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“Good girl,” he praised, and I hid my face in the blankets as he walked around the bed. I heard him open a drawer, but I didn’t look. Then he strode back to stand behind me.
The sound of a bottle cap opening made me jump. I expected him to just squirt it onto my asshole, but he didn’t. Instead, the warmth of his lubed fingers brushed against me there, and I nearly jumped off the bed.
He circled my tight rim, slowly but surely, and I wanted a black hole to open up beneath me and swallow me whole.
I hated that it actually felt good.
I hated that it made my clit throb with need.
I hated that I kind of wanted to find out what a fucking like this felt like.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Gently, he pushed one single lube-covered finger past my tight rim of muscle, and I cried out, pain instantly clouding my vision. A deep, burning stretch burst up and down my spine. The sharp pressure was almost more than I could bear for a single instant. As he slowly pushed inside with that single finger and then pulled it out, the pain began to fade.
Then it gradually started to feel really good.
Pleasure roiled through me as he pumped that digit in and out, and before I knew what I was doing, I was arching my back and lifting my hips like I was seeking it out.
Then he added a second finger, and the pain started all over again, but now that I knew the pleasure would eventually follow, it all seemed easier to take. Spirals of desire took over my every waking thought. My toes curled and my fingers dug into my bottom cheeks, spreading myself even wider.
“Hands on the bed, my needy little whore,” he demanded, and I let go, only to press my fingers back into the soft quilt.
His fingers still pumped in and out of my ass, and my inner walls nearly spasmed.
Could I come this way? Was that even possible?
I didn’t know, but I kind of wanted to find out.
“This hole is so very tight. I’m going to need to stretch it wider if it’s going to take my cock,” he murmured, and then he slipped a third one inside, and the pressure escalated so much that I yelped. My asshole clenched around his fingers, trying to push him out as the pain intensified for several long moments, but he didn’t relent.
Instead, he just kept pumping those three digits into me, and just like before, the ache eventually lessened, and pleasure soon followed. My pussy tightened and I keened, trying to take the fingering gracefully even as my legs quivered uncontrollably.
Knock. Knock.
An angry, loud pounding on the door made us both jump, and he stilled, his fingers still knuckle deep in my ass. The authoritative knocking continued, and he sighed, slowly pulling them free.
“Get dressed, Morgan. We’ll continue this later,” he dictated, and I pulled in a shaky breath.
“Yes sir,” I whimpered.
“Such a good girl,” he praised, and he disappeared into the bathroom, where I heard the faucet turn on. For a second, I lay there a little in shock, before I pushed up off the bed and numbly gathered my clothes.
I’d just got my bottom fingered for the first time, and I’d enjoyed it. If he’d continued and really gotten into it, I was fairly certain that I could actually come that way.
It was ridiculous to even think about it, but I couldn’t lie to myself.
I slipped my panties on first, then my bra, and eventually my dress. I stood up and hummed a little in embarrassment when I realized that I could still feel the lube between my cheeks, as well as the residual soreness from being stretched in such a foreign way.
Hunter emerged from the bathroom with an annoyed look on his face, and I hesitantly followed him. Peeking around the corner, I watched as he answered the door.
Standing in the hallway were two US Marshals. Both were dressed in dark, well-fitted suits that added an air of authority to their already imposing statures. One was taller, with a broad-shouldered build and a stern expression, his hair cropped short. His partner was slightly shorter, with a leaner body frame and sharp, observant eyes.
The taller marshal stepped forward. He reached inside his jacket and produced a badge, holding it up for Hunter to see. The badge was encased in a leather wallet, embossed with the official insignia of the United States Marshals Service.
“Mr. Hunter Blackwater?” the taller marshal asked in a firm, no-nonsense tone.
“That’s me,” Hunter replied, his voice steady but cautious. “What can I do for you, officers?”
