Page 87 of Castaway Whirlwind
Layla squeals and drops the hose when I rush her, spinning her so her back is against the upright tailgate, my lips traveling down her neck while I cup her breasts, rolling my thumbs over her sensitive pink nipples. She arches and whimpers when I sink to my knees in a puddle of sudsy water and take her right nipple into my mouth, gentle at first as I suck on it, then harder.
Layla spears her fingers in my hair, tugging me closer. “Oh, yes, Daddy, more.”
Having gone three days past her due date with her second pregnancy, thanks to another successful round of IVF, suckling from her is as pleasurable as it is practical to help encourage her body to go into labor. Being nothing short of a bulldozer and working exhaustively to achieve my goals inall things, I’m more than happy to lend my services to my gorgeous wife.
I work her shorts down her thick hips and thighs, help her lift her boots free of the now soaking wet fabric so she can spread her legs, and discover her pussy is already primed for two of my fingers that I slowly press inside. Her head thunks against the top of the tailgate, her mouth dropping open, crying out for me as I increase my suction.
“Oh god, yes, Daddy, I’ve been waiting for you. Almost…”
I pump in and out of her faster and faster while I massage her clit with my thumb until she screams, “There, right there!” and cums on my hand.
I press a kiss to the top of her belly before springing up and shoving my waistband down low enough that my jeans will fall to my ankles. Lifting her right leg with my hand under her knee, I line my cock up with her entrance.
She hisses as soon as I push half my length inside her, her face pinched with pain while digging her fingernails into my arms.
“Oh god, darlin’, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go too deep too soon.” Bereft at having hurt her with my impatience, I pull out quickly.
“No, no,” she says, bending with an arm hooked around her stomach, leaning against me for support. “It’s not that. I think it worked. The nipple stimulation.” Her smile is ethereal as she rolls her teary eyes up to mine.
“You’re going to be a mom to two in a few short hours,” I say, kicking off my jeans so I don’t trip as I swing her up into my arms so I can carry her inside, my heart pumping full of pride and love for my little darlin’.
“Two,” she echoes in awe, palming my cheek, arching for akiss when I set her down in our bathroom so I can draw a warm bath for her, where we’ve learned she likes to labor through her contractions before they get close enough that it’s time to call Dr. Patel and head to the hospital. “I still can’t believe this is my life sometimes.”
“Believe it, darlin’,” I say, giving her a lingering kiss before helping her carefully step into the tub, an absolute vision for me to feast on and memorize when she lays back. “You deserve it and more.”
“So do you, Russell. I love you. We love you so much,” she whispers, turning me into a blubbery mess as I kneel beside the bathtub and reach into the water to set my hand on her belly, feeling it tighten with a short contraction. “So, so much.”
After seven long, exhausting, beautiful hours, with the birth of our second daughter, Dee, completing our family, there’s only one thing left to do to ensure our dreams remain our reality.
And I’m counting the days.
* * *
6 months and 11 days later
Elliott kills the headlights on his Bronco when he turns onto the pot-hole-riddled asphalt, pulling up slowly to park behind me on the side of the road, as close to the tree line as we can get. He hops into my passenger side, squinting as he studies the rundown transitional housing with algae-covered cheap vinyl siding bowing away from the one-story structure located an hour and a half away from our hometown. Except for alone yellow light shining through the bent and broken kitchen blinds on the right side of the flat-faced house, the windows are dark after three of the four occupants have left for work or whatever it is that they do.
He’s home, he’s alone, and he’s got everything that’s coming to him.
Elliott asks, “Whose house is that?”
I pass him a pair of leather gloves, pulling mine on when I answer, “Who do you think?”
“Ah.” Elliott shifts to pull his sawed-off from inside his jacket. “Scaring, maiming, or killing?”
“Scaring since he’s on parole.” I’d be at the top of the law’s list of suspects if he were to get hurt or disappear. I don’t want to risk getting arrested or put on trial, even if I would eventually get off.
Elliott grunts, disappointed.
“For now,” I add, flipping down my visor, where I keep a picture of my girls from the big family trip we took with Paul, Trace, and Elliott to the Great Smoky Mountains a month ago. We had to rent two cabins side by side to fit everyone since the kids now outnumber the adults, lord help us all. Kissing my first two fingers, I press them to Layla’s sweet face, then flip my visor back up.
Another grunt, this one more approving. “I take back, you take front.”
That’s all the discussion we have before Elliott slips out of my truck. Though the houses here aren’t as spread out as where we are, they are far enough apart for us to do some damage without the cops getting called on us immediately. I hurry to catch up, though Elliott is already around back, impatient to finish up and get home, before I’ve even pulledopen the torn screen door.
“Gotdangit,” I spit, cringing at the boom Elliott creates when he kicks down the back door before I’ve finished picking the lock on the chipped front door. The ancient, water-damaged subflooring, stripped of its laminate, bounces as I stomp to the back of the house that smells of wood rot and overripe bananas, following Elliott’s grunt toquit squealing like a stuck pig.
Thepigin question is a pathetic, sniveling mess in his gray boxers in the middle of his bed while Elliott levels the gun at his head. Prison has done a real number on his once lean but strong body and mind, especially since I kept paying inmates to start fights with him, pushing his parole date further and further back due to hisbad behavior.
Even in the dark, I can see well enough that he’s gaunt, aged at least a decade in only half the time, missing the top third of his right ear with a jagged edge as if it had been chewed off by a rabid dog beneath his buzzed-short black hair. For a brief moment, he appears hopeful when he spots me behind Elliott. What a joy it is to see it register on the sunken face of the man who abused my darlin’ for ten years that I’m not here to help.
“No,” Steven croaks, scrambling back against the wall the bed is pushed up against, hugging his knobby knees to his pale chest. “No, please. I promised I would stay away from Layla and Harper when I got out!”
“I was coming here to make sure you kept your promise, but…” I give Elliott a malicious grin, pulling a packet of zip ties and a black hood from my jacket pocket. “I changed my mind. We’re going with option three.”
—THE END—
