The Hitman’s Angel

Something tightens inside me and I suck in a breath, trying to loosen it. But moving on Daddy’s shaft only makes the quickening worse and I have no choice but to endure the blissful discomfort that cranks to a new level every time I’m impaled. Daddy gives me all of his weight, grunting into my neck, and if possible, his erection seems to plump larger and larger. My body seems to know it needs to produce more wetness to accommodate his increasing size—and it does, creating a wet, suckling sound in the room. It’s interspersed with the sound of Daddy’s full balls pounding off my backside with increasing swiftness. We’re building to something and I can only spread my thighs wide like a good girl and let the edge approach.

“You like how my raw cock feels, angel?” he grits out.

I bury my nails in his shoulder and cry out. “Yes!”

“Then you will show your appreciation,” he says, looking down at me, his accent thicker than usual. “Make cream for Daddy. You are allowed to enjoy apologizing.”

Three more drives of his thick sex into my narrow entrance and I can’t take the building pressure anymore. My breath hitches along with the tiny muscles between my legs. They clench and shake and squeeze around Daddy’s hardness. I hear my voice in the distance sobbing and begging. For what, I don’t know, because I’m already being hit by wave after wave of pleasure, moisture gushing at the juncture of my thighs. And when he growls a curse in Russian and pins my knees wide on the bed, pounding me one final time before throwing back his head and shouting, my own bliss increases tenfold.

I’ve pleased him. And God knows I’ve been pleased in return.

I can’t even move my limbs as Lenin falls onto the bed beside me and wraps me in a warm embrace. “My sweet Margaret. You are not in pain?” He lays kisses all over my face. “Your orgasm drips from my cock, but I need you to tell me you are well.”

“I’m well,” I answer, dazed. “I’m super well.”

“No more crying.” His voice is harsh. “You ripped my heart out.”

I turn in his arms and kiss his stubbled chin. “I don’t think I’ll have many reasons to cry in the future.” Feeling shy, I can only manage to sneak a look at him. “Not with you around.”

His chest rumbles. “Yes, angel. I am very much in your life. Now and always.” He kisses my forehead with aching tenderness. “Now sleep so I may have the privilege of protecting you through the night.”

My yawn is huge. “Protecting me from what?”

Is it my imagination or does something cold dance through his eyes? “Not a thing, angel.” He pulls me into the warmth of his chest and suspicion melts away. “Sleep.”

Lenin

I’m in a snowstorm, much like the white, howling blizzards I experienced growing up in Russia. I’m cold enough that my skin is turning blue, but I don’t have a single worry for myself. I have to find Margaret. Where is she? I can hear her crying, but I can’t make out a single shape in the blinding white vortex around me. I rip at my hair and bellow her name.

She needs me.

Where is my angel?

Only tonight she was beneath me, taking me inside her virgin body, giving me pleasure like I never thought to experience. The best night of my life. I cannot live without her touch, her voice, her presence now that I’ve experienced her. Who has taken her from me?

“Lenin.”

There. Her voice is closer now. I trudge through the whipping wind, my arms outstretched so they can close around her at the earliest opportunity. “Margaret!”

“I’m here.” Her hands touch me but I can’t see them. “I’m right here.”

Nightmare? Am I having a nightmare?

I look around and find the ground elevated at odd angles, the sound of the storm unnatural. It’s possible this isn’t real. Please don’t let it be real. Forcing myself to open my eyes, I release a hoarse breath when I find myself looking into Margaret’s panicked eyes. She slumps.

“There you are.” She strokes the sides of my face and I’m thrust from hell into heaven. “You were having a bad dream—”

I cut her off when I yank her into my arms. She wraps her arms around my neck, legs circling my waist, her sweet, naked body molding to my harder one. She’s okay. She’s right here and everything is okay now.

“Please don’t ever cry again,” I rasp into her neck. “I can’t seem to recover from it.”

“I’m sorry.” She kisses a line down my shoulder. “Girls just cry sometimes.”

“You will not do it anymore, Margaret.”

“What if I watch a sad movie?”

“Only happy movies from now on.”

“Those make me cry sometimes, too.”

I release a miserable sound and draw her closer. “What makes you happy? I need to have back-up plans lying around in case your face starts leaking again.”