EPILOGUE
Eight months later
I’M TIED UP.
My hands are above my head, stretched out and bound together with a rope to the ceiling and I’m standing on my tiptoes.
Even though I know it’s not going to make any difference, I still twist my wrists in my bonds.
I still wrap my fingers around the rope and pull at it, as if I’m expecting it to break free.
Every few seconds, I also try to find better balance, better purchase on the floor, but when I say I’m standing on my tiptoes, I mean on my very tippy-toes.
As in, my toes graze the concrete floor but don’t hold.
Meaning I’m free-floating, and God, it makes my belly thrum. How little control I have over my own body.
Not to mention how little I can see right now.
The barn isn’t completely dark, but the light is dim enough that there are more shadows than I can count.
More dark shapes around the room, along the walls and the floor, than puddles of light.
And I know, from one of those shadowed corners, he’s watching me.
My Phantom. My hunter. My husband.
I can feel him running his green eyes along my frame, tied up like his prey, pausing in places.
Mostly at the racing pulse on my neck, my heavy tits that shake with every breath I take, the curve of my belly and that aching place between my thighs.
Aching and swollen and wet. And he’s been doing that for so long that I’m impatient.
Well, I was already impatient when it all started, but I’m even more so now.
So I decide to up the stakes a little. He may not be very happy about it, but I need to draw him out of the shadows, bait him.
I need him here, with me, in me. Touching me, playing with me, not just watching.
Grabbing the rope again, I try to tilt my hips, making a figure eight in the air.
I arch my back and thrust my tits out and moan.
I also whimper and whine as I call him with my body because that’s all I can do.
I can’t actually call him because he has me gagged as well.
“You think that’s gonna work on me?” he asks, his voice hard and coming from the shadows, hitting me right at my center, making me gasp.
A second later, I gasp harder because he finally emerges from the dark, all six feet and some inches tall and broad.
His bulk and muscles, bare and bathed in the flickering light of a lamp lit up in a corner.
I’ve always known my husband is a mortal built like a god.
Beautiful and strong, his body bronzed and scarred, laying testament to the fact that he really is the strongest man there ever was.
The one who fights bullets and fires and still comes out alive.
But naked like this, with every single inch of his body on display, he even puts the gods to shame.
And on top of that his large hand is wrapped around his thick cock, his thick and hard and dripping cock, as he strokes it lazily while prowling toward me, and I swear I drool a little.
I probably also have a spontaneous orgasm, but I’m already so wet and throbbing, I can’t be sure.
“You dancin’ your fuck-me hips in the air, humpin’ it like you want somethin’ else to rub up against,” he goes on, his voice rough, and since he did come out of the dark, I know it worked, but of course I can’t really say anything right now.
So all I do is moan and give him my best innocent eyes.
His chest shudders with a scoff as he continues, “Or that. Those big fuckin’ eyes, so bright they make me see stars every time I look into them.
Tellin’ me you’re just a good little virgin who never saw a cock before, let alone had one rut between your legs and pump you full of cum. ”
I moan again. This time, it’s louder and completely genuine because if he doesn’t stop talking like that, I’ll come. And he’ll be mad because this is supposed to be a punishment and I’m supposed to obey him right now.
He comes to stand before me, running his eyes up and down my flushed, sweaty form.
“If I wanted you to talk, I wouldn’t have gagged your princess mouth that sings like an angel but sucks me off like a cum-hungry slut, now would I?
So you’re gonna stop bein’ a brat, baitin’ me, tryna top me from bottom, and you’re gonna listen like the good little wife you are, yeah? ”
I swallow. He’s right. I should stop being a brat and be his good little wife because I did break his rule.
So I look him in the eyes and nod, contrite.
His nostrils flare at my obedience and he moves.
He goes around me, taking me in with his hard and hungry eyes and coming to stand behind me, close.
So close that I feel his chest, the muscles on it, the fine hairs, grazing my spine.
I feel the heat of his cock, the fat and wet head, brushing against the small of my back.
I even feel his knuckles sliding along my skin every time he takes a stroke, telling me he’s still playing with himself.
My head falls back on his shoulder as I whimper, imagining that visual—one of my favorites; he does that a lot especially in the mornings when I’m still sleeping and he’s awake, watching me as he jerks himself off, painting me with his cum—and he grabs my throat with his other hand, his mouth at my ear, “You know why I’m doin’ this to you, don’t you? ”
I nod, my eyes drifting closed.
“It’s ’cause you’re impatient,” he goes on, squeezing my throat.
I nod again, to agree.
“You’re greedy.”
I whimper.
“Hungry,” he keeps going and flexes his fingers against my throat as his cock drips pre-cum on my skin, on the crack of my ass.
“It’s ’cause you’ve got my ring on your finger and my name tattooed on your throat like a goddamn necklace for all the world to see, and you still think you can play with your cunt without me around.
” He presses his thumb on the tattoo of his name on my throat, a small script that he did himself a few months ago after I kept houndin’ him about it, as he says, “You still think you can flick your little clit and stick your fingers inside your tight little hole that belongs to me, to your husband. Especially when he told you not to. I said that to you, do you remember that?”
I nod again, my vision going foggy. Yes, he did say that to me.
He called to tell me when he’d be home and to be ready for him.
Sometimes he does that. He tells me how he wants me, where he wants me.
Sometimes he tells me to keep myself ready for him, which means I do get to play with myself so I’m all wet and horny by the time he gets home.
Other times he tells me to not touch myself at all so I’m even wetter and hornier when he puts his hands on me.
But as much as I love both, as much as I love obeying him and being his good little wife, today I really got impatient and he caught me, red-handed.
And brought me out here, to our barn, and tied me up to the ceiling.
“I did,” he goes on, his voice still low and rough, almost hypnotic.
“Didn’t I? I told you to wait. Instead, I come home from a hard day of ridin’ and travelin’, and I find my little wife on our bed, naked and spread-eagled, her back arched and her juicy tits shakin’, her little fingers workin’ her pussy like the disobedient slut she is.
” His fingers cut off my air for a second or two, making my entire body sing with the lack of air and too much shame before he mutters, “If I knew what a hungry slut you’d turn out to be, I would’ve tattooed my name on your cunt instead of your neck.
So every time you touched it, you’d know not to.
Because it’s mine, isn’t it? My property, my territory. ”
I moan for the hundredth time and wiggle my hips against him, trying to rub up on his dick. Trying to catch it between my thighs because I am a disobedient slut but only for him, my husband.
A puff of air escapes him, making his chest shake as he says, “But then again, serves me right for bringin’ home a horny little young thing like you.
” Then he lowers his voice, creeps the hand around my neck up to my mouth and yanks down the gag as he rasps, “Serves me right for not only makin’ her my wife but also puttin’ my baby in her belly the first chance I got. ”
“I-I’m sorry,” I gasp, my pussy clenching, my entire body clenching.
His forehead falls to my shoulder as his hand travels low and settles on my pregnant belly. It’s still flat because I’m only twelve weeks in, but the way he grips it, strokes it, makes me think he can feel the curve. He can feel our baby sleeping inside, protected in the womb. Then, “Yeah?”
“Yes,” I insist as he keeps stroking my belly. “I’m s-sorry. I just… You were late and—”
He nods. “I know.” Then, placing a soft kiss on my shoulder, he whispers, “I’m sorry too. You okay still?”
My heart blooms at the concern in his voice. The kind that usually creeps in when he’s being rough with me, or so he thinks, especially now that I’m pregnant. “Yes.”
“Want me to untie you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Not until you…”
He places another kiss on my shoulder. “Until I what?”
“P-punish me,” I say, licking my lips. “For breaking your rules.”
His hot breath fans my skin and he moves.
He steps back and walks around to my front.
Keeping his eyes locked with mine, he goes down on the floor.
My belly trembles as I stare down at him on his knees.
He leans forward and places a sweet kiss on my belly, making me moan again.
Then, caressing my stomach, he says, “Just gotta do somethin’ first.”
I pull at the rope as shivers race up and down my body. “What?”
“Kneel at my wife’s feet while I put her on the best seat in the house,” he says, his hands moving up to my waist to grip me there.
“But—”
“And write an apology on her princess pussy with my tongue for bein’ late getting’ home before I punish her for bein’ too horny to wait for me.”