Billie
His fingers are inside me. His face is bare. And I can't stop staring at it because it's the same face that kissed the top of my head on my porch tonight, the same face that smiled across my dinner table while my dad talked about fence posts.
The same face that belongs to the man my family calls Pawpaw.
"You can't do this," I whisper, even as my hips roll against his hand. Even as my pussy clenches around his thick fingers like it's trying to keep him there. "You're — we're —"
"Say it." He curls his fingers inside me and I gasp. "Tell me who I am."
I shake my head. If I say it, it's real.
If I name what this is — his fingers deep in his granddaughter's cunt, my body pinned to the door by a man who played Santa on Christmas.
Who taught me how to whittle sticks and scared Billy Tindale half to death by waiting in the backseat of his shitty Buick with one of his bowie knives after he kept snapping my bra sitting behind me in Algebra.
If I say his name, all those good and pure memories disappear and I can't pretend this is a stranger in a mask.
He pulls his fingers out and I involuntarily whimper at the loss. He holds them up between us glistening from my own lusty betrayal and not the rain with an expression as calm as stone.
"You won't say it, but your little pussy already did." He brings my arousal to my mouth and drags them over my lips, painting me with my own flavor. "Now open up and taste how much you want your Pawpaw."
My jaw loosens and he pushes his fingers between my lips. I taste salt and shame and the edge of my own arousal and I suck without being told to. He watches me with those winter-sky eyes, unblinking, and my face burns so hot it could dry the rain still clinging to both of us.
He pulls his fingers from my mouth and reaches behind him for the knife.
He holds the blade to my throat. Tip resting in the hollow, cold steel warming fast from the heat rolling off me.
His bare face makes it worse — or better, I don't know which anymore.
The skull mask was horror-movie terror. His actual face is something else entirely.
Familiar terror. The kind that comes from knowing exactly who's holding the knife and wanting him to press harder.
"Pawpaw, please." My voice cracks, I'm begging for what I'm not sure.
"Please what?" He tilts his head. One corner of his mouth lifts, that familiar twinkle in his eyes. "Please stop? Or please don't?"
I don't answer because the truth is both and neither and something in between that I don't know who I am.
He flicks the blade downward. One smooth long motion and my nightshirt splits from collar to hem, the wet fabric parting exposing my chilled skin. He doesn't stop at the bottom — he traces the tip back up, and the ruined shirt falls open and hangs from my shoulders.
"Take it off."
My fingers shake as I push the slit shirt off my shoulders and let it drop. The fabric hits the floor with a sloppy, sodden smack.
I'm naked. Mud-streaked, goosebumps racing over my skin.
Rhett's eyes travel down my body with the slow patience of a man who's been waiting a very long time for something. His eyes linger on my tits before continuing downward, touching my stomach, hips, the dark strip of hair above my mound.
"Look at my big girl." His voice drops to that low rumble and my nipples literally ache. "All grown up and smelling like a slut for your ole Pawpaw."
My eyes sting. Shame and pain and lust stab at my softest parts and I can't stop the fluttering down below my belly button.
"That's sick," I whisper. "We're sick."
"Maybe." He traces the flat of the blade across my left breast, circling my nipple with the cold steel. "But your cunt doesn't think so." He presses the tip in just above my nipple — one bright point of pain, one bead of blood rolling down the curve. "Your cunt thinks this is exactly right."
He's not wrong. I can feel myself dripping down my inner thighs.
"Touch yourself."
I shake my head.
He presses the blade harder against my breast. "I watched you hump a pillow in your sleep, little girl.
You think I don't know what you need?" He leans close enough that his breath ghosts over my mouth.
"I've read every filthy word you've written.
I know what your characters do in the dark.
Now show me what the author does. Get your fingers in that fucking cunt or Pawpaw is going to show you a different side of him. "
My hand slides down my belly. It doesn't feel like a choice.
When my fingers meet my clit, my thigh muscles shake. I'm so sensitive the slightest pressure sends a convulsion through my pelvis.
"Inside," he orders. "I want to see you shove them deep."
One finger. Then two.
I push them in and my mouth falls open. God, why am I so wet?
Pawpaw watches, jaw working in the low light. This man taught me to saddle a horse and kissed my forehead thousands of times and is now watching me fuck my own pussy with my fingers against my bedroom door.
"Deeper."
I shudder and push. My palm grinds against my clit and I bite my lip until there's a metallic sting that spreads over my tongue.
"More. All of them. Show Pawpaw what a dirty girl you are."
I add a third finger. A fourth.
"I can't."
"Awe, you and I both know that's a lie. And you call me Pawpaw. I like to hear you say it."
"Pawpaw." I breathe, pushing, pushing as he kicks the inside of my left leg.
"Here, let's get you in a better position." Rough hands work my leg to the side, grabbing my stuffed moose from the basket next to the door and positioning my foot on top. "Keep that knee out like that, I like a good view of my granddaughter when she's being a big girl."
"Please—" I start to beg for whatever this is to stop, but that sharp point on my nipple cuts off any plea I might have managed.
"Get that hand inside your cunt. I know you can do it, it's your hand or mine." He holds up the fist of his other hand in front of my face and the melon sized knuckled ball sends a blast of fear coursing through me.
"I'll do it, Pawpaw. I'll try."
He unfurls his fingers and runs his knuckles down my cheek.
A half smile making him look evil but still, Pawpaw.
"I'm always proud of how hard you try. You're my good girl, I love you, now do it.
" His voice softens, then hardens to stone and I close my eyes and wince, tucking my thumb and pushing and the stretch is blinding.
"It burns." I whimper as I push but when I open my eyes, his stare tells me he doesn't care.
My inner walls resist then give, my vision flickers like the end of an old movie flapping in the projector.
A half sob, half moan croaks from my throat and I hate how good this feels. I hate that he's watching. I hate that I like him watching.
"That's my girl." His words are lust and gravel and my body gushes around my hand. "Look at you. Stuffing that little cunt so full for your Pawpaw. Keep going. Something else big is coming for you and I want you ready. I know you want my cock, but you have to earn it."
I whimper and push deeper, my hand sinking in to the wrist as I gasp. Everything inside me lights up with a fury of sensation. Pain and fullness and a desperate, clawing need for more, more.
The tendons in my shoulder and wrist ache from the strained position but my clit is on fire.
I'm close, getting closer as I turn my fingers into a fist inside the heat of my body, my eyes roll back—
"That's enough." He grabs my wrist and jerks my hand free. The extraction is sudden and graceless and my pussy clenches around the nothingness desperate and throbbing for something. He holds my hand up between us, fingers shining, and studies it.
Then he presses it to his mouth. Watching my grandfather's lips closing around my index finger with his tongue working the taste of me with a satisfied groan is sick and more erotic than I would admit outside of this room.
He sucks each finger clean, his eyes locked on mine. When he bites the pad of my thumb, I jolt and a small, broken sound slips from my lips.
"Every time I sit at your table," he mumbles against my wet fingers, "I think about this. What you'd taste like. What sounds you'd make." He lets my hand fall. "Your daddy's sitting right there asking me about cattle prices and all I can think about is getting my mouth on his little girl's pussy."
My stomach drops and my cunt pulses and I want to be sick and I want to come and I can't tell the difference anymore.
He crouches.
Oh my god.
Even on his haunches, he's enormous. His shoulders spanning the width of the doorframe, his hands gripping my hips like I might try to run again.
He returns the knife into wherever it came from at his back, hooks my left leg over his shoulder and I'm spread wide, one foot on the floor, totally open to him.
"Pawpaw, don't." But my voice is thin and reedy and we both know I don't mean it. Or I do mean it. Or I mean it and want him to do it anyway.
"Don't what?" He drags his tongue through my folds — one long, slow stroke, base to clit — and my hand flies to the top of his head. Not to push him away. To grab his hair and take something from him.
No. Don't give it to this, it's twisted and sick.
I pull my hand back with a choked sob.
"Pawpaw, I can't. It's wrong."
He laughs against my pussy. "Is it, baby? Then, fight me. Makes my cock harder every time you pretend you don't want this." He sticks out his tongue, pulling my outer lips apart with long, rough fingers and circles my clit.
I grab his hair. I can't stop what's happening to me.
He eats me like the man in my dream.
His tongue pushes inside me, then flat and wide over my clit, then pointed and precise on the spot that makes the world seem to spin faster. He works me with his mouth the way he works everything — patient, relentless, unrushed.