This time, she put all of her strength into the hit. She put her whole arm behind it, hitting me with enough force to make my entire face tingle.
It was exactly what I wanted.
I pictured doing the same to her, making her feel the pain I just felt.
And that was enough for me.
I came inside her, filling her perfect pussy with come.
The disappointment in her eyes was unmistakable. She didn’t find her release because I didn’t give her a chance.
It was intentional.
“That’s for your little stunt back there.” I pulled out of her, letting my come drip onto her bedding. “And if you touch yourself, I’ll punish you even more.” I didn’t wipe myself off before I pulled my bottoms back on. I had to get ready before my family came over, and I didn’t want to stay and chat with her, not when I was still pissed at her. “Stay here until I tell you otherwise.”
“I’m not a dog, Conway.” She closed her legs and sat upright, looking thoroughly fucked and beautiful.
“No, you aren’t. But you’re my prisoner all the same.”
* * *
The black SUV came into the roundabout, black-tinted windows with bulletproof glass. The passenger door opened, and my mother stepped out in a long white dress with tan strappy sandals. Her brown hair was in curls down her chest, and the sunglasses on her face couldn’t hide the happiness in her eyes.
She gave me the same smile I’d received my entire childhood.
She hopped slightly as she made her way to me, the excitement written all over her face. I was a grown man and had been out of the house since the day I turned eighteen, but to her, I was still crawling across the floor in a diaper.
A foot shorter than me, she wrapped her arms around my waist and squeezed me with the strength of a professional wrestler. “My son…” Her cheek rested against my chest, and she breathed a happy sigh.
I squeezed her back, her petiteness similar to Muse’s. “Hey, Mom.”
“You’re bigger every time I see you.”
“I hope not.”
She chuckled. “You know what I mean.” She pulled away then placed her hand on my cheek. She looked into my expression like I was a painting rather than a person. “You look so much like your father. It makes me very happy.”
“I’ve always been a little disappointed about it.”
She chuckled again then pulled her hand away.
Vanessa came next, her brown hair pulled into an updo and her olive skin beautiful under the summer sun. She wore a strapless yellow dress that was tight around her slender waist. She pulled her sunglasses off her face as she walked toward me. Her eyes were mixed with annoyance but also excitement. She was pissed about the stunt I’d pulled a few weeks ago, but she’d get over it. “Brother.” She hugged me.
“Sister.” I blew off her hug by giving her a quick pat on the back instead.
She stuck her tongue out at me. “You’re lucky I have to love you no matter what.”
“You’re even more lucky.”
She rolled her eyes and walked into the house.
My father came next, in black jeans and a black t-shirt. I hardly saw him wear anything else except that color. In fact, I’d never seen him wear the color white. He walked up the steps toward me, his moss green eyes locked on to my face with intense concentration. It was difficult to tell if he was angry or not because he seemed angry all the time—at least he looked that way.
Mom stood off to the side, watching us as my father moved closer.
He approached me in the entryway, his face clearer now that the bright sun wasn’t washing out his features. His jaw was a hard line, despite his age. His face was slightly weathered from sun exposure, but it made his skin tight and gave him a glow of youth. His shoulders were still strong, and his forearms were corded with veins. My dad had been ripped his entire life, and even without seeing him with his shirt off, it was obvious that he was still in great shape. Ever since I could remember, my father ran around the estate every morning and then used his private gym afterward. There were times when I’d look out the window in the morning on summer vacation and see his outline on the other side of the vineyards. He’d always been a role model to me, the definition of what a strong man should be. The strong and silent type, he didn’t say anything unless it was worth being said. He showed my mother he loved her by the way he looked at her, the way he touched her. He commanded the respect of his children through his silence, not his anger. He laid the foundation of exactly what I should be, and because of him, I’d become the man I was today. “Son.”