Page 68 of Tormenting Me

“Oh, Wes… holy shit.” She clenches around me and the plug.

“That’s nothing baby. Just wait until it’s my cock in here.” I ease two fingers inside her, feeling her tighten around me. “I know you’re going to make me come so fast with this tight little ass of yours. Fuck, look at you, baby. Such a fucking good little slut for me. Aren’t you, Layne?” I add a third finger inside her, and she gasps, sucking in a breath.

“Yes… Yes, I’m your good little slut.” She says through labored breaths.

I remove the plug and my fingers. Cleaning my hands with some wipes, I coat the plug in lube and tease her ass with the plug. It glides in smoothly, taking the place of my fingers. “Now, my beautiful wife, I’m gonna fuck this tight pussy with that plug in your ass until I’m ready to fuck it.” I pull my long Johns down and thrust my cock inside her waiting pussy. Fucking nirvana.

“Oh, fuck. Wes… I am so full.” Her thighs quiver and fight against the rope as I thrust inside her. The sounds she’s making tell me she is loving every second of this.

I make quick work of getting her as close to orgasm without letting her finish. I want her coming with me when I come inside her. Withdrawing from her pussy, I ease the plug out. I add lube to my cock and her hole, then push just the tip in. I give her a few moments before inching in a little more. Fuck, I need to get a grip or I am going to bust before I am fully inside her. “Ready, Ma Petite Mort? This is going to be quick. Your tight ass is going to take all my cum, baby.”

“Ahh, yes, Wes…” She moans as I feel her muscles relax around me.

I pull her bound body towards me as I seat myself completely inside her ass. Layne whimpers, so I give her a second to adjust to the sensation of being full like this. Once I feel her relax again, I thrust into her, picking up speed. I strum her clit with my thumb, “Fuck, Layne…are you going to come with me, baby? Damn, it’s so tight.” My breath catches and after a few thrust, I’m close to losing it.

The only response I get out of Layne is a series of moans and curses which make me smile. “My dirty fucking girl likes when her husband fucks her ass like this? All tied up, to be used as he pleases?” Layne’s ass tightens around my cock, making it harder for me to pull out. I continue playing with her clit, feeling her whole body tense.

She screams “Wes,” as her orgasm breaks. I slam my hips into her, chasing my release, the sound of skin on skin filling the cabin.

I grunt a few times as I come, filling her full of my cum. Her ass grips my cock like a vice and I withdraw from her. Layne’s body goes slack against the ropes, fucked to the point of exhaustion. The clock overhead reads twelve in the morning. I hover over her face and place a kiss on her lips. “Merry Christmas, Layne.”

Chapter forty

Layne

In the loft, the smell of breakfast gently awakens me. My body still feels the intensity of last night, and the delightful ache brings a smile to my face. After untying me, Wes went above and beyond to ensure my safety and well-being, taking care of me by giving me a shower and tucking me into bed. The intensity of the sex was so overwhelming that it left us in a state of euphoria and exhaustion. I wouldn’t hesitate to let him do it again.

Down the ladder, I spot the packages under the tree, a roaring fire in the wood stove and him. Wes is in plaid pajama pants, with no shirt and a Santa hat. God, why does he always have to look so good? Classic Christmas music plays through the sounds system of the cabin, bringing a smile to my face. As I make my way over to him, I spot the table set with breakfast. I can’t contain the joy that fills my heart.

Wes did this all for me, knowing I missed out on Christmas as a child. Best husband ever award goes to him hands down. This man is trying to undo a lifetime of hurt and missed memories all because he loves me.

“Merry Christmas, Layne.” He presses his lips to my forehead as he pulls me into his chest for a hug. “Breakfast or presents first?”

“I’ll be a good girl and eat breakfast so that it’s still hot.”

Wes serves me breakfast, French toast, bacon, eggs and strawberries. I raise my eyebrows at him as I watch him eat the strawberry he spears with his fork. “Eat, Layne.” I giggle as I take a bite, and moan at the syrupy goodness.

“Fairytale of New York,” plays and I sing along as we eat. Behind Wes, I can see out the window and it’s snowing pretty hard. We finish up eating and I clear the table, scraping the plates into the trash and then sticking them in the sink of water. Once I’ve finished, we head to the tree. I grab the gift I wrapped for him.

Wes sits on the floor in front of the wood stove, his cup of black coffee in hand. I thrust my gift toward him. “You put all of this together, you get to go first.”

He places his cup down and takes the gift in his hands, his jade eyes softening, and a smile spreading across his face. He rips the wrapping paper like a little kid and lifts the lid on the box. Wes pulls out the mask from the bed of tissue paper. I am giddy with excitement!

“I found it in a shop in Berkeley when I was out with Atlas and Sky. It’s an authentic “Scab mask” from 2004.” Wes has been wearing a balaclava because a buckle on his old mask and we haven’t found a permanent fix for it. So it was luck I found this one while out shopping.

My support of his “hobby” is no surprise. How could I not when all he wants to do is make sure people are safe? Despite everything, his look says it all. He crawls over to me. My heart stops for a moment, watching him crawl, going back to him, crawling toward me after killing Bannister. He scoots next to me and kisses me, tender and sweet. “Thank you. This means so much to me, baby.”

Wes reaches under the tree for two gifts. One is an envelope, the other a rectangular box.

“Technically, this gift,” he holds up the envelope, “is for both of us. So open this one first.” He places the box in my hands. I rip the wrapping paper off and open the lid. Inside sits three beautiful silver blades. Each blade bears an engraving and skulls. One has our wedding date, another has “Ma Petite Mort“ and the last one has, “Gràdh, do Bhuanadair.”

I look up and him and smile. “What does it say?”

“It says “Love, Your Reaper”, in Scots Gaelic. You’ll have me with you always. I made sure they would fit in your harness when I had them made. I didn’t think they would be ready in time. But the day you went to Berkeley, the guy called and said they were ready. Talk about luck.” Wes takes one out and twirls it between his fingers.

It’s so hot when he does that. “Show off,” I huff.

“You love it.” He isn’t wrong.

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