Ten days of daily violation had turned the shop into something else entirely.
Not a seamstress's workspace anymore. But a confessional, a shrine and a wound that refused to close.
The bell no longer startled Liora. It rang like a summons she had begun to anticipate, low in her belly, high in her throat, everywhere at once. She no longer wore undergarments beneath the heavy black wool. Not out of deliberate invitation. Simply because putting them on felt like pretending she could still say no.
She stitched. Mechanically. Relentlessly. Each pull of thread was a prayer she no longer believed in.
Victor entered at the same hour as always, mid-afternoon, when the postern gate grew quiet and Aiden was buried somewhere in the academy's cold routines, avoiding the shop, avoiding her.
Victor carried nothing in his hands. Nothing visible.
But the air changed the moment he crossed the threshold. A faint violet shimmer clung to his fingertips like dying embers, then sank into nothing. The temperature of the room didn't drop. It deepened.
He crossed to the worktable without a word. Palms flat on the scarred wood, wood that now carried permanent ghostly crescents where her nails had dug in day after day. He waited.
Liora's needle froze mid-stitch.
She could already feel it happening before he touched her, before he spoke. A slow, molten heat uncoiled low in her pelvis, heavy and liquid, as though someone had poured warm honey directly into her veins. Her nipples tightened painfully against the wool. Her clit pulsed once hard, insistent like a second heartbeat. Her entrance fluttered, slickness surging so suddenly she felt the first shameful trickle slide down the inside of her thigh.
"What… what is that?" she breathed.
Victor's voice came soft, almost reverent.
"I've stopped asking permission from your mind. Today I speak directly to the body that already knows who owns it."
He lifted one hand. A single filament of shadow thinner than spider silk, edged with violet light rose from his palm and drifted toward her. It did not wrap. It did not caress. It simply touched the skin just above the neckline of her dress… and melted inward.
The instant it sank beneath her flesh, the world tilted.
Heat exploded behind her eyes, raced down her spine, pooled viciously between her legs. Her clit swelled until every slight shift of her thighs sent a bright, electric sting through her core. Her breasts ached—full, heavy, straining against fabric that now felt like sandpaper dragged across raw nerves. Her inner walls clenched rhythmically on nothing, desperate, greedy, weeping.
The aphrodisiac was not violence. It was magnification. Every shameful response he had trained into her over ten days was now turned to eleven then twelve then twenty. Every memory of his thickness splitting her open, every time she had sobbed his name while her son slept one floor above, every time she had come so hard she forgot how to breathe—now replayed in searing, unbearable clarity.
Victor stepped behind her.
He did not grab her. He simply aligned his body with hers—chest to her back, hips pressing forward so she could feel the brutal length already straining against his trousers—and spoke against the shell of her ear.
"Lift your skirt."
No order. No threat. Just certainty.
Liora's sob was small, fractured.
Her hands moved anyway.
Wool rasped upward. Cool air kissed flushed, drenched skin. She was obscene—lips swollen dark plum, clit protruding shamelessly, inner folds glistening so heavily the light caught in tiny liquid beads. The scent of her flooded the shop: thick, musky, overripe, humiliating.
Victor exhaled once slow, and reverent.
"Beautiful," he murmured. "Already crying for it."
He reached around her. Not to her sex. To her breasts.
He cupped their full weight through the wool, thumbs dragging cruelly slow circles over nipples already so erect they felt bruised. The shadow-aphrodisiac turned every brush into molten silk dragged across raw nerves. Liora's head fell back against his shoulder. A low, shattered moan tore free.
"Say it," he whispered.
She knew what he wanted now. Not the boy's name. Something worse.
Her lips trembled.
"God…"
Victor pinched both nipples, hard.
"Louder."
"God…" The word cracked on a sob.
He rewarded her with a slow grind of his hips, letting her feel every thick inch through fabric.
"Again."
"God!" It came out raw, reverent, broken.
Victor released her breasts only long enough to free himself. His cock sprang heavy and leaking, the blunt head smearing a glistening trail across the small of her back. He notched against her dripping entrance, paused.
"Beg."
Liora's hips jerked backward—instinctive, animal.
"Please…"
"Please what?"
Fresh tears streamed down her face.
"Please fuck me. Please fill me. Please make me forget everything except you."
Victor drove in slow, inexorable, and merciless burying every inch until she felt him kiss her cervix.
The aphrodisiac turned the stretch into liquid lightning. Pleasure so intense it felt like pain. Pain so exquisite it curled into rapture.
He fucked her standing deep, punishing strokes that slapped wetly against her ass. One hand fisted her hair, arching her back until her breasts thrust forward, nipples scraping wool with every brutal impact. The other slid between her thighs, fingers finding her clit and rolling it without mercy.
Liora shattered in under a minute.
Her scream was half-muffled by her own forearm, teeth sinking deep enough to draw copper. Her walls clamped down in frantic, milking spasms. Nectar gushed around him hot, thick, soaking his balls, dripping in obscene strings to the floorboards.
He didn't stop.
He fucked her through the first climax straight into the second then a third, each one crashing harder because the aphrodisiac refused to let her come down. Her body became a live wire: every thrust sent violet sparks behind her eyes, every grind against her womb made her sob his new title in broken prayer.
"God—God—please—more—don't stop—own me—"
Victor's control finally snapped.
He buried himself to the hilt and erupted thick, scalding ropes painting her depths, flooding her until it overflowed, spilling down her trembling thighs in creamy rivulets. He ground slow, possessive circles milking every aftershock, forcing her to feel every pulse, every spurt claiming her from the inside.
When he finally withdrew, she nearly collapsed.
He caught her. Turned her. Sat her gently on the edge of the table legs splayed wide, sex gaping and leaking, breasts heaving beneath the unlaced bodice, tears streaming unchecked.
He cupped her face with both hands. Thumb brushed a tear track, almost tender.
"You're not fighting anymore," he murmured. "You're praying."
Liora's lips trembled. Voice barely audible.
"I… I can't stop wanting you."
Victor leaned in. Kissed her once slow, deep, and filthy tasting blood, salt, and surrender.
"Tomorrow," he whispered against her swollen mouth, "you'll kneel the moment the bell rings. You'll crawl to me if I tell you to. And you'll thank me when I fill you again."
She didn't answer with words.
She simply exhaled shaky, relieved, and reverent.
And between her thighs, the slow warm leak of his seed no longer felt like ruin. It felt like communion.
Victor straightened.
Crossed to the door.
The bell chimed soft, familiar, holy.
He left.
Liora remained on the table legs open, dripping, and trembling.
And for the first time in ten days…
She did not cry when the door closed.
She smiled—small, fractured, devout.
And waited for tomorrow's chime like a woman waiting for her god to return.
XXXX
Aiden had not slept in his mother's shop for five nights.
He told himself it was the drills, endless night marches, frostbite drills on the outer ramparts, anything to keep him away from the eastern postern gate. But the truth was sharper, colder: every time he approached the narrow alley, the air tasted wrong. Bread from the bakery, iron from the farrier, lanolin from the bolts of wool and beneath it all, something thick, intimate, unmistakable.
Sex.
Not fresh each time, but lingering, stubborn, soaked into the timber like old blood. The shop exhaled it now. The sign above the door, Liora's Stitches seemed to mock him with every glance.
He told himself he was imagining it.
He told himself the faint bruises he'd glimpsed on her wrists that one morning were from pinning heavy wool.
He told himself the way her eyes slid away when he asked if Victor had come again, was only exhaustion.
He told himself a lot of things.
None of them held.
On the sixth night he slipped away from barracks early. No moon. Snow had started again, soft and relentless, muffling his boots as he followed the postern wall. The alley was empty. The bakery dark. The farrier's forge cold.
Liora's Stitches showed one faint lantern glow in the back room.
He did not knock.
He eased the door open with the childhood signal, three soft taps but did not wait for an answer. The bell gave its fragile chime anyway.
Inside, the air was warm. Too warm.
Lanolin. Lavender soap. And that other smell musk, salt, spent seed; stronger here, intimate, and recent.
Liora sat at the worktable.
She had not heard him enter.
Her back was to the door. Shoulders rounded. Hair half-loose, strands clinging damply to her neck. The black dress was unlaced at the bodice, farther than she ever allowed in daylight, full breasts rising and falling with uneven breaths. Her hands rested limp on the scarred wood. Fingers curled loosely. No needle. No thread.
She was staring at nothing.
A single tear tracked slowly down her cheek, hung at her jaw, then fell onto the table with a tiny, wet sound.
Aiden's stomach turned over.
"Mother?"
Her head snapped up. Horror flooded her face raw, animal. She scrambled to tug the bodice closed, but the movement only made the unlaced fabric gape wider for a heartbeat. A dark bruise bloomed along the upper swell of one breast finger-shaped, unmistakable. Fresh.
"Aiden—" Her voice cracked. "You're early. I didn't—"
He stepped forward. One step. Then another.
The floorboards creaked.
He saw it then: the faint, creamy trail still leaking from between her thighs, darkening the wool bunched at her hips. She had not bothered to clean herself. Or perhaps she had tried and given up.
His knees threatened to buckle.
"You let him come back."
It was not a question.
Liora's lips trembled. She shook her head small, and frantic then stopped. The denial died before it formed.
"I… I didn't mean to."
Aiden laughed once short, bitter, and broken.
"Didn't mean to."
He looked around the shop like he had never seen it before. The bolts of wool. The spools of thread. The shears lying open on the table like an accusation. Everything ordinary. Everything ruined.
"How many times?"
She closed her eyes.
"Every day."
The words landed like stones in still water.
Aiden staggered back until his shoulders hit the wall. The breath left him in a harsh rush.
"You knew what he did to Seraphina. You saw what it did to me. And you still—"
"I hate him," she whispered. "I hate myself more."
"Then why?"
Her hands clenched on the table edge until her knuckles whitened.
"Because when he's inside me… the guilt stops hurting for a little while. It turns into something else. Something warm. Something that doesn't ask questions."
Aiden slid down the wall until he sat on the cold floorboards.
He stared at her at the woman who had rocked him through nightmares, mended his torn uniforms, kissed his scraped knees and saw only the ruin Victor had left behind.
"You're not fighting anymore," he said quietly.
Liora's sob was small, shattered.
"I tried. Gods, I tried. But every day he comes back, and every day I open for him faster. Today… today I was already wet before the bell rang."
Aiden pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind the lids.
"I can't save you," he whispered. "I couldn't save her. I can't save anyone."
Liora slid off the table. Crawled to him on her knees—dress rucked, thighs streaked, tears streaming. She reached for him.
He flinched.
"Don't."
She froze. Hand hovering. Then dropped.
"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I'm so sorry, my boy."
Aiden looked at her really looked.
The soft curves that once meant safety. The hazel eyes that once held only love. Now glassy. Distant. Hollowed out.
Something inside him cracked clean through.
He stood.
Walked past her without touching.
Opened the door.
The bell chimed—soft, mocking.
Snow swirled in.
He stepped into the cold without looking back.
Behind him, Liora stayed on her knees in the middle of the ruined shop.
She did not call after him.
She simply lowered her forehead to the floorboards, still warm from where Victor had fucked her an hour earlier and whispered one word into the silence.
"God…"
Aiden walked into the night.
He did not cry.
He did not scream.
He simply felt the last piece of himself the piece that still believed in mothers, in heroes, in fighting, finally die.
And somewhere in the villa on the hill, Victor smiled into the dark.
The web had tightened.
One more thread snapped.
XXXX
Support me and Stay 5 chapters of everyone with Patreon -> https://www.patreon.com/Alaric_Lock