Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
I am a simulacrum of someone gone. I am an empty, mindless, brainless little survivor of a series of tragedies, each of which has carved away a little more of the core of me until I find myself without soul.
“You’re going to come, aren’t you.”
He lifts me up and pulls me back. He is on his knees, and so am I. My legs are outside of his as we nest together, one of his hands still wrapped around my throat, three fingers of the other plunging deep inside my cunt. He’s fucking me in both holes at the same time, lusting for me, plundering me, ravaging me. I come, but it doesn't matter. My orgasm is incidental and irrelevant. Bryn wants to come in my ass, and that is what he will do.
“Filthy little girl,” he lectures me. “Should be crying and begging for mercy, but instead you come like the dirty wretch you are.” The fingers that were inside my pussy slide free and start to slap against my pussy instead. Behind me, he’s plunging deep into my ass, making my tightness the instrument of his pleasure.
“Can't fucking hold back anymore,” he growls. “You deserve to have this ass punished and filled for hours on end, but it will have to be one episode at a time. You’ll have to come to me, let me pick a hole, and then present it for fucking.”
God. I am going to orgasm again. I don't want him to know the effect his unrepentantly cruel words have on me. But I can’t hide it. I can’t stop myself from coming fucking hard, my ass squeezing his cock so hard he spends himself inside me, grunting and growling and moaning against my ear.
He pulls free of my ass and slaps it. “Felt good, didn’t it,” he says, cocky and satisfied. I don’t reply. I don’t need to because the evil bastard already knows.
Chapter Eighteen
Nina
I’m in the garden — and yes, I am walking funny. Bryn has not yet come to me to make good on his promise to demand another of my orifices, but I suspect he will in good time. He’s obviously given up on attempting to get me to forgive him. Why does he need my forgiveness when he can take me anyway? And why, oh fucking why did I let him? The pleasure of the incident has worn off and left me with nothing but guilt. How dare I fuck and come with the man who murdered the last of my family? What is wrong with me? Why do I have no self-control when it comes to Father Bryn?
I never had much time for gardens before I came to England, but now I somewhat understand the urge to winsomely wander around green foliage and be perfectly miserable in the act. I am uniquely depressed, absolutely filled to the brim with melancholy to the extent I am not capable of feeling as one should feel. I am not so much grieving as I am become the living embodiment of grief.
The day is overcast. It could be lunch time, or afternoon, or it could be those hours before everything turns dark but the world still maintains mundane brightness. How should I know. Why should I care. One moment is very like another, full of senseless, unending pain.
At a certain point I become aware that a tall man with a graying, rusty beard and the kind of serial killer eyes you only see on documentaries and these priests is coming toward me. I don’t recall him from the round of introductions I endured on my return, but then again, I was on heavy medication.
He approaches me softly, quietly, and nods at me. I nod back.
“I am sorry to hear about your brother.”
“Thank you,” I say, speaking on autopilot. I have vestigial politeness, but that is all it is. Aside from brief forays into the wilds of this world for some stimulation I rarely leave my room, mourning in the sight of my mother, wishing she were still here. If she had lived, Jonah would have survived. I am sure of that. I am also sure I failed him. I should have been able to save him. I am very angry at Bryn, but I am even more furious at myself.
The man is circling the garden with me, matching my pace, saying little. I feel him like a big, heavy, dark presence, something else to dislike. Why can they not leave me alone? They are certainly not capable of making me feel even the slightest bit better.
“Would you like to come for a walk into the woods?”
“No, thanks.”
He grabs me by the shoulder. “Let’s go for a walk anyway.”
I’m being abducted. Under normal circumstances I would panic wildly, probably fight quite ferociously. But for the moment, I confess I do not have the energy.