Billie
"Now, get over on that bed. You did a good job getting your cute little face fucked, but do not think I forgot about how you were fighting me outside. Kicking and punching at Pawpaw. That's disrespectful and you'll be punished for that. Then, you'll get to apologize with your pussy."
I'm moving, doing what he asks but it's like my brain is disconnected from my body. I vaguely feel his hands on my back, my hips, my ankles as I crawl onto the bed on all fours.
"That's it. Stay still." He coughs as my forehead drops to the bedding. "Let me see that pretty pussy from behind. Show Pawpaw what's his."
My cunt clenches and I already know, I can't ever tell anyone about this. How could I?
It would wreck our family. And what about me? I've had what? Four? Five orgasms? I haven't really fought him. Maybe he's right, I lead him on and he loves me. He's doing this because of me.
I'm sagging and calming a bit when I hear the whisper of leather sliding through belt loops. A slow, deliberate hiss that raises every hair on my body.
I don't turn around. I don't need to.
The first crack of the belt across my ass is white-hot, sharp, instant. I cry out and my back bows upward, my fingers twist in the sheets. The pain blooms in a hot spiral, radiating from the point of contact through my hips and down my thighs.
"One. You count from now on." Then it's his calloused hand rubbing the welt in slow circles. "You'll understand someday why I have to do this. It's for your own good." The pain melts to warmth, and that warmth pools between my legs, and I hate my body for what it does with hurt.
The second one catches me lower on the backs of my thighs, and the sting goes deeper. I jolt forward and my elbows buckle.
"Two," I whisper, without being reminded.
His hand slides between my legs from behind, fingers dragging through my folds. "Already dripping again. Pawpaw's barely started and you're making a mess."
The third lands and I moan into the mattress. Spasms twitch the muscles in the tops of my thighs as the heat spreads across my skin.
Rhett goes quiet. His silence like a hand on the back of my neck.
"There she is." He says with a hint of something that sounds like awe. "Pawpaw didn't even have to ask. You're lifting that ass for me all on your own."
I squeeze my eyes shut. He's right. I don't want him to be right but my body is done pretending.
The fourth cracks across both cheeks and I take it with a gasp that vibrates through my chest. The fifth follows immediately, I can't draw a breath as the vicious stripe makes little white specks dot my vision. I arch and exhale and feel something inside me relax.
He smooths the leather across the welts then he tosses it onto the bed beside my hand.
"On your back." He orders and I fall onto my side, dragging my tongue over my dry lips.
He helps me the rest of the way, the springs groaning, and before I can orient myself, he's on top of me, straddling my hips, his weight pinning me flat, his cock thick and heavy tapping on my chin as he works.
He circles both my wrists in a rough hand and pins them above my head. The belt wraps once, twice, the leather biting into my skin as he threads the end through the slats of my headboard and cinches it tight.
I pull with the little strength I have left knowing it's futile.
I'm here physical but I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm here mentally as well. Whatever that says about me, I don't even give a shit anymore.
My shoulders stretch and my wrists ache as my grandfather, twice my size prepares to do whatever he wants with my pliant and spent body.
The panic tastes like adrenaline. The adrenaline tastes like want.
He climbs off the side of the bed and his shirt goes first. His chest and stomach are a topography of hard labor. Thick slabs of muscle under tanned, weathered skin. A scar on his left side. Coarse hair tracks down from his sternum to his belt line.
He reaches to the back of his Levi's, tugging out the knife again and setting it on the nightstand. Then, he kicks off his boots with a thud, then jeans follow. He shoves them down and steps out and he's naked in my dark bedroom, and I forget how to breathe.
He wraps his fist around his length and strokes and a bead of cum rolls over his knuckles.
Clearly, his cock is not having any issues staying erect.
Whatever preconceived notions I might have had about older men needing rest periods between orgasms, my Pawpaw is crushing them under the heel of his boot.
He puts one knee on the mattress, then the other, settling between my legs.
He doesn't grab or wrench or force. He just places his palm flat against my inner knee and waits.
The waiting is worse than force. Force I can blame on him. This requires me to choose.
My knee falls open under his hand. The other follows. Just enough for him to see me, not enough to satisfy him, and we both know it.
He pushes my left knee wider with the heel of his hand.
"Wider, sweetheart." He says it like it's the most normal thing in the world. Like my legs should be open to him as a regular part of the day. "Pawpaw wants to see all your pretty parts."
I let him spread me until my hips ache and the air hits the heat gathered between my legs. He kneels there between my open thighs and studies, his jaw working.
"Prettiest cunt I've ever seen." He runs his other hand down his face with that low groan I know means he's pleased. "And it's all for your Pawpaw."
He slaps my pussy hard and I yelp and tuck my hips. The wet smack echoes through my bedroom and the warmth it leaves behind turns to a tingling down into my most intimate spaces.
"More?" He tilts his head.
I clench my jaw and say nothing.
He slaps again. Harder. The sound is louder and wetter and the sting throbs up through my clit and into my core.
"I asked you a question, little girl."
"No," I whisper thrashing my head back and forth. "No."
He slaps again adding more force but I know he's still only playing. If he gave me all he had, I doubt I'd remain conscious.
My thighs twitch to close and he plants his forearm between my quivering knees.
"Liar. Your pussy's telling the truth with all that juicy sweetness that's coming out of you like a river.
If I flicked your clit right now, you'd be calling for your Pawpaw six ways 'til Sunday.
" Another slap. "Hear that sloppy pussy telling me the truth?
" Another wet smack and I'm a breath away from flying apart.
"Pawpaw can read this cunt like a book, sweetheart. And right now, it's begging."
The layers of pain and pleasure spin and spiral and I'm lost. Lost inside it all. Lost in the sight of my grandfather naked, cock thick smacking my gushing pussy until he unwraps everything I thought I knew about myself.
He reaches up and gives my tits a squeeze as the tension snaps. "These are nice little tits. Perfect size for a granddad to fondle."
The orgasm straps itself around me and I give in to it all. I'm screaming and panting and coming around his cock. Things happen to my muscles I can't explain as sensations that seem almost inhuman choke me and grab my insides and pull.
It's pleasure, but that word is so inadequate. I rocket into space, floating and letting the spasms take hold, riding it up, up, up then, he stops. The silence is sudden and enormous. I lie there shaking, my pussy throbbing, so sore and swollen it hurts to feel the air on it.
And I want his mouth on me so badly I could beg.
He sees it. For a second, I wonder if I said something, he's smiling, smug and satisfied when he finally shakes his head.
"I know, baby. You want my mouth again, but not yet." He reaches for the knife on the nightstand and a new rush of fear prickles over my skin.
Now what?
He brings the blade to his own chest. Presses the tip in just below his left collarbone and draws a line across the muscle. The skin parts and blood wells in a thin, dark stripe, beading across the tanned surface.
He doesn't flinch. He watches it, then smears his fingers through the line, coating them red.
Then he leans over me and paints.
His bloody fingertips press against my sternum, dragging downward between my breasts in a warm, slippery line.
He traces the curve of my ribs on both sides with two red streaks like war paint.
He gathers more of the crimson fluid, then draws a mark along each collarbone.
The blood is warm and sticky and dries almost immediately, tightening in stripes on my skin.
He surveys his work. His blood mapped across my body.
"Now you look like mine." He growls with a nod, his hair glinting in the bit of moonlight that's starting to stream through the glass panels on the door.
My breath hitches and the shame shifts. The pleasure has turned to some sweet poison. There's no going back to who we were before.
He flips the knife in his hand, pinching the blade between his fingers, the smooth carved handle pointing down.
"You know what I'm going to do with this?"
I do. I wrote a scene just like it two months ago. A woman alone, a man with a weapon, the handle becoming something she didn't want.
I wrote it at two in the morning and deleted it by sunrise because it felt too close to a confession.
He knows everything.
He brings the handle to my opening and teases with cool pressure.
"Tell me you want it."
I shake my head.
"Tell me, or I'll use the other end."
"I want it." I gag as I say it but one end of the knife is significantly better than the other end.
"Say, please, Pawpaw." He orders with a slow blink, those blue eyes that used to be so tender turning to ice and I press my head back and give in.
"Please, Pawpaw. Please." I stutter as the words drag from my throat but when I look up, the pleased look I've seen so many times, causes that reflexive warmth to gather in my chest.
"Atta girl. I'm proud of you."