Page 101 of My Big Fat Daddy Issues

He reaches up and gives my tits a squeeze as the tension snaps. "These are nice little tits. Perfect size for a granddad to fondle."

The orgasm straps itself around me and I give in to it all. I'm screaming and panting and coming around his cock. Things happen to my muscles I can't explain as sensations that seem almost inhuman choke me and grab my insides and pull.

It's pleasure, but that word is so inadequate. I rocket into space, floating and letting the spasms take hold, riding it up, up, up then, he stops. The silence is sudden and enormous. I lie there shaking, my pussy throbbing, so sore and swollen it hurts to feel the air on it.

And I want his mouth on me so badly I could beg.

He sees it. For a second, I wonder if I said something, he's smiling, smug and satisfied when he finally shakes his head.

"I know, baby. You want my mouth again, but not yet." He reaches for the knife on the nightstand and a new rush of fear prickles over my skin.

Now what?

He brings the blade to his own chest. Presses the tip in just below his left collarbone and draws a line across the muscle. The skin parts and blood wells in a thin, dark stripe, beading across the tanned surface.

He doesn't flinch. He watches it, then smears his fingers through the line, coating them red.

Then he leans over me and paints.

His bloody fingertips press against my sternum, dragging downward between my breasts in a warm, slippery line. He traces the curve of my ribs on both sides with two red streaks like war paint. He gathers more of the crimson fluid, then draws a mark along each collarbone. The blood is warm and sticky and dries almost immediately, tightening in stripes on my skin.

He surveys his work. His blood mapped across my body.

"Now you look like mine." He growls with a nod, his hair glinting in the bit of moonlight that's starting to stream through the glass panels on the door.

My breath hitches and the shame shifts. The pleasure has turned to some sweet poison. There's no going back to who we were before.

He flips the knife in his hand, pinching the blade between his fingers, the smooth carved handle pointing down.

"You know what I'm going to do with this?"

I do. I wrote a scene just like it two months ago. A woman alone, a man with a weapon, the handle becoming something she didn't want.

I wrote it at two in the morning and deleted it by sunrise because it felt too close to a confession.

He knows everything.

He brings the handle to my opening and teases with cool pressure.

"Tell me you want it."

I shake my head.

"Tell me, or I'll use the other end."

"I want it." I gag as I say it but one end of the knife is significantly better than the other end.

"Say, please, Pawpaw." He orders with a slow blink, those blue eyes that used to be so tender turning to ice and I press my head back and give in.

"Please, Pawpaw. Please." I stutter as the words drag from my throat but when I look up, the pleased look I've seen so many times, causes that reflexive warmth to gather in my chest.

"Atta girl. I'm proud of you."

He pushes the handle inside me. The girth is less than his cock but the hardness is unforgiving. My inner walls grip and I feelevery ridge, every contour his hands carved into this weapon that's turned into something else.

"Look at that." He sounds almost drunk. "Taking Pawpaw's knife in your little cunt." He pushes it deeper, in and out, fucking me with it and I arch off the bed. "Wonder what your daddy would think if he could see where his little girl's got it now?"

I moan knowing at this point, all my dignity is left in the mud outside.