Jeremiah Quick by SM Johnson

would.
    He paused the fucking of her, keeping
himself deep inside, and she felt a whisper of movement above her,
his upper body reaching for something, doing something with
purpose, though again, whatever it was didn't seem directed at
her.
    He pulled out of her, then pushed in again,
but… different, wider somehow, and she wanted to squeak, groan…
make some kind of unhappy noise, and ended up panting instead,
clutching at the edges of the table, breathing, breathing…
    Something clattered on the table next to her
face, the length of the switch, the wider end right in front of her
eyes, missing the handle.
    And she knew then what was inside of her,
why it felt different. She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes,
breath held and chest tight, because some forbidden noise was
trying to rise up, trying to escape, and she could do this ,
damn it, even if he wasn't being fair.
    He kicked her legs further apart, and she
felt him stretching her even wider, as if forcing himself into her
alongside the switch handle, and it was too much, too riveting a
pain, and when the groan came out of her, it sounded like a
wail.
    And yet there came a rolling liquid folding
sensation in her belly, and a wet rush to her cunt as her body
reacted to the pain, to him, and attempted to open to him more.
    His fingers ran lightly up her back, almost
as if to soothe, but then he had a fist in her hair and wrenched
her head back, and she felt him close to her throat, mouth hot, his
voice a low growl behind her, primal and harsh. "Like this,
Sunshine Girl? Ahh, if you were allowed to talk I'd make you tell
me how it feels. Don’t worry, there'll be a time for that."
    He let go of her hair and pressed her
against the wood, his hand going between their bodies, tugging
until she whimpered, until she mouthed silently against the wood,
"Please," and there was a sharper tug, and the horrible stretch
seemed to have an end.
    Until she felt the handle against her anus,
hard and too-big. She wriggled against the thing, not because she
wanted it, but because she was still angry, more than ever, and
just wanted it over .
    She wanted to talk to him, wanted him to
hold her and soothe her, and tell her the stories of his journey.
She wanted him to teach her ideas, not pain. Could she take it all
back? Were there any safewords here?
    "Open for me, Sunshine Girl."
    His voice was a caress, silk in her ear, and
the pressure increased until she felt the inevitability there, that
he was going to sodomize her with the switch handle, and she could
make it better for herself by helping him, or she could make it
worse by keeping herself stubbornly clenched.
    Either way, it would hurt.
     
     

     
     
    Pretty had been a frequent and chronic
manipulator of her own body since early childhood, locking herself
in her room, hiding beneath blankets, exploring those parts of her
that would surely be made off limits to even her own touch, should
anyone find out.
    Dirty. Pervert.
    Sometimes thinking such words made her
cringe in shame, wondering what was wrong with her, why being dirty
felt so delicious. But mostly those words, and others like them,
made her want to touch herself more.
    She couldn't even guess how old she was the
first time she masturbated, only that she was young enough that
there were few landmarks in her memory to indicate the time or
circumstance.
    She remembered standing on the flat surface
of her vanity table. It was the sort of little girl's vanity with a
large mirror attached by ribs of one-by-two pieces of wood screwed
or bolted to the back of the dresser itself.
    When she stood on the vanity, she was tall
enough to curl her hands around the top edge of the mirror. If she
stood on it naked, she could walk her bare feet, which were mildly
sweaty with the fear of being caught, up the mirror, as if she were
a climber scaling a wall, and then, for as long as the strength of
her arms held out, she could stare at her own parts.
    She was a small child, tiny and