Overcoming Sorrow

[wideeyedone]

Christine Hamilton stood on the deck of the ferry. Her dark hair whipped against her face, but her eyes were hidden behind her large, dark glasses. February was off season and the island of Nantucket would only be occupied by the locals. And that was just what she wanted. She didn't want to see anyone that she knew. She didn't want to have to refuse one more invitation, or listen to anyone else chide her sympathetically. Everywhere she went people looked at her with pity, or with a gleam of opportunistic hunger. The vultures knew she was vulnerable.

She was a widow. The word still seemed foreign to her. She had just gotten used to the word wife. She had never pictured herself with someone like Tom. And then when she had tumbled into Tom's life and Tom's bed, she never imagined herself being alone again.

Tom Hamilton was the sort of man that normally resided on the pages of paperback romance novels. He was the heir to an old textile fortune, that he grew investing in innovative technology. He gave a great deal of his wealth away. His focused area of philanthropy was improving educational opportunities for low income children. He was tall and good looking. He had a broad smile, and just the beginnings of crows' feet. His dark hair was shot with just a little silver at his temples. He was a sought after bachelor into his forties.

No one predicted that he would fall head over heels for the 28 year old director of the Momentum Center for Young Children. He met Christine when he came to see the playground that he had paid for. She was climbing the playscape with the children and he couldn't help but join her. He had wined and dined her. Her picture ended up on the gossip pages. He proposed with a ring from Cartier. But that wasn't what impressed her. It was the way he kissed her. The way he held her upper arms hard enough to make her feel as if he owned her.

Before Tom, Christine had considered herself hard as nails. She had grown up in foster care and worked her way through college. She was passionate and devoted to her work. She stayed at work too late, usually ate at her desk, and spent most of her free time reading and recovering from her long work hours.

But behind closed doors she was a whole new woman with him. No one would have known to look at him, but his love was fierce and dominant. He owned her body and soul and his desire was consuming. He wanted his girl by his side. He wanted to be the center of her world. At night she would sit at his feet with her cheek against his knee and his hands in her hair.

But that was gone. It was all shattered. Tom had died in a car accident. The funeral had been four months ago and she still felt hollow inside. Aside from the staff in their Manhattan penthouse, she hadn't spent time with people. Some days she didn't leave her bed. She would sit in the bathtub and cry until the water was so cold she couldn't stand it. Her voicemail box was full. Her mail was unopened. All she wanted was to sleep and wake up to a different reality. One where Tom was still with her. She knew she had to snap out of it. Tom wouldn't want her to wallow, he would want her to keep on the work of his foundation and enjoy her life. But she just wasn't ready.

So, she was on the ferry. Going back to his Nantucket summer house. They had spent their honeymoon there. She needed to go back, to sleep in the bed where he had promised to love her forever. She wanted to watch the surf pound on the shore and feel the mist against her skin. Maybe if she could remember, is she could touch the places they had been together, she would get better. She promised herself that this trip would be the end of her drowning in grief.

 

[CreepyFrank]

Francis Lemann was born Frank Santos. His father's family had worked fishing boats out of Hyannisport since the beginning of time. They were alcoholics who died in bar fights or accidents at sea, and left their widows to live off death benefits and welfare. They lived in fishy smelling slums next to the vacation homes of some of the richest people in the world.

Frank didn’t know if generations of his family had simply never noticed they mansions on the beach, or if they all somehow accepted that the world worked that way. Some people ate lobster on a patio overlooking the ocean, and other people lived in trailers, risked their lives on the ocean to bring back the lobster. He was a good looking young man, with a dark complexion and thick black hair. He had classically handsome features, and was tall and lean, with broad shoulders. He strolled down the beaches, and the rich women drooled.

It didn’t take more than a couple of pretty daughters and wives for Frank to figure out they were just slumming. They would happily spread their legs for the handsome portugee, but when labor day weekend came, it was Frank who?

He found that they liked to spend money as much as they liked to fuck. They bought him clothes, gave him a taste for the finer things. He dropped the right word to the right woman, he would get a stack of bills to rival any fisherman’s payout after a month at sea. Still, Frank knew he would never be more than an oyster to these women, to be eaten raw, then chucked and forgotten. Not as long as he was Frank Santos, blue collar cock.

So at nineteen he became Francis Lemann, he shed his accent, trading in labstah for lobster, and before long, he moved into an apartment with a girl at Harvard. It didn’t take long for him to trade up. An older woman, married, but still sexy, neglected by her even older husband. She put him up in his own apartment, and when she wanted him to meet her in Vermont while she went on a ski vacation, she bought him a BMW.

Boston was good to him, but by his late twenties, he was getting a reputation. He made his first move, to Washington DC. Now his women weren’t giving him anything. They were paying him for the privilege of being used by him. By thirty, he had stashed enough away that he could have retired and lived in style for the rest of his life, but it was never about the money. It wasn’t about the sex. It was about revenge. The resentment he felt had never gone away, and that was what fueled him to keep going, to find rich women, suck them dry, and then leave them behind.

By forty, his classical features showed no signs of letting him down. The touch of grey at his temples simply made him look distinguished, and he had an easy confidence that let him move through the highest of society unquestioned. He stayed fit, made sure when his clothes came off the woman he was with would not be disappointed. He learned to dominate. Then his mother got sick.

He went back to Hyannisport for the first time in twenty years. Everyone was still there, though quite a few were in the cemetery, whether due to accidents at sea, violence, alcohol abuse or overdoses. His brothers worked the same types of boats their fathers had, his sisters married the same types of men their mothers had, and they lived in the same types of houses, full of the same types of brats. It was horrible. They mocked him, called him a gigolo, a whore, a pussy. Then they pulled him aside and asked to borrow money. Even his mother was ashamed of him.

He lived with his mother and her disapproval for a month. He took care of her like a baby, he cleaned her messes when she couldn’t make it to the bathroom, and fed her when she couldn’t raise the spoon. He gave her her medication. She called him a failure, while his brand new Porsche sat in the driveway, with salt ruining the resale value by the day. After Christmas, his sisters stepped in. They were sick of seeing him mooch off of Mom. They were going to put her in a home, sell the house. They made it clear that he was not welcome. Though they would take his money. So he moved into a hotel and visited her every day, but after an hour of disapproving, she would dismiss him. He was driving back to the hotel in Hyannisport when he saw her car.

New York plates, top of the line, luxury. He was curious, and he followed her down to the ferry. It was the off season, so no reservation was necessary. He drove around the block, waited until the boat was about to leave, and then pulled up. He bought a ticket, and rolled on just before they closed the boat. Worst case, he thought, I take a ride out to Nantucket and come back.

When he found her on deck, though, he smiled to himself. She was beautiful, and she had money written all over her. Better than that, she had grief written all over her. She stared out to sea, with her head held and her mouth set like one of the fishwives when her husband hadn't come home.

He put his sunglasses on, buttoned his black longcoat, and leaned against the rail beside her. He waited until she took a breath, probably to tell him to buzz off. Before she could speak, he spoke, his voice a rich baritone, soothing and sensual.

"You don't think any other man can make you feel what he did, but you're mistaken. Another man will thaw your heart. You will feel alive. Passion - no, lust - will fill you again. You will melt with desire. It may happen soon."

Then he turned, lowered his sunglasses to look her in the eye, or at least in the dark circles of her own sunglasses. He gave her a smile, a warm, but wry smile, sympathetic but with a hint of pity, as though he understood her pain, and knew the way through. Just for a moment.

"It's cold," he observed, conversationally, and then looked back out to sea.

 

[wideeyedone]

She looked at him before he spoke. She could barely meet his eyes after he did speak. He told her that she could feel again. Christine felt the tears pricking the back of her eyes. She wanted to scream at him. That he didn't know. That no one knew what she had lost. But she bit her lip.

Her hands shook. She let go of the rail and turned to face him, putting her back to the sea.

"Did you know Tom?" She asked softly. "Or am I wearing my grief on my skin?" Her voice was so fragile. The ferry bobbed on the surf, and she placed her hand on his arm to steady herself. No one had touched her since the night Tom had driven to the office late and then never come home.

The warmth of skin went right through her and she made an audible hungry sound. Her cheeks flushed with shame. And she couldn't believe it but she melted against him, and tucked herself against him.

 

[CreepyFrank]

It was hard to read her with her sunglasses on, but he would have bet the farm that he was having exactly the desired effect. Then she bit her lip, and he knew. Her shivers didn't have anything to do with the cold.

When she spoke, he was startled by how soft her voice was. She was delicate in a way that almost made him take pity on her. Almost. When the moment passed, his anger came back doubled. How dare she make him feel any sympathy for her? She was exactly the sort of woman he had spent his life breaking.

"I don't know Tom," he said, his voice warm and welcoming. "I saw you...." She put her hand on his arm to steady herself, and he took in as an invite to touch her as well. He reached out, touched the lapel of her coat, the fine wool of her scarf, his fingers brushed softly against her cheek. "And, of course, your car has New York plates. You're summer people. You're here, all alone, looking out to sea, facing into the cold, cold wind. I knew something was wrong. You're too beautiful for any man to leave you alone, so I knew you were alone because you had lost someone."

The sound she made, so soft, but so telling, was all he needed. It was the sound of a wild, sexual animal trapped in a cage of loss. She blushed, the pink standing out like a beacon on her pale skin, and then she leaned into his embrace. His arms enfolded her. He took another guess. There was no anger in her voice when she mentioned Tom, just sorrow, so he didn't think this a divorce. Tom was still pure in her heart. He must be dead, or she would be in his arms.

"I don't know Tom," he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. "But I don't think he would want you to be miserable. You can mourn him and still take care of yourself. You have needs, but they are not a betrayal."

He stepped away then, catching her by the hand, and took another step back, pulling her with him.

"Come inside," he said. "It's warm. You need someone to take care of you."

 

[wideeyedone]

She felt small but not belittled when he took her hand and guided her inside. She was still shaking but she new it wasn't the cold. It was the ache of desire and the need for connection. She didn't let go of his hand. She took of her sunglasses and she could feel him looking at her.

"He died four months ago. He had forgotten some contracts on his desk." She kept her eyes lowered as she spoke. "He was struck on his way home by a college student that fell asleep behind the wheel." She knew the story had been all over the news. BUt she didn't care if this fellow knew she was Tom Hamilton's widow.

She straightened her shoulders and exhaled slowly.

"We spent our honeymoon here. So, I had the staff open up the summer house. But other then coming in once a week I told them that I can take care of myself. I don't want to disrupt their winter and I need some time."

She scanned the faces on the ferry. They were the only non-locals. She looked up at him and took in his features. She wondered what it would like to feel his generous smile close over her mouth and kiss her hard. She looked at his hands. They were well manicured but strong. She liked the feel of his hand in hers. She rubbed her thumb on the back of his hand and imagined him wrapping her hair around his fist.

 

[CreepyFrank]

He held her hand while she spoke, his face schooled, revealing nothing but quiet sympathy. His mind raced though. It rang a bell. There had been some newspaper article about a guy getting killed in an accident. A man with a rather large fortune and no children. Nobody left behind but a young widow. This woman? He supposed maybe so.

He nodded his head as she spoke of her honeymoon. The staff? He nearly laughed. This was no basic upper class woman with a summer cottage. Her house had a staff. One of the mansions along the beach? Those were real money. Deep money.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve never been here on the off season. You don’t know what it’s like. It’s a tiny town, there’s nobody there but working people, and it’s a two hour boat ride to get away. You’ll be all alone in your summer house, except for the staff visiting once a week? That’s not taking care of yourself. That’s the first chapter of a gothic novel.”

He squeezed her hand, reached up with his free hand to lift her chin. Then he took of her sunglasses so she was forced to look him in the eye. His lips were only inches from hers, and he knew she could feel his breath when he spoke.

“I have… business on the mainland,” he said, and for once, his pose of utter sureness faltered. He winced as the hard, cold truth came back to him. His mother was dying, and she despised him. His head tilted down, his eyes closed. His forehead touched hers. He didn’t kiss her. He shook his head, pulling himself together in a heartbeat. When he spoke again, his voice was just a little bit rough. His throat was tight, but the command in his tone allowed no possibility of refusal. “I have business on the mainland during the day. I can look in on you in the evenings. You will take care of yourself by letting me take care of you.”

 

[wideeyedone]

Christine found that she couldn't speak. But she bit her lip and nodded. Then she tucked her head under his chin.

"The house has a view of the harbor. It's called Haven House. You should be able to find me easily." She whispered as the ferry slowed and made its way to dock.

She fished out the keys to her Jaguar coupe from her pocket. She pulled away from him and put on her sunglasses. She took a deep breath. She knew she needed to put on her protective layer of armor before she had to deal with the locals.

Tom was well known on Nantucket and people would ask her how she was doing. People would be watching her to see if she was alright, if she was going to crumble. She pulled away from him and made her way to her car. She wanted to look back and see if he was watching her, but she was half afraid that she would never see him again.

 

[CreepyFrank]

Haven House. He thought about the name as he watched her walk away. No address. He wondered about that. Sometimes, the really big houses didn't use addresses. Everyone knew them. They were local treasures. The ferry was pulling up to the pier, and he strolled back to his car.

He hadn't even caught her name, but at least he knew where to find her. Now he just had to figure out what to do with himself on Nantucket in the off season. As he pulled off the boat, he reached a decision. Her reaction to him had been strong, but at the last minute she'd pulled back, walked away. Skittish. The seed had been planted, though.

He drove to the library, and read about Haven House. It was, as he suspected, a big, old mansion, built by the Hamiltons in the late 1800s. He read about the Hamiltons, textile tycoons, philanthropists, on par with Vanderbilts or Carnegies. The last Hamilton had made drastic changes to save the company and bring it into the 21st century. Tom Hamilton, died in a car wreck just a few months ago.

Did you know Tom? she had asked him.

He sat back and took a deep breath. It didn't seem possible, but the facts lined up. It seemed he had just met Tom Hamilton's widow and sole beneficiary, now the majority stockholder in the Hamilton Group, in addition to god knows what else. This was a woman who could buy and sell most of the women Francis usually dealt with. She was the one. He'd sweet-talked tens of thousands of dollars off of millionaires. This woman was a billionaire.

He took the next ferry back to Hyannis. She would need time to feel how isolated she was, to think about the handsome stranger she had met on the ferry. He needed to spend time with his mother. Even though they usually kicked him out after an hour each day, he still stayed close.

It was dusk, three days later, when he walked up the hill to Haven House. He had left the car on the mainland and walked from the ferry. The house was enormous, and looked over the island. The grounds were bigger than some neighborhoods, and the place still looked like it was closed for winter. He hoped she hadn't changed her mind.

He knocked on the door.

 

[wideeyedone]

The first night Christine didn't really sleep. She wandered about the house, soaking in every memory. She looked at the photographs of him growing up. She thought of the time he had bent her over the kitchen counter and fucked her hard, while his high society friends were having cocktails just one room over.

The night he arrived, she had cooked a scrambled some eggs and had opened on of the bottles of wine from the 3,500 bottle collection in the cellar. She was padding about the deserted house in just one of Tom's crisp white button downs. There was just a hint of his smell in the fabric. Her hair was down and loose, a little mussed.

She startled and spilled a little bit of her red wine when his heavy knock echoed through the house. She was beginning to think he wasn't going to come. She opened the door and stood before him in just the white shirt, the cold air from the open door making her nipples peak against the fine oxford shirt.

"I wasn't sure you were really going to come by." She offered softly, a slight tremble in her voice.

 

[CreepyFrank]

Francis stared at her for a moment. He felt his mouth go dry, and his heart began to pound. He even felt his cock starting to stiffen, just from the sight of her. He felt like a teenager again, not quite believing this was happening. There was something insolent about the way she the way she just stood there, wearing nothing but a man's shirt, looking at him.

"I wasn't sure you were really going to come by," she said softly, and there was a telltale tremble in her voice. He smiled. There was no insolence in her voice. Just need.

"I said I would, didn't I?" he said, and stepped inside. He slipped an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, pinning her body against his. He pressed his lips to hers, kissing her hard, his other hand ran through her long, dark hair. He hooked a foot around the door and swung it closed, and then walked into the house, carrying her.

He broke the kiss after a few steps. He looked around, saw the living room, wine glass on the coffee table. Saw the stuffed leather chairs, probably a century old. He carried her to the couch, set her down so he stood over her.

"I'm Frank," he said, using his birth name for the first time in twenty years. "You don't have to tell me your name. Just take off the shirt."

 

[wideeyedone]

She took him in with her big brown eyes. And without looking away, she obeyed. She slowly flicked each of the buttons open. She exposed her pale skin and then her pink hardened nipples. She arched off the couch and shucked the shirt off.

She laid back on the couch, her hair spilling around her. She straightened her legs, showing off her sleek calves and her creamy thighs.

She trembled and sipped in a long breath.

"Yes, Sir." She whispered. Her voice was barely audible, but she had to say it.

 

[CreepyFrank]

He watched her undo the buttons, a stern look on his face. He gave a hint of a nod when she finally slipped the shirt off and stretched herself out, naked. She was even more beautiful than he had dared to hope. Her pale skin was flawless, and her dark hair make a perfect contrast. He didn't think he could ask for more, until she spoke.

"Yes Sir." It was just a whisper. It was just two syllables, but it changed everything.

"So you know," he said, his voice a low growl. He reached down, touched her cheek, and let his fingers drag down the side of her neck, along her clavicle, and then down between her breasts. His thumb gently stroked her nipple. Then he straightened up, looking at the glass of wine.

"Bring me a glass of that, pretty thing," he said. "In fact, bring the bottle."

Then he unbuttoned his coat and draped it over the back of the couch. He wore a red v neck sweater over a button down shirt not very different from the one she just took off, and a pair of dark slacks. He pulled a throw pillow off the couch and sat in one of the leather armchairs, dropping the pillow between his feet.

 

[wideeyedone]

She skittered to the kitchen and poured him a generous glass of the 2007 Sassicaia. She carried the glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. She placed them on the table before him.

She hesitated for just a moment when she saw the pillow between his feet. But it only lasted a moment, she slipped to her knees. She knelt up prettily and then laid her cheek against his knee. She closed her eyes, and it was if the weight of the world had been lifted off of her shoulders.

She practically melted against him. Her heart thundered in her chest as she waited to see what he might ask of her next.

 

[CreepyFrank]

When she came back and set the wine and the glass down, he acknowledged her obedience with a nod. He was harder now than he had ever thought he could be without a woman actually touching his cock. There was nothing like a naked woman serving him to get him in the mood, and this woman was spectacular. He watched her hesitate.

To his surprise, she took the invitation implied by the pillow and knelt at his feet. She lay her head on his knee, and closed her eyes. The trust implicit in her posture nearly choked him. He reached down and ran his fingers through her hair, thinking. He had never had a woman surrender so easily. It had always been a matter of conquest before, and he wasn't sure what to do with it. Then he gave a laugh.

He reached over her, snagged the glass of wine off the table, and took a sip. Then another, healthy swallow.

"Look at me, my sweet pet," he said. He touched her lip with his thumb. "You're so beautiful. You make me feel like a teenager again." He patted the unmistakable bulge in his pants. "I'm not going to be able to think straight until I've had you. Crawl to the bedroom. On your hands and knees. I'll follow you."

 

[wideeyedone]

The house had eleven bedrooms, with a massive master suite upstairs, but Christine hadn't been able to sleep there. She had put her suitcase in one of the downstairs guest suite.

She crawled down the hall to the guest room. She wondered if he was watching but she didn't look back over her shoulder. She tried to listen for him, but the plush carpeting in the hallway didn't give away any of his movements.

Her heart was really racing now. She was so full of anticipation but it also tangled with shame, and her heartbreak. She felt like her arousal was a betrayal. She could feel her cheeks flush a deep red. She knelt back on her heels when she reached the bed. She tried to smooth her hair with her fingers.

"I haven't...not since Tom." She whispered softly. She needed him to know that she didn't normally do this.

 

[CreepyFrank]

He followed her, stepping softly on the carpet, unable to take his eyes off of her. Her ass was perfect, her pretty little mound pushed back between her thighs, opening and closing, showing him how ready she was.

The poor thing, he thought. She's got to be humiliated, crawling around the house, naked, with a man she knows nothing about. Her husband's house, he thought, and shook his head. He couldn't imagine how torn up she must be, and how badly she must need this, to be doing this. Then she stopped, sitting back on her heels, running her fingers through her hair, and lifting her breasts up in the process.

"I haven't. Not since Tom," she said.

He stopped, and realized he was actually pitying her. He shook his head. He didn't pity the women he used. They were rich. All their lives they enjoyed luxuries because other people went without. He used them and he took what he wanted and he left them when it would hurt them the most. It was what they deserved. Why should he feel any different about this one?

He grabbed her by the hair, roughly, and pulled her onto her feet. He reached around and gave her breast a hard squeeze, and then he pushed her forward, so her knees pressed against the frame of the bed.

"I know," he whispered in her ear. "I know how much you must need this." He pushed her again, so she was forced to bend down. He held her hair in one hand, and started to open his fly with the other.

 

[wideeyedone]

Christine cried out in surprise when he grabbed her by the hair. But she didn't ask him to stop. And when he pushed her down on the bed. She moaned softly when he bent her into position. She wriggled her tight little backside against him.

The sound of his belt and his zipper made her even more wet.

"Please,..." Was all she could manage to muster. Her voice started to break, but she was able to contain it. She bit her lip hard. She gripped the duvet with her french manicured nails.

She twisted her head back so she could look up at him. She wanted to see the desire on his face. She wanted to see his hunger.

 

[CreepyFrank]

Finally, he got his fly down. He reached in, found his cock throbbing. It was already leaking precum, and he pulled it out carefully. It had been a month, not as long as she had waited, but long enough that he was wound tight. He took a breath, got control of himself. He wasn't going to blow this by blowing his nut before he had given her a good, hard fuck.

He thought about the waitress who had brought him his breakfast. A nice enough girl, pretty by anyone's standards. She had done everything to let him know she was interested but offer to fuck him in the rest room. She was just another portugee, though. She could have been one of his sisters' kids. He had never had any interest in poor women.

It worked. His lust abated enough that he could control it. He looked down at the beautiful woman bent over before him, a woman who could have anything she wanted. A woman who was begging for him, for his cock.

He held the tip against her pussy. He rubbed it along her slit until it found the quivering opening, and he let it stay there. He twisted his one hand in her hair, pulling it tight. "Are you mine, little one?"

 

[wideeyedone]

She trembled as she waited for him to fill her. He didn't speak but he made her wait. He rubbed himself against her until she was so wet that she felt some of her wetness on her thighs.

little one. The pet name sent chills down her spine. She whimpered softly.

"Yes, Sir. Tonight I am yours." She wanted to push pack against his cock and make him fuck her. But she knew she had to be a good girl. She wanted to please him. She wanted him to pull her into his arms after and smooth her hair and kiss her forehead and tell her that she was a good girl.

Just thinking about the after made her moan out loud. And then she heard it, there were soft begging sounds coming from the back of her throat. She pounded her fist against the bed.

"Please, Sir."

 

[CreepyFrank]

Tonight? he thought, irritated. He knew expecting her to surrender anything more than tonight was unrealistic, but it bothered him that she had said it nonetheless. For a moment, he hesitated, wondering if he should punish her for the seeming slight. Then he shook his head, as though e were trying to shake loose his errant thoughts. If being annoyed with her perfectly reasonable answer was foolish, and it was, then acting on it would be unforgivable. He would lose the fish before he had even set the hook.

"Then we'll have to make the most of tonight, won't we, my sweet?" he whispered. He pulled back on her hair, slowly. Her spine bent, and when it could not bend further, she began to slide back. Her pussy was so tight that his cock bent back a little before she opened, but then his head slipped in, and he pulled back hard on her hair at the same moment he leaned forward, and in one motion, he buried himself inside her.

"Oh God," he whispered. It was unbelievable. A month and more had passed since he'd last been with a woman, but this was something different. She held him like she was made for him, gripping him in a sleek, silky sheath, so tight he had to clench his teeth to keep from cumming. It wouldn't help him any to blow his load too quick, like a teenager.

He began to fuck her slowly, letting her feel each inch of his length with every stroke. At first, he didn't dare go any faster, but he found his control and began to push faster, pumping her harder. He looked down at her perfect body, impaled on his cock, and he smiled. Tonight. We'll see about that....

As he stroked her, he wondered. Why had it bothered him? What had he wanted? Did he want her forever? He shook his head. It couldn't be that. His own mother had told him that same afternoon that he was a heartless monster.

 

[wideeyedone]

All of her defenses were gone. She was desire, she was pleasure, she was submission. And he was owning all of her, with his hands, his cock, his words, but most of all his voice.

She wanted to show him how much she was enjoying his touch and his control. She pushed back against him, wriggling her heart shaped ass against him. Her body squeezed him tightly as her breath started to quicken. Each stroke made her gasp and whimper.

"Harder, please, Sir. I need it hard." She confessed breathlessly.

 

[CreepyFrank]

"Harder, please, Sir. I need it hard."

Francis fucked her harder. He wasn't sure where the anger came from, but it lit him up, and set him on fire. She wanted hard, and all he had to do was let go. A month of frustration, taking shit from his family. A lifetime of resentment. He took it all out on her pussy. His cock was a weapon, pounding into her body. He pushed her onto the bed, pinned her under him, and slammed into her brutally. He lay over her, arms wrapped around her, saving her from taking his full weight.

"My little fucktoy," he growled in her ear. "That's what you are. That's all you'll ever need to be."

 

[wideeyedone]

"Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir." The words bubbled out of her mouth like a chant. And the more she said them, the more she sunk into that submissive space. She began to shake underneath him as her first climax crashed over her.

Her pussy clamped on him tightly as she cried out.

"Just your fucktoy." She sighed.

 

[CreepyFrank]

Harder and harder he pounded her, rage fueling him, his hips pistoning up and down. He hardly even noticed she was cumming, until her pussy clenched, and he felt like his cock was held in an angry fist. He looked down, startled out of his angry trance, back into the moment, back into her. He kept his hips pumping, driving his cock in and out, smacking his hips against her ripe ass, stroking her through her climax.

He saw that look on her face, the one that said she was gone. It happened with some of them. It was like there was a whole other woman inside them that came out when they surrendered to a powerful man. Their essence came to the surface, and the mask of daily life fell away.

"Just your fucktoy," she sighed.

He pushed himself up, his cock pulling free from her pussy. He stood over her.

"Girl," he snapped, to get her attention. "You have a mouth. Finish me."

 

[wideeyedone]

She whimpered when he pulled out of her. But she scrambled up and knelt on the edge of the bed.

She touched his hard cock with her delicate fingers. She peppered his cock with dozens of baby kisses. She touched him like she was worshiping him. And then she took a deep breath and took him in her mouth. She took him all the way into her throat, her mouth pressed to his body.

She started taking long, slow strokes, looking up at him with her mouth full.