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“No.”
Arthur barely spares you a glance as the word, spoken with rigid authority, leaves his mouth, and then he’s gone, striding toward his horse with the arrogance of a man who’s certain there’s nothing left to say.
For a moment, all you can do is stare after him in stunned silence, wondering if the mountain cold somehow scrambled your head, because, surely, you’re seeing things. Arthur couldn’t possibly be walking away from you. Yet as his figure continues to shrink on the horizon, threatening to disappear entirely, shock is quickly replaced by acute indignation with the realization that the bastard is, indeed, walking away from you.
Well, he has another thing coming if he thinks you’ll just let him.
You grit your teeth as you stomp after him, irritation flaring in your veins. Insufferable, obstinate lout. Who the hell does he think he is, brushing you off like that? With each forceful step, your anger burns hotter, brighter, near blinding you completely, as Arthur’s form comes back into focus.
“This is a damn good lead, and you know it, Arthur!” You explode from behind him, shorter legs having to work double time to keep up with his own, “The house has been empty for days, and folks in town say the family won’t be back for at least another week! The money’s practically begging to be stolen! So, why the hell won’t you hear me out on this!?”
At that, Arthur stops, so sudden in his movement that you nearly stumble into him, failing to notice the tight set of his back, his taut muscles thrumming in agitation.
But then, he turns, and it’s impossible to miss. It’s only a small shift, a mere tilt of the head, yet you jerk upright, pierced by the steel glint of his eye shining brilliantly, dangerously, amidst the shadows steeped along his face.
“I won’t tell you again,” Arthur warns in a low drawl, “You ain’t robbing that house, so drop it already.”
He starts toward his horse again, but you’re quick to block his path, skidding around in front of him.
“Not until you tell me why!” You demand, scowling up at him with crossed arms.
“Don’t play dumb. You know why.”
With a scoff, he pushes past you to close what is left of the short distance to his horse, and you follow behind, unwilling to let this go. You stand next to him, watching, waiting for him to turn, to fully acknowledge you for once, but he never does, too busy fiddling with his goddamn horse.
“There’s a train passin’ through here in two days time,” Arthur says, enunciating the last bit with a grunt as he tugs harshly on the tie straps of his saddle, cinching it tight. “And me ‘n some of the others are gonna rob it. There ain’t nobody to go wit’chu.”
“I’ll go by myself then!” You snap, seething in frustration, “We need the money, Arthur. You know we do! Or, have you forgotten that everything we have is buried in a ditch somewhere back in Blackwater?!”
At that, Arthur whips around, his horse forgotten, and with a snarl set in his face, he stalks toward you, narrowed eyes ablaze with fury. The sight lights a crackle of instinctive fear in your belly, and you stumble back, spurs striking the ground in a stammered staccato, only to hit something rough and sturdy: a hitching post. By the time you realize, it’s too late. Arthur’s there, caging you in with his body.
He leans in close, mere inches away from your face.
“How about you let me worry about the money, and you worry about learnin’ how to follow orders, because I’ve told you one too many times already,” Arthur says, “You ain’t robbing that goddamn house. Do you hear me?”
Overwhelmed, your mouth opens wordlessly, an impulsive acquiescence on the tip of your tongue; however, your dignity bites it back. He’s the one being unreasonable, not you, and you’ll be damned before you let him have the last word.
Fueled with fiery conviction, you purse your lips, refusing to answer.
Arthur notes the defiance in your stature, vibrant as ever, but he doesn’t overlook it so easily this time. His hand shoots out, snatching your face and wrenching it upward to look him in the eye.
“I said, do you hear me, woman?!” He bellows.
Heat blooms across your face, your anger twisting with the sour sting of humiliation, as his exclamation draws more than a few astonished looks across camp, and beneath their penetrating stares, you capitulate, mumbling a petulant yes through gritted teeth.
Arthur studies you for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing with distrust, but evidently, he’s placated by something he sees as he relaxes, giving a firm nod of satisfaction.
“Good.” He says, taking a step back.
Striding back to his horse, he swings into the saddle with one fluid motion and fixes you with one final glare from atop it.
“Now stay here, and do as you’re goddamned told!”
With that, he pivots his horse with a click of the tongue, steering his mount toward the edge of camp where a few others have congregated to wait for him. You watch as Arthur joins them, taking the lead, and a chorus of horse whinnies echo back to you as they ride off into the wind, going who knows where. And as Arthur disappears from view, the judgment of camp soon becomes visceral. Tilly subtly eyes you from where she tends to the washing. Kieran gives you a furtive glance over the horse he’s brushing. Even Uncle pauses his day-drinking to stare at you while little Jack none too quietly questions, “Why was Uncle Arthur so mad, Mama?” Though Abigail is quick to shush him and ferry him along, sending an apologetic glance your way, the damage is done. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, a surge of embarrassment and anger coursing through you.
Damn him! Who the hell does Arthur think he is, ordering you around like that? Treating you like a child? You can take care of yourself, and you most certainly don’t need him. Hell, you’d probably be able to rob the house and be back before them.
You stop short as that thought sinks in. You could be back before them. The house is only about a half day’s ride away. If you left now, you’d be back by tomorrow night, a full day before they’re due to return.
The decision is made before you can think otherwise. Perhaps it’s a foolish one, driven only by a petty need to prove him wrong, but that doesn’t stop you from slinking over to your own horse and disappearing out of camp without a single trace.
After all, what Arthur doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
________
Try as you might, you can’t wipe the giddy grin off your face as you ride into camp late the next evening. Everything had gone according to plan, just like you’d said it would...well, mostly . Sure, the job hadn’t been quite as easy as you’d expected (news traveled fast and you weren’t the only one who’d had the bright idea to rob the place), but you managed to take care of the competition and snag a hefty three hundred dollars, all without a single scratch. And if that wasn't something to be damned proud of, then you don’t know what was.
Yet as you approach your usual hitching post, your smile falters, quickly dying off, for illuminated by the light of a stray lantern stands none other than Arthur’s horse. The very horse that isn’t supposed to be here.
Anxiety seizes you hard and quick. What the hell is Arthur doing back so soon? He’d specifically said a few days, not one. You’re sure of it. And yet, somehow, he’s here now, perfectly positioned to catch you red-handed.
Perhaps he already has.
Your hands tighten around the reins of your horse, heart racing as you consider the possibility. No doubt Arthur’s already noticed your absence. He did, after all, hitch his horse right next to where yours should have been. But, was your absence alone enough to tip him off? People are in and out of camp all day, all the time. Surely, he wouldn’t think anything of it.
But what if he did?
You swallow thickly, dread pooling in your stomach. God, you’re dead if Arthur knows. You’d already driven him to fury with the mere suggestion of the robbery. If Arthur finds out you not only followed through but, more than that, blatantly disobeyed him…well, suffice to say, you’d sooner take your chances with a dozen dirty O’Driscoll’s than face him.
You shudder before shaking the thought away. It won’t come to that. Arthur couldn’t possibly have been back long enough to have any true suspicions. Big jobs always bled late into the night, carried out as they were under the cover of darkness. At most, he’d been back an hour, maybe two. And while certainly not ideal, the timeframe was, blessedly, small enough to neither confirm nor deny any potential misgivings.
That is, if he even had any. Considering the late hour, Arthur was probably too tired to notice much of anything at all upon his return. He’d no doubt gone straight to bed, bone weary from the exertion of a lengthy job, meaning you were, in all likelihood, safe despite his proximity. So long as you could sneak back to your tent unnoticed, everything should— would —be fine.
Right?
As you slide down off your horse though, you can’t quite shake the feeling that you’ve already been caught. The fear gnaws at you, twisting your insides, while a voice, your better judgment perhaps, urges you to flee, and with each step you take toward camp, you’re more inclined to listen.
The whisper of the wind, the rustle of the brush, the chirp of the animals - it all transforms into a distorted apparition of Arthur. It’s his breath that teases the back of your neck. His footsteps that shuffle amongst the trees. His laugh that rings in your ear. You sense him everywhere and nowhere all at once, paranoia turning the normally quick jaunt back to your tent into an absurdly long, agonizing trek, full of anxious starts and stops as you jump at every sound.
It’s only as you venture into the heart of camp that the tension begins to lift, for it soon becomes clear that everyone is either asleep or too drunk to notice you at all. And in the stillness, protected by the warm light of the fire, caution gradually turns to confidence. It begins in your back, the tight set of your shoulders falling as they slowly ease back into their natural state. Then, your gaze settles, eyes no longer darting wildly in search of Arthur’s prowling form. Remaining fixed ahead, they instead search for your tent, and upon spotting it, meek, tiptoed steps lengthen into effortless strides, carrying you there in no time at all.
As you approach the entrance of your tent, you resist the urge to break into an all-out run, the promise of safety so near sending one final wave of anxiety coursing through you. You were so close, too close to risk it all now by causing a racket and waking up half the camp. Waking him. Because, surely, Arthur had to be asleep. You’d seen no sign of him at all.
Well, there was one way to be certain.
You glance behind you to spy Arthur’s wagon across the way, the majority of it obscured by a well-placed tree. All it would take is one look and your fears could finally be put to rest. One teeny, tiny look. What harm could it do?
You turn and take a step forward only to stop short. Unless, of course…this is exactly what Arthur wants. Perhaps he’s waiting, just out of sight, for you to stumble blindly, stupidly into his grasp, all of your own accord. You wouldn’t put it past him.
Then again… Arthur isn’t exactly known for his patience. He’s a man of action, someone who prefers to strike while the iron is hot. There’s no way he’d sit idly by if he knew. The nerves were just getting to your head, that’s all. They had to be.
You approach the tree, placing one hand against its rough bark. Then, taking a deep breath, you peer around the edge to survey Arthur’s wagon. It stands blessedly still, the coverings drawn and dark, blending seamlessly into the night.
He’s asleep. You’ve done it. You’ve actually managed to pull one over on Arthur.
A loud laugh of disbelief bursts free before you can think twice, exploding into the air and sending a bolt of panic racing through you. A few feet away, Swanson’s snores stutter at the noise, and you tense, holding your breath in anticipation. Please don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up. For a few agonizing moments, he teeters on the edge of consciousness, mumbling nonsense, but then, right when it seems like he’ll be pulled into the waking world, he rolls over, drifting back to sleep peacefully.
You breathe a long sigh of relief.
Unwilling to test your luck any further tonight (god knows you’ve surely used the last of it), you back away toward your tent, eyes sweeping across camp one last time in search of anyone else you might have disturbed. Only when you’re ensconced within, when the entrance flap has fallen and sealed you safely inside, does your vigilance cease, taking the worry you’ve been carrying ever since spotting that damn horse with it. And in its absence, all your earlier giddiness returns, a large grin breaking out across your face, so big you couldn’t bite it back even if you tried.
That is, until you hear a match strike behind you.
You freeze, blood turning to ice in your veins. No no no no no no. It couldn’t possibly be— Turning in quiet horror, you find Arthur resting against your cot, arms draped across bent knees, one hand holding a now lit cigarette. His hat hangs impossibly low, his emotions shrouded beneath it. Not a word, not a look, not even a breath is thrown in your direction.
His silence only serves to unnerve you more.
This isn’t right. The Arthur you know would’ve already torn you a new one, so why is he just…sitting there? You swallow thickly, sweaty palms curling into your skirts. Panicking now would only cost you the game. Ignorance, however, just might save it.
“Back already, Arthur?” You ask, trying desperately to mask the tremble in your voice, “I-I thought you said the job would take a few days.”
Your address does little to rouse him. The silence lingers, leaving you to squirm beneath its weight. Arthur, on the other hand, seems to revel in it. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, releasing the smoke on a deep sigh before allowing the fumes to settle in the air.
“Train was runnin’ ahead of schedule,” He says, voice gravelly as he talks around the cigarette, “so we had a last minute change in plans and pushed everything forward.”
He takes another puff, pinching the end between his thumb and forefinger as he pulls it from his mouth.
“I came back to camp, expecting to find ya here waitin’ to welcome me. Come to find out you haven’t been seen all day. Y’wanna tell me what that’s about?”
At long last, he raises his head, dark eyes locking with your own, and you stiffen beneath their intensity, suddenly wishing he’d never lifted them from the ground at all. He’s looking at you as though…as though he knows . As if he’s…waiting. And beneath his scorching gaze, a confession bubbles up, hanging on the tip of your tongue above a desperate plea for mercy—
“Hunting!” The lie springs forward before you can stop it, yet you, nevertheless, quickly latch onto it. Your self-preservation, it seems, runs farther than the depths of Arthur’s stare. “I-I was hunting.”
Unable to stand the burn of his gaze, your own slides down to settle on a spot just beyond his shoulder.
“You-you see, Pearson used the last of the meat in yesterday’s stew, and with you and Charles gone, there was no one here to hunt. So…I-I took it upon myself and set out early this morning. Those critters were so damn fast though . I didn’t even realize how late it was until the sun was going down, and by then, I’d chased them halfway across the Heartlands. I-I didn’t mean to be gone so long, I promise.”
Arthur gives a noncommittal hum, bowing his head low. And in the silence, confusion creeps in. Is-is that it then? Did he buy it? You take a hesitant step forward, then another, and then one more, overwhelmed by curiosity, and soon enough, you’re reaching out a hand, close enough to touch—
Faster than you can react, Arthur’s hand shoots out, snatching the satchel at your side, and with a deft flick of the finger, he opens it to find the proof of your sin: the wad of bills from the robbery.
Shit!
“Well, well, well,” Arthur says, lips turning upward into a mocking sneer, “Seems you’re nothing but a goddamn liar!”
He rises to his full height, pure, unadulterated fury pouring from every inch of his body. Horrified, you stumble back, desperate to save yourself, but it’s too late.
“Now, all I asked was that you stay put and listen to me!” He snarls, eyes blazing as he stalks toward you. “How hard can it be to follow a simple pair of instructions!?”
“I-I–” You stutter.
“But more than that, you lied to me!” Arthur roars, continuing as though you hadn’t even spoken. “I even gave you the chance to fess up, but you continued to act like a damn fool.”
He hurls the word fool with a venom so potent you can’t help but shrink away from it. Is that…is that truly what he sees when he looks at you? A fool? Well, you suppose it shouldn’t surprise you. Ever since that mess back in Blackwater, Arthur had hardly let you out of his sight, forever insisting that it was in everyone’s best interest to lay low at camp. Although, tellingly, he never spared the breath to lecture anyone but you.
The truth is, Arthur doesn’t trust you.
It bothers you more than you care to admit. You see how he treats the other girls, the way he lavishes them with praise when they manage to snag something off some sorry sod. Just once, you want him to look at you the same, eyes shining with pride after a job well done, easy praise in the form of a murmured good girl falling from his tongue on a low, shiver-inducing drawl. This was supposed to have been your chance. Your one brilliant shot to finally convince him of your worth. Now, in retrospect, it was a foolish thought. Arthur would never look at you that way, or any way, really. You were nothing but another silly, stupid girl in his eyes, and that’s all you ever would be.
You bow your head in dejected shame, all the will to fight now gone.
“I-I’m sorry,” You whisper.
By now, Arthur stands in front of you, chest heaving as the anger courses through his body thick and heavy. A beat of silence fills the air, one, two, three seconds, and for a moment, as he looks upon your sullen form, something flickers in his eyes, perhaps a twinge of mercy. But then, it vanishes, gone so quick it’s questionable if it even existed at all.
“Yeah,” He says, voice a low rumble, “You will be.”
Then, without hardly missing a beat—
“Get up on the bed. Face down.”
You jolt at the sudden command. Get up…on the bed? The words, so simple that even an idiot like MacGuire couldn’t possibly misconstrue them, manage to utterly confound you.
So much so, in fact, that you fail to notice the slow darkening of Arthur’s features, his patience wearing thinner with each passing second.
Until, finally, it snaps.
“Now!”
The guttural boom of his voice cracks along the length of your spine with whiplike precision, sending you stumbling forward in hurried, blind obeisance. You’re at the foot of your cot before you can blink. And yet still, you hesitate, unable to completely follow through.
You swallow thickly, glancing behind you to look at Arthur where his eyes, little more than murky, black pools in the dim light, bore into you, utterly unfeeling.
Waiting.
“Don’t make me tell you again.”
His final warning, dripping with dangerous promise, pulls at something deep in your belly, stirring a subtle warmth that is engulfed all too quickly by an onslaught of dread. This time, you don’t need to be told twice. The undisguised threat in his voice leaves no room for any more squirming attempts to weasel your way out of… whatever he has in mind. And so, despite the heaviness of your limbs, you crawl into the cot, settling face down, just as he asked, on your hands and knees.
In the darkness, blind to anything other than the faded cloth of your thin blanket, his presence rises to fill the entire room, oppressive.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
With each heavy footfall, your heart beats in tandem, staggering against your chest. He’s everywhere. He’s nowhere.
Until suddenly—
You jolt, flinching away, as Arthur slots himself behind you, yet easy hands quickly grab hold of your hips to steady you in place.
“Shh. Shh. Shh. Easy there. There’s no need to be scared now.” He says, one hand sliding down the length of your thigh in a smooth, gentle caress.
You release a shuddered breath, tasting smoke, gunpowder, and sweat as you exhale. He’s close. Too close. It turns your head heady, the smothering heat of him pressing tantalizingly into the curve of your body, made all the worse by the poisoned honey words dripping from his tongue, filling your veins with a syrupy warmth. You’re helpless to deny him. Beneath his practiced touch, your muscles ease, pliant and willing.
“Good girl.” He praises. “That’s it. You’re alright.”
This time, when his hand slides down, his fingers catch on the hem of your dress. Soft muslin glides along your calf, baring first your ankle, then your knee, then— you tense, a rush of cool air shocking you with awareness.
Your head turns, preparing to object, when, suddenly, Arthur’s hand squeezes your thigh. Fingers digging into your skin, his strength, barely restrained, rises to the surface, branding a wordless warning against your flesh: There is no getting out of this, so be quiet and take it.
Any protests you might have offered die in your throat, bitten back as you sense the danger in the air. He’s past the point of reasoning. Only complete and utter submission will satiate him.
Swallowing thickly, your head falls forward, and Arthur’s grip eases, the languid, soothing ascent of his hand resuming as though nothing had happened at all. With it, your skirts rise ever further, soon leaving the thin material of your drawers as the only barrier between dignity and indecency.
But even that he takes, greedy for more.
His rough, calloused palms wrap around your thighs, twin thumbs creeping up your sides to tease the outer waistband of your drawers.
“Now, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” His thumbs dip below, scraping softly against your skin. “But, I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice.”
Slow, achingly slow, he drags his hands down, and you let out a shaky breath, trembling, throat pinching unbearably tight as you’re stripped of that last vestige of dignity and made bare before him. Ravenous, his molten eyes carve along your newly exposed flesh, igniting a trail of goosebumps in his wake. It shouldn’t thrill you, being on display like this, reduced to little more than a fatted calf ripe for the taking, and yet, beneath the scorching burn of shame, something else simmers: desire.
“M’only gonna tell you this once, so listen carefully,” Arthur says, voice rough and gravelly, “If you miss a number, we start again.”
It’s all the warning you get. The next moment Arthur’s hand cracks against your ass, knocking the breath from your lungs as the force of it pitches you forward, lurching onto your forearms. Pain explodes, searing across your skin like a thousand tiny needles, and instinctively, your fingers curl into the thin, scratchy blanket covering the cot, hardly able to keep yourself from crying out.
From behind you, Arthur whistles real low as he surveys his handiwork.
“Look at ‘er.” He says. “Sensitive little thing, ain’t she? Swellin’ real tight already.”
His hand comes up to palm the supple flesh appreciatively, and with it, tears spring in your eyes. Of pain or humiliation though, you can’t tell.
“I know that one hurt real bad, darlin’.” He croons, the slow caress of his thumb soothing your burning skin. “But, you’re gonna be good f’me, right?”
Though his voice stays honey-smooth, Arthur’s hand presses just a little harder, his thumb digging just a little deeper, and with it, the pain flares back to life, eliciting a small whimper from you as that blistering sting radiates outward once more. The silent command in his touch is unmistakable. Count.
“O-One.” You whisper.
No sooner does the word leave your mouth that he strikes again, and this time, you can’t help but cry out, having barely recovered from the first.
All too late you realize your mistake. Arthur wrenches you up, body against body, cheek against cheek. His thick arms band across your middle, just under the curves of your breasts, while his breath, hot and heavy, caresses the side of your lips, so close you can almost taste the tobacco on his tongue.
“You’d do well to keep quiet, girl.” He snarls softly, “You’re gonna wake up the whole damn camp if ya keep cryin’ like that, and I ain’t nowhere near finished with you.”
Heat flares in your veins, something in you trilling with anticipation at his words. More . You want more. But instead, he releases you, and as you collapse back onto the bed, all you can think about is how the loss of his warmth, of his firm weight pressing into you, leaves you aching .
“Now, do as you’re goddamned told, and count .” Arthur sneers, “I won’t tell you again.”
You swallow thickly, heart racing. “T-Two.”
Smack! He strikes again with whip-like precision, and you slap a hand over your mouth to stifle your cry, shivering yet longing to obey, to please him.
“Three.” You croak out.
You brace yourself for the next blow, but when it comes, something is different. No longer the perpetual sharp stab of a thousand pinpricks, the pain, only a slight tingle now, lasts a mere second before dissolving into the growing pool of heat gathering under your abused flesh. It's almost… pleasurable .
Unconsciously, you shift, angling your hips up.
“Four.” You say, a tad breathless.
And so it continues, for how long you don’t know. Lash after lash, blow after blow, over and over and over again, Arthur falls upon your tender flesh, and that heat grows ever hotter, ever larger. His hand is a brand against your skin. With every searing score of his touch, the flames of desire ignite anew, spreading farther, higher, turning your head sluggish, your veins viscous. And all the while, yawning, aching want salivates between your thighs, throbbing in tandem to each heavy strike of his palm.
It’s a wonder you last as long as you do.
“Eighteen.” You rasp.
And then, because you can’t quite help it, overcome as you are by that delicious warmth rippling through you, a low whine escapes your throat.
All at once, Arthur stills.
“Are you—“ He says, utterly incredulous, “Are you enjoyin’ this?”
Before you can answer, he slides one hand between your thighs, two fingers just barely teasing at your entrance. Yet, it’s enough to give you away completely. Your cunt spasms at the feather soft press, tensing desperately around nothing, dripping, weeping into his touch.
“Goddamn, you are!” Arthur laughs. “Look at’chu, makin’ an absolute mess. Your little snatch is damn near itchin’ to swallow my fingers.”
As though to prove his point, Arthur’s fingers curl against you, sliding languidly into the wet heat of your cunt, and a wave of violent pleasure roils through you. Hungry for more, you greedily clench around him, desperate to take whatever he’s willing to give.
At the sight, Arthur releases a labored breath, muscles thrumming with restraint. For so long, he’s waited to have you like this. On your hands and knees, splayed out before him. He’s dreamed about it. Been tortured by it.
But you just had to play the damn fool.
He’ll give you what you want, in time. But first, you still have a lesson to learn.
His belt buckle jangles, followed by a slight rustle of clothing, and soon, Arthur’s fingers are replaced by the thick length of his cock. With one hand, he guides himself between the slick folds of your pussy, beginning to move in the shallowest of thrusts, teasing, taunting in the slow drag of his cock along your cunt. Up…and down. Back…and forth. And with every pass, tiny, jolting bursts of pleasure wrack through your body, blinding yet fleeting. Maddeningly fleeting.
You shift, desperate for relief as the ache inside, that overwhelming emptiness, becomes nigh unbearable.
“Arthur, please, I’m sorry.” You choke out.
“Shh shh shh. I know you was just trying to help.” He soothes. “But what ya did was dangerous, darlin’. You could’a been hurt real bad. So, I need’ta know that you’ll listen next time, alright? Now, why don’t you use that pretty mouth of yours and tell me what you want, huh?”
Taking himself in hand, Arthur nudges the head of his cock against your entrance.
“Go on. Show me what’chu can do.” He prods.
Tell him what you want? If only that were as simple as it seemed. You’d spent months running from this, from your desire. And even now, spread before him, you can’t help but feel frightened to voice this. To confront what your body has already confessed.
Your heart pounds against your chest, tongue darting out to wet your lips nervously.
“Please,” You whisper, “I-I want you.”
“C’mon, girl, you can do better than that.” Arthur taunts. He pushes just a little deeper, offering a taste of your reward should you please him. “ Beg for it .”
“I-I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me, Arthur.” You whimper.
“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Arthur croons.
Satisfied, he draws your hips back into him, his cock slowly splitting you in two. Wholly unprepared for his sheer girth, your muscles tense at the sensation, mouth opening on a wordless cry. You’ve never experienced such painful, such utterly delicious fullness. It’s as though his cock was made for you, every vein, every ridge handcrafted to heighten your pleasure. It’s too much yet not enough. Helpless, your cunt flutters around him, desperate to pull him deeper, to feel him, all of him.
“Christ, you’re squeezin’ me like a good for nothin’ whore.” Arthur grunts, fingers curling against your skin to steady himself. “Betchu’d earn a real pretty penny up in Valentine, huh?”
As he speaks, he begins to thrust into you lazily, and with each stroke, passing sparks of pleasure flicker through you, gone too quick to take you anywhere as Arthur deliberately toys with you, holding your release somewhere far beyond your reach. This, more than anything else, is the crux of his retribution.
“Fuck, darlin’ that’s gotta be the tightest cunt I’ve ever had.” He breathes out, “I can’t believe I almost lost it.”
For a moment, his words hang fragile in the air. But then, Arthur seems to register what he said, seems to remember what led to this moment, and the anger comes rushing back. His arms tense around you, hoisting you up back to chest as he holds you close.
“Do you have any idea how worried I was?” He snarls, beginning to fuck you deeper, harder as he’s carried away on a sea of rage. “When I came back to camp and saw you were gone, I thought you were dead .”
His hips snap against yours, knocking the breath from your lungs, and with it, you can feel something building, a drawstring pulling tight.
“What’ll it take to get you to listen to me, huh?” He continues, his breath heavy and uneven as he thrusts up into you, “Maybe I oughta fuck a baby into you. That’ll teach you not to leave. Can’t go nowhere if you can hardly walk, and my babe’ll make sure of that. You’ll be forced to stay at camp and sit there like a good girl, all swollen and fat with my kid, waiting to welcome me back with open arms like you should have been this time. You’d like that, wouldn’t ya?”
Your cunt pulses around him, eager to turn his words into reality, and you cry out, nodding fervently. You can’t think, can’t breathe. You’re caught on the brink of ecstasy, stuck on the edge of tipping over. Please. Please. Please.
Eyes drifting over you in appraisal, Arthur hums, “Yeah, I think that’s what I’ll do. I’m gonna turn you into my little breeding bitch.”
He drives his cock deep, shattering through the veil of your release with a force that steals all the breath from your lungs. With it, a thrumming bolt of white hot pleasure cracks down your spine, cresting over and over and over again. Lost entirely to the throes of ecstasy, you convulse around him, hardly registering the warmth of his spend as he spills inside you. It lasts for minutes, for hours, for days it seems like. When the screen of pleasure finally clears, it is only then that you note the slow, soothing caress of Arthur’s finger against your clit, working you through the peak of your release.
“Shh. Shh. Shh. I’ve got ya, darlin’.” He says, quieting your muffled, unconscious whimpers.
He leans down to nip gently at your neck.
“You did so good girl.” He praises, still lazily thumbing at your clit. And slowly, with the help of his touch, the pleasure fades at last to nothing more than a dull buzz. You collapse against him, utterly spent.
That is until–
“Bet you can give me another.”
You tense, choking on your breath, as his finger digs a little deeper, sending shocks of blinding pleasure racing across your body once more. It’s too much. Too soon. You can’t.
“Wa-wait, Arthur–”
“You can take it, can’t ya? I know you can.” He coos, gently rocking his hips against yours as his half-hard cock swells inside you. “You will, won’t you girl?”
As he ruts against you, a pleasant, humming warmth begins to build inside, and you cant your hips toward him.
You never could deny him anything.
“That’s my girl.” Arthur smiles, smug and pleased. Then, splaying one hand against your stomach, he says, “After all, can’t let something like today happen again, right darlin’? ‘M gonna make sure it takes tonight.”