Chapter 18 #2
Jolie’s head slammed against the table again, but this time, I was the one to do it, hitting her much harder than my father did. His hands stayed on her as her sob broke through her lips, his touch stroking the length of her hair, as if he was trying to soothe her.
“I’m done listening to you, little doll. One more word, and I’ll fuck you until you scream. . . with this.” The knife—fit for a horror movie maniac—traced the curve of her ass.
“I don’t believe you’ll kill me,” she whispered the lie.
“I know you. I know your heart, even if your mind is different right now. You share the same heart. You won’t hurt me.
Woodrow wouldn’t want that, and you know it.
” Her words sounded different because of all the pain and heartache attached to them.
“He loves me, and I love him. And for that, I accept—”
I cut her off, my hand wrapping around her mouth, preventing the end of that sentence from coming out as I guided my body close to hers.
The audience oppressed me, not the men gathering close as I pushed my cock between Jolie’s wet pussy lips.
She screamed as I shoved inside her. And I wanted to scream, too, enjoying the feel of her sopping cunt too fucking much.
But my internal audience disapproved. Woodrow.
I could feel him—for the first time ever—like he was breathing down my fucking neck, ready to snap it if I made the wrong move.
I shoved him to the back of my mind, where he was apparently happy to fucking lurk.
Sylvia—a man I knew from previous visits—stepped up close.
I didn’t like the aroma around him, tobacco and lavender—something nowhere near strong enough to mask the dirt on him.
It was on me, too—his smell. I was almost sure he was the reason for the pain in my fucking throat.
He could pay later, and the idea of that, had my cock growing harder and harder inside my gift.
I was on her, rocking her face against the wood, my body looming over her. I lifted her dress, sick and fucking tired of it getting in my way.
I reared back to look at her round ass as my cock slammed inside her continuously. She grunted and groaned through clenched teeth, her canines surely grinding down to dust in her mouth.
I noticed the men around me watching, noticed the position of their eyes. On her ass, bouncing with each of my movements.
I slapped her hard, a red print staining the round cheek. “That’s for letting them see what’s mine.”
Not that she had any choice.
I moved the knife to her throat, liking the fear in her eyes. My father, with his touch running through her hair, tried to diminish it all.
“Are you going to prove him wrong?”
Her lungs strained, pulse ticking against my blade with each breath. “I don’t know what you mean.” The blade dug in, leaving a faint indent on her skin as she tried to shake her head.
“I’m going next.” My head lifted to the words, and I threw the knife in the direction from which they came.
Sylvia jumped out of the way, the knife landing in the doorframe behind him. The pointed blade would need to be pried from the wood later.
My eyes moved back to my gift, her ass still exposed by my position. She deserved another slap for that. And I fucking gave it, harder than the last. She screamed, loud enough to hurt my fucking ears.
I pushed her head down, painfully against the wood, as she tried to look up. Pleading eyes closed when she realized there was no point in begging me. I positioned her where I wanted her, parting her legs wider, so I could get deeper.
The depth had her tensing, causing us both unnecessary pain. . . but somehow, I fucking enjoyed it. Enjoyed her feeling every fucking inch of me violating and stretching her tight cunt.
I shuddered, loving it. She shivered, hating it.
I shifted onto the table, my knees taking my weight.
I pulled her ass into the air, slipping out of her for a brief moment.
I drove back into her, watching her pussy open as I pushed all the way in.
I liked this view, liked her bent over like a whore for me.
The wood below hurt my knees as I thrust my hips faster and faster.
I pulled back farther, sliding my cock in deeper.
I could feel it coming. Feel my balls tightening and my cock twitching inside her warmth.
She moaned, and it sounded too much like the sound of someone enjoying the feel of my cock sliding in and out of them.
“You’ve almost done it. Prove him wrong. Come for me. Show me he’s wrong.”
Part of me genuinely wanted to believe he was.
“Even if she comes, it proves—”
“Shut. Up,” I cut off my father, words slurring amongst the sound of my balls slapping against her wet heat. The wet clapping sound of her pussy sucking me in drove me on.
She moaned again, like she actually wanted this. Or, she just wanted to prove my father was fucking wrong.
I shoved him from her hair, no longer tolerating his touch on her. I wrapped the pretty coils around my fingers and tugged, bending her body into a position that she had to support with her own hands.
I became a blanket to her, my thrusts getting more aggressive, making it hard for me to fucking breathe, with whatever the fuck was causing more pain than usual in my throat.
But I didn’t stop.
“I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you with it.”
“Do it,” she told me, her head low, muffling the words. “It changes nothing. I’ll still love him.” Her words vibrated with each thrust, traveling straight to my ears as she said, “I accept all of him. Of you. Do it.”
Her words had me fucking high, and I knew I had to finish this soon, before I fell from the fucking table. My little doll was making my knees weak, for multiple fucking reasons. “You fucking do it. Come for me. Now!”
My teeth sunk into her flesh, sucking at her neck until a blot of blood clung beneath her skin. Another mark on her. I searched for the other—my initial—and I allowed my fingers to brush it before I pinched her clit, forcing a scream through her lips.
My cock grew wetter and wetter, her body tightening beneath mine. I pulled my teeth away to whisper, “Good fucking girl. You proved him wrong.”
With one last brutal thrust, I came. Milky cum dribbled out of her slit. I didn’t bask to enjoy it, pulling out before I’d even finished spurting at her wanton hole.
I looked down at her, at the mess I made between her legs. There was less blood this time. I rubbed the sticky white liquid, rubbed her overly sensitive folds, and I pushed it inside her, where it fucking belonged.
Then I slapped her, the sound reverberating off her fleshy ass and around the room, shaking the dust from ornaments that held no value or purpose.
“That’s for not taking it all. You were meant to take it all.” I flipped her over. The look on her face told me she was scared, thinking she’d displeased me, but. . .
My body language told her otherwise. My attention and my still naked body, shifting to my father on fast legs.
“Women fake things, Son.”
“And men lie.” I wrapped the cleaver in my fingers, finding it near the sink, where it had been left for cleaning, loitering in a red stain.
I swung it at my father, needing a new way to release my frustrations.
His sausage fingers rose into the air, spread in an act of protection.
The blade sliced through his skin and bone; his fingers flew through the air, both of the dismembered body parts landing in an oiled pan on the stove. Sausages ready for cooking.
I laughed. A minacious tremor through the room.
My father screamed, lifting his hand in front of his eyes, holding it up and blocking me from seeing the shock on his face.
His shadows—men who only moved when he did—ran at me, wrestling me for the cleaver. But they retreated to the darkness, jumping to the nearest corner when I swung again.
Sylvia and Teena both held their hands up—stupid fuckers. There was still room for more sausages. I turned on the gas, watching for a second as heat crept over my father’s digits.
Mr. Silent hadn’t moved from the doorway, where he’d been lingering closeby this entire time.
His eyes moved to the knife embedded in the frame.
He didn’t want to reach for it. He didn’t want a showdown.
He was bigger, a little older, and no doubt, physically stronger than me.
He had other qualities, too. Things that would get in the way.
Things usually dissolved and diminished for someone working the job he did. Morals and sanity.
My glare pinned him in place, and he stiffened, his hands raising in surrender as I taunted, don’t move.
Jolie was still on the table, her legs wiggling beneath her weight as she adjusted her dress. She was in the light, right in the glare of sunlight.
Safe from the shadows.
I twisted back around, content in my illusion that the man with no name wouldn’t move. And he didn’t. I’d have heard the sound of his squeaky shoes moving closer. I could hear them whine under his weight each time he so much as let out a breath he was holding. . . who the fuck even does that?
Him, apparently, every time I looked at him.
My cleaver raised again, into the brightness seeping into the room. Something caught my eye, the feel of it tickling my fingers as they tightened on the hilt.
Examining the weapon, I saw it. The tuft of fur—light brown and soft. My fingers pulled it free.
The anger inside me built until something fucking exploded. The cleaver hit the wall, creating a dent in the damp plaster, neglected of a touch-up for years.
The smell of bad meat stepped up from the basement and paraded around me with a new sense of strength, thanks to the hole in the wall near the staircase leading down. I spun, diving on my father, who was nursing his wounded hand with a small towel; the fabric, stained garnet. Dark and dirty blood.