Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 64176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Pretty in pink.
Pretty even for the scar that I trace down over neck and throat to her chest and finally, to her heart where it’s thickest. Where I see the shadow of how they stitched her up.
Laying the flat of my hand there, I feel her heart beat slow and soft beneath the swell of her breast. I shift my hand, sliding my fingers beneath the lace of the bra to cup her breast, and feel her nipple harden. Then hear her let out a soft moan.
I draw my fingernails over that nipple and watch her face contort, watch her turn her head, her eyes never opening.
Leaving her bra in place, I adjust my cock before undoing her jeans and sliding them down over her hips. They’re tight, and her panties, which match her bra, come down a little to expose the top of a neat triangle of dark hair between her legs.
My mouth waters at the sight, and I haven’t seen anything yet.
Is my reaction to this girl because I’ve been counting down to this moment for nearly a decade? It’s not as though there has been a shortage of pussy but my dick is acting like it’s starved at a mere glimpse of Cristina’s pubic hair.
“Christ.”
Once I strip off her jeans, so she’s lying in just her bra and panties, I think about how vulnerable she is.
How she is the sacrifice.
How in a way, we both are.
She mutters something, her forehead furrowing. She must be dreaming. I want to know what it is she sees when she closes her eyes. We share a common horror. Is it that?
She turns her head, eyes still closed, then settles back down. I look her over—I can’t not—and take in the soft mounds of her breasts, flat belly and slender legs.
Hooking a finger into the waistband of her panties, I drag them down just a little. Just enough to see the pink lips nestled between her thighs. The mound of dark hair is trimmed neatly and leaves just enough to grip and tug.
I swallow hard at the thought but draw my hand away. I don’t touch her. Not like that. I’m not monster enough to fuck a drugged, unconscious woman, so I’ll be taking care of myself tonight.
Although I should strip her bare, take away everything from her life before me, I leave both bra and panties in place. I wonder if she’ll be grateful. I doubt it. If it was up to my father, she’d be lying on the cold stone floor in one of the rooms below ground. But it’s not up to him.
I pull the blanket over her, then switch out the lamps one by one before I make my way to my own room, through a locked door in hers, to which only I have a key. There, I strip off my clothes, dropping them on the floor, appreciating the modern furnishings against the ancient walls. The brightly lit spacious bathroom I renovated just a few years ago is fitted with modern fixtures, a large shower big enough for two, and a separate bath.
I switch on the shower, step beneath the flow, and turn my face up into it. I’m glad today is over. Glad to have the girl here in my possession.
Mine.
Remembering the weight of her breast filling my palm—how her nipple hardened, and she moaned at my touch—I grip myself with the same hand I used to draw her panties down to look at her pretty pink pussy. I pump my cock as I imagine how she’ll look with her legs spread wide. I wonder if I’ll have to force her or if she’ll open her legs for me. My dick growing harder at the idea. I imagine how she’ll taste, how tightly her cunt will squeeze my cock when I fuck her. When I stretch and fill her.
I imagine how she’ll try to resist even as she comes.
That thought has my muscles tensing as I press my forehead against the wall. Squeezing my fist, I come against the glass as I think about how much she’ll hate herself for it. For wanting the pleasure I give her. For wanting me.
Because she’ll learn that I am her master. And that while I’m her jailor, I’m also the only thing standing between her and the true evil in this house.
7
Cristina
Lightning shatters the heavy veil of silence. I groan, desperate to wake up and open my eyes.
A pounding rain threatens to break the windows as the storm rages. I’m a little girl again. A little girl on that terrible night.
No. I don’t want this dream. This nightmare.
Not this one. Please not this one.
Another explosion of light and sound. It’s just like the night of the accident. I was scared then too. My parents had been arguing louder than ever. But maybe my mom just wanted to be heard over the lightning. Maybe she just wanted my dad to stop yelling and listen to her.