Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 75898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
I could see in the way she bent that she knew what Jake wanted, how he liked to have her. She arched her back and pushed out her bottom, and I wondered with another jolt of arousal if she had to adopt the same posture when her husband corrected her for her faults, laying the family strap across her full bottom. I bit my lip as I noticed that Shelly’s right cheek seemed to have the fading remnants of a bruise. My fists clenched again against my thighs as I wondered what my own backside would look like tomorrow.
Every thought flew away, though, as I watched Jake’s hand between her legs. I couldn’t see exactly what his fingertips were doing, and the sudden, passionate desire I had to see more made my face blaze with heat to match the warmth down there. I could see enough, though, and I could hear and smell enough. I could see the urgent rhythm of Jake’s fingers, and the way even the visible parts got shinier and shinier with pussy juice. I could hear Shelly moaning uncontrollably as her husband masturbated her, and I could hear the unmistakably wet sounds those penetrating digits made as they moved relentlessly in her needy vagina. And I could smell the fragrance of another woman’s pussy, something I had never caught the scent of before.
“Such a little slut,” Jake murmured. “So naughty, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Shelly whispered, almost too softly for me to hear. “Please… sir… I need it so bad. Please… put it in me?”
“Oh, God,” I whispered. My hands opened and shut. Only the terrible lingering pain in my bottom and thighs kept me from putting my right hand there, where Shelly had her husband’s skillful hand to comfort her and I had nothing.
Good girls get to play with their little pussies. Jake had said that, hadn’t he? How could I show him that I wanted to be a good girl, so I would get to come again, instead of going back over the arm of his chair for a whipping?
The faraway part of me observed that I seemed to have lost the spark of defiance I had felt before Jake had put his hand between my legs and administered my first orgasm. That distant me thought I could probably recover it—I probably would recover it. Right now, though, I wanted only to be in Shelly’s place, with a dominant man giving her the reward of her obedience and submission.
Jake turned to look over at me.
“You’d better put your hands on your head, honey,” he told me. “That’ll help you keep from getting into trouble with your little pussy.”
I felt my burning face crumple into a pout of helpless need. I obeyed my foster father; I raised my hands and put them on top of my head, feeling how the posture seemed to make my body less my own.
His pussy. Jake’s terrible words, the emphasis he had put on his, seemed to turn my blood into liquid fire.
“What do you want, Shelly?” he asked, his fingers suddenly stopping their rhythm.
She whimpered softly. “Please, sir… I want your beautiful cock in your wet little pussy. Please fuck me, sir.”
Your wet little pussy. Her pussy belongs to him.
My jaw had gone slack, I suddenly realized. I could hear my breath coming in and going out raggedly.
Does my pussy belong to him?
I felt my fingers tense in my hair. I knew that if I had still had my hands on my thighs, I would never have had the willpower to resist touching myself there—whether to confirm that somehow my private parts had come into the possession of this dominant farmer, this masterful husband, or to try to deny the idea.
I wouldn’t have cared, at that moment, about the terrible threat of the horrid length of leather lying on the floor next to me. I looked over at it, and my eyes went wide as another thought, a contradictory notion, rose into my consciousness.
No. I would have cared. The thought of Jake putting me back over the arm of his easy chair and whipping me until I couldn’t sit down for a week would have moved me greatly—did move me greatly, now, as I looked at it lying there like a snake waiting to strike. But it didn’t make me less likely to disobey. To masturbate while I watched my foster father put the head of his cock to the entrance of my foster mother’s soaking vagina.
If I had thought of the family strap, and my hands had been mere inches from my own pussy, and I had looked at it, the way I did now, the sight would have made it much, much more likely that my hand would work its way across the silken skin of my thigh to the sparse thatch of reddish-brown hair that barely hid the cleft of my pussy lips.