Pets 2: Pani's Story (20 page)

That came two upgrades later, when her groans of pleasure turned to just plain groans. She panted through the worst of the discomfort, her traitorous pussy still trying to interpret the sensation as wonderful, especially when Papa pet her there. He fucked her with the anal plug, slow at first, then faster. Probably just to hear her squeal, and of that she did a fair bit; long, lusty cries broken by breathless, panting sobs.

She was sweating now. Tickling drops dripped from her forehead onto her cheeks, falling 88

from her chin like tears. They followed the slope of her back, and trickled down the inner curves of her thighs. Her hips bucked, the rhythmic tightening of her muscles making the horse creak as she sought alternately to push back into his thrusts and then cringingly to escape them. She was ready for him to remove the plug now, but when he finally took his hands away, it was still buried deep inside her, still making her body sing despite the ever-present undercurrent of discomfort panging through her sorely used bottom-hole.

Oh yes, she was ready for the plug to be gone. But what she was not ready for was the whisper soft sound of clothes falling to the floor an instant before his hand slid up over the curve of her rump to grasp her hips an instant before she felt the hot, mushroom head of him butting up against the slippery folds of her sex, gliding up and down along the wetness until she parted for him. A single, silken thrust and he was in her, despite his size, despite her shrill gasp and the near electric jolt of her body as she took him so deeply inside her that she felt it when he bumped up against her womb. That part didn’t feel so good, but everything else…from the incredible fullness of him, to the friction of his movements touching all the right places all at once—Pani arched as high as her bonds would allow, aching to rub against him, to feel him touching all of her—everything else felt deliriously good.

He rumbled, a low growling groan of absolute pleasure, and she felt the vibrations rippling through her. Hot kisses brushed along her nape, hot soft caresses of his mouth that gave way to the light scraping of his teeth as he nipped her skin. Then he began to thrust. He wasn’t all inside her, but he was as deep as he could go and Pani’s gasps built quickly into shrill cries, muffled by her gag as he rode her. Slowly at first, so careful of his strength, and yet with a vigor that was building quickly in time with the shivering spasms winding tighter and tighter inside her. Until they snapped, the horse creaking with the force of her convulsions as she came.

Hard. Over and over, the strokes of his cock rocking her, the slaps of his hips bumping the base of the anal plug until it felt as if she were being fucked both ways at the same time. It hurt and it felt good; it made her cry, but she came anyway.

He didn’t. He slid out of her instead; the ripples of her orgasm so sharp and hard, and the friction of losing him so intense that it almost hurt. It was a hurt almost overwhelming enough to mask the pang that ravaged her bottom when Papa took hold of the anal plug and pulled it out.

“Ugh!” She arched her hips, the strap at her waist creaking as she fought to move, maybe even to ride back against him as she felt the press of his cock slipping up into the crevice of her buttocks to take its place.

Pani shook her head, but his hands said yes in soft caresses that trailed from her hips, up the slope of her back to her shoulders and back down again. He pushed gently, but gentle made very little difference. He was thicker than the object he replaced and the shock of taking him, the girth and the length as he sank all the way to the hilt inside her, turned her groans to full-throated grunts and cries.

This was for him, and he took her that way, riding her with a building fury. The wet slapping of his balls against her pussy mixed with the muffled squeals and screams the gag could not stifle completely. Now it hurt. He was tearing her apart, and yet her muscles locked in tight around her, letting the pain and the pulsing shocks of her battered pussy push her into yet another climax, more intense than anything that had come before. Thank God he didn’t last much 89

longer. His final shout drowned out her keening cry as he came, his fingers digging hard into her hips as he jerked her back onto him, skewering her on the full length of his cock even as she felt the hot gush of fluid bathing her wounded bowels.

Tiny shuddering shocks rocked her as he slipped limp from her body. Softly, he pressed one last kiss to her shoulder, soothing the stinging marks his teeth had left behind.

“Good girl,” he murmured, resting his forehead upon her shoulder, breathing heavily against her skin. “Papa’s good girl.”

Pushing himself to rise, he began removed her blindfold and then her gag, taking a moment to stroke both her tears and hair back from her sweat-dampened face before he finished released her from the horse.

Her bottom ached. She felt raw. Ravaged. Deep, deep inside as well as upon the tender surface where he rubbed, massaging her sorely violated bottom hole as if to apologize for the roughness of his handling. As Pani slid weakly from the horse, she caught his wrist and pushed his hand away. Her whole body thrummed and sang, groaning and weak and still trembling in the aftermath. Afraid she might cum again, she wanted to walk away and yet, somehow, one staggering, disoriented step after the other, only managed to follow him to the nearest chair.

He sat, pulling her onto his lap.

“Ow,” she mewed, reaching back to touch herself where it hurt the most. “Oh…ow…” Her fingers came away wet. Not with blood, though her stubborn eyes tried so valiantly to see it that way. Instead, a mixture of fluids, hers and his, mingled with clear lubricant on her fingertips and smelled of musky arousal.

“What are you doing to me?” Tears spilled from her stinging eyes, and another low shivering aftershock of pleasure rippled out from her womb. “What are you doing to me?!”

“Shh.” He pulled her head down to his shoulder, rubbing her back and letting her cry against him.

Exhausted, confused, wanting to be comforted more than she wanted to get away, Pani lay against him. Papa’s good little girl. Good little play thing. Well-loved, well-cherished, well-fucked, whether she wanted to be or not.

And it had felt good.

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The morning sun had just peeked above the horizon when Pani opened her eyes. Her stomach was rumbling and she really, really had to pee.

She lifted her head, rubbing her fists sleepily across her eyes through the warm cloth of sleepsack. Then she looked at Papa, still sound asleep, lying on his back with his hand on her bottom as she sprawled comfortably on top of his stomach. He breathed in deeply, and she rose with his chest. Never in all her life had she ever thought she could be comfortable sleeping so close to another person; funny, the things a girl could get used to. Moving slowly so as not to wake him, Pani slipped out from under his hand and, even more carefully, crawled off his chest.

It took a very long time for her to get her fingers up through the narrow neck and the collar of her bunting bag to wiggle the strap loose. She rolled onto her stomach before lowering herself to the floor, feeling for the carpet with her feet. She did her best not to shake the bed as she pushed off it, but the soft mattress still jostled although not enough to stir Papa. She leaned over him just to make sure, but his next breath was still a deep snore.

The sleepsack’s buckle clanked loudly when she finally worked it fully open enough to shimmy out of it. Some strange little habit from the back of her mind made her fold the sack neatly before laying it on the bed beside him. Again, she checked to make sure Papa was still asleep before, as naked as the day she was born, she snuck down the hall to the bathroom. Her bare feet padded softly from carpet to bare floor as she crossed the bathroom threshold and softly closed the door. She didn’t often get privacy, so she took grand advantage of this rare moment.

When she was done and the toilet had been flushed, she climbed up onto the counter long enough to wash her hands. As she was drying them on a towel, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Although she no longer felt much like the old Judy, it surprised her that she didn’t look all that different. She could still recognize bits of who she used to be lurking behind the grey eyes of the woman staring back at her: Judy, in a tangle of red and gold, hip-length curls, with the hicky-like marks of Papa’s kisses marking her breasts and fingerprint bruises all over her bottom.

She twisted halfway around, rising up on her knees to catch a better look as she smoothed a hand down over her hip, following the curve of flesh. One of these days she probably ought to make at least a halfhearted attempt at obedience. Who knows, she might actually like going a day or two without being spanked. Her mouth twisting in a wry grimace at the thought, she hopped down off the counter and headed back to bed.

Picking up her sleepsack, she shook it out once and then bent to climb back into it, but stopped when her stomach growled again. Laying her hand over her empty belly, she glanced across the wide expanse of bed to where Papa still lay, flat on his back, sleeping. He didn’t stir, not even when she heaved herself carefully up beside him, the mattress jarring softly as she crawled close enough to lean over him. His face showed absolutely no signs of waking.

“Papa?” she whispered. If she were braver, she’d have poked his shoulder or maybe even shaken him awake, but she’d never tried rousing Papa before and she didn’t know how to say

‘I’m really very hungry’ so there was no telling how he’d react. Probably not happily. Lord 91

knew, she didn’t like it when he shook her from a sound sleep.

She glanced from him to the floor, and from there to the closet. Papa had already put yesterday’s clothes in the hamper and although she could open the tricky latch on the closet door in the nursery, the clothes were all on funny hangers that didn’t release when she tugged at them. It was only her and Papa anyway; who was there to care if she went naked? On bare feet, Pani padded quietly back down the hallway and down the stairs.

Her stomach took her straight to the kitchen, where she stood for a time tapping her fingers together uncertainly and studying the over-sized appliances. Spying what looked a little like a cookie jar in a half-open upper cupboard, she pushed a stepstool up to the counter by the fridge and climbed up to get the jar. One glance inside told her the contents weren’t cookies, although it might have been some sort of dried fruit, the dark red meat of the wrinkled pieces stiff but still relatively soft and with an almost sweetish smell when she sniffed one cautiously.

Pani nibbled an experimental bite, shuddered expressively at the sour taste that instantly flooded her mouth and promptly put the uneaten portion back in the jar. Setting the jar back where she found it, she closed the cupboard door. Everything else she could see was a food component, stored in boxes or plastic-like containers. Nothing looked like it could be eaten “as is”, and if it could, it probably wouldn’t taste any better than the ‘fruit’ had.

Sighing, Pani glanced up on top of the fridge where her protein powder was stored. She was just contemplating the pros and cons of fixing herself a bottle when she spied a bowl of eggs on the counter. She hadn’t been much of a cook even before she’d been Pani, but she was pretty sure she could fry an egg.

Selecting one, she put it closer to the edge of the counter where she could reach it and then hopped down to the floor. She found a frying pan and placed it on the stove, taking a moment to look at the gas-style burner. A quick glance around revealed nothing that looked like a match or a lighter, and that made her pause. If the stove wasn’t self-igniting, would she be able to light it before something bad happened? She really wasn’t out to burn the house down, and the last thing she wanted was to get hurt herself. Again, she tapped her fingers, half-tempted to give up right here. She’d almost rather wake Papa up than to risk operating an appliance she wasn’t sure she’d be safely able to control, but then her stomach rumbled again.

She held her breath and placed her hand upon the knob to turn and, hopefully, ignite the stove.

“No!” Papa came charging through the open doorway, as angry as she had ever seen him. He grabbed her hand off the stove, jerking her hard away from it and shouting, “No! No!” as he slapped the backs of each hand in turn.

The crisp impacts made her jump and her jaw dropped at the instant thunderclapping sting that shot through her fingers and up her arms. She didn’t even get the chance to rub the worst of the smart away, because no sooner had he smacked her hands and shut off the stove, than did he grab her up under one arm like a disagreeable child before raging through his kitchen in search of a sturdy spatula.

“Wait!” she wailed when he grabbed one, a long thick flat piece of wood from a crock by the stove. She grabbed at his arm; she even tried to cover her bottom, but he still braced his foot upon the lowest rung of the stepstool and tossed her across his knee.

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“No!” Her scream turned high-pitched and frantic, but he blistered her anyway.

And it was blistering. Hard staccato cracks and slaps that filled the tiny kitchen like gunshots, and though she’d never been shot in her life, the pain had to have been comparable.

She snapped her hands back, palms up, fingers widely splayed to shield as much tender flesh as she possibly could. Papa was spanking so hard and so fast that he couldn’t stop in time and the spatula caught the tips of two fingers—one on each hand—and instantly, pain was sharply redefined in her mind. It became white-hot and pulsating, shooting up through her hands and into her arms with a sharp intensity that was truly break-stealing.

Howling, Pani yanked her hands back in front of her, wildly shaking them as if she could throw the worst of the hurt right off her fingers, but his renewed assault on her backside quickly had her hands dashing back behind her again.

He was scolding her, but she barely heard a word of it, not over the volume of her own wailing sobs as she broke down into tears. She couldn’t get off his knee, no matter how she twisted, bucked or rolled. She couldn’t grab the spatula or even stay his tireless arm, and the spanking went on and on and on, firing every bare inch of her buttocks in that searing white heat and then branching down onto the backs of her very tender thighs. He turned her skin a sizzling, hot cherry red, and in the end, only stopped because the spatula broke. The splintering crack of breaking wood was followed one smack later by the ricochet of the detached paddle-shaped head as it bounced off her bottom and landed with a clatter in the sink.