Chapter 381- First Score Against Gareth
The single thrust had rearranged her understanding of pain.
Not the sharp kind — not the clean, blade-precise hurt she knew from fieldwork, from training, from the nineteen years of things her body had absorbed and catalogued and filed under ’acceptable cost’ — but the deep, ’structural’ kind.
The kind that went past the outer ring and kept going.
She felt his cock inside her the way you feel a fist pushed through wet clay — the walls of her anal passage parting around every ridge and vein of him, the dense, thick heat of nine inches seated where nine inches had never been seated in a single stroke — and the information her nervous system was receiving was too much volume for the available channels.
Her intestines knew about him now.
She felt the ’pull’ of it — the interior drag of her own body’s layout being rearranged by something that had no interest in her layout — and the sound she was making into the table grain was not a scream anymore, was past screaming, was the low, continuous animal sound of a woman whose body had received information it had no framework for.
"’HNGHH~—... H... Hurts—’"
He pulled back.
Slowly. The ’drag’ of withdrawal along those same walls, every centimeter of it narrating itself to her in precise, undeniable detail — the inner lining pulling slightly outward with him, the obscene suction of a body that had closed around something and did not know how to release it cleanly.
She felt her own intestines follow the motion.
’’He is pulling my insides out.’’
The thought arrived flat and clinical, the analytical faculty she’d spent nineteen years training arriving at the worst possible moment to provide accurate commentary.
’’That is what this feels like.’’
’’He is physically pulling my insides and I am bent over my own kitchen table and my son is—’’
He plunged.
PHAAACKK!!
"’AAANGHH~!! STOP — IT TEARS — IT’S TEARING—’"
The table jumped again.
A plate she hadn’t heard hit the floor earlier now slid from the edge and landed in two pieces.
Her body slammed forward with the impact — the full, generous weight of her breasts dragging across the wood surface, nipples catching the grain, the friction sending its own separate, unwanted signal through her chest while the primary damage continued below — and her fingers scrabbled at the table edge and found it and held.
"’I will mold it.’"
His voice above her. Warm. Certain. The voice of a man announcing a project timeline.
"’This hole.’" He rolled his hips — not a thrust, a ’rotation’, the thick shaft grinding in a slow circle inside her, finding every wall in sequence, mapping and marking each one. "’I will mold it to my cock.’"
"’PLEASE—’" The word came out broken. "’Slow — you have to slow — I can’t—’"
He thrust.
PAAAH!
"’HIIEEK~!!’"
The thrust drove her face into the table surface and her cheek smashed flat against the grain and she lay there with both eyes open and in her left eye, at the distance of three feet, her son’s sleeping face.
Slack jaw. Easy breathing. The face of a young man in deep, dreamless sleep, completely unaware that his mother was being — that three feet from him — that the kitchen table she served him breakfast on—
She closed her eyes.
The shame ran through her like a second heat, layered over the burning stretch of her anal passage, and she buried her face into the wood and let herself disappear into it.
"’MNNGH~!! H-HIEEK~!! AAANGHH~!!’"
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!! NNN~!! SLOWER — PLEASE — SLOWER—’"
He did not go slower.
His hips had found their pace — the same blurring, merciless rhythm she had come to know today as his working speed, the speed at which he stopped being patient and started being ’thorough’ — and the kitchen filled with the sound of it, the wet, dense, carrying smack of his balls landing against her soaked pussy on every forward drive.
His balls were hitting her cunt.
With each anal thrust the ballsac swung forward and made contact with her wet, hairy lips — the heavy, warm impact of it landing directly on her engorged clit — and her body was producing a response to this that she found ’insulting’.
’’I am not—’’
’’My body is not—’’
’’This is an anal—’’
Her pussy gushed.
The fresh flood of her own arousal ran down her inner thighs and dripped to the floor among the fallen dishes, and her anal walls, which were simultaneously in agony, were clenching around his cock with the devoted, rhythmic grip of something that had started learning the shape it was being given.
’’He said he would mold it.’’
’’My body is—’’
PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!! I’M DYING — STOP — PLEASE—’"
His hand grabbed her hair.
One fist. Clean, certain grip, fingers twisted in the root — the same grip, the grip that had become its own terrible familiarity over the course of this day — and he ’pulled.’
Her head came up.
Her neck arched back, the full painful extension of it, and her eyes opened — forced open by the tilt of her own skull — and she was looking at the ceiling and then at the kitchen and then, as he held the angle precisely, at her son.
At Gareth.
Asleep in his chair with the slack, peaceful face of a young man under a mother’s dream magic, completely unknowing, the crease at the corner of his eye visible from here, the small crease she had memorized at three years old.
She was looking at her son.
While a man fucked her ass in her own kitchen.
The tears fell sideways.
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!! HHNN~!! S-SON — DON’T — GARETH — AAAHH~!!’"
The words arrived and went nowhere.
His hand came forward over her shoulder — reaching, reaching — and found her breast through the fabric of her skirt and apron, pinching the nipple through both layers, the swollen, milk-warm peak crushed between two fingers with the efficient cruelty she had been on the receiving end of all day.
She sobbed.
Fresh. Hard.
The sob and the moan occupying the same exhale, her voice unable to sort which was which because her body had stopped being able to sort which was which.
"’I need you to help me,’" he said.
Close to her ear. Leaning forward over her back, his weight settling across her, the solid warmth of his torso against her spine. Still moving. The hips never stopped.
"’Secure another woman.’"
The words arrived through the rhythm of the fucking and she processed them in pieces.
"’What—’" She gasped. "’No — that’s — you can’t — that’s ’wrong’ — I won’t—’"
PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!!’"
"’Who said I’m forcing anyone.’" His voice, above her, unbothered. "’Did I force you.’"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
The honest answer was forming somewhere in her chest and she refused to let it out because the honest answer was the most damning thing she had ever been close to saying and she was not going to say it in her kitchen at this angle with her son three feet away—
"’No,’" she said.
Small.
"’You didn’t.’"
"’I just—’" She couldn’t finish it. Because what came after ’I just’ was the body of evidence her body had been assembling since seven in the morning, and the body of evidence included the way she was currently pushing her ass back into his thrusts with the small, involuntary rhythm of a woman whose pelvis had revised its position without consulting her.
He felt it.
She knew he felt it from the sound he made — low, satisfied, the exhale of a man who has received the answer he needed in the form he preferred.
PAH! PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’HNNGH~!! AAANGHH~!! S-SLOW — IT’S TOO—’"
Her anal passage was ’warm.’
Not the torn-raw warmth of the first ten minutes — something different, the warmth that came after the healing had passed through a place and left it changed, the inner walls still tight but learning, still resistant but mapping the shape they were being given, the dense ridge of his cock pressing against places that had never been pressed and finding them — she refused to finish this thought.
’’It doesn’t feel like—’’
’’No.’’
’’It doesn’t feel like—’’
"’AAANGHH~!! NNN~!! HNGH~!!’"
It didn’t feel like only pain anymore.
She pressed her face back into the table.
Her fingers dug into the table edge.
Her ass was pushing back again.
"’I’m cumming.’"
His voice against her ear — the three words, warm and unhurried, the announcement of a man completing a task.
She felt it.