WARNING: M RATED

  Chapter - 02

  Rafa couldn’t sleep.

  Not after that night. Not after her. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Isa's body—bathed in candlelight, wet, glistening, and not hiding anymore. He saw her eyes when she whispered his name. The mirror. The Mouth's smirk.

  And when he opened his eyes?

  She was still there.

  Not really. But her ghost had made a home inside his skin.

  The sheets were damp again. He couldn’t stop.

  Even when he didn’t mean to.

  Even when he told himself he wouldn’t.

  Once, he caught Isa shaving her legs in the bathtub. She hadn’t closed the door all the way. Her thigh was lifted up on the edge, bde dragging down slowly. He stared, transfixed, until she looked at him. Didn’t say a word. Just smiled.

  Now, his cock pulsed with guilt every time he thought of her—which was always. Morning. Night. In the stale moments between.

  He was terrified of touching her.

  He was more terrified of what would happen if she touched him.

  He sat on the mattress, legs spread, hands shaking. It was te. Quiet. Everyone else asleep—or pretending to be.

  He needed it.

  Bad.

  He pulled his shorts down, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for days.

  Already hard.

  Already leaking.

  He spit in his hand. Swallowed a sob.

  And began.

  It started slow. Careful.

  Her lips on his neck.

  Her hair draped over his face.

  Her voice—say it, Rafa… say you want it.

  He gripped harder.

  Faster.

  Then—

  The door creaked open.

  He froze.

  His heart stopped.

  There she was.

  Isa.

  Barefoot. Silent. Watching.

  Her eyes dragged down to his hand.

  And stayed there.

  Rafa didn’t cover himself.

  Couldn’t.

  Didn’t want to.

  Not anymore.

  Isa stepped forward, slow. Predatory.

  But her voice?

  Soft. Gentle.

  “Does it hurt, Rafa?”

  He nodded, eyes wide, throat raw. “Yeah.”

  “Good,” she whispered. “Let it.”

  She knelt in front of him, not touching. Just watching. Letting him tremble beneath her gaze.

  “You think you’re the only one that dreams of it?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. Just stroked faster.

  “Do it for me,” she said. “Make a mess. Right here.”

  And he did.

  Choked on his breath.

  Spilled all over himself.

  Watched her eyes darken as he twitched in his palm.

  She leaned in, close enough for him to feel the heat of her breath.

  Licked a drop off his stomach.

  And smiled.

  “You’re learning,” she whispered. “Tomorrow, you won’t be alone.

  The chamber was colder that night. Not freezing—but biting enough to make skin tighten, to force breath into visible clouds. The kind of cold that made you feel alive.

  Which is why The Mouth chose that night.

  He had prepared the room like a ceremony.

  Old sheets dyed red. Chains not for restraint, but symbolism. Bowls filled with melted wax and bck feathers. A single mattress in the center, surrounded by cracked mirrors and dirt.

  It was filthy. Beautiful.

  It was perfect.

  Rafa stood in the doorway, shoulders bare, chest rising and falling like a man walking into his own execution.

  He saw Isa on the mattress, legs folded beneath her, back straight, body completely exposed. She wore nothing but a smear of ash on her colrbone, like a mark.

  She didn’t speak.

  She didn’t smile.

  She just waited.

  The Mouth’s voice came from the corner. Calm. Chilling.

  “You’ve both tasted the edges,” he said. “Now you’ll share the center.”

  He motioned to the bowl of wax.

  Isa dipped her fingers into it slowly, dragging the hot liquid down her chest. She didn’t flinch. The wax hardened almost instantly, tracing a line between her breasts, down her stomach, stopping just above the curve of her sex.

  She held her fingers out to Rafa.

  “Your turn.”

  He stepped forward, trembling, but didn’t break eye contact.

  His fingers dipped into the hot wax, hissing slightly. He coated two fingers and brought them to Isa’s skin, mirroring her lines. A trail across her hip. Then another over her ribs.

  She let out a quiet breath. Not a moan. Not yet. Just a sign of feeling.

  The Mouth began to chant.

  Low.

  Old.

  Unfamiliar.

  But Rafa’s body responded before his brain could catch up. His fingers were shaking, trailing over Isa’s wax-slicked skin, exploring her like scripture. Sacred. Off-limits. Required.

  “Lie down,” Isa said, her voice soft, but with weight.

  Rafa obeyed.

  She climbed onto him, not straddling—but sitting beside. Letting her thigh brush his. Letting him ache without relief.

  “You want release?” The Mouth asked. “Then earn it.”

  Isa leaned down, lips at Rafa’s ear.

  “You don’t get to touch me.”

  She grabbed both his wrists and pced them above his head.

  “But I’ll touch you,” she whispered.

  And she did.

  Everywhere.

  Slow.

  Deliberate.

  Not to pleasure him—but to control him.

  His body twitched. Reacted. Needed.

  But he didn’t move.

  Couldn’t.

  The Mouth’s chant grew louder, faster. A pulse in the room.

  Rafa’s breath caught. He was so close—so desperate—and Isa just smiled.

  “Don’t come,” she warned. “Not until I say.”

  She traced a finger down the column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump and flutter beneath the skin.

  Isa's touch was maddeningly slow, deliberate, her nails dragging lightly over his flesh.

  Her hand drifted lower, trailing over his abdomen, feeling each muscle clench and tense beneath her touch. She traced the V of his hips, the line of hair disappearing into his pants. With a wicked smile, Is tugged at his belt, unbuckling it slowly, drawing out the anticipation. The metal clinked softly, the leather slipping free. Isa tugged down his zipper, inch by excruciating inch, until she could slip a hand inside his boxers. Her fingers brushed against the straining bulge of his cock, feeling the heat radiating through the fabric. Rafa's breath hitched, his hips canting upwards, seeking more of her touch.

  But Isa tutted softly, squeezing his length through his boxers, not to bring him pleasure, but to feel the power she held over him.

  "Shh, not yet," she cooed, her hand cupping and squeezing his heavy balls, rolling them in her palm. "You don't get to come until I say so." To punctuate her words, Isa tightened her grip, feeling them draw up, aching for release.

  Isa's fingers crept up the thick shaft of his cock, stroking it through the damp fabric, feeling it pulse and twitch with need. She circled the swollen head, collecting the bead of moisture leaking from the slit. Isa brought her fingers to her lips, sucking them clean of his essence, her eyes never leaving his.

  The Mouth's chant grew louder, the pulse of the room thrumming in time with Rafa's racing heart. Isa smiled, a wicked, cruel twist of her lips as she watched him struggle not to thrust up into her teasing touch. She could feel the desperation radiating off him, the all-consuming need to be touched, to be fucked. But she held him back, her grip on his wrists unbreakable, her will stronger than his own.

  Rafa's body trembled, sweat beading on his brow as he fought the overwhelming urge to buck his hips, to fuck into the tight circle of Isa's fist. Every muscle coiled, poised on the brink of snapping, ready to snap if only she would allow it, but he held back.And then?

  Darkness.

  The candles blew out.

  The air thickened.

  The ritual had begun.

  There was no clock.

  Time didn’t exist anymore. Just breath and heat and the weight of bodies caught between pain and desire.

  The candles had gone out.

  But the heat hadn’t.

  It radiated from their skin.

  From the floor.

  From The Mouth himself, who stood behind the veil, speaking in tongues—nguage not made for human mouths. Words that slithered into the brain and pnted roots. Seeds.

  Rafa didn’t know what he was becoming.

  He just knew he wanted more.

  Isa was on top of him now.

  Not riding.

  Not thrusting.

  Just… there.

  Her thighs caged his hips, but her hands were at his throat, not to choke—just to own. She dragged her nails slowly down his chest, marking him in wax, sweat, and something more feral.

  She leaned down, lips inches from his.

  “You think you’re scared of me?” she whispered. “You’re scared of what I make you feel.”

  He tried to speak, but she silenced him with two fingers against his lips.

  “I feel it too,” she said. “The sickness. The hunger.”

  Her fingers dragged lower.

  Between his legs.

  He gasped—half broken, half reborn.

  She teased him.

  Tortured him.

  Held him at the edge of oblivion and refused to let him fall.

  “You’ll beg,” she said, tracing zy circles. “But you won’t get it until you understand what it means to be mine.”

  Rafa’s whole body was shaking.

  The Mouth was chanting again, louder now—an orgasmic cadence that made the walls pulse.

  Rafa in church at age fifteen. Staring at the priest’s hands. Wondering why they trembled during communion. Feeling the devil crawl under his skin every time he saw Isa in a dress that clung to her hips. Praying to be fixed. Never being heard.

  Now he was naked. Sprawled. Cimed.

  Isa kissed him—not sweet, not soft, but with the fury of someone who had been waiting for this her whole life.

  Their mouths crashed.

  Their teeth cshed.

  It wasn’t romantic.

  It was violence with tongue.

  And then?

  She stopped.

  Pulled away.

  Left him gasping.

  She rose, walked away, body gleaming with sweat and candlelight.

  Rafa was left on the mattress, dripping, desperate, and owned.

  The Mouth stepped forward.

  He didn’t speak.

  Just looked at Rafa.

  Smiling.

  Satisfied.

  The ritual wasn’t over.

  Rafa couldn’t move.

  Not because he was tied down—no, that would’ve been too simple.

  He stayed still because he was trained to. Conditioned. Rewired.

  Isa had said, “Don’t move.” And now, her voice held more power than chains.

  He y there, naked, sweat cooling on his skin, heart pounding like a war drum. The mattress beneath him reeked of old rituals and newer sins. His muscles were sore. His mind—fractured.

  And then came the sound.

  A soft moan.

  Not his.

  Hers.

  Isa was across the room, sitting on the altar-like sb The Mouth had prepared earlier. Her legs spread zily, one hand between them, the other pressing against her breast. Her eyes—locked on Rafa.

  She wanted him to see.

  To ache.

  To be powerless.

  The Mouth stood behind her, hands gliding slowly over his own skin. For the first time, he touched himself. Not urgently. Not hungrily.

  Like a priest in prayer.

  He wasn’t doing it for pleasure.

  He was doing it for control.

  “Do you remember, Rafa?” The Mouth asked, voice low, ancient. “The first time you hated yourself for feeling good?”

  Rafa’s throat closed. He couldn’t speak. Only watch.

  Rafa in the back of his high school cssroom. Hiding a hard-on with his notebook. Thinking about Isa leaning over the kitchen table that morning. Her shirt riding up. His mother catching him staring and spping the back of his head.

  "?Cochino!"

  Isa moaned again.

  Louder.

  Fake?

  Maybe.

  But Rafa felt it everywhere.

  She gathered the dewy essence on her fingertips, bringing them to her lips, sucking them clean with a lewd slurp.

  She pinched and rolled the sensitive nub, a shudder of pleasure coursing through her as she tugged and plucked at the tender flesh.

  Her other hand gripped the edge of the sb, knuckles white.

  “I think about you watching me,” she murmured, loud enough for him to hear. “Even when you didn’t mean to. Even when you hated it.”

  Rafa jerking off in the bathroom after Isa came out of the shower. He’d bitten his fist to muffle the sound. He’d cried after.

  The Mouth’s voice came again. Closer this time.

  “Desire is not evil, Rafa.”

  He walked in slow circles around the boy.

  “But repression? That’s the true rot.”

  Isa shuddered, nearing her climax but refusing to go over.

  She slid off the altar and crawled toward Rafa—hand still between her legs, never breaking contact with herself or him.

  “Do you want me to stop?” she asked, voice like silk soaked in sin.

  He couldn’t answer.

  Didn’t need to.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Not from pain.

  Not from fear.

  From the shame of how badly he wanted to be used.

  The Mouth leaned close, whispering:

  “Say it.”

  Rafa’s lips trembled.

  “I… want to be ruined.”

  The room was hot again.

  Not from candles this time—from them.

  From the bodies that refused to look away, and from Rafa’s heart that beat like it was about to explode inside his chest.

  He was still on the mattress. Still watched.

  Isa had finished.

  But hadn’t stopped touching herself.

  The Mouth sat in the corner, legs spread, one hand stroking himself in slow, deliberate rhythm. His other hand rested on Isa’s shoulder like a father blessing his daughter. Like a man ciming his favorite sin.

  And still—Rafa wasn’t allowed to move.

  “You were younger than you should’ve been,” The Mouth said softly, like he was reading Rafa’s soul like a diary. “Weren’t you?”

  Rafa’s lips parted.

  His throat was dry.

  He knew what memory was coming.

  He tried to resist.

  But it dragged him back anyway.

  He remembered the rain. Heavy. Smashing the rooftop like it was trying to break in.

  Isa had come over soaked. Her school uniform clinging to her skin. White blouse turned transparent. She was ughing, hair pstered to her cheeks, cheeks pink from the cold.

  He shouldn't have looked.

  But he did.

  He stared.

  From behind the cracked bedroom door.

  She’d taken off her wet shirt, not realizing he was watching. Her bra was ce. Blue. Her nipples dark under the thin fabric.

  She’d bent over to dig in her backpack.

  Rafa slid his hand inside, wrapping his fingers around his aching, throbbing length. A shudder wracked his body as he began to stroke himself, his movements shaky and uncertain at first, but growing bolder with each passing second.

  He didn’t know what he was doing exactly. Only that he couldn’t stop.

  And then she turned around.

  And saw him.

  His breath hitched.

  The shame hadn’t faded. Not after all these years.

  Not after the sps. Not after the prayers. Not after the months of silence that followed.

  “Did she say anything?” The Mouth asked.

  Rafa shook his head.

  “No,” he whispered.

  “She just stared.”

  Isa crawled closer again, like some graceful, venomous thing.

  “You don’t know what I felt that day,” she whispered. “Do you?”

  Rafa blinked.

  “What?”

  Isa smiled. But it was cruel now. Not pyful.

  “I went home and touched myself thinking about you,” she said. “Little Rafa. Staring at me with those guilty eyes. I came with your name in my mouth.”

  He choked on air.

  “No you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You want me to be lying.”

  The Mouth came closer, hand still moving.

  “Everything you hated about yourself... is everything that made you real,” he said.

  “And now you’ll be free.”

  Isa leaned in. Her breath touched his lips.

  Her hand slid down between his legs. Not touching—just hovering.

  “Do you want me to do it for you?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  Slow.

  Shaking.

  “Then ask.”

  “I…”

  “Ask.”

  “…Please…”

  And just as her fingers grazed him—

  She stopped.

  Licked them instead.

  And ughed.

  “Say it again,” she whispered.

  Rafa could barely breathe.

  “Please.”

  “Please what, Rafa?”

  “Please… ruin me.”

  The Mouth ughed.

  It wasn’t a joyful sound.

  It was triumph.

  Like he’d waited years to hear those words fall from Rafa’s lips.

  Then—Isa stopped.

  Her body froze.

  Not like she changed her mind.

  Like she was stuck.

  Eyes gssy.

  Breath shallow.

  The Mouth turned to her, confused.

  “Isa?”

  Nothing.

  Then she whispered something Rafa could barely hear.

  Three words.

  But they didn’t belong to her voice anymore.

  They were deeper.

  Wrong.

  “He knows now.”

  The Mouth stood up. Furious. Confused. “What did you say?”

  Isa blinked.

  Her head snapped to Rafa.

  And then…

  She smiled.

  But it wasn’t her smile.

  Not really.

  It was someone else’s.

  Someone who had been watching.

  In church. Candles burning. A statue of the Virgin Mary staring down with bnk eyes. He’d gotten hard during the sermon. He didn’t know why. Just that he’d cried in the bathroom afterward, terrified God would punish him.

  He prayed for days.

  But the feeling never left.

  Back in the room—

  The Mouth grabbed Isa by the shoulders.

  “Who are you right now?”

  Isa tilted her head.

  Her voice dropped into something ancient. Mocking.

  “You think you summoned me?”

  The room shuddered.

  Something cracked in the wall.

  Rafa could hear whispers now. Not from anyone in the room.

  From the walls.

  From inside his head.

  “I’ve been here,” Isa said, stepping away from The Mouth, toward Rafa.

  “In his blood. Since before you shaved his shame down to bone.”

  She leaned over Rafa, kissed his forehead.

  And whispered:

  “Your mother offered you to me before you were even born."