Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 220(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Justice’s lovemaking is powerful and dominant. He makes no apologies for it. He makes me feel soft and tender and cared for in the most carnal of ways. He wants me to come. He spanks my pussy lightly, dick deep inside me.
“Show me another one of those pretty little orgasms,” he growls, tapping my pussy and my clit at the same time. “Don’t make me spank this sweet little cunt too hard. You don’t want to be too sore, do you?”
I am arched against him, my cunt gripping his cock as he spank-fucks me to a twisted orgasm, firm fingers rubbing and slapping my pussy until I start to gasp and squeal from the sensation. Orgasms, plural, are rolling through me, but one, two, three, they are not enough. He spanks my pussy like I am his naughty girl who deserve to have her pussy punished and filled.
“Fuck,” he growls, uttering a rare curse as my inner walls grip him tighter and tighter, and finally he cannot resist the call of my writhing cunt on his cock. He pulls me down firmly on his dick and comes inside me in hard thrusting spurts.
He pulls free from me and lets it spill from me, my stretched pussy relinquishing all that cum in a hot flow over my aching, stinging, sore sex.
“This is going to hurt in the morning,” I mumble.
“Good,” he purrs back. “I like you sore and submissive.”
I’d tell him to fuck off, but I’m too sleepy, at least at first.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I find myself lying in his arms on his bed roll, feeling like a terrible detective. Somewhere out there, a furiously betrayed murderer is once more preying on the world at large, and I am hiding in bed with a man — or something close enough to a man — because I want pleasure and safety. When the hell did I start to want either of those things?
We’ve left Rage to rampage through the city unchecked. I have to hope that he has not done any damage to an innocent citizen.
“What are you doing?” He reaches around my hip and cups my pussy, as if reminding me there will be pain if I give him trouble.
“What now? The FBI will be taking over the case any day now, and…”
“Stop,” he says, his voice deep and resonant.
“Stop?”
“It doesn’t matter what happens out there. We are trying, but we cannot do what cannot be done.”
That feels like a tautology, but okay.
“I need to keep you safe,” he says simply, patting my aching pussy. “The rest of the city can take care of itself for one night. Get some rest. You’re exhausted.”
He is not wrong. The adrenaline from being used as bait has metabolized into other things, pleasure among them. I have had orgasms ripped from me in healing tsunamis. Now I want nothing more than to lie my head against the powerful thorax of the mothman who has claimed me, close my eyes, and get some sleep.
7
Tessie and I are in the office, hungover the way you are when you’ve been through some shit. Even Obigor has more of a thousand-yard cataract stare than usual.
We drove back from the shipping container complex in silence, both staring ahead of ourselves at the road, saying nothing. What do you say to your partner when you accidentally signed her up for a night of suspension bondage? I tried saying sorry, but she just sort of brushed me off before I could ask any real questions.
We’ve retreated to our office which now provides us with some insulation from everything going on in the station. There was a buzz when we came in, so we avoided eye contact, spoke to no one, and made a bee-line for our desks.
Now we’re attempting to make ourselves presentable. Tessie has a bit of webbing in her hair. I almost reach out to take it off her, but then I remember how sticky that shit is. Last thing I need is to end up stuck to her head.
“You’ve got spider cum in your hair,” I tell her.
“Wha?” She blushes. “No, I don’t. What are you… no!”
“The web shit. It’s in your hair.”
“Oh,” she says. “Oh, fuck.”
At that moment, the chief bangs on the door in the closed fist way some men do because they forget that glass, and basically everything is more fragile than they are. He throws the door open and gives us a look I don’t like. It’s not his usual grump. It’s something that makes him less angry, more sad.
“Officer Peterson from the 96th was murdered last night,” he says bluntly. “Same MO as your perpetrator. Nothing was taken but his keys.”
I have never felt the intensity of crushing guilt that I do in this moment. An officer is dead. This is my fault. Instead of chasing Rage down, we let him go. He found a way to get his cuffs off.