A/N:
NSFW
Mature Audiences Only!
Just a very long, rambling bout of phone sex for the first chapter. Second chapter - eh.
Knock
Knock
Knock
Penny.
Knock
Knock
Knock
Penny.
I grabbed my iPhone and brought it to my ear, judiciously avoiding looking at what time it was, although I knew it had to be somewhere near three a.m., because I'd just fallen asleep around two-thirty.
"Whoever the fuck this fucking is, it had better fucking well be that you're calling to tell me that some motherfucker that's fucking close to me hasfucking well died or I'm going to make it that some motherfucker that's close to me has fucking well died - slowly, and painfully. Now what fuck do you want at this ungodly hour of the motherfucking night?"
A familiar, "Hello to you, too, darling," purred smoothly into my ear.
A little too smoothly. I put him on speaker, thoroughly enjoying the way that sexy as sin voice filled my otherwise lonely room.
"Fucking Hiddleston."
"Unfucking Hiddleston, to be scrupulously accurate, since, you know . . . we're not fucking, nor have we ever … you know . . . fucked."
He hadn't slurred so much as one polysyllabic word, and yet I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was completely soused. I don't know what it was that clued me in - perhaps the distinct feeling brought on by the expansiveness of his tone that let me know he was functioning with even less verbal restraint than he usually showed.
Uh oh.
"You're drunk." I wasn't accusing in the least - just stating a fact, and using it to deftly avoid the altogether too personal subject he'd just introduced.
He hiccoughed in my ear and then burped - but it wasn't an American guy, beer fueled, claxon of a burp. It was a quiet, half-suppressed one - as if it had only occurred to him when he was already halfway through it that he should try not to burp out loud - and that set me to giggling at his belated attempt at propriety.
"I may have had a bit more Jameson than I should have, perhaps. Mebbe." I always smiled when he used an expression I used. "But I am glad to be a source of amusement for you."
"Always, Hiddleston, whether you're trying to be or not . . . " I retorted immediately. I'd never spared his not so delicate ego, and I wasn't about to start now. I think that was one of the things he liked about me. Yes, he was drop your panties gorgeous, and yes, he was a movie star, but I treated him just as badly as I did everyone else.
If I was pressed to categorize it, I might have said that I treated him like his sisters probably did, although I had a good idea that he would balk at that description.
I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his feelings towards me were certainly not of the sibling variety. He'd made that quite clear several times, much to my complete and obvious discomfort, and he had always politely backed off.
At least he had until tonight.
"Is that why you called me from the back of beyond in the middle of the night? To give me a Public Service Announcement that you're in your cups?" He was filming somewhere very remote, and had no data connection to speak of.
"I called you," he replied loftily, in his trained stage actor's voice, "because you're my friend."
"That I am, honey. Masochist that you are, you keep coming back for more, Lord knows why, especially since I'm a friend without benefits . . . Shit!" I knew I should have been paying exclusive attention to him, but something from another friend had caught my eye that I wanted to respond to.
"What?"
"Nothing, I'm just fat fingering a reply to a text someone sent me last night."
He did a disturbingly spot on impression of Homer Simpson's doughnut drool while repeating the word in that sentence I least wanted him to pick up on. "Fingering." The way he said it made it sound like the filthiest pursuit imaginable.
And yet entirely proper, at the same time, somehow.
I knew, better than most, that those Prince Charming looks and that old world courteous demeanor were a complete and utter sham. They hid the truth of what he was really like - not that he wasn't both of those things, but they were merely a clever disguise. Inside that beautiful head of his lay a mind that was dirtier than I could imagine.
And, since my own mind was full of complete filth, I could imagine a whole fucking lot.
And, now, in the wee hours of the night, I found that acute dichotomy dangerously irresistible.
Trying to reel him in some before things got out of hand, so to speak, I tsked softly at him. "Tom, will you listen to yourself -?"
He interrupted me, which was unusually impolite of him. I guessed a lot more walls of courtesy and custom were lying strewn around him on the ground - or more probably, his bed, which had me swallowing hard - than I'd gathered. Especially since his growl raised gooseflesh on my arms, tightening my nipples against my nightshirt - which was actually one of his that I'd stolen - and literally making me shiver.
"I'd rather listen to you fingering yourself."
"Thomas!" Proud at the level of outrage I was able to achieve, especially considering I didn't really feel outraged, I reminded him, somewhat less than gently, "We don't have that kind of a relationship."
There was a slight pause before he countered with, "Not because I don't want to." Not whiney, not judgmental or even particularly angry, but rather almost wistfully put.
I couldn't think of anything to say to that. It was somehow just . . . too painfully true, and not a subject I usually allowed us to discuss.
His tendency towards an apologetic nature fought its way through all the alcohol to rear its head for long enough for him to say quietly, and with true regret, "Sorry."
"No you're not, but that's OK." Trying to divert him, I threatened playfully, "I should really record this conversation and play it back to you when you're sober."
He completely ignored that threat, instead stating with alarming honesty, "I'm horny." And before I could even begin to derail that conversational train, he came out with, "And I haven't forgotten that you let it slip the last time you were at my place and you were the one who had had too much to drink, all of the delicious things you told me - like that, among other things, you're loud in bed."
My mouth was hanging open, my forehead in my palm, lots of responses flying through my brain, none of which I liked, so I again remained silent, hoping he'd get the hint.
But he was much, much too far gone for subtlety. I should have realized that.
"In fact, I think about it all the time." He sounded as if he was thinking about it right now, and I tried not to let my mind wander into such dangerous territory.
Of course I lost that battle before it began. I could well imagine him stretched out - naked, of course - on a big bed, that gorgeous, elegant hand of his sliding down over his chest, over his practically twelve pack abs, past his cute belly button- every damn thing about this man was gorgeous, even that - those long, strong fingers wrapping surely around himself.
And I could also well imagine that he'd be more than a handful for himself, much less someone like myself who had a much smaller hand -
Don't go there!
. . . Too late.
And he was still talking, in a voice I don't think I'd really heard from him before, except when he was acting. It lit every already throbbing area I owned on fire, bringing me horrifyingly close to orgasm all on its own.
"I've spent a lot of time since that night thinking about what you might sound like - whether you whimper and moan, or keen or beg -" The last word sounded strangled, and he stopped himself for a long moment, during which I knew I should have said something - almost anything but what I was thinking - but I couldn't bring myself to. "I wonder what might make you catch your breath or gasp - perhaps when I take a straining nipple in my mouth, or slip my hand between your legs, or the first time I press myself into you -"
"Tom, you have to stop." That was it. Authoritative. Firm. Dominant, even.
. . . Sort of.
Everything I was truly not.
Everything I wanted - quite desperately wanted but was afraid to want at the same time - from him.
"No I don't. I can't." I heard his breath hiss in between clenched teeth, his breath puffing loudly out of him from that point on. "Do you purr? Do you growl? Would you make the same noises whether it was my hand or my mouth . . . or your own hand down there?"
"Tom, stop!" I knew I should have just ended the phone call. I knew that this was going to change things - irrevocably - between us.
But, like him, I just couldn't. I wasn't nearly strong enough to do the right thing.
Especially when the feelings he was expressing were distinctly - achingly - mutual.
And then he said it, the timbre of his voice was a soft, rumbling whisper, but with no small amount of command threaded through it.
Fuck.
I'd told him - that same night - exactly what I liked. In excruciating detail.
And the bastard had apparently bothered to remember it.
"I want to hear you cum, angel. I really want to see you cum - while I'm between your widespread thighs and you're dancing in and on my mouth - but I'll settle for this - for now."
My feet were working restlessly against the sheets, as if I was trying to backpedal away from him and he wasn't even here. "No, Tom -"
"Yes, baby." He sounded even more dominant and confident than before, probably embolden by the fact that I hadn't hung up on him. "I'm already more than halfway there, in case you hadn't guessed. Hell, I was most of the way there before I picked up the phone to call you, thinking about you . . . yearning for you. I'm hard as granite, and it's because I've been torturing myself all night with thoughts of you."
I don't think I'd ever been so unresponsive during a phone call - especially with him. He was always so easy to talk to - always laughing at himself and trying to make me laugh, too.
But not now.
He must've gotten the idea that I had no idea what to say, so he stepped in to fill the void, which was exactly what - if we had had that kind of relationship - I would have expected - wanted - him to do.
"At the risk of sounding clichéd, darling, what are you wearing? And please feel free to lie to me if you have to and don't tell me you've got on that Tinkerbell nightshirt I know you have crammed in the back of one of your drawers."
That was it. That was my out.
I hesitated - surprising myself - but I knew I had to do it.
"Tinkerbell," I lied smoothly.
He growled, and I would have sworn I could actually feel the vibrato through the phone. "Take it off," he ordered, sounding for all he was worth like the Big, Bad Wolf.
I don't know why, but a short, sharp laugh escaped my throat. "I'm kidding. I'm wearing -" Oh, shit, I thought, looking down at one of his ubiquitous blue t-shirts I was pretty sure he didn't know I had. Did I dare to tell him the truth?
"Lovely?" he prompted firmly.
"I - I'm in a t-shirt," I answered, not quite believing I was going through with this.
His breath caught. "Just a t-shirt? Are you wearing panties with it?"
"I always wear panties."
"We'll have to work on that, but not now."
What the fuck did he mean by that? This was a one-shot. A one time deal.
Wasn't it?
And then he asked the question that was surely going to blow my cover.
"What color?"
Stalling, I asked in what I hoped was an innocent tone, "What color are my panties?"
"And the t-shirt. I'm envisioning you lying on your bed and I want details."
Oh, fuck me.
"M-my panties are pink lace bikinis. Not bright pink, but more towards a blush."
His long, low, "Mmmmmmmm," at that relatively tame description caught me by surprise, and I could feel said panties growing even wetter than they already were. "And the t-shirt?"
I closed my eyes and sighed. I should just lie, although I had done so as little as was possible in my life, even about little things like this, so I was out of practice, and this man's mind was sharp as a tack. I was afraid he'd trip me up somehow and catch me out, even without trying.
"Blue. It's . . . blue."
"Golf shirt? Long? Short?" Tom's voice lowered even more to ask almost surreptitiously, "Do your panties peak out from beneath it when you stand or walk or . . . ?" He trailed off hopefully.
My mouth was open to respond, but nothing would come out.
"Answer me, doll." Soft, but with just enough steel to send a chill up my spine.
With a petulant sigh, I admitted what I'd done. "It's yours, all right? It's one of those blue shirts you own a zillion of. I . . . I procured it a while ago, before you left."
There was only the slightest of hesitations before he asked a question I didn't expect, "Is it a clean one, or one that I've worn but not washed?"
Damn his too fucking perceptive tendencies! I'd secretly filched it off his bed when he'd been taking a shower, explaining later that I had put his clothes in the hamper for him before making his bed - which was true. Just not that shirt . . . He was in the middle of the Coriolanus run, and he was exhausted. I was already cooking for him, so that he didn't have to think about something so mundane, and the idea of me picking up after him wasn't unusual at all.
"Worn."
I heard his big intake of breath. "You wanted it to smell of me."
Not a question. A statement of fact, to which I declined to reply, but he didn't let that bother him in the least.
He knew he was right.
"How far down your thighs does it go?"
He was so much taller than me; it could practically pass for a dress.
"About mid."
He cleared his throat. "Are you on your back?"
"I'm on my side."
"Lie on your back for me, babygirl, and pull your panties down. Not off, but below your knees."
"T-Tom -" I stuttered hesitantly.
But before I could get past his name, he said quietly, "Do it. Now."
A whimper escaped my throat at his dominant tone before I could stop it, and another throaty, "Mmmmmm," from him didn't help me any.
Without waiting for me to confirm that I had obeyed him, he asked, "Is your bottom bare now? Tug the shirt beneath it. I'm not there, but I want to know - and I want you to know - that something of mine is covering your ass while we do this."
My breath hitched violently at that and I knew he heard it.
"Yes, okay."
I wanted - with everything in me - to use the term "Sir" with him, but I couldn't bring myself to be quite that presumptuous.
"Do you have everything you need there, right -" he chuckled deliciously - "at hand, so to speak?"
"Everything I need?" I parroted back like a dolt.
"Lube?"
I snorted, then heartily wished I hadn't for what it was going to force me to reveal to him.
Of course he couldn't just let that pass. "What was that about?"
Even completely drunk, the man was entirely too sharp.
"Nothing."
I could just about hear his jaw set. "Honey, if you don't answer me - truthfully - in the next five seconds, the next time I see you - no matter where we are or who we're with - I'm going to take your hand and march you away with me to find a private place where I can pull you over my lap and blister your behind."
I growled back at him, not in the manner he might have fantasized I would, but in a more challenging manner, as if daring him to make good on his threat. "I have lube in my nightstand but -" I barely suppressed a groan as I continued, blushing furiously as I whispered, as if I was confessing a mortal sin and didn't really want him to hear what I was saying, "I don't think I'm going to need any."
He paused for a long beat, then I could tell he was smiling as he spoke, even though his words were impossibly husky. "Well, darling, that's a wonderful thing to hear; thank you for telling me. That was very brave. I'm proud of you for being so truthful with me, even though I know it must've been hard - and you must've figured you could probably have gotten away with lying to me about it, too, and I'd be none the wiser."
Oh dear Gawd, I knew he'd be dangerous as a Dom, but I didn't know he'd already well versed in that positively lethal combination of firm domishness and supportive, caring lover.
He wasn't even here - I wasn't even naked - and yet I was blushing as if I was nude before him.
"I wish I was there - and I promise you that I will be in the very near future."
I couldn't even begin to process that information.
"I want you to slide your hands up, beneath my t-shirt," he said the word "my" with no small amount of pride, "and cup those gorgeous breasts of yours."
I knew he liked my boobs - I'd caught him staring at them often enough, swatting him playfully only to have him hug me to him to nibble my neck and slobber all over me without an ounce of repentance because he knew he could get away with both the ogle and being more handsy with me than I allowed any other man in my life to be.
"I'm on speaker?" he asked.
"Yes," Sir.
"Put me on your tummy, please."
"You're there."
"Good girl."
Now why did that suffuse me with a warmth that was not from a blush?
"Are your nipples hard?"
"Yes."
"Pinch them for me, love."
I was already panting at this point, and it only got worse from here. I had to swallow back the groans that piled up in my throat - why I thought I had to, I'm not sure, but I did.
"Darling, have you lied to me?"
His question startled me.
"No, why?"
"Because you said you were loud, but I'm not hearing anything from you. Either you lied about being vocal or you're not doing as I've asked you to do. Both situations that will result in a punishment when I get home," he promised.
"No, neither!"
He couldn't possibly punish me. I didn't think I'd live through it.
"Then are you holding out on me instead, little girl, not allowing the sounds of your pleasure - that which you owe to me - to reach my ears?"
"But I -"
He drew a deep breath and said, almost regretfully, "I thought as much. You are never to do so again. I own your pleasure as surely as I do your pain."
Where was he coming up with all of this - the stern tone, the words - the words - Jesus, the man was going to be the death of me, never having so much as touched me intimately!
"I'm afraid that earned you a spanking, on top of the one you're already getting for stealing my shirt."
In the space of less than fifteen minutes, I'd gone from no spanking in my life - a tragedy I had long since learned to live with - to two pending spankings! And from Tom, of all people!
"That's not fair," I pouted quietly.
He chuckled softly. "If you had wanted my shirt, love, then all you had to do was ask -"
"Yeah, right. Like I was going to do that! Puh-leeze. Get real."
"Don't interrupt. It's impolite."
"Yes, Tom." Sir.
"Now, I want to hear how you feel about what you're doing to yourself at my behest. No more hiding your responses from me in any way."
I might have sniped something back at him, but I couldn't - it was my fingers on my nipples, but it might as well have been his. Once he'd told me I couldn't suppress myself, I literally couldn't stop..
After only a few minutes, though, he groaned, "As much as I would like to take the rest of the night and day with you doing this, you're much too potent for me to be able to last that long."
"Oh, stop!" I breathed.
"I realize now I should have long since simply reached out and taken you on my own terms; that that's what you need from me. I've been much too patient, waiting for you to come 'round to my way of thinking, and because of that, I can barely contain myself."
"You don't have to, you know," I suggested as gently as I could while I panted heavily.
His gruff chuckle shivered along all of my nerve endings, all of those marvelous sensations pooling at the area beneath where he next directed my attention to.
Between my legs. I was on the phone with Tom, and he had told me - in that terribly proper yet completely lewd way of his - to spread my legs for him - for him!
"Put the soles of your feet together - that'll keep you well open. And I'm sure I don't have to remind you that you're not to close them again until we're through, do I?"
I couldn't help it. My response was automatic. "No, Sir - I mean, Tom."
That low chuckle sizzled past my ear and over my lips, kissed each tilted peak on its way down my body, then found its home in the area I'd just exposed at his command. "Sir is perfect. That's what you should call me from now on, unless I give you permission to do otherwise. Do you understand, my darling?"
Somehow, though, I didn't want to say it. It was too much of an acknowledgement of my submission to him too soon.
"I do."
But, to my horror, all it took was a chiding tsk from him and I caved.
"Yes, Sir."
"That's it, love. But I'm afraid the spankings are piling up. You're going to need a pillow on your chair for quite some time after I get home to deal with you, I'm afraid . . ."
I couldn't stifle the softly indrawn, "Nooooooooo," that escaped my lips at his pronouncement, sounding much more like a moan of ecstasy than of protest, and garnering one in response from him.
"Where are your hands, baby?"
"At my breasts, S-Sir."
"I want you to move them down, over your tummy, slowly, following the curve of your hips, then down to the tops of your thighs but nowhere else. No further. You may only touch yourself when and where I tell you to, in case you hadn't intuited that. But you're a bright girl. You know how toobey me even without me spelling everything out, don't you?"
On an agonized sigh of indecent anticipation, I moaned, "Yesssssssssirrrrrrr . . ."
His hiss sizzled into my ear and when it trailed off, I could hear him panting very hard. "Good girl," he ground out, what I guessed was the strain of holding himself back making it sound more like a curse than the compliment he intended it to be. "Move those delicate little hands of yours between your legs and hold yourself wide open for me."
I knew he could hear just how excited I was as I did as I was told. "Yes, Sir."
"You have no idea how much I wish I was there right now. Can you feel my warm breath on you? Move your finger - which finger do you use, sweetheart?"
Why this should make me blush furiously I'll never know, but I did. "My middle finger, Sir."
"Ah, good," he ground out. "Place your middle finger on top of your clit, but keep it still."
"Sir? May I ask a question?"
"Yes, of course. You may always ask me anything."
"Are you . . . touching yourself?"
A tense laugh. "Fuck yes, I am."
"Can you feel it as me? My hands are a lot smaller than yours, my mouth would be better -"
"Stop!" He said it so harshly, and I was already so deep in sub-space that I teared up at the idea that he might be unhappy with me. But he continued, much more softly, if roughly, "I don't have near enough control for you to talk to me like that, and I intend for you to find your pleasure before I succumb to mine, little one."
Whimpering, "Yes, Sir."
"I had hoped - imagined - you'd be this responsive to me. I can't possibly wait until I can truly make you mine, finally."
He was silent for a long moment, and I wondered if he had lost his battle with himself and reached his peak.
When he spoke again, his voice was much more controlled than it had been. "That was very close. Let's concentrate on you for a while. Reach down, past your clit to that beautiful quim of yours and gather some of your honey - that I'm going to taste the next time I see you," he promised on a growl, "and bring it up to your clit. Is your little button swollen and aching, ma petite?"
"Mmmmmmmmmm, Yessssss, Ssssssir."
I heard him draw a deep breath. "You may begin to touch yourself, honey, but I want you to imagine it's me, that it's my tongue teasing and loving every intimate inch of you. And you must tell me when you're close to cumming. You don't want to add an even worse punishment on top of the others you've already earned, do you?"
I could barely manage to respond to him, barely getting out a tortured, "N- no, p-please, Sir!", his gruff, satisfied chuckle making me wish I could retract it.
As that finger stroked furiously back and forth over that little scrap of flesh, I found myself surrendering completely to him, to his control, his sometimes soft and loving, sometimes hard and stern encouragement easily driving me past any remaining reticence I might have felt about what we were doing.
"That's it, my darling. Slip your finger over yourself the way I would my tongue - torturously slowly, then very quickly, changing the rhythm to tease you with your own pleasure . . . but you must obey me, little girl, and keep yourself in check. No cumming without permission."
His breath was heaving into my ear and thinking of what he was doing to himself while I was touching myself at his command was almost more than enough.
"Let your left hand wander down to your cunny. I want you to put two fingers up inside you, as if they were this stiff, hard cock I'm holding in my hand."
"Sir?"
"Yes?"
"I - could I - " I was nearly too embarrassed to ask, but it meant something to me or I would never have brought it up.
"What, love?"
"If you don't mind, I'd really rather wait . . . until it is you, please. I - " I thought the teasing was going to kill me, but perhaps it was this instead that was going to be the end of me. "I haven't - that is, I don't . . . no one's . . . "
"How long has it been?" he rasped, understanding what I was stumbling towards immediately. "How long since you've had anyone - or anything - inside you?"
I closed my eyes, horrified somehow that I was going to admit this to him.
But I did.
"Years."
"Son of a bitch," he breathed, almost reverently, but then he began to pant and moan and I recognized that he was incredibly close - close to orgasming at the thought of having me - of making me his - of taking me - after such an incredible period of abstinence from penetration, at least.
I left off my own pursuit in favor of contributing to his. "I've - I've been doing Kegels, and I'm incredibly tight," I dared, rewarded for my boldness by a loud moan that was close to a scream. "If you were here, at your size," and I knew the truth of his gift from having seen him in a tiny bathing suit, and I'd been quite sure every time that he was going to burst out of, "The first time you fucked me, I'd practically be virginal, although you've made me so wet I'd be slick, too, but there's no way I wouldn't be a bit uncomfortable, too, clenching around you, whimpering while I tried to adjust as you stretched me open while you sank into me -"
"Fuck me, I'm - I'm -!"
I heard a loud groan that descended quickly into feral growls that came in spurts, the way I was imagine he was cumming all over his hand and lower stomach.
After a very long period filled with the thoroughly arousing sounds of him trying to return to some semblance of sentience, I heard, "Jesus H, woman, you damned near killed me!"
"Yeah, but I didn't. I'll have to try harder next time."
I was doing my best not to think about whether or not all of these "next time's" and "if you were here's" were ever going to amount to anything. He was a busy man, and undoubtedly had many women he could go to for . . . stress release, ninety-nine point nine percent of whom were a zillion times prettier than I was.
As much as I want this to become more than just this night, I was going to do my best not to count on it.
When his breathing was still a bit ragged, but much closer to its normal, steady pace, he asked, "Where are your hands, lovely one?" His dominant side was definitely reasserting itself.
I bit my lip. "Between my legs."
Even I didn't recognize the extent of the very submissive note in my reply.
"Good girl. But I imagine you sacrificed your own pleasure in favor of mine, didn't you?"
A tingle skittered up my spine. "Yes, Sir."
"Well, I can't have that. I was so enjoying the lovely, squirmy sounds you were making before you naughtily distracted me with thoughts of making you truly mine."
I swallowed hard, wondering if I was going to be disciplined for that, too.
"But I can hardly fault you for wanting to bring me pleasure, now, can I?"
"No, Sir," I agreed readily.
"Now, I want your finger back where it was, stroking you, lapping at you like my tongue will as I hold you still for my mouth to devour you." His words had me keening loudly. "Where are you? Are you close?"
"Y- Yes, Sir."
"How close? Very? Or only a little?"
"Very."
"Mmmmmmmm. I like that. I'm going to keep you very close, always - in more ways than one."
"No, Tom - " I protested weakly.
He corrected me immediately - the way I'd quietly hoped - and worried - he would. "No, Sir, babygirl. But then, I don't much want you telling me 'no' at all - no matter what way I decide to have you, or punish you, or if I decide to tease and torture you mercilessly with your own pleasure, keeping you right there - skating right on the edge - for a night . . . or a week . . . or a month . . . "
"God, no!"
I'd never thought of his trademark "Eh he he he" to be inherently evil, but apparently he could make it so simply by deepening his voice a bit.
"You have no idea what things I have in store for you, my darling. I've been waiting so long to get you like this - you're likely to not be able to walk well - or at all - before I let you go each time."
It was my turn to keen.
"T - T- Sir," I changed quickly. "I'm - I'm ve- very -"
"You're almost there," he provided knowingly. "Just relax and think of me reaching up to thread my fingers through yours, so we're joined together in another way that, at the same time, prevents you from moving them to rescue you from what I'm going to do to you. My body is holding you open to me, you couldn't close your legs even if you tried. I know you're seconds away from losing control, and I open my mouth over you, eagerly suckling that little scrap of flesh into it to stroke and lick it, to press that terribly sensitive part of you against my tongue, swirling it around relentlessly, pressing two fingers inside you, hard and deep, until -"
What began as a low, slow, heavily panted groan increased in volume and urgency until it was practically a full blown scream, but Tom didn't seem in the least concerned or bothered by it. I could hear him guiding me throughout the storm he had so skillfully aroused within me.
"Don't stop, lovely. Keep that finger going, darling. I know you've got more than one of those in you . . . "
And he wasn't wrong.
With his voice invading my head, my heart, my lady bits and my consciousness all at once, I felt as if I had no choice.
That deep, confident rumble took me where he wanted me to go.
"That's it. I would never let you escape so easily, my love," he cleared his throat quickly. "Why don't you gather a bit more of yourself on your fingertip and continue just as you were . . . Let me hear you, darling. I can't tell you how your squeals and squeaks and those helpless sounding moans make me almost hard enough again for my own second round . . ."
He was relentless, encouraging, dominant and loving in just the right turns, until somewhere around the eighth . . . tenth? . . . fourteenth? I couldn't tell - climax, I began to chant with what little breath I had left and entirely unconsciously - "No more. Please. No more. I can't. I don't have the strength . . . "
His "aww" of sympathy sounded genuine, despite what he threatened. "We'll have to work on your stamina, I can see."
"Stamina," I panted. "Fuck my stamina. My right hand is permanently cramped into a position that any woman who sees it will instantly recognize as a masturbation claw. I'll never be able to play the piano again."
"You don't play the piano now," he returned wryly.
"Details, details. I'm killeded, I tell you. Deaded."
He took a deep, satisfied sounding breath. "I cannot tell you how much I wish I as there to spoon the every loving shit out of you."
I barked a laugh at such a improper statement coming out of such a proper British mouth as his.
"Turn on your side and put the phone under your ear, doll."
"Ok."
"Are you on your right side or your left?" he asked.
I had to think about it - having always had problems telling my right from my left. "I am on . . . my right side. That's the way I always fall asleep."
"I know."
He was a wonderful friend, and had spent time watching over me and dancing attendance on me - when he could - when I was - even deathly - sick, and he'd tucked me into bed more times than I could remember.
"I'm on my right side, too, right up tight behind you." His voice took on that hypnotic, soothing tone that could relax me right into oblivion, into complete bonelessness. "My left arm is around your waist, pulling you back against me, that sweet bottom of yours tucked up against my hard on -"
"You're hard again? Do you want me to help you take care of that?" I offered on a yawn that kind of dampened my altruistic intent.
On a soft chuckle he replied, "No, angel. You're exhausted and so am I, thanks to you."
I picked up where he left off. "I reach down and pull your hand up between my breasts and hold it there while I press my bottom back against you."
"Oh, love, that move could get you into trouble . . . " I heard him take himself in hand, so to speak. "But no, I'll be gentlemanly, this time, and control myself. Although I can't always promise to do that around what's mine. I'm contracting my arm where it lies between your breasts to hold you even more closely to me, laying my cheek against your hair, my mouth at your ear, so you can hear and be soothed by my voice and my steady breathing . . . Sleep, lovely girl, safe in my arms, as you will always be . . .safe from everyone, save me."
As much as I wanted to drift off to sleep in with the strength of his imagined arms around me, I couldn't let something go. It tore into me every time my raw, sensitive mind touched on it.
"Tom?"
"Yes, baby?"
I could hear how tired he was and reconsidered bothering him with my stupid concerns. "Nothing. Go to sleep."
"My darling, I usually don't threaten - I simply correct, as you will soon find out. But this is an unusual situation we've wound up in. Tell me what you were thinking, or I swear I will fly home just to give you the punishments you've racked up this evening - plus another for this bit of stubborn nonsense - before flying all the way back, leaving you sobbing very unhappily and reduced to lying on your tummy for the foreseeable future."
"All right, all right. I was just . . . wondering . . ."
"Worrying," he supplied much more accurately than I was going to admit.
"Are -" I began, then started again. "We said a lot of things tonight that seemed as if . . . as if this was how we were going to proceed."
Without a second's hesitation, he replied, "And this is how we're going to proceed. There's no going back from here, I'm afraid. There's only forward, with you at my side, being carefully watched over by me, my hand planted firmly on your bottom."
"Are you sure you want it this way?" I gulped hard, and asked what I was really concerned about in a tiny whisper. "That you really want me?"
Tom knew, without me having to bawl all over him or say anything more than I already had just how vulnerable I had made myself with that question. It was a feather in his cap that I even began to think I could be so honest and truthful with him, knowing, if it was anyone else but him, that I would expect impatience in return, at least, if not worse.
When he spoke, I could hear the truth of what he was saying - what he was feeling and revealing to me just as openly, ringing loudly in his hushed tone. "Honey, when I see you again in a few weeks, I fully intend to make you wonder how you could even begin to think I didn't. I have two weeks off before I have to go to L.A., and I'm going to spend them trying to make you scream, for one reason or the other."
My breath caught in my throat at his pronouncement.
"Now, settle back down in my arms. You need to get some sleep and keep your strength up in order to keep up with me when I get home."
"Yes, Sir."
"Damn, woman, I love the sound of that . . ."
