit the mountain path, she paused.

Turned.

The manor shimmered behind her flickered, like film burning away. The roofline warped. The towers bent. And then

It vanished.

Gone.

Like a bad dream.

Like the best orgasm she'd ever had.

Sofia stood there, silent, bare legged, bleeding sex and spectral memory, staring at the spot where her life had cracked open and rearranged itself.

Then she laughed.

Loud. Unapologetic. Dripping in exhaustion and fuck you glory.

"Haunted house gangbang. Possession. Magical pussy battles. And I still didn't get cell service."

She turned.

And started walking.

Down the path.

Back to civilization.

Back to herself.

Sore.

Slick.

Unforgettable.

And finally

Free.

THE END... or is it ;)