Can't Say No Ch. 09

I squealed. Burning with fire, my brain demanded to know whether I was wounded or excited. There wasn't any time to ponder it. But my brain craved touch. "Mmmhmmm--yessss," I improvised. Desperate for distraction.

"Oooh, Jessie," gasped Mr. Lunder. I could feel wetness lubricating my hand below, making the task easier. "You're such a dumb little tease, aren't you? Always dolled up, a happy little slut, eh? Say it."

What a gross thing to say. He was so wrong. I was smart. Didn't he just admit I was mature? He didn't make any sense. I was doing a good job and wished he would acknowledge me for it.

"I'm a dumb slut," I repeated.

Saying the admission aloud made my cheeks sting. But the response was immediate. Mr. Lunder's hand forcefully invaded under my dress. While my hand worked dutifully

above.

It happened fast. Fingers penetrated me. They slid brazenly around my panties, without ceremony. His arm was on top. Mine stretched awkwardly underneath.

He wasn't in the right spot. There was resistance. Every millimeter of progress was unbearably documented in my brain. His fingers were too big. They bumbled around like uninvited strangers. When his fingers withdrew, I unknotted my eyebrows in relief.

"Open your mouth," said Mr. Lunder.

My instinct was to do the opposite. There was the smell of something familiar. I stopped jerking him off as he jabbed his front two fingers close to my face. As I turned away, he pinched my cheeks, thumb and index finger pressing hard against my jaw. This hurt, so I opened my mouth, and the smell intensified as Mr. Lunder slid his dirty fingers past my lips.

There was a familiar taste of sourness before saliva coated fingers withdrew from my mouth. I coughed.

The fingers beneath my dress returned. They slid in faster, but no less comfortably. I squeezed my free hand around his wrist, begging for him to slow down, as his fingers wriggled inside me.

In response, his opposite hand clamped onto mine. Sandwiching my hand around his penis and working it to pleasure himself.

Mr. Lunder's eyelids fluttered. As I made eye contact, he groaned an unpleasant guttural rumble. Our hands were fixed to each other's genitals. The rummaging of his fingers subsided into soft massaging, and I exhaled, unwinding taut muscles. Slick goo coated my fingers, causing my hand to slip freely over the length of his shaft.

"Oh-h, that's good. Just like that," Mr. Lunder sighed. He freed my lubricated hand, and though I was free, I stroked him under my own power. No time had passed. My mental clock was sure of it. Wine was mind-boggling. In an instant, I had gone from dinner to here. Wine made things easier.

We continued our embrace, Mr. Lunder hissing approval down my ear. Hollowness ached under my navel. I tensed my abdomen against his scrabbling sausage fingers.

"You're so-o-o wet, Jess-i-cuh-uhh, I--mhmm--knew you would become a slut."

A revolting coat of wetness slid over my hand where I stroked him. A shudder wracked me like a wave.

Mr. Lunder stuck his hand in my dress, jabbing my lace bra with hard fingertips. A pang rippled through my boob, turning my chest into a lump of discomfort.

"Too sensitive!" I wailed.

My neighbor leered, pulling my other hand, too, towards his crotch. Reluctantly, I unfurled my other hand, unsure how to apply it. The pain in my boob was discarded into the jumbled bin of forgotten worries.

Something unfamiliar touched my hand. Warmth pulsed across the fleshy surface.

"Massage my balls, Jessica, but don't stop what you're doing. Be gentle," Mr. Lunder purred.

When I closed my hand, the skin was mushy, like a ball of dough. Not as solid as I expected. I doubted gripping tightly was smart, so I cradled them. He watched me, dark eyes glinting with strain. What if I squeezed my hand shut to hurt him? I fantasized, but even as I imagined it, I knew I wasn't brave enough to do it. I hunched over and kept caressing him.

"Ooo-o-o--you're such a good little bitch... You know your way around a cock, don't you?" He grabbed my face, pinching my cheeks, and yanked me face to face with him. This was a terrible strength. The power of his fingers ignited a primal worry.

"Ow'll make-ouu-appy" I garbled. Instinct said a happy Mr. Lunder would trickle down and make life easier.

The hand on my face slackened. "Mhhhmmmm--yes. Doesn't it feel good to please a man?" The flesh of his jaw quivered.

Mr. Lunder yanked the hem of my dress crudely. Familiar navy-blue panties were thrown into view. There was a dark soccer bruise on one of my legs. When I stood, he pulled my underwear toward my knees, but was too inflexible to finish the job.

"Take them off--" He spoke in strained tones.

I bent over and tried to step out of them, hopping on one foot to navigate them around my heels. The task was completed with machine-like focus. Each action was fully engrossing. The world had shrunk to the immediate demands of the thing I was doing and nothing more. It was as if only this moment existing, and nothing more. If there was a time before or after it didn't seem important.

As Mr. Lunder pulled me back, I needed to straddle him to avoid falling. When he reached under my dress, I realized what he was doing.

"Wait, um, help me, I have to undo the zipper first..." I reached my hands around the back of my dress. Dinner was over, and I didn't want my dress getting wrinkled.

"No, keep the dress on. I'm going to fuck you all dolled up. You're my good little bitch, and you're going to make me happy, remember?"

The word was ironclad. I stopped fiddling with the zipper. A dick popped inside me. I looked fully clothed, but I could feel him inside, which was weird. Under me, Mr. Lunder lolled his head back luxuriously. Unwilling to respond to him, I grunted, hoping that would suffice.

I explored my range of motion. There was a solid anchor below me. To my horror, grinding felt better than anything I remembered doing previously. I closed my eyes. There was a ravenous hollowness inside of me. A hollowness demanding to be fed. A deep push would fill my aching spaces.

A hard squeeze on my butt made me flex my glutes. I found myself making noises to drown out the sound below me. I was going to come. My body was a train hurtling toward a destination outside my control.

"You like being my bitch, don't you Jessica?" Mr. Lunder forced my butt to a standstill, looking into my eyes. "There is something to be said for patience. Enough patience will give someone everything they want. I have been patient, Jessica. Remember this lesson, when life gives you what you want, make sure to savor it."

His barbed voice only made the hollow ache worse. I despised how my body responded to his wheezing taunts, pressing for more even as his grip held me still.

I inhaled in surprise, as Mr. Lunder's lifted me off his lap. I rose backwards, before descending--with unavoidable slowness--onto on the tablecloth.

The table was not clean. There were food bits everywhere. Pushing myself up with my hands, I squirmed, working to move my dress away from any stains. There could be stains on the tablecloth. Shifting, I tried to check whether the tablecloth beneath me was free of mess.

Before I could move, Mr. Lunder pinned me against the table, and inserted himself. The thrusting sent shivers through the plates, accelerating until my surroundings rattled. The table groaned. Unable to move, my head lolled back, bumping the table repeatedly. Dizzy, unable to tell up from down, I gave up and embraced the spinning ceiling. The silver light fixture was revolving in circles, leaving long traces of light imprinted on my retinas.

A long mewling moan escaped me. My legs, partially wrapped around him, shook, and would not stop. Nerves fired unwanted pleasure at my brain, over and over. The longer it lasted, the more my agony increased. It was terribly obvious what was happening, and I didn't have the strength to conceal it. I would rather die than confront what had happened. When I raised my head, he was there, smiling a triumphant smile. The worst sight in the world. I squeezed my eyes shut.

Mr. Lunder yelled unexpectedly. I screamed. Something terrible was happening. The grunt which ejected from him was so forceful, it was proof of a stab wound or heart attack. He jerked back half a pace, and I propped myself up unsteadily, searching, hoping to see mom standing over him with a bloody knife.

Throbbing, Mr. Lunder's dick flailed erratically, jettisoning a thick rope of cum down the front of my dress. A long stain defiled the clean white surface. The wetness lingered for a horrifying moment. With clarity, I saw disaster unfolding, but lacked time to alter course. The milk had spilled. Fuck me. I'd have to salvage the dress later. Thoughts swam urgently through my mind, but the weight of my head was too much. With a plonk, I let my head fall to the table, allowing the spinning scene to unfold.

Frantically, Mr. Lunder's fist clasped around his penis, massaging it with guttural urgency. Braying, appropriate for a distressed farm animal, cascaded through the room, as lances of semen ejected in my direction.

Stupefied, I watched spurt after spurt liquify the front of my dress. A high-flying speck fell inches shy of my breast, before soaking into the material. Another clump peppered the cup under my other breast. The fountain persisted--reluctant to end--shooting diminishing pumps into the air. Dumbfounded, I watched Mr. Lunder liberally dribble the remainder onto the upturned hem, before wiping his member with the material.

A thick hand slapped down my left thigh, and took purchase on my leg, squeezing the muscle. The sting felt muted, and I barely bothered to move from its grasp. The ceiling was filled with spinning lights.

Above me, Mr. Lunder rumbled comfortably, as he collapsed back into his chair. After much panting and wheezing, Mr. Lunder brought his body under control. The tremors of his gut--poking out from his polo--receding like the tide.

Dissociated from myself, I watched him, feeling bemused. Wet material clung to my belly. My head, awash with buzzing, had seen enough.

Grease prints marred the frills of my dress. Above the frills, nearer my face, a horrifying pack of off-colored stains were congealing. I gaped, but moving any limbs risked falling off the table. I was beyond rage. I was simply empty.

Beneath the dancing lights, the vision of Mr. Lunder swam before me. He was on his feet. My limp knees pressed his gut.

"Get up and go along to room. It is past your bedtime."

He wasn't my father. Under no circumstances would I allow him to order me to bed. I tried to glare, but my vision was unfocused. Mr. Lunder left. Five minutes passed, or maybe an hour. I lay on the table. Eventually, when I had enough motor control to stand, I walked to my room. I used both my hands and legs on the stairs. Then I was in my room. I stumbled into the door while shutting it. With a click the door locked.

I stripped off the dress carefully and hung it on a hanger. Inspecting it closely would only upset me. I'd have to deal with it tomorrow.

I felt for the soft leather binding of my journal and wrenched it free. Fueled by derision, I scrawled hatred for my neighbor in two uneven paragraphs. As my emotions drained away, the pillow sucked energy from my body, and thought from my head.

A long time after, sunlight poured into my room, catalyzing a desperate thirst for water. In the kitchen, however, there was an ambush.

"Good morning, Jessica. Yes, I'm still here." Mr. Lunder chuckled. "I sent your mother out for groceries. Now sit down... Come, don't look at me like that way. Sit down, if I have to repeat myself again, there's going to be consequences. I don't want to ground a pretty young woman like yourself, but I will if you force me to... Yes, that's right, now you're listening, sit down right here. Now, take a look at this paper, and read it carefully. If you're going to keep living under my roof, these are the chores you are responsible for... Really, come on now, crying is not going to get you out of this, Jessica. You are an adult. I won't allow you to behave like a hungover tramp who avoids her responsibilities."