Chapter 12: Fisting the Used Cunt
The silence of the house was a physical thing after the canyon’s whisper. It pressed in, thick with the dust of abandonment and the ghosts of a thousand silent nights. Dom locked the door, the deadbolt sliding home with a final, heavy thud that seemed to echo. Izzy walked ahead of him into the living room, her movements languid, trailing the scent of sweat, sex, and dried salt.
She didn’t go to the shower. She went to the worn leather couch and let herself fall onto it, her legs splayed, the damp denim of her shorts dark against the brown hide. The domestic glare of the floor lamp painted her in stark, unflattering light, highlighting the bite marks on her neck, the slick shine between her thighs.
“I can still feel it,” she said, her voice husky. “The stretch. The heat.” Her eyes, when she found his, were black pools of want. “I want to see it.”
Dom stood over her, a monument in the dim room. “See what?”
“All of it. What you saw. What the camera saw. I want to watch it while you…” She swallowed, her throat working. “I want you to fist my pussy, Daddy. I want your entire hand in my used cunt. I want to feel that full while I watch him fuck my face.”
A low sound vibrated in Dom’s chest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn’t speak. He tapped the screen, found the file labeled with today’s date, and propped the device against a stack of car manuals on the low table. The video began to play, silent at first, then he turned the volume up. The raw, slick sounds of the studio engulfed the quiet living room.
On screen, Izzy’s body was arched, Marco’s cock thrusting past her lips. Dom’s own thick length drove into her from below.
Dom unbuttoned his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free his erection, already hard and angry-looking. He knelt on the floor between the couch and the table, his face level with her crotch. He yanked her shorts and underwear down in one rough pull, tossing the sodden fabric aside. Her cunt was indeed still used, puffy and glistening, the delicate skin flushed a deep, bruised rose.
He spit into his palm, a thick glob that he smoothed over her entrance, mixing with the residual fluids. He held her gaze as he pressed his thumb against her, sinking it in to the first knuckle with obscene ease. Her inner walls, still loose and pliant from the double penetration, gave way with a wet sigh.
“You see that?” he nodded toward the screen, where Marco was groaning, his hands fisted in her hair. “See how you took him? Like a greedy little slut.”
He added his index finger alongside his thumb, stretching the ring of muscle. A low moan escaped Izzy’s lips, her hips lifting off the couch. Her eyes darted from his face to the phone, watching herself being filled at both ends.
“Daddy…”
“I know what you need.”
He worked in a third finger, then, with a twist of his wrist, a fourth. The stretch was visible now, her opening distended around his knuckles, the inner flesh a deep, glistening pink. He scissored them slowly, the sound a vulgar, sucking squelch that harmonized with the audio from the video.
“You want the whole thing? You want me to own this cunt so deep you’ll feel it in your throat?”
“Yes! Fuck, please, yes!”
On the phone, the scene shifted. Marco pulled out. Dom, on screen, aimed his cock.
Dom folded his thumb tight into his palm, making a solid, broad fist. He coated it with more spit, slicking his knuckles. He pressed the widest part against her, using his other hand to hold her labia spread.
“Look at the screen, Izzy. Look at what I did to you.”
Her head turned. On the video, a golden stream arced, hitting her open hole with force. At that exact moment, Dom pushed.
The resistance was fierce, then all at once, it wasn’t. Her body yielded with a wet, popping gulp, swallowing his hand past the knuckles. Izzy shrieked, a raw, torn sound of absolute penetration. Her back bowed violently off the couch, every tendon in her neck standing out. Inside, the sensation was catastrophic. He was everywhere, a solid, unyielding mass of flesh and bone stretching her to a blinding, burning limit. He could feel the frantic flutter of her inner muscles trying to accommodate him, the soft, yielding pressure of her cervix against the front of his folded fingers.
“Oh my God… Daddy… it’s… it’s in my stomach…”
He began to move. Not thrusts, but a slow, deep, rotational fuck with his entire arm. The wet sounds were vulgar, loud, a solid shluck-shluck-shluck that drowned out the video. Her cunt gripped his wrist like a hot, silken vise.
“That’s it,” he growled, his own breath ragged. He watched his forearm disappear into her, the sight profoundly wrong and profoundly right. “That’s my fist in my daughter’s cunt. This is what it’s for. To be my fucking sleeve. To take whatever I give it.”
On screen, her recorded body convulsed in orgasm as it was filled with piss. In the present, her body mirrored it. A series of brutal, clamping spasms racked her, her channel milking his hand in rhythmic, desperate pulses. She sobbed, tears streaking the sides of her face, her hips pistoning weakly against him.
He leaned over her, his face inches from hers, his buried hand still. “Who does this belong to?”
“You! You, you, you!”
He twisted his wrist. She screamed again, another orgasm tearing through her, this one sharper, brighter. He could feel her coming, feel the intense, rapid flutters against his skin.
“And this?” He moved his free hand to her lower belly, pressing down hard. Beneath his palm, he could feel the vague, firm pressure of his own knuckles inside her, separated only by a thin wall of muscle and flesh. “This is mine, too. Everything in here. Everything you are.”
He slowly, carefully, withdrew his hand. It emerged with a final, wet gasp, slick and gleaming. Izzy’s body went boneless, a shuddering, weeping mess on the couch. Her hole gaped, a soft, open O, quivering with each heartbeat.
Dom wiped his hand on his thigh. He reached over and stopped the video. The sudden silence was deafening, ringing. He looked at her, truly looked at her—the shattered, beautiful creature he had made, the life they had made growing secretly within her. The ferocity of his possession was a calm, cold ocean now, depthless and still.
He pulled her up, cradling her against his chest. She nuzzled into his neck, her breath hot and fast.
“No more videos,” she mumbled into his skin.
“No more,” he agreed, his hand splayed over her belly. “We’re done with that.”
“What now?”
He looked past her, out the dark window to the empty street. The road was out there, waiting. But so was everything else. The world didn’t forgive. It didn’t forget. They had what they wanted—their twisted, complete archive, their proof against a vanishing world. Now they had to live in the one that remained.
“Now,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest, “we get ready.”