covers up under her chin. Turning onto her side she burrowed her hand under the pillow until she could just sense the cold metal of the gun against her fingertips. Laying that way, she eventually fell asleep.
In his room Vaughn assaulted his second glass of whiskey.
The situation was impossible.
The third one. The third!
51
He didn't know why he hadn't killed her. Shot her through the window the moment he had seen her and drawn his gun. After, once she had seen him, it was her fear that confused him. Kept his fists off her. Kept his bullets out of her.
And now he was trapped there with her. How the fuck had she gotten there?
Found him? Judging by the state of that filthy wad of clothes in the garbage and the cuts and scratches he had seen on her legs, she had been badly chewed up by the forest on her way from wherever. As much as he wanted her gone, it would be a shit thing to let her go running barefoot back into the woods, possibly to die.
He thought back over the way she had run, her terror screaming truth. How he had caught her, forced her to the ground. The way it had felt to hold her down, under him, her tiny strength struggling against his, both of them breathing hard from exertion, from the adrenaline of fear.
He felt his prick stiffening.
He would never have…. He could have killed her, if she had tried anything like what those others had done. But he would never…He had said “molest” when he had realized what she was afraid of. Her tears and her pleading had made him feel ashamed. He had not been able to say that other word, and so he had assured her he would not molest her.
He took another gulp from his glass. In spite of his guilt, his suspicion of her was overwhelming. Even her tears, however earnest they appeared, seemed dubious. Like her bullshit story of losing her way from her campground.
Again the memory of her, small and panting, caught in his arms. At the thought of it he felt his cock swell. And a little twinge of nausea. But he couldn't drive the scene 52
from his mind. Her under him in the mud, her delicate neck and arms slick with rain, his total, undeniable power over her. Almost unconsciously he began slowly running his hand over the underside of his hard-on. Suppressing his feelings of repugnance he urged on his erection with thoughts of how he had felt, his hard cock pressed to her ass, knowing she was powerless against him. Then, thinking of what he might have done, he shoved down the waist of his pants and began really stroking himself.
They were out there, in the mud. The rain pelting and soaking and chilling him, shrinking the world. Darker. Closer. Just damp humming and a merging of disjointed rhythmic panting.
She had come to hurt him. To destroy the last shreds of a life torn apart by those who had come for him before her. With all the rage which they had earned, which he had suppressed, denied for over a year, he would punish her.
Hate burned at his core, melting pity, swelling and rising up to burn away reason.
He was lava, hot and heavy and searing and seeping into all her crevices and gaps. Her most desperate struggle a mere throb, a tiny warm pulse beneath his drowning force.
Soon his heat would rend her—body and spirit—to nothing.
Her little pulses throbbed now and again as his fingertips clawed down soft flesh until they hooked over thick gray stretchy cotton. He pulled her sweats down to her knees, then pulled down the boxers. His boxers. Her ass. Pale smooth skin. The dark shadow of the deep cleft promising revenge and satisfaction. He imagined her struggling, whimpering, crying beneath him as he undid his belt and the fly of his jeans, holding her still with one arm belted under and around her as he stroked his hard cock a few times through his boxers before pulling it out, thrusting it into his open fist, feeling it 53
flex in his hand, the very feel of his own hardness, length and girth making him harder, bigger.
First, her cunt. Forcing
In his room Vaughn assaulted his second glass of whiskey.
The situation was impossible.
The third one. The third!
51
He didn't know why he hadn't killed her. Shot her through the window the moment he had seen her and drawn his gun. After, once she had seen him, it was her fear that confused him. Kept his fists off her. Kept his bullets out of her.
And now he was trapped there with her. How the fuck had she gotten there?
Found him? Judging by the state of that filthy wad of clothes in the garbage and the cuts and scratches he had seen on her legs, she had been badly chewed up by the forest on her way from wherever. As much as he wanted her gone, it would be a shit thing to let her go running barefoot back into the woods, possibly to die.
He thought back over the way she had run, her terror screaming truth. How he had caught her, forced her to the ground. The way it had felt to hold her down, under him, her tiny strength struggling against his, both of them breathing hard from exertion, from the adrenaline of fear.
He felt his prick stiffening.
He would never have…. He could have killed her, if she had tried anything like what those others had done. But he would never…He had said “molest” when he had realized what she was afraid of. Her tears and her pleading had made him feel ashamed. He had not been able to say that other word, and so he had assured her he would not molest her.
He took another gulp from his glass. In spite of his guilt, his suspicion of her was overwhelming. Even her tears, however earnest they appeared, seemed dubious. Like her bullshit story of losing her way from her campground.
Again the memory of her, small and panting, caught in his arms. At the thought of it he felt his cock swell. And a little twinge of nausea. But he couldn't drive the scene 52
from his mind. Her under him in the mud, her delicate neck and arms slick with rain, his total, undeniable power over her. Almost unconsciously he began slowly running his hand over the underside of his hard-on. Suppressing his feelings of repugnance he urged on his erection with thoughts of how he had felt, his hard cock pressed to her ass, knowing she was powerless against him. Then, thinking of what he might have done, he shoved down the waist of his pants and began really stroking himself.
They were out there, in the mud. The rain pelting and soaking and chilling him, shrinking the world. Darker. Closer. Just damp humming and a merging of disjointed rhythmic panting.
She had come to hurt him. To destroy the last shreds of a life torn apart by those who had come for him before her. With all the rage which they had earned, which he had suppressed, denied for over a year, he would punish her.
Hate burned at his core, melting pity, swelling and rising up to burn away reason.
He was lava, hot and heavy and searing and seeping into all her crevices and gaps. Her most desperate struggle a mere throb, a tiny warm pulse beneath his drowning force.
Soon his heat would rend her—body and spirit—to nothing.
Her little pulses throbbed now and again as his fingertips clawed down soft flesh until they hooked over thick gray stretchy cotton. He pulled her sweats down to her knees, then pulled down the boxers. His boxers. Her ass. Pale smooth skin. The dark shadow of the deep cleft promising revenge and satisfaction. He imagined her struggling, whimpering, crying beneath him as he undid his belt and the fly of his jeans, holding her still with one arm belted under and around her as he stroked his hard cock a few times through his boxers before pulling it out, thrusting it into his open fist, feeling it 53
flex in his hand, the very feel of his own hardness, length and girth making him harder, bigger.
First, her cunt. Forcing
Similar Books
