Page 8 of House Rules

"If you can't keep your mouth shut, we'll just keep it open," he snarls, only to chuckle and add, "I guess that worked last time too, didn't it?"

He releases my hair, and I faceplant gracelessly, not that he can see. He has to grope around for my ankles in order to slide me down off the edge of the bed, putting me in the same position I was before except my feet aren't even touching the ground. He's about to fuck me, I'm guessing, but at least I'm draped over a bed this time.

"The problem with you is you're not just a brat," he muses as he gropes around again, this time for something on the bed. "The problem is that no matter how I punish you, you'll love it because you're also a whore."

Hate flares through me at his accusation. I kick him, hoping to hit the jewels, hoping he's hard and it will hurt so much he pukes all over himself, hoping his balls will explode and he'll never get a boner again. I don't care if I lose the money. I don't care if I go to jail.

No one calls me that. I'm not a whore.

My foot connects with dense, muscular thigh. He barely moves. And two seconds later the pain that reverberates from across the backs of my thighs has me choking again.

A paddle.

A wooden paddle.

He just hit me with a wooden paddle.

"Try that shit again, and I'll go for your feet," he warns, and there's nothing less than venom in his tone. "And be thankful you're gagged, or else I'd spank an apology out of you, and we would probably end up dying before I ever got that apology."

He's right. I don’t apologize to assholes.

"So here's the problem with bratty whores," he says with a sigh as he sits down next to me and pats my ass like he's nothing more than a friendly guy who doesn't get boundaries, but my flesh is on fire.

I suck in a breath as quietly as I can, but it gurgles around the ball in my teeth.

He makes a quiet, thoughtful sound. "That right there. That's the problem. No matter how I punish the brat, the whore in you loves everything that's done to her."

"I'm not a whore," I argue, the ball making the words incoherent.

"I hurt you, I know I did”—and I swear I hear regret there somewhere—"but your cunt is drenched right now, isn't it?"

"No," I huff out, an easy-to-understand response despite the muffling.

Ted doesn't hesitate to curl three fingers into my pussy, still so stretched from having all those dicks in it that he meets no resistance. He scoops up the mess there and says, "Whose cum is this, pet? Is this yours? Is it mine or Luke's or Greg's or Crenshaw's? Is it Lisa's cum that Paul fucked into you?"

I refuse to answer. I know he's right on all of his guesses, and I refuse to admit that. I refuse to admit that it's mostly mine because I'm so wet from his spankings that it's running down the gully between my thighs.

Apparently this was the time to respond because he grabs my hair to yank me up again and smears the mess all over my nose and upper lip. The stench has my stomach wanting to purge, but rubbing my face on the blanket only pushes it into my nostrils. When I try to breathe through my nose, I can taste the filth in the back of my throat. Spittle flies out of me like a goddamn hound dog when I breathe around the gag, but I can’t escape it.

He stands back up, I figure to wash that funk off his hands. But two seconds later, his fat cock is inside me, stretching me all over again even though he says, "Your cunt's so loose I can't feel anything, whore."

But he can. I know because I can feel it, and the friction burns so bad that I want to bury myself under so many blankets that he'll never find me.

And at the same time, I want him to fuck me like this forever. I want to live my life impaled on his cock, I want him to never stop stretching me. Already I think I'm gonna soak my panties every time I smell ginger.

It's my breaking point. I'm not a whore. I'm not. Neither is my sister, nor is my mother, but everyone calls them that, and now he's calling me that and I hateI hatethat term.

But I want more.

And so I bury my face in the blanket and cry like no one is here, like no one will see me, like Ted won't be able to tell the difference between orgasm shakes and reckless sobs, like he won't misunderstand them for tears of pain or apology, that he won't think he's bested me.

To his credit, he doesn't slow down. He doesn't ease up. He just rests one hand over my neck and rubs circles into my shoulders as he fucks me.

Says, "That's it, whore, you want everything I'm gonna give you."

It makes me cry harder. I don't know why. I know I'm mad at myself for liking this and mad at him because he won't stop using that word, but it's his touch that has me so wrecked I feel like I'm going to suffocate all over again.

It's his touch that has me shattering as my whole body lights up on a powerful orgasm.

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