Page 8 of Demonic Delights

Then, too fast for me to fully comprehend the purpose of the movement, he sweeps my carefully arranged plates, glasses and candelabras off the table with one purposeful swing of his arm. I’m so slow to register what has happened that the sound of china breaking reaches my ears after a delay, desynchronised from what my eyes are telling me, and as if unrelated to the shards of glass and porcelain on the ground.

Breath hitches in my throat, my lungs closing in, almost like my body has decided that it’s better to suffocate than to suffer the wrath of a husband gone insane. I’m back in that second-floor bathroom on the last day of November, reaching for the final cigarette of my life, my memories flashing before my eyes.

But before I can either die or re-acquaint myself with the ability to breathe, Silas advances upon me, the motion fluid and menacing. His hands encircle my waist, fingers digging into my lower ribs, and a yelp slips past my lips as he lifts me and sets me hard onto the cleared table. His face burrows into my hair. His breath tickles me, and I giggle breathlessly.

“Silas, what are you doing?”

I press my palms into his chest, trying to push him away, force him to look at me, talk to me, explain what is happening. But he disregards my efforts, as unmoveable as a mountain.

The smell of burning gets sharper, but I don’t care.

“What am I doing?” he rasps, repeating after me. “I’m fucking a son into you is what I’m doing.”

Heat floods me from head to toe and pools in my abdomen. I let out a shocked gasp. I don’t remember the last time he spoke to me that way.

“It might be a girl, you know?” I tease him, unable to help myself, even though on a semi-conscious level, I feel inappropriate to make the remark, embarrassed the same way I would be if I told a joke and no one laughed.

“No.” A more substantial waft of his breath burns on my exposed skin as he forces the word out with controlled aggression in his voice. “No, I only make sons.”

“Okay, Daddy.” It slips out before I can stop myself, my alarm quickly morphing into intrigued excitement.

Silas only growls in response. He reaches underneath my skirt with both his hands. I press my palms against the smooth table surface, readying to hoist myself up to allow him to pull my panties down. But instead of doing that, he hooks his fingers around the lace, gripping it firmly. The ripping sound is shockingly loud for so little fabric, but I have no time to dwell on that. Because he slides the shreds of my torn thong down my legs and tosses them unceremoniously to the floor.

He straightens, pulling his face away from me, rich brown hair with very little grey in it falling into his eyes. He pushes my shoulders, tilting me backwards so that I am propped up on my elbows behind me. Then he grabs my hips, yanking me forward until my weight rests mostly on the small of my back. With the skirt of my dress hitched up, my pussy faces him, unconcealed and ready for the taking. My breath quickens, my pulse hammering in my ears.

He slides his hand up my inner thigh without hesitation, three fingers already curling into a claw. He breaches my entrance with a savage jab, and I cry out, flinching.

Rubbing my clit with his thumb, Silas lets out a displeased, guttural grumble.

“You’re not ready for me,” he says as he continues to forcefully finger-fuck me, his voice low and stern. “Today will be the only time I’ll forgive you for that without consequences.”

I let out a half-moan, half-wail as he stops thrusting with his hand and instead presses his fingertips hard into my front wall. I seize around them, a wave of bliss washing over me. I moan, closing my eyes.

“From now on, I want you to think day and night about my cock jetting my seed into you. I want you to touch yourself often enough to keep your panties constantly drenched, but never enough to come on your own,” he drones on, aligning his knuckles and then spreading them apart to stretch me. “Because from now on, you only come when I let you. And when I arrive to take you, I expect your cunt to be starved for me and eager to milk every drop of my cum from me.”

He twists his hand around in my pussy with a squelch of my mounting arousal, and I gasp. When was the last time I was this wet on my own? When his knuckles rub over my clit, my head lolls back.

“If you let yourself be this unprepared for me again, I’m going to punish you,” he threatens with a sinister echo to his voice.

And in my mind, I’m twenty again and bent over his knee, my ass getting paddled into oblivion for whatever arbitrary reason, electric pleasure rippling through me from the Venus balls he had stuffed inside me beforehand.

“Yes, Daddy,” I drawl, my voice husky.

“Don’t call me that,” he forces through his clenched teeth, strict and angry.

Oh, this really is shaping up to be the best fuck I’ve had in three years.

“I think I need some serious discipline, Daddy. Until I get it, I’ll be calling you anything I want.”

With his hair still falling into his eyes, Silas smirks lop-sidedly, his crooked grin new and cruel, but alluring. The smell of burning is getting impossible to ignore, and the darkened room is hazier, filling up with smoke escaping from the oven.

“You won’t be calling me anything at all,” Silas tells me with an ominous edge to his voice. “Because I’ll have you screaming, not speaking. Now stay like this. Don’t move.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I trill, but he shoots me a death glare through strands of his hair before undoing his belt with a violent tug.

Sizzling anticipation floods me at the sharp sound of him undoing his zipper. He wrenches his cock free, so rock-hard that the veins are popping, beads of precum rolling down its swollen head.

“Let me lick it clean for you, Daddy,” I suggest sweetly, but Silas doesn’t spare me a glance as he aligns the tip with my entrance, tracing the slit languidly, spreading mine and his juices along its rim, teasing me until I’m moaning in a tortured way, my eyes nearly rolling.