Saturday, April 23, 2011
Wanderlust part 41 "he's here with me"
Well...yesterday was an interesting day for comments. I'm damn curious who we all feel about this today, kids. Happy day-before-Easter and as far as the rest of our story and the continuation...I'll see you Monday. I am actually taking tomorrow off. But I will be lurking about today to post folks yays or nays.
by Sommer Marsden
She did it--took her clothes off--and I looked away. I didn’t want to see her tiny little tight body and her dyed black hair. Or the stupid butterfly tattooed on her hip or her shaved snatch. None of it. But my eyes kept straying back and back and back. Traitors.
“Tell me,” he said, moving toward the bed, “that no part of you. Not a tiny little part wants this and it can all be over.”
I opened my mouth, staring him in the eye. And I shut my mouth. It wasn’t just the fear of him going on without me. It was the fact that I couldn’t seem to say it—because it would be a lie.
“Hate usually means something else. Often love, sometimes envy, jealousy, curiosity. No matter who you hate at the moment.”
She settled between my legs, looking like the cat that ate the canary, staring at me with those feline eyes of hers. She really thought she’d won, didn’t she. Her mouth was open and her breath snaked out, over my belly and lower.
Against my better judgment, I felt a fine flickering spasm in my pussy. Watching him stalk to us. Her in the middle. Me tied down—helpless to his will.
Helpless to his will…
That made my entire body flush hot and a rush of warm fluid escaped me. I wanted to scream and I wanted to rage and I wanted to beg him to just hustle her out the door and we could pretend this didn’t happen and yet…
Part of me wanted this. He was forcing this on me. I was powerless to stop it…right? So I could simply experience it and feel no guilt. A hell of a thing to realize. If I hated it, if it hurt my heart, if I regretted it, I could blame it all on Johnny and his will. I was totally innocent. Or so I could say.
He watched me and I knew that he was reading me perfectly. He was looking into the very core of me and seeing every single selfish thought I’d just had.
“This is what I want. Take it or leave it,” he said, sealing the deal. Giving me the freedom to see what this was like.
Because as much as I hated her, my body was responding to Fallon. My hips wanted to seek her out. My back wanted to bow up to meet her pretty mouth. I had never before in my life wanted to smack someone in the mouth and yet have that same mouth on me. This was a first. It was brutal, confusing, frightening and horrible. It was also an opportunity—right here—to experience something I would never seek out and it would never be my fault.
I was naked, bound, coerced, forced. Not my will. Johnny’s.
She chose that moment to put her lips to my pussy, her hot tongue to my clit and I hissed with the pressure, the heat and the pleasure.
The bed groaned and Johnny found his spot behind her. I hated her all over again, because she would be getting fucked by him. A sharp stab of relief worked through me when I heard the foil packet and smelled the tang of rubber as he rolled on a condom. He moved her like a doll. No niceties, no muttered words, no Snowflakes or endearments.
Good. She didn’t deserve it.
Pretty, nasty Fallon slid her wet rigid tongue into my cunt and I arched up under her. Johnny’s eyes locked on mine as surely as his fingers locked on her hips and he started to move—banging into her as she ate me. Every thrust, drove her against me. It was as if he were trying to get at me despite her being in his way. He drove into her, his jaw tight.
But his eyes never left me—like she wasn’t even there. His movements forced her forward, his thrusts moved her mouth to my clit. She sucked and she cooed and she battered her lashes at me, but it was the oddest sensation. He was fucking me through her and Fallon—poor Fallon—was no more than a sex doll.
He sealed it when he reached over her—past her—and grasped my thighs for a moment and squeezed. She sucked, her tongue demanding an orgasm from me. Her mouth coercing me to give up the juiciest of releases and I did. Because it was big blue serious eyes I was gazing into. It was a rugged boxer’s face I was studying. Broad shoulders and straining muscles and a wildly beating pulse at his throat.
“Johnny,” I said as I came. For him to hear. For her to hear. He could do all he wanted to make his point and it would still be his name I said when I came. His name I cried out and his name that ricocheted around in my tired, fucked up mind.
“Fuck,” he muttered and slammed home once more. Using her. She came a split second after me, he a split second after her, and when all was quiet on the motel front, he smacked her ass in a business like way and said. “Get lost, Fallon.”
Her eyes flashed—brilliant with anger and what looked like hurt.
For a split second I felt sorry for her. And then I didn’t. “Didn’t he tell you?” I asked her. “He’s here with me.”
By the time he had her out the door, I had lost my fragile hold on my emotions. The moment the door shut and I heard the snap of the condom coming off, I started to shake. A sob slipped out of me and it was the lonely horrible sound of some dying creature.
“Really,” he said and came to me.
There was a subtle flash of regret and my heart surged at it. Good! Let him feel bad, small, petty, cruel. Maybe not due to a third party, but due to his choice. He had chosen her to hurt me and he could deny it—fuck—I could deny it to myself and yet it was the truth. His malicious intent was to drive a wedge between us. After what had happened in the closet. It was all because big, bad Johnny was scared.
He dropped to the bed and molded his big body to mine. He started to untie me and I sobbed, “Don’t, don’t, don’t—“
He looked uncertain but didn’t untie me. If he untied me I would consciously have to not touch him. I would willingly have to push him away. And I wanted to push him away at the moment—hell, I wanted to punch him and hit him and rail at him. If he kept me tied, I could let him hold me. I could not push him away. It would allow me to save face. It would protect my pride.
Because I really needed him to hold me even though at the moment I thought he was the biggest shit walking. He had done it, he had proven his point and yet—
“I know what you’re doing,” I said.
He went rigid against me and his breathing stopped for a moment. I looked up at him and was so fucking embarrassed by how wet my face was with tears. And yet, I couldn’t not look at him when I said this.
“And no matter what you do,” I said through gritted teeth, “you can’t convince me that you’re not a good man.”
He frowned at me and turned his face away.
I wanted a shower. I wanted a shower in acid. I wanted a blow torch or a Brillo pad. I wanted to scrub my skin until I bled and yet by body still hummed with the orgasm and the experience and yes—the shame of it. There was an odd and unexpected sweetness to that shame.
And my heart still flexed a little at remembering his face looking over her shoulder at me. How his eyes never left me. How she had barely been there. How I had been the only one in that bed with him when you came right down to the parts of the night that mattered.
And this time in my dream, when I fell into that ocean of water and staggering bright light a huge and monstrous sea creature rose up to meet me. He was huge—with big arms and intense blue eyes and a scar on his face, marring his wet skin. He caught me up in his strong hold and crushed me to him. The breath left me and his massive body penetrated mine, worked mine and nudged me just right, plucking and stroking and moving until I was blissfully—frighteningly—full and pleasured and then he was dragging me under. Down into the wetness. Down into the depths. In the dark where nothing lived and no light penetrated. Where all that existed was us. Him and I.