Page 70 of The Accident

Hot reams of semen spurt into her spasming anus as Kayleigh sobs, pleasure shaking her curves in massive waves.

“Ohhhh!” she cries out. “Oh oh oh!”

Fuck, when has it ever been this good? I push into her again, ramming the full length of my cock into her anus as she takes it like a good girl, pinched against the sofa arm as I fill her creamy ass with gallons of male virility.

“Oooh!” she screams again, shuddering with the deep penetration. “Unnh!”

We moan and shiver, our pleasure like a tidal wave. Finally, the ecstasy ebbs a bit and she collapses onto the sofa, breathing like she’s just finished a marathon.

I pull slowly out of her asshole, watching with avid eyes as the huge, slippery monster exits inch by inch from that aching butt. She’s open afterwards, with beautiful gape, and I watch for a few moments as her asshole flutters, almost like it’s breathing. Then, I lean forward to kiss it, tasting her ass musk mixed with my sperm.

For a long time, neither of us speaks.

Finally, she looks up at me, eyes rimmed in red but alive. “Was I good?”

I smile, and kiss her forehead. “You were perfect.”

I help her stand, walk her to my room, and pour her a glass of cold water.

She drinks it in silence, then looks at me, shy and proud all at once.

“Are you really never letting me go?” she asks, voice thin and soft.

I reach out and touch her velvet of cheek, thumb tracing the soft skin.

“Never,” I say.

And I mean it.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of Kayleigh in the kitchen, humming as she brews coffee, wearing nothing but a loose t-shirt and panties. She belongs here, with that tangle of blonde hair, innocent warmth, and trusting expression. She adores me and has given me every part of her there is to have, and as I watch her from the doorway, that same dangerous warmth floods my chest.

I don’t care if it’s a cliché. I want this, and I want it forever.

And for the first time, I believe I might actually deserve it.

25

IN COMES EVAN FINE

Kayleigh

The best part about being a kept woman, I discover, is that the rules dissolve as soon as you’re alone.

I’m not supposed to be alone, not exactly. If Trevor were the truly controlling sort, he’d have staff trailing my every step, or security cams in the bathroom, or some kind of AI assistant that sends him reports whenever I pause in front of the fridge for too long. But instead, when he leaves for work in the morning—after fucking me so thoroughly that my insides hum—he just gives me a lazy, proprietary kiss and tells me to enjoy my day. Sometimes he’ll even say “you’ve earned it,” which makes me want to both giggle and weep. The whole point, the entire arc of this arrangement, is that I don’t have to earn anything anymore. I just exist, warm and soft and available, inside the walls of this penthouse, able to live a life of utterly hedonic pleasure.

Right now, I exist in his en suite, which is two times larger than my old bedroom and so luxurious it feels like a dream. There’s a sunken tub the size of a small Prius, white marble on all six surfaces, and a single vanilla-scented candle guttering on the ledge by my head. The Epsom salts cloud the water to a milky blue, and every time I sink my shoulders under the surface, the steam comes up so thick I can’t see the edge of the tub. There’s no sound except the drone of the ceiling vent and the occasional tiny slap of water against my skin.

My phone perches on the faucet shelf, untouched. The rest of the world could be dead for all I care.

This is my favorite part of the day: the suspended, timeless hour after Trevor leaves. The housekeeper’s already outside, bustling about in the kitchen and polishing surfaces that are already clean. But me, by contrast? In this hour, I am utterly relaxed. I don’t have to pose, or smile, or keep my knees together. I can become a puddle of goo in the tub and stare at the ceiling, my mind blank and turned off.

But my body aches. Not in a bad way, but in the way that makes you want to keep finding new ways to ache. My hips are sore. The inside of my thighs feel stretched, bruised with the memory of hands that gripped a little too tight. My asshole and my pussy both throb, a deep, satisfied pulse that shows no signs of abating. There’s a faint, oblong mark at my left hipbone, where Trevor must have pressed me into the mattress and left the print of his thumb. I touch it now, tracing it with a wet fingertip, and it zings up my spine with pleasure.

I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more than this bruise. I hope it lasts all week. That’s how much I’m infatuated this man.

I tip my head back into the water, and the world goes muffled, like I’m at the bottom of a pool. There’s an urge to keep sinking, to see if I can slide beneath the surface and just vanish, white and boneless and weightless. But then the phone lights up and buzzes, a flat, angry noise that cuts through the calm like a rescue helicopter. I blink, water streaming off my lashes, and grab the phone with damp fingers before it can buzz a second time.

It’s Trevor, of course. There’s no text, just a direct FaceTime call, because that’s how he is: always live, always immediate.