Chapter 56
The Regret
Killian
Taking two steps at a time, I run upstairs.
A furious energy unlike any I’ve ever felt is pounding through me.
That moment when Jenna told me she was leaving, something inside me snapped.
And then she told me Dad had fucked her pussy.
All I could see from that moment on was flashes of red and the need to punish.
All the while, as I turned Jenna into a little piggy, I knew I should stop.
I knew it when she kept protesting, sounding genuinely afraid, when she looked me dead in the eye and told me she would never forgive me, and when she started sobbing.
Yet I couldn’t stop.
I go to town on my punching bag, so hard that my shirt rips under my arm and the sores on my knuckles start bleeding.
I rip my shirt off, tearing the fabric further, and when that’s not enough to get it off, I grab the collar and pull, making buttons fly all over.
Then I keep going at the heavy bag, over and over, until my muscles are aching and blood is dripping onto the floor.
“Fuck!” I shout when my strength runs out and I have to brace my hands on my knees, leaning forward to catch my breath.
My pulse keeps pounding while I take a shower, fury flashing before my eyes, making me slam my fists into the tiles.
I turn the temperature all the way down, hoping the cold water will help.
It takes twenty minutes under the icy spray until I can finally see something beyond the red-hot anger.
As the anger fades, something else takes over.
Something that squeezes my chest and makes it hard to breathe for a whole different reason.
Fear.
I’ve never felt scared. Or at least, so I thought. As I suddenly realize what I did and that Jenna truly might never forgive me, it’s suddenly all I can see. Cold, petrifying fear. And the emotion feels terrifyingly familiar.
I try to ignore that last thought while I hurry to put on new clothes and rush down the stairs, but it’s blaringly obvious.
That feeling has always been with me, ever since that day when I came downstairs on my birthday to find Dad in the kitchen, having baked buns for me, wearing a grave expression I couldn’t understand until he later told me Mom had left.
That same fear keeps clawing at my chest as I run down the hall. I expect to find the bedroom empty—that she has left—but what I find is even worse.
Jenna is lying in the exact same spot where I left her an hour ago, arms sprawled awkwardly in front of her, cum on her face and hair, the gag still in place, the nose hook and the tail the same.
Seeing what I’ve done with clear sight is horrifying.
But that’s not even the worst part. What has me halting dead in my tracks, choking on a gasping breath, is the empty, almost dead look in her eyes.
“Jenna,” I finally manage, crashing to my knees in front of her. “Look at me.” I give her a light shake by the shoulders, but her gaze remains distant. I press two fingers below her jaw and am relieved to find her pulse beating. But the relief fades when I refocus on her empty eyes.
“Look at me,” I repeat, cupping her cheeks.
Nothing.
I work quickly to remove the gag, the hook, and the harness. Then I wipe the cum away with my sleeve and try again. “Jenna, I’m so sorry. Just look at me. I’m here now.”
Panic squeezes tighter, making my vision blur. I have no idea what to do. Slap her to break her out of it?
No, I can’t bear to bring her more harm.
I remove the butt plug, with much effort, hoping that it will help. It doesn’t. She doesn’t even stir.
Then I remember what Dad has been nagging me about for months. What Jenna has been begging me for. A hug. Aftercare.
I lie down in front of her and carefully pull her into me. At first, I just hold her. But then I try to remember what Dad usually does when comforting her. I cradle the back of her head, pepper tiny kisses over her hair, and move my other hand in long strokes down her spine.
“Jenna, I’ve got you. You’re safe now,” I tell her, over and over again. The apologies will have to come later. Right now, making her feel safe is all that matters.
But even as I keep going, there’s no change. Her gaze remains blank and unfocused every time I lean back to look at her.
“Talk to me,” I urge. “Just say something. Anything.” I grab her face between my hands and kiss her forehead, each cheek, and her mouth. “Anything, Jenna. Tell me how much you hate me. I don’t care. I hate myself too.”
At those last words, she focuses on me. Tears pooling in her eyes, she finally meets my gaze.
“That’s it, stay with me,” I tell her. But then she’s gone again. And that hatred grows with each minute she doesn’t respond.
I consider calling Dad, but I’m so fucking scared of his reaction that I can’t do it. I have to fix this on my own.
But there’s no fixing it. Jenna remains unresponsive as I try to feed her without luck, then draw a warm bath and carefully crawl into the tub with her, holding her close while washing her. Finally, I bring her to bed, just lying behind her, holding her close, having no idea what else to do.