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20
My skin buzzes like a firecracker. The sharp sting of Finlay’s hand is too welcome to be painful. It’s a feeling, a sensation, and I cling to it, craving more. I want him to do it to me again and again until I’m engulfed by the reality of everything, of the universe and its primal beats, until I finally explode and shrink into nothing at all.
Another hit, and there’s an edge to it. Finlay’s hand is large enough to cover both cheeks when spread flat so every part of my backside sizzles with sensation. His palm lands against me again, a solid strike that makes me yelp and lurch into Rory. I’m a tool, an object, an instrument of their pleasure, the cries of my pain and lust entwined to create a kind of unearthly spirit music not of this realm.
The hits rain down on me, savage and fast, each slap followed by Finlay’s hand lowering into the water with a splash. I buck against Rory’s hips, grinding against the crown of his cock and squirming away from the pain on the other side. An edgy tension overcomes the iron-toughness in his flexing arms, like he’s repressing a tremor, like he’s on the verge of giving in and submitting to me, but then he casually adjusts his cock and guides it away from me. I whine at this loss, my mouth mashing against his skin, whispering wordlessness into his damp shoulder, leaking sounds and spit and mindlessness the more Finlay ruins and rebuilds me with his bare hands.
The water in Finlay’s palm soothes the twin burn of my cheeks. And he doesn’t stop. He’s ceaseless, using his hand as both weapon and cure, and I wonder where he learned this. I wonder where he learned that pain can soothe, that an ache can be an indulgence, that resilience is built in the face of trauma.
But so too are monsters.
I should know. Sometimes I think I am one.
And I wonder also if he’s taking out on me every petty frustration he’s ever held. Has Rory permitted him to hurt me for real? Every impact from Finlay is a reminder of who he was: an arrogant bully, a chief, a boy. Not a writer, a poet, a thinker, a dreamer, the way I now know him to be. I wooed him, seduced him, punished him a thousand times over with every casual barb and stinging callousness as I hooked up, one by one, with everyone around him and never him.
Never him.
Yet still he claims to have feelings for me.
It’s difficult to reconcile this with the hard, brutal hits against my skin.
It’s difficult to reconcile loving feelings when I’m drunk on the fury of another’s pain.
My chest tightens like a dam ready to burst. Everything is too much — too good, too powerful. I feel too much, my eyes hot. A kind of broken bliss. With one last wicked slap, Finlay stops the instant tears escape my eyes. This time his palm doesn’t leave my behind. He remains to massage me softly with the cool, wet heel and hollow of his hand, sculpting away the pain and molding a new Jessa beneath him.
I grind against Rory, and it feels for the first time like I’m using him. I need to release this cruel orgasm that Finlay has so masterfully built, shimmering, within me. Each attack had been a new attention, a new tug to my core, and Rory is the only thing in front of me, the only person I can focus on beyond the lessening pain of my backside, beyond the hands grasping me and clawing and clutching me, bringing me closer to a new, sordid level of pleasure.
I make noises I don’t understand. Whimpery, begging sounds in the night air, guttural moans pulled from deep within, expressed toward the moon. My mouth forms the wordpleasea thousand times and seldom voices it.
“Get inside her.” It’s Finlay who says this, gruff and almost as demanding as Rory, and I choke back a gasp. His fingers dig deeper against my cheeks, painting water up and down my body. “It’s whit she wants.”
Rory strokes the outline of my face, gazing deeply into my eyes. “Virgin sacrifice sounds ideal right about now,” he murmurs, almost morose, water droplets clinging to his long eyelashes. “But I can’t.” He raises his eyes to Finlay. “The roadmap for my future has never included being a teenage father.”
“Just how fertile dae ye think ye are? Pull the fuck oot.”
“No.”
I find it in me then. I find it in me to say the words. “Please.” I kiss his cheek, my breath warm against his cold skin. “I need you. I want you.Please.” And I spread my legs around him, tightening them around his waist to the point of pain, to the point where he’ll have to do something to satisfy both of us.
Rory’s eyes are the color of storm clouds, and when I give my plea, they darken to blackness. “I swear, little saint, your nickname is a cruel lie.” He leans in to nip my earlobe softly, his warm breath scattering shivers down my spine. “I’ve never known a more devious little slut of a girl.”
Heat sears in my belly and my breath catches in my throat. I didn’t know it was possible to get hot when called names. But Rory’s words are filled with affection. There’s a deep, filthy, shameful pleasure in being called something that every girl is discouraged from being. It’s freeing, in a way, in the same way it’s freeing to be grinding naked between two guys in a pool of water. There is no performance. No inhibitions. Just the truth of pure female pleasure, which they’re making sure to satisfy expertly.
I watch as Rory pumps his cock once, twice, his eyes half-lidded with desire. If I’m a slut, then he’s one too, and I lean forward to whisper coyly to him, “Work it, slut.”
His eyes flash, narrowing into slits. I hold back my smirk. Rory lines his cock against me, taking the time to drag against my pink, wet lips, each press of his cock another twinge of sensation that leaves me yearning for him to enter me. Behind me, an exchange of power occurs: Finlay holds the bulk of my body, and I lean against his broad chest, his muscles firm against my back. He lowers me into the water gently. Rory glances up at me from beneath a curtain of soaked blond hair, his expression serious and determined, as the crown of his cock brushes hard against my entrance.
I swallow, shaking lightly in Finlay’s arms. My legs are still encircled around Rory. I have no clue if I can even stand anymore, not when every inch of me feels as tremulous as a newborn deer.
There’s a burst of pressure against my entrance, and Finlay whispers the wordBreatheat me. I do so, drawing serene midnight air into my lungs, capturing something sacred and magical inside of me. Finlay’s hand winds around me, snaking down past the water and sliding to my clit. I swallow. The water is a mirage, concealing the reality of us. Above the water, we’re a trio of naked teenagers idling around in a pool. Below it, we’re so fucking connected it makes me want to cry.
Rory lurches forward, capturing my mouth against his, the same moment his cock splits me apart. My chest is heaving. Stars pinprick my vision, turning the world spotty and dark. I’ve never felt fullness like this in my life. Is this what I’ve been missing? The ultimate satisfaction. I focus on Rory’s soft, pliant lips, drawing them between mine, sucking them soundly and nipping his lower lip with my teeth.
One inch, and another.
I grip Rory’s biceps, clinging onto him because it’s impossible to let go. I need to hold, to be held, as his cock buries deep inside me. Tearing my mouth away from him, I glance down, peering past the water and into the truth of this encounter, because I need to see… I need to see with my own eyes, I need to know for sure that this is real, that this can’t possibly be taken away from me.
In the calm of the night, with reeds kissing the surface and meadow flowers weaving their scent, it seems as though the moonlight streams directly onto us. It beams across the water and onto the area where we join together. The water clears, brightens, and I see reality for myself past the rippling surface.
