Page 48 of My Wedding Night Massacre

“Now,” I say, my voice fraying at the edges, “put two fingers inside me. Curl them. You know where.”

His fingers push inside me and curl deep, finding that spot. My hand loses its rhythm entirely, my grip going slack on his cock, my whole body clenching around his fingers.

“That,” I breathe. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t stop. He works me exactly as I asked, his thumb still circling, his fingers curled deep. I grip his cock again, stroking him hard and fast now, all the control I had dissolving as he takes me apart exactly the way I told him to.

The orgasm builds fast, faster than I’m ready for, my thighs closing around his hand, my grip on his cock tightening without instruction, my whole body chasing what his fingers are doing. I try to hold it off, try to stay in control of something, but he curls deeper, and his thumb presses harder, and I stop being able to think about anything except the pressure building at the base of my spine, spreading outward, my cunt clenching rhythmically around his fingers.

I come with my face pressed to his shoulder, my hand fisting his cock, a sound tearing out of me that I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried. My pussy locks down around his fingers, pulsing in long waves, my thighs shaking, my whole body shuddering through it while he works me without mercy, his thumb circling through every aftershock until I’m gasping and pulling at his wrist, too sensitive, too much.

He lets me have exactly two seconds.

Then his hand leaves me and closes around my wrist, pulling my grip off his cock, and before I’ve finished processing the loss of either sensation, he’s lifted me off the counter entirely, turned me, and set me back down facing away from him. His cock presses against the back of my thigh, hard, insistent, done waiting.

“My turn,” he says against my ear, low, no question in it at all.

His hands grip my hips, the full curves of them, fingers pressing in, and I feel the shift in the room, the balance of power moving back across the table in one clean motion. The woman who had him at her mercy thirty seconds ago is gone, replaced by someone who is very much at his, and the thing is, I’m not sorry about it at all.

He reaches for the small bottle of oil on the table, which tells me he was thinking about this before I came downstairs tonight. The thought warms my heart even now, even with his hands already moving. He uncaps it, pours a small amount across his fingers, and reaches around me, finding my ass with one slick finger, pressing in slowly.

I exhale hard.

“Been a while,” he says against my ear.

“I know,” I say.

“Good.” His finger pushes deeper, twisting slightly, feeling me clench around it. “Because you decided to be in charge tonight.” His mouth finds the back of my neck. “So, this is mine.”

He adds a second finger, and I grip the counter’s edge, the stretch of it immediate, the burn arriving right alongside the heat, my body remembering, resisting, and wanting all at once. He works me open slowly, his fingers scissoring, spreading, his other hand flat on my lower back, keeping me in place.

“Slava,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “I’ve got you.” His fingers curl deeper, and I make a sound that has no language in it. “I wanted to wait before we did this,” he says, his mouth still at my neck, his voice low. “I wanted to give you time. Let you get used to me again.” A third finger presses in alongside the others, and I gasp, my knuckles white on the counter. “But you wanted to be in charge tonight. You wanted to give orders.” He twists his fingers, and I cry out. “So.”

He removes his fingers.

I feel the loss of them and then immediately feel the head of his cock pressing against my ass, slick with oil, thick, far more substantial than his fingers, and my whole body tightens reflexively.

“Breathe,” he says.

I breathe.

He pushes in.

The stretch is enormous, the burn immediate and bright, his cock forcing me open inch by inch, my ass struggling to take him, my fingers clawing at the counter’s edge. I feel every millimeter of his cock pushing inside me, the fullness of it almost overwhelming, my cunt clenching around nothing, my whole body shaking slightly with the effort of staying still and taking it.

“That’s it,” he says against my shoulder, his voice completely wrecked. “You’re taking it so well.” He pushes deeper, and I make a sound that echoes off the stone walls. “Feel that?”

“Yes,” I manage. The word comes out barely a word at all.

He’s not fully seated yet, and already I feel split open, stuffed full, my ass stretched tight around his cock, the burn settling. He pushes the last inch home and holds there, his hips flush against my ass, his cock buried completely inside me.

“This is your punishment,” he says into my hair. “For bossing me around. For making me take orders in my own kitchen.” His hands tighten on my hips. “You feel that? All of that is yours.”

“I feel it,” I say. My voice shakes. “I feel all of it.”

“Good,” he says.