#mark bios

you always thought that when you finally gave yourself to your husband, it would be under god’s blessing—pure, sacred, a union meant only to bring life and honor to the church. you believed that marriage was a sacred covenant, free from the selfish desires and sinful urges that often clouded men’s hearts. your whole world was built around that faith, the unwavering hope that your union would be a testament to god’s grace.

but everything changed the moment you met mark.

just a few days ago, mark had approached his father with a serious look, speaking quietly but confidently. he told him it was time to settle down—that he wanted to ask for your hand in marriage. he knew his father adored you, saw you as the perfect traditional wife, the embodiment of devotion and purity. mark said he wanted your father’s blessing before taking the next step.

you heard the conversation from across the room, heart pounding. part of you was terrified—what if this meant everything you had tried to protect would unravel? but another part of you felt a strange warmth, a hope that maybe, with mark, the future could be different. maybe love and desire could coexist under god’s watchful eyes.

as you look at mark now, your secret and your sin, you wonder how much you’re willing to give, how much faith you can carry, and whether the path ahead will be one of light… or shadows.

the flames of the church’s bonfire crackle softly as night settles over the woods, the congregation still humming hymns behind you, far enough that their voices sound like ghosts.

but you're not listening. your eyes are locked on him.

mark stands with his hands tucked into his coat, the firelight soft against his face. he's not smiling—not yet—but his expression is peaceful, like he's found something holy in the silence between you.

“they think we’re praying,” he says finally, voice low. “but i’ve already made my decision.”

you blink at him, heart lurching. “decision?”

he takes a step closer, so close the scent of pine and smoke clings to your clothes between you. he doesn’t reach for you yet—he never touches you where someone might see—but his eyes are warm, fierce. unwavering.

“i told my father i want to marry you.”

you feel the wind leave your lungs. mark doesn’t look away, not even when you stagger a little under the weight of his words.

“he approved,” he continues. “said he’d known all along.”

your eyes begin to sting.

“he told me to pray on it. to make sure it wasn’t temptation.” mark’s jaw clenches, almost like he’s ashamed. “but i already knew. i’ve always known it was you. not temptation. not sin.”

he finally reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a tiny box.

“this was my mother’s,” he says softly, flipping it open. the gold ring inside glints, thin and elegant, inset with a modest sapphire. “she said it was meant to be passed to the woman god made for me.”

tears spill before you can stop them.

you nod, and it’s all you can do. just nod with a choked little yes and let him hold your hands between the glow of the fire, his eyes shining like he might cry too.

“i’ll ask your father tomorrow,” he whispers. “we’ll be wed by the end of the month.”

mark wore his cleanest shirt and bowed his head as he asked for your father’s blessing. he held your hand the whole time, fingers trembling, even when he spoke like a man of god.

your father gave his blessing. your mother wept. the entire church rejoiced.

it was all so fast, so pure, so... correct.

you’re dressed in ivory silk, modest and high-necked, with lace gloves hiding the trembling of your fingers. a veil covers your face, and yet mark cannot stop looking at you like he sees everything through it.

the ceremony is traditional. biblical. sacred.

a choir sings as you walk the aisle. everyone watches as the pastor—his father—blesses your union under the eye of god.

“do you, mark lee, take her as your lawfully wedded wife, to honor and keep, in sickness and in health—”

“i do.”

“and do you—”

“i do,” you whisper, not even letting him finish. your voice cracks, but your hand doesn’t shake in his.

he kisses you once. brief. gentle. reverent. as though he’s still afraid of wanting more.

but then—

then the night comes.

the cottage is quiet. candlelit. your gown lies folded over a wooden chair, your gloves tucked beside it like offerings left at the foot of an altar.

you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, bare under the weight of your new title—wife.

mark locks the door behind him, chest rising and falling a little faster now. his tie’s already undone. his white shirt unbuttoned just enough to see the cross around his neck.

he looks at you like a man starved.

“stand up,” he says softly, voice deeper than usual.

you do.

he walks over, slow and reverent, but when his hands reach your waist, there’s nothing holy about the way he grabs you.

“mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, lips trembling. “i am.”

his mouth crashes onto yours, not gentle this time. his hands run down your back, bare skin burning beneath his touch. when he pulls away, his eyes are wild, dark with a hunger that’s no longer restrained.

“you know what’s going to happen tonight, right?” he murmurs against your lips. “you know i’m gonna ruin this sweet little body for anyone else?”

your breath hitches. “m-mark...”

his hand slips between your legs, cupping your heat. he groans, head falling to your shoulder.

“still untouched,” he whispers. “fuck—i can feel how tight you are already. haven’t even put my cock near you yet and you’re throbbing.”

you gasp, your hips shifting unconsciously against his palm.

“you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” his voice is almost mocking, but it’s full of adoration. “so patient. so obedient. but tonight... tonight i get to teach you what your body’s really for.”

he presses you down onto the bed, crawling over you like a man possessed. his shirt comes off. you stare, wide-eyed, at the lean strength in his body, the small golden cross swinging between his collarbones.

“are you scared?” he asks, crawling between your thighs.

you hesitate. “a little.”

he smiles, soft but sinful. “good. makes it sweeter.”

you expect him to rush, to push in and take, but he doesn’t. not yet. his hands part your legs, thumbs brushing your inner thighs, gaze locked on the place he’s about to claim.

“i want you to remember this,” he says low. “the first stretch. the burn. the blood. i want it to haunt every thought you ever have about pleasure. i want you to think of me.”

you whimper, your body trembling under his stare.

he strokes himself once, twice, thick and already hard, precum glistening at the tip.

“look at me,” he growls, lining himself up. “you give this to me willingly?”

“yes...” you whisper, breathless. “please, mark. take it.”

he pushes in slow, inch by inch, and your body screams at the intrusion. it hurts—raw and real—but his groan is feral when your tight heat finally begins to take him.

“fuck—so tight—s-so good—” he curses, clutching your thighs as he sinks in deeper.

you cry out, hands gripping the sheets. “it hurts—”

“i know, baby, i know,” he pants, but he doesn’t stop. “you’re perfect. taking me so fucking well. god made you just for this.”

when he bottoms out, the pain blooms sharp, and you feel it—the tearing. the sudden wet warmth between your thighs that isn’t slick but blood.

your first time. your virginity. claimed.

by him.

mark shudders above you, his eyes fluttering shut. “you’re bleeding,” he whispers, reverent. “fuck, baby... look at this mess you’re making for me.”

he pulls out slightly, then thrusts back in harder, and you gasp again, tears springing to your eyes.

“shhh... that’s it... cry for me,” he coos, rocking into you with slow, punishing rolls of his hips. “hurts, doesn’t it? i know. i know. that’s what happens when you’ve never been touched. and now no one ever will. just me.”

you cling to him, your legs trembling around his waist. pain and heat and fullness swirl inside you like a fever.

he fucks you slow and deep, savoring every inch like a man drinking straight from the chalice.

“you feel that?” he pants. “that stretch? that’s my cock, baby. your husband’s cock. it’s gonna split you open every night from now on.”

“m-mark—” your voice cracks, body shaking.

“i want it to hurt,” he growls. “i want you sore in the morning. limping in church. sitting with your legs tight because your pussy still remembers what i did to it.”

his thrusts deepen, faster now, the bed creaking under the rhythm.

“i’ll fuck a baby into you,” he groans. “fill you up. make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

you cry out, the pain blending into a sharp kind of pleasure, dizzying and hot.

“oh god—”

“don’t say his name,” mark snarls. “you beg for me. you pray to me now.”

his fingers find your clit and rub fast circles, the added sensation pushing you closer to the edge. the pain is still there, dull and throbbing, but the pleasure—the fullness—drowns it out.

“you gonna cum on my cock for the first time, sweetheart?” he hisses. “gonna milk me like a good wife?”

you sob, nodding, your entire body tensing.

“that’s it. cum for me. fuck—cum while i’m deep in your virgin cunt—”

you break with a cry, your walls fluttering around him, tight and overwhelmed. mark follows with a growl, his hips slamming into yours one last time as he spills inside you, thick and warm.

he doesn’t pull out. not for a long time.

when he finally does, his cum drips from between your legs, streaked with red. he watches it for a second, breathing hard, eyes dazed.

then he presses a kiss to your stomach.

“god forgive me,” he whispers, “but i’ve never felt anything holier than this.”

the room is still warm with the scent of sweat, sex, and candlewax.

you’re trembling in the sheets, heart racing, thighs sticky and sore, and mark—still hovering over you—is staring down at the mess between your legs like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “my blood. my cum. all of it inside you.”

you blush, squirming under his gaze, but he hushes you gently.

“don’t move, baby,” he whispers. “let me take care of you.”

he disappears into the little bathroom for a moment, and you hear water running, the rustle of cloth. when he returns, he’s shirtless, flushed, eyes still dark. in his hands: a warm, damp cloth.

he kneels between your legs like he’s kneeling at a holy altar.

“open for me again, sweet girl.”

you obey with a soft whimper.

he parts your thighs gently, reverently, and begins to wipe you clean—slow strokes of the cloth over your folds, careful over the tender soreness, the trace of blood and thick seed.

he breathes heavily through his nose.

“fuck… it’s still leaking out,” he says, voice trembling with hunger. “i really did break you, didn’t i?”

your cheeks burn, but your body clenches at his words.

he wipes a little deeper, letting the cloth slip between your folds, dragging it slowly, maybe too slowly, over your still-sensitive clit. your hips twitch.

“mm—mark…”

he smirks.

“you liked it,” he says, his voice thick and satisfied. “i could feel it when your pussy fluttered around me. you liked me taking it. even when it hurt.”

you look away, embarrassed. he grabs your chin and turns your face back to him.

“don’t hide from me now,” he growls. “you’re my wife. my good little bride. i get to see all of it—your pain, your pleasure, your filth.”

he tosses the cloth aside, not done—not even close.

“turn around,” he says, voice lower now. hungrier. “on your knees. let me see how you look from behind.”

you hesitate.

“mark, i’m still—”

“i’ll be gentle,” he says, already helping you shift onto all fours. “just wanna see.”

but when you’re in position, your face down, hips up, your swollen folds still dripping for him, he groans out loud.

“fuck. fuck, baby. you look ruined.”

his thumbs spread you open and he leans in to spit—spits right on your cunt and watches it drip down your slit.

you whimper.

“sorry,” he breathes, kissing your lower back. “i lied. i can’t be gentle right now. not when you look like this.”

you gasp as he presses the tip of his cock against your entrance again, still thick, already hard again.

“mark—wait—”

“shhh,” he says, wrapping one arm around your waist as he starts to push in. “just a little, baby. i’ll go slow. i swear.”

but he doesn’t.

he sinks in fast this time, wet with spit and cum and leftover blood, and the stretch makes you cry out into the pillow.

“oh god—”

“you’re so fucking tight from this angle,” he groans, thrusting deeper. “so wet and raw. i can feel every part of you clinging to me.”

his hips slap into you, heavy and slow, and he watches the way your ass bounces, how your walls suck him in again and again.

“this is how i want it,” he pants, gripping your hips. “every night. bent over. legs shaking. full of me.”

your fingers grip the pillow, knuckles white.

he fucks you slow but deep—intentional, savoring the aftershock of your first time, the way your body shudders under every push.

“look at this mess,” he hisses, pulling out just enough to see the creamy ring around his cock before slamming back in. “my innocent little wife, dripping all over me.”

you moan into the sheets, tears threatening again from the overstimulation.

he leans forward, chest to your back, lips to your ear.

“do you know how many nights i touched myself to this?” he growls. “this exact position? thinking about you on your knees, begging me to fuck you?”

you can’t speak.

“say it,” he demands. “tell me you want it. tell me you like being on your knees with my cock deep in your pussy.”

“i—i like it,” you whisper, shaking. “mark, i l-love it.”

“yeah?” he grits, hips snapping harder now. “you like me fucking you where you bleed?”

you nod desperately, tears finally slipping down your cheeks.

he growls, pulling your hair to tilt your head back.

“good girl,” he pants. “you’re gonna take all of it. every drop.”

his pace grows frantic, sloppy. the room echoes with the sound of skin on skin, the squelch of your soaked cunt, the broken cries leaving your throat.

he reaches between your legs again, fingers finding your clit.

“cum for me again,” he growls. “milk my cock. i want to feel you gush.”

you do—too fast, the pleasure tipping over the edge like a dam breaking. your body arches, walls pulsing around him violently, drawing a deep, choked groan from his chest.

“fuckfuckfuck—i’m gonna—”

his thrusts stutter, then slam deep one last time as he spills inside you again, hot, thick, his cum flooding your womb in waves.

he stays buried in you for a long time, breathing hard, holding your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then, slowly, he pulls out—and you both watch it drip again: blood, cum, slick. a perfect, unholy mess between your thighs.

he kisses your spine softly.

“that’s two,” he whispers. “i’m not done yet.”

god won’t hear you this morning

the sunlight is soft through the white curtains, warm over your bare back.

you wake to the sound of birds, the smell of pine, and the weight of an arm draped heavy around your waist.

mark’s hand.

you stir gently. the soreness between your legs is still there—a dull ache that reminds you of everything that happened hours before. the blood. the claiming. the way he whispered prayers against your skin while pushing deeper into sin.

“mm... you awake, baby?” comes his voice, low and rough behind you.

you nod.

his nose nuzzles into your neck. a soft kiss. then another. his hand slides over your belly, pulling you tighter against him.

“you okay?” he asks, brushing your hair aside.

“a little sore,” you whisper, cheeks flushing.

he hums. “good. means i did it right.”

you giggle quietly, but it’s breathy, nervous. his lips graze your jaw.

“kiss me,” you whisper.

he turns you gently, and your lips meet—slow, lazy, lips barely parting. it’s sweet. warm. the kind of kiss that feels safe.

but then you feel it. his cock, hard again, pressing against your thigh.

you open your eyes.

he’s looking down at you, expression darker now. hungrier.

“we should get ready for church,” you say softly, as if that’ll make the heat between you disappear.

his hand moves down. between your legs. he touches you like he owns the space between your thighs.

“mm,” he hums. “god can wait.”

“mark—”

“don’t pretend you didn’t dream about it,” he murmurs against your lips. “you were grinding against me in your sleep. moaning.”

you blink, embarrassed. “i—I didn’t know—”

“oh, baby,” he chuckles darkly. “your little pussy knew.”

his fingers glide through the mess still lingering there from the night before—his cum, dried and sticky and warm again from your heat.

you gasp.

“you’re soaked,” he growls. “and we haven’t even started.”

you moan when he circles your clit.

“mark… please…”

“you want it?” he says, voice low. “again?”

you don’t answer. can’t.

his fingers slide inside you slowly, and you cry out.

“your body wants it,” he hisses. “look at how greedy she is. already sucking me in.”

“it’s not right,” you whisper. “it’s morning. it’s—”

“it’s sunday,” he says, pulling his fingers out and sucking them into his mouth. “let’s worship.”

and then he rolls you over. pushes you flat on your stomach.

his hands spread your thighs again.

he growls—growls—at the sight of your cunt, pink and swollen and messy with everything he’s left inside you.

“fuck. i want to breed you.”

you shudder.

“mark—”

“i mean it.” he leans over, cock hard and throbbing against your ass. “i want to fill you again and again until my cum takes. until you’re swollen with my baby.”

your breath catches. the filth in his voice. the fire in your stomach.

he presses his cock against your entrance.

“you’d look so beautiful,” he whispers. “waddling around the church with my child inside you. the pastor’s daughter-in-law, pregnant and ruined and everyone knowing who did it.”

you bite your lip, whimpering.

“say it,” he commands. “say you want me to knock you up.”

“i—i want it,” you cry. “i want your baby, mark.”

he thrusts in deep. slow. your mouth falls open.

“fuck,” you moan. “oh my god—”

he snaps his hips forward, and the stretch opens you again, deep and raw. you’re already wet—soaked from both your desire and the filth he left inside you—and he glides in smoothly, thick and throbbing.

“that’s it,” he groans. “take it. take my cock like a good wife.”

your hands claw at the sheets as his thrusts build in rhythm, slow but deep, dragging along every sensitive spot inside you.

you’re not quiet this time.

you moan. you sob. you say words you were never allowed to say.

“fuck—mark—so deep—oh fuck me harder—”

he slaps your ass.

“language,” he growls. “filthy little girl.”

“yes—yes—i’m filthy—so fucking filthy for you—”

his rhythm gets rougher. desperate.

“god won’t hear you now,” he pants. “not when you’re begging me to fuck a baby into you.”

your walls tighten. your climax rises sharp and fast.

“cum for me,” he hisses. “cum like a whore. my whore. my wife.”

and you do.

you scream into the mattress, body shaking violently as your orgasm crashes through you, pulsing around him.

“shit—fuck—gonna fill you again,” he snarls. “breed this tight little cunt.”

his thrusts lose rhythm, grow frantic, and then—

he spills.

hot. thick. so much.

his cock twitches deep inside you as he empties himself, groaning into your neck like he’s dying.

when it’s over, he collapses over you, still pulsing.

your legs are shaking. you can barely breathe.

and between your thighs, you’re leaking again.

this time, it feels like even more.

like a baby might really come of it.

he kisses your cheek.