#28125 - He made me walk to my room, while he hit me with the belt. My hips again started raising to meet his lips and tongue, and my body’s straining so for that reward made it so that his finger went deeper perhaps than he had meant for it to go all at once; the stiff, thick intrusion made me gasp—it hurt—and Paul stopped moving his finger, and went back to licking and sucking my tiny clit, flicking it faster and faster, until I forgot again about his finger, I forgot about the pain. Times like that were good, because most every time when I came out, Dad wouldn’t yell at me and, if I stood by Paul’s chair, Paul would stroke my hair or my back, absentmindedly.
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