Wet For Mom’s Husband (4)

He locked the collar.

Leather warm at my throat. The buckle pulled until I felt every swallow. Then the cuffs. One wrist. The other. Chain short enough that my arms stayed above my head on my mother’s pillows, open, offered, unable to pretend this was still a dare.

The phone downstairs kept ringing.

He didn’t go get it.

He stripped.

I had not seen him naked. Not in the bathroom. Not in the parlor. Not when he bent me over marble and spanked me red. I took my time looking because I might never get this view again.

I doubted that already.

God help me.

He was thick. Heavy. Bigger than the boys I had let put their hands under my dress. Real. Veined. Hard because of me. The sight pulled a pulse through my cuffed wrists and down to my spanked ass. I wondered, stupid and hungry, how that was going to fit inside a girl who had only ever come on his fingers and a toy.

He walked to the bed like he had already decided I was his.

No kiss.

No soft mouth between my legs.

He bit my neck.

Hard.

A mark. A claim. Pain sharp enough that I gasped into the collar, and then his hand was spreading my thighs on her sheets and the fat head of him was pushing through the wet he had spanked out of me.

He slammed in.

Deep. Rough. No patience left in him.

The stretch ripped a sound out of me I didn’t recognize. Stars. Real ones. My body tried to crawl up the bed and the cuffs stopped me. He bottomed out and stayed there, breathing like he had been punched, because I was too tight and he was too much and there was nowhere else for him to go.

“Fuck.” His forehead dropped to mine. “You’re— Christ. You’re a virgin.”

Heat leaked between us. Not his. Mine. A thin slick of blood mixing with how soaked I already was.

I should have been ashamed.

I grinned instead, eyes wet, mouth open.

“I was saving it.” My voice shook. “For someone who could finish.”

His control snapped.

He pulled back and slammed deeper.

I screamed.

He covered my mouth with his hand and fucked me anyway, hard, fast, the chain singing against the headboard, my mother’s mattress taking the shock of her husband burying himself in her daughter. Pain and pleasure braided so tight I couldn’t tell them apart. Every thrust dragged over the place that made my eyes roll. Every retreat left me empty and stupid. The collar held my pulse. The cuffs held my arms. Daddy held the rest.

“So tight,” he rasped into my cheek. “So much for the naughty girl on my counter. Look at you. Bleeding on her bed for me.”

I moaned into his palm.

He moved his hand.

“Say it.”

“Ruin me.”

He did.

Harder than the bathroom. Harder than the warning. Harder than a man who still had a wife down the hall should have been able to fuck. My spanked ass slapped his abs. Wet sounds filled their pretty room. I came close, fell off, came close again, crying from it, begging in broken pieces, don’t stop, don’t you dare stop, Daddy, please—

Footsteps.

Not downstairs.

The hall.

A knock.

“Richard?” Mom’s voice. Confused. Then sharper. “Why is this locked? Open the door.”

He slammed into me so deep I saw white.

A moan ripped out of me. Too loud. Too wet. Too obviously not pain from a fall.

Silence on the other side of the door.

Then the rustle of a bag.

Keys.

Metal kissing the lock.

The first click of a key that did not belong in this moment.

I locked eyes with him.

Sweat on his throat. My blood on his cock. My mother’s perfume in the sheets.

“Are you going to leave me needy and unfinished again,” I whispered, wrecked, smiling, “so your wife doesn’t see how hard you’re fucking her daughter on her bed?”

The lock cracked.

“Or are you going to finish me this time?”

He looked at the door.

Then he looked at me.

And he slammed deeper.

I broke.

The orgasm tore through me so violent my whole body arched off her mattress, cuffs biting, collar tight, pussy clamping down on her husband’s cock like I could keep him. I cried out. I came hard. I kept coming while the door gave.

Light from the hall.

Her face.

My mother.

Standing there with keys in her hand and her mouth already falling open.

I was still pulsing around him when our eyes met.

Naked. Collared. Chained to her headboard. His body between my thighs. His mark on my neck. My virgin blood on her white sheets.

Revenge had never felt so pleasurable.

He didn’t pull out.

Not yet.

Not while she was looking.

Not while I was still shaking through the finish he had refused me in a bathroom and almost refused me in a parlor.

Daddy kept me filled on her bed and let her see exactly what her seven-day marriage had bought.