Epilogue
The guitar feels heavy in my arms. I’m trying to pretend it’s not taking all my effort to keep holding it up, but it feels like it’s made of two tons of iron.
My fingers strum it with little thought.
That part doesn’t hurt. My fingers have gotten plenty of practice ignoring the pain that came from flexing them playing with Prue’s tight little pussy almost every night.
I’d ignore death to get to touch her.
She sits on my brand-new coffee table, naked, watching me.
It’s hard to care about the fact I nearly died on the floor to the side of her, when she looks so fucking hot, watching my fingers strum over the strings.
I’ve been avoiding practicing. Too scared that after three months of recovery and physical therapy, I’d have lost my touch. Not trying meant I’d never know if that was true or not. I’d rather not know that my whole music career is over than have to face it.
But my little torturer saw right through my avoidance. She laid the terms of her conditions out at dinner. A meal she cooked, as she continues to try to learn life skills she didn’t think she’d ever need. All of which she is good at.
The terms were simple, she was going to strip down to nothing, but I couldn’t touch her until I spent at least thirty minutes practicing.
So here I sit. An erection is growing beneath my sweatpants, my favorite guitar is pressed into the scar across my chest and the girl I love naked in front of me. I try to focus on moving my fingers in the correct position to a song I’ve played a thousand times.
My mind does most of the work, but I’m too lost on the sight in front of me, the contentment in my bones, and the blood flowing to my cock to care if I make a mistake or not.
“You aren’t even looking at your fingers,” Prue says, rolling her eyes for the billionth time since I met her.
“My fingers are hideous compared to you.”
“You are so fucking cheesy.” She laughs. “Now, the terms were you have to practice guitar for thirty minutes before you can touch me.”
“I’m well aware of the rules my evil girlfriend laid out.”
“But I never said I couldn’t touch me.” She smirks.
“Why do you enjoy torturing me?” I groan as she lets her fingers rub circles around her peach-colored nipples.
“Because you let me.” She shrugs.
“Fair point,” I say, letting my fingers fall into the rhythm of some cheesy song Wes wrote for some girl that isn’t his girlfriend or mine, but fits the moment regardless. “Can I finally fuck you?”
“I don’t know, can you?” She raises an eyebrow, letting her other hand drop between her thighs, stroking her little pussy.
She has been withholding sex, choosing to ride my face or suck my cock. She says it’s because the doctors say I’m not ready for strenuous activity, but I’m not buying it. I swear it’s some kind of punishment for the fact I let her ex shoot me while she laid handcuffed to a bed in San Francisco.
Apparently, finger fucking her and eating her pussy doesn’t count as strenuous, nor does choking her with my cock.
So, I have yet to feel her pussy again. I’m dying to have it wrapped around my cock, but I’ll wait as long as she desires, simply grateful she lets me touch her at all.
“I like this song,” she moans softly, making my cock throb. “Who is it about?”
“Some girl Wes used to date.”
“Oh.” She gasps as she slides a finger inside her cunt.
“You can take two of mine, add another.”
She eyes me with a wicked grin. “Doesn’t matter how many I take, just thinking about your cock is enough to get me close.”
“Not close enough to actually let me fuck you, though.”
“Fuck,” she groans, grinding herself against her hand. “But I want you to. It’s just the doctor…”
“I survived a bullet. I think I can survive your tight little pussy.”
She moans, her eyes opening to look at the clock. “You still have 19 minutes.”
“Then I can fuck you?”
“Then you can touch me.” She smirks.
“You’re cruel,” I say, letting my fingers play a different melody. I just wrote this one a few weeks ago, while I was still lying in a hospital bed, but haven’t had the chance to hear how it sounds.
“That’s pretty,” she moans.
“Yeah.” I smile.
Wes likes to do most of the writing, but I’ll be damned if he doesn’t let me write at least one song on the new record, whenever we get back into the studio.
Prue deserves a whole fucking discography written about her, but I highly doubt the band would allow that.
Wes gets to have Abbey on the album, and half a dozen songs about her, but I’ll probably get lucky just to get an occasional song about Prue thrown in.
“Fuck,” she groans, fucking herself a little harder. “Play me something to cum to.” Her eyes zoning in on me. “Then I’ll let you fuck me.”
“You had me at play something to cum to.” I smirk, strumming a nice, sexy melody for her.
Prue and I may be two completely broken people, with a lot of damage to sort through, but there is no one else in this whole fucked up world I rather do it with than her.
After my little hint about my aunt, my mother asked me to go to therapy with her. I see no use in it, but she wants to know what happened and understand why I didn’t tell her. She blames herself, despite my desperate pleads for her to blame the only person responsible.
I told her under no circumstances would I be talking about it further and then Prue tortured me into submission. My mother has no idea my relenting to therapy had anything to do with getting to cum on Prue’s pretty little face, not will she ever. She’s just content I agreed to go.
Prue’s parents don’t speak to Cameron or her anymore. The damage of Charles’ arrest still lingers. They deny him bail repeatedly, which is smart. Daddy Davenport would have him out of the country before the handcuff indents were gone.
He has good lawyers though, and despite Prue insisting that I did not take her against her will, they are using that as motive.
He will most likely get attempted manslaughter and spend a few years behind bars.
Hopefully, by the time he is released, Prue and I are far from his reach, on a sandy beach, living the good life.
Prue dropped out of college, despite my offer to pay. Now she is trying to find herself and I couldn’t be happier, so long as she doesn’t find herself far away from me.
“Fuck. Ben,” she groans, her eyes focused on the way my fingers move over the strings, much how they move against her clit every time she lets me play with her.
“I love when you moan my name.”
“I love you,” she moans back, letting her eyes roll shut as her orgasm overtakes her.
“I love you too, Prue.” I smile, tossing my guitar to the side, ignoring the lingering ache, and dropping to my knees before her bare pussy.
Somehow, I’m always on my knees for this woman, and I couldn’t be happier about that fact.
I lean forward, prying her finger from her still spasming cunt and letting my tongue take over the job.
It hasn’t been thirty minutes, so she probably won’t let me fuck her tonight, but I just couldn’t take one more moment of not touching her. I’d gladly take whatever punishment she gives me for that. I’d endure a lifetime of torture for her. And she knows it.
Who knows if we will be together forever. Once her internal wounds heal, I’m not sure she will have much use for me, but I’ll never regret what I did for her, not even if Charles comes around and finishes the job. Until she chooses to leave though, I’m going to enjoy every second with her.
I’m not sure how I got so fucking lucky, nor do I think the scar from the bullet I took for her shows it, but fuck, if I’m not the luckiest asshole in the world.