Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 167819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 839(@200wpm)___ 671(@250wpm)___ 559(@300wpm)
Pulling back, I watch her eyes fall closed, and fresh tears roll down her once-done-up face. Her flawless makeup is ruined. I like it. All it’s missing is cum smeared all over it.
Lowering the gun between her legs, I shove a finger into her, making her cry out. I’m running out of time, so this isn’t going to be slow. It’s going to be rough.
I enter a second one, and she rises up on her tiptoes in her Dior heels. I then remove them, running the gun over her cunt, and her breathing turns erratic. I watch her eyes grow heavy as I work my fingers into her over and over, adding a third and then a fourth. She’s crying, body shaking while she sobs, and I slip the tip of the barrel into her before removing it and doing it again. Her pussy opens up for me, and her eyes close. Once the barrel is wet enough to enter on its own, my fingers abandoned her cunt and slap her breasts.
Her body leans into mine, and I smile behind my mask. I knew she’d be this way. Desperate. She’s been trained for years—groomed to be a Lord’s whore by her mother and her father. Even if they didn’t mean to, it’s just a part of our world. You serve regardless of whether you have a dick or a pussy. A dick just has more power in this scenario.
As I pump the gun in and out of her, she thrashes against the bedpost but never closes her legs. I’m not even holding them open anymore.
I pinch her nipple, pulling on it, slapping her breasts and face. She’s sobbing, drool running down her open mouth and onto her chin and chest to where her dress is bunched up around her pierced belly button.
When I remove the gun, she sags in her heels, and I slap her cunt, making her cry out. I shove two fingers into her. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” I growl through gritted teeth, looking at her juices smeared all over my glove-covered fingers. I have to remind myself to hide my true voice. I want to tell her who I am and see that look in her eyes. I know she likes me because we’ve been dancing around the idea for years. It just never worked out, and then I started initiation, blowing any chance I had with her. A woman like Ellington Asher needs sex. She needs to know she’s wanted. And the way she’s getting off on fucking my gun shows me just how fucking twisted she’ll be in bed when I finally make her mine.
I push the gun back into her cunt, and this time, I don’t let up. I fuck her with it until she’s a sobbing, drooling mess. When I pull it out, I hold it up to her face. “Look at that cum,” I praise, running it against her cheek and down her neck. She tries to pull her face away, but the belt holds her in place, the leather pinching her cheeks.
“What we did tonight is our little secret,” I say, and she nods the best she can. “What I did tonight is our little secret, understand?” She nods again, sniffing as snot runs from her nose that is red from her crying.
I leave her there for a few seconds while I load everything in my backpack on the floor. After putting it on, I remove my belt from her mouth, and she softly cries out. I can’t help but run my leather glove over the indentions the belt left on her cheeks. “Open,” I order, and it doesn’t surprise me one bit that she parts her swollen lips. I place the small pocketknife between her perfectly white teeth, and she holds it in her mouth. “You’ll need that to get your hands free.”
Her eyes widen at my words, understanding that I’m leaving her here. Just in case she decides to talk, it’ll take her at least a couple of minutes to cut through the zip tie before she runs off and tells everyone about the dead body in her parents’ bathroom and how the murderer fucked her with his gun.
I make my way down the side of the house and across the street to my motorcycle. I go to start it up but stop myself. Curiosity getting the best of me. Something she said is eating at me.
Unzipping the pocket of my leather jacket, I pull out the cell and the severed finger from the backpack. I scan it to unlock the device. I scroll through his incoming and outgoing texts and phone calls. Nothing really looks out of place. I open his email and go through it. Nothing.
I’m about to close it when I see another folder. Opening it, I plan on scrolling through the emails, but there are none. Odd. But there are multiple folders. Each one is labeled by year. I open one up.