slick.
“What?” she asks. She sees what I've done and sighs.
Blood smears the sheets, and I get hard at the sight of it. I am what the Americans might call a nutcase. I'm untroubled by the self-realization.
I slide back inside her.
“Better,” she moans against my neck. “But it still burns.”
I nod. “Yes.” I grab her ass cheeks and hold her body as I ram my length deep inside, fucking everything away.
Her tightness robs me of my control, and breathing becomes labor. I feel my release coming and slow it by sitting back on my knees.
Marissa's drooping lids partly cover eyes gone soft with desire, her pain finally evaporating.
My thumb moves to her slick clit, and I begin to move again, matching my thrusts to the swirl of my finger.
Her eyes round, her lids rising as pleasure mingles with her first time.
I think of anything to keep from coming. Trees.
Wars.
Murder.
In the end, her soft sigh brings me, her hips lifting to meet my thrust as a soft yell sounds in the room. “Yes!” Marissa's eyelids flutter shut, and I collapse on top of her, catching my weight with my elbows. Buried to the hilt, I let myself go deep inside, instinctively swirling my hips to bury the last bit of myself and my seed as deeply as possible.
“Mm-hmm,” she murmurs, keeping me inside her and holding my shoulders. “Shepard—” she begins.
I kiss her. Wetly. Deeply. “Shhh, Marissa.” I slowly extract myself and tuck her in against me.
Talking will come. Right now, we need sleep.
To plan.
And to stop fucking long enough to escape la famille.
*
Marissa
At first I'm not sure what wakes me. Turning, I feel the soreness between my legs, like raw skin and a deep ache.
My eyes snap open, and I note weak sunlight penetrates the borders of the curtain.
I'm in a Motel 6. In Montana.
I go to sit up, and my crotch shrieks at the sudden movement. That hurts. Tears well.
I search for Shepard and find him cleaning a weapon across the small room. In that damned pink underwear. The color should make him look effeminate, but it doesn't. If anything, it makes him look more masculine.
His dark eyes meet mine. “Sleep well?” he asks then looks down the snub barrel of his gun.
I nod slowly.
“Have I hurt you too much?” he asks, as though he's talking to the gun.
“No.”
Shepard's face turns toward me. Hopeful relief is a stark new expression. “Do you lie?”
I shake my head. It's not a lie, exactly. But how do I explain that a pain asked for is less of a pain than if I hadn't invited it? After all those men took me in the orphanage. Sodomized me. It'd hurt. Bad.
This pain had been worse in some ways. But the pain was acceptable because it was consensual. I open my mouth to explain all that.
“I understand.”
I blink then frown. “You do?”
He nods, rising. He carefully sets the gun down and walks toward me. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I flinch from the soreness. I feel as though someone stabbed me with a blunt instrument to my stomach.
My hand covers my belly.
His hand covers mine.
Our eyes meet. “Why do you care, Shepard? Why, really?”
He laughs, but not as though he thinks my question is funny. It’s as if he's sad that I had to ask.
Shepard walks to the bathroom and turns the water on.
I don't think he'll answer. When he returns, he holds a hot washcloth.
“Spread your legs.”
I shake my head, barking a short laugh. “Not feeling it, Shepard.”
His grin is large, his face tender. Real. “I merely wish to clean you.”
“Oh,” I reply in a small voice.
I lie back, and he edges between my knees as they dangle off the edge of the bed.
I wince as the first bit of cloth touches the first bit of me.
He squeezes the water over me, and it dribbles between my folds, and I sigh, spreading my legs.
“How does it look?”
“Your pussy?” Shepard says with an edge of humor.
I raise an eyebrow, frowning at him with pursed lips. “Yeah.”
“Sore.” His eyes
“What?” she asks. She sees what I've done and sighs.
Blood smears the sheets, and I get hard at the sight of it. I am what the Americans might call a nutcase. I'm untroubled by the self-realization.
I slide back inside her.
“Better,” she moans against my neck. “But it still burns.”
I nod. “Yes.” I grab her ass cheeks and hold her body as I ram my length deep inside, fucking everything away.
Her tightness robs me of my control, and breathing becomes labor. I feel my release coming and slow it by sitting back on my knees.
Marissa's drooping lids partly cover eyes gone soft with desire, her pain finally evaporating.
My thumb moves to her slick clit, and I begin to move again, matching my thrusts to the swirl of my finger.
Her eyes round, her lids rising as pleasure mingles with her first time.
I think of anything to keep from coming. Trees.
Wars.
Murder.
In the end, her soft sigh brings me, her hips lifting to meet my thrust as a soft yell sounds in the room. “Yes!” Marissa's eyelids flutter shut, and I collapse on top of her, catching my weight with my elbows. Buried to the hilt, I let myself go deep inside, instinctively swirling my hips to bury the last bit of myself and my seed as deeply as possible.
“Mm-hmm,” she murmurs, keeping me inside her and holding my shoulders. “Shepard—” she begins.
I kiss her. Wetly. Deeply. “Shhh, Marissa.” I slowly extract myself and tuck her in against me.
Talking will come. Right now, we need sleep.
To plan.
And to stop fucking long enough to escape la famille.
*
Marissa
At first I'm not sure what wakes me. Turning, I feel the soreness between my legs, like raw skin and a deep ache.
My eyes snap open, and I note weak sunlight penetrates the borders of the curtain.
I'm in a Motel 6. In Montana.
I go to sit up, and my crotch shrieks at the sudden movement. That hurts. Tears well.
I search for Shepard and find him cleaning a weapon across the small room. In that damned pink underwear. The color should make him look effeminate, but it doesn't. If anything, it makes him look more masculine.
His dark eyes meet mine. “Sleep well?” he asks then looks down the snub barrel of his gun.
I nod slowly.
“Have I hurt you too much?” he asks, as though he's talking to the gun.
“No.”
Shepard's face turns toward me. Hopeful relief is a stark new expression. “Do you lie?”
I shake my head. It's not a lie, exactly. But how do I explain that a pain asked for is less of a pain than if I hadn't invited it? After all those men took me in the orphanage. Sodomized me. It'd hurt. Bad.
This pain had been worse in some ways. But the pain was acceptable because it was consensual. I open my mouth to explain all that.
“I understand.”
I blink then frown. “You do?”
He nods, rising. He carefully sets the gun down and walks toward me. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I flinch from the soreness. I feel as though someone stabbed me with a blunt instrument to my stomach.
My hand covers my belly.
His hand covers mine.
Our eyes meet. “Why do you care, Shepard? Why, really?”
He laughs, but not as though he thinks my question is funny. It’s as if he's sad that I had to ask.
Shepard walks to the bathroom and turns the water on.
I don't think he'll answer. When he returns, he holds a hot washcloth.
“Spread your legs.”
I shake my head, barking a short laugh. “Not feeling it, Shepard.”
His grin is large, his face tender. Real. “I merely wish to clean you.”
“Oh,” I reply in a small voice.
I lie back, and he edges between my knees as they dangle off the edge of the bed.
I wince as the first bit of cloth touches the first bit of me.
He squeezes the water over me, and it dribbles between my folds, and I sigh, spreading my legs.
“How does it look?”
“Your pussy?” Shepard says with an edge of humor.
I raise an eyebrow, frowning at him with pursed lips. “Yeah.”
“Sore.” His eyes
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