Chapter 12: Rheala's Reward
The night air cooled the spit-slick skin of Betty’s chin. She knelt, shuddering, as Rheala withdrew fully from her mouth with a soft, wet pop. The absence of that stifling weight left her gasping, drawing ragged breaths that burned her throat.
“Good girl,” Rheala panted, her own composure slightly fractured by pleasure. She looked down at Betty’s ruined face—glassy eyes, smeared makeup, lips bruised and glistening. “But you’re not finished. You haven’t even properly said hello.”
Rheala stepped closer, the massive, gleaming shaft bobbing near Betty’s cheek. With her other hand, she cradled her heavy balls, presenting them. “Clean them. Every drop of sweat. Use that pretty little tongue.”
A final, feeble spike of pride tried to rebel. It died instantly, smothered by the wet heat between her own legs and the absolute authority in Rheala’s posture. Betty leaned forward, her eyes closed. The skin was surprisingly soft, the scent musky and intensely personal. She licked, a tentative flat stroke.
“Like you mean it,” Rheala chided, her voice dropping to a threatening murmur. “Or I turn you over my knee right here and redden that perfect ass before I fuck it. Now worship them.”
Betty obeyed. Her tongue became diligent, lapping at the tight sack, probing the underside, taking the weight of one then the other into her mouth to suck gently. The subjugation was complete. Each lick, each suck was a silent renunciation of the person she’d been two hours ago. The cheerleader, the good niece, the straight-A student—all of it dissolved on her tongue, replaced by a single function: to serve.
Rheala’s sighs were her rewards. “Yeah. Just like that. You’re a quick study, aren’t you? Born for this.”
After a minute, Rheala gently pushed her head away. “Enough. On your feet.”
Betty stumbled as she stood, her knees protesting. Rheala caught her, hands rough on her hips, and turned her to face the dying fire. The world tilted.
“Hands on the log,” Rheala commanded, positioning her. “Bend over. Arch your back. Show me that cunt I know is begging for it.”
Mechanically, Betty placed her palms on the sun-bleached wood. She bent forward, presenting herself, her shorts and panties still frustratingly on. The position felt profoundly vulnerable, her body offered to the night and this terrifying woman.
She heard the tear of a foil packet. The sound was grotesquely clinical. Rheala’s hands, now sheathed in latex, yanked Betty’s shorts and panties down to her mid-thigh in one brutal motion. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, making her flinch.
“Look at that,” Rheala breathed, a hand slapping down on Betty’s right buttock, not hard, but possessing. The sting bloomed, a bright counterpoint to the throbbing within. “So pink. So pristine. So fucking ready.” A finger, slick with something from a small bottle, traced her soaked opening, making Betty cry out. “Dripping. I could drown in this. You’re fucking shameless.”
The finger pushed inside, just one, a cruel parody of gentleness. It curled, rubbing a spot that made Betty’s legs buckle. “Please,” Betty whimpered, the word torn from her.
“Please what?” Rheala’s voice was right behind her, her body radiating heat.
“I don’t know.”
“You want this cock. Say it.”
Betty squeezed her eyes shut. “I want it.”
“You want this big black cock to split your tight little white cunt open. Say the words.”
The obscenity hung in the air, viscous and real. “I want… I want you to fuck me.” It wasn’t the exact command, but it was enough.
Rheala’s chuckle was dark with triumph. “Good enough.”
The blunt, rubber-sheathed head pressed against her. It was impossibly wide, a ruthless pressure that promised pain. Betty braced, her fingers clawing at the rough wood.
“Relax,” Rheala cooed, her tone belying the relentless forward push of her hips. “It’ll hurt less if you relax. Or don’t. The scream will be just as sweet.”
She pushed. The stretch was an agony, a burning, tearing invasion that surpassed anything Betty’s imagination could have conjured. A raw, ragged scream ripped from her throat, echoing off the water. It wasn’t pleasure; it was pure, shocking violation. Her body fought, clamping down instinctively, which only made the slow, inexorable penetration more intense.
“Fuck,” Rheala grunted, pausing when she was barely an inch inside, letting Betty’s body spasm around the intrusion. “You’re like a virgin. Tighter than a fist. This is going to be beautiful.”
With a final, brutal thrust, she sheathed herself to the hilt.
Betty saw white. The world vanished into a pinpoint of sheer, overwhelming sensation. The fullness was astronomical, a pressure that threatened to break her in half. She couldn’t breathe. She could only hang over the log, impaled, taking ragged, sobbing gulps of air.
Rheala gave her no quarter. She began to move, short, deep pumps that rearranged Betty’s insides. The initial sharp pain began to mutate, blending with a profound, grinding fullness that ignited nerve endings Betty never knew existed. A broken moan escaped her, part sob, part something else entirely.
“There it is,” Rheala hissed, setting a ruthless rhythm now, her hands gripping Betty’s hips hard enough to leave marks. “There’s the little slut underneath. Fucking yourself back on me. You love it. Your body loves it. Tell me you love it.”
Betty couldn’t form words. Each thrust knocked the breath from her lungs. The sounds were appalling—the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh, Rheala’s guttural groans, the creak of the log under their combined weight. The fire spat embers beside them, bearing witness.
Rheala’s pace became punishing, animalistic. She fucked with a single-minded intensity, pounding into the tight, slick heat, chasing her own climax. “Such a good little white cunt. Made for this. Gonna fill you up. Gonna mark you from the inside.”
Betty’s own pleasure, treacherous and profound, coiled deep in her gut, building with each brutal impact. The shame was part of it now, fuel for the fire. She was being used, ruined, claimed in the most degrading way possible, and her body was arching to meet every thrust, a keening wail pouring from her lips.
Rheala’s movements grew erratic, her breath coming in sharp gasps. With a final, deep grind, she slammed home and held, a raw shout tearing from her throat as she climaxed. Betty could feel the frantic pulse of the silicone deep inside her, a simulated ecstasy that triggered her own.
Her orgasm was a convulsive, shocking wave that ripped through her without permission. It wasn’t sweet or gentle; it was a seismic surrender, wracking her body with spasms as she wept into the night, her cunt milking the fake cock that had destroyed her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the sea and their labored breathing. Then Rheala pulled out, a slow, slick departure that left Betty feeling hollowed out and gaping. She collapsed forward onto the sand, her cheek pressed against the cool, black grains.
Rheala disposed of the condom, tidying herself with a few practiced motions. She looked down at the broken, beautiful girl weeping silently at her feet.
“Get up,” she said, her voice back to its casual, melodic tone. “Clean yourself in the water. We need to get back.”
As Betty shakily gathered her clothing, Rheala glanced toward the tree line. She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Chermaine emerged from the shadows, her face unreadable. She walked to the fire and picked up the near-empty rum bottle. Her eyes swept over Betty, taking in the disheveled hair, the tear-streaked face, the shaky legs.
“Satisfied?” Chermaine asked, her voice low.
Rheala lit a cigarette, the flare illuminating her satisfied smile. “Thoroughly. The canvas is primed. She’s… receptive.”
Chermaine’s gaze lingered on Betty, who was wading into the dark, gentle surf, trying to wash the evidence from her skin and her mind. “Good,” she said finally. “Get her in the dinghy. It’s late.”
She turned and looked across the bay, to where the Serenity’s lights were now mostly dark. Only one porthole glowed faintly—the master suite. Lorna’s room.
Chermaine’s own hunger, carefully banked all evening, now stirred with a sharper edge. The niece was broken in. Tomorrow, it would be the aunt’s turn.