Page 82 of Promise of Punishment

Ready?

“I promise you’ll like it. Don’t resist. I’ll use my pinky and lube.”

Pinky and lube?

He reaches into a nightstand drawer, his cock still inside me, and straightens quickly. Resuming his thrusts, he gains speed, stealing all my attention—until I feel it. Pressure at my little hole.

Oh! I’m caught between shock and heady arousal.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” He massages the spot before delving a little deeper, his fingertip slippery wet. “The way you keep moaning says it does,” he purrs. “Do you want me to fuck both your holes?”

I do. I can’t believe it, but I do.

“Say it, little angel,” he coaxes and tugs my hair.

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” His cock pumps faster as he presses his lubed finger in more, then all the way inside.

I gasp, lost to the new sensation. It doesn’t hurt or burn. It feels good. Really good.

“This asshole is going to be mine one day, Fable. Your pussy already belongs to me. I will own every inch of your body.” His words add another layer of eroticism. His thrusts grow faster, deeper, his pinky a constant pressure, pushing my arousal beyond anything I’ve ever known.

I’m gone. His. Every inch of me. I don’t know where I end and he begins. My orgasm shatters through me. I cry out and come apart. Nothing exists… until Wes groans and follows me over the edge.

My arms give out, and I collapse onto my stomach.

“Careful,” he says, moving about on the bed. The swoosh of a tissue rips from a package, then he scoops me up and flips us so I lie on top of his warm, clammy body.

My ear rests against his firm pec, his heart thundering like mine.

He plants a tender kiss on my hair. “Sorry, angel. I meant to let you lead, but then you took my cock into your little mouth, and I lost it.”

If I weren’t so weak, I’d giggle. “I’m not sorry.”

“We’ll just have to do it again, and you can tie me up so I behave.”

This time, a giggle pushes up my throat. “We’d need chains,” I murmur. With his muscles and strength, I doubt satin sashes could restrain him.

He chuckles, and I feel his chest vibrate behind me. “I can arrange that.”

I believe he can arrange anything, and I have to admit, it makes me feel safer than I ever have. Mostly because of him, and the way he sees me—better than I’ve ever seen myself—and the way he loves me.

We have sex again, and he lets me have my way without losing control too much. I ride his cock, orgasm off the planet, and then almost crash out from exhaustion.

Wes has food and drinks brought up for us, bathes me tenderly, caressing my belly, then tucks me back into bed. I have no idea how I’m still awake. As it is, I teeter on the cusp of sleep, which might be why I’m able to finally ask the question that has stayed with me since the hospital.

Back then, I wasn’t ready to know what happened. Now, it could be for many reasons. His strong arms holding me. His warm body behind mine as he spoons me, making me feel guarded and safe. His steady breathing. My drowsiness. The fact that it’s raining outside and, for the first time ever, I’m not fearing the worst.

“Did you make him suffer?” I whisper into the quiet darkness.

Wes’s big body stiffens.

“I hope you did. I hope he begged for death,” I say then confess a truth I’d never share with anyone else. “I tried to kill him once after he beat my mom so badly I thought she was dead. I stabbed him over and over again. I wanted him to die.”

Every muscle in his body softens. He pulls me closer and cups my hands with his big ones, holding them against my breasts, his breath fanning my hair as he whispers, “He whimpered the whole time and was barely breathing when I was done with him. I told him he was a coward and a piece of shit. I told him this was for Lola and for you. And I told him I was going to spend the rest of my life treating you with the love and respect you always deserved, and that no one would ever hurt you again. Lastly, I thanked him for being a monster because it led you to me. And then I sent him to hell.”

Something in me breaks open, or maybe it breaks free. I cry—weep—in his arms, but my tears aren’t sadness for my dad. They’re vindication for my mom. For the burns covering her skin, which still haunt my mind, when I had to identify her. For the many times he beat and broke her. For the times he hurt me. For the hate I felt towards him when I was too young to understand it. For the fear of him killing my mom and how it ruled my life for years.