First of all, I hope you enjoyed the first part of the fic…thank you for your kind comments and follows! Here is the second part (the third installment will arrive soon as well). This bit should definitely get the M-rated label, you be warned. I am sorry for the lack of plot, I just can't seem to write fics with an elaborate plot and I'm sorry. I hope it's somewhat tasteful, if not, let me know what you think and I'll take it as a lesson for the future!
V. Spicy
With three days remaining until the end of the month, the end of the twenty-seven days, Margaret's growing restlessness presented itself as a sweet nerve, similar to how she had felt as a child when an exciting event had been approaching. At times she found herself daydreaming instead of focusing on the novel in her hands or the plate of soup on the table in front of her. She indulged in letting the nerve take over for a couple of seconds when she was alone, but when she was in the company of others she had to smother the feeling in her stomach.
She did not want others to know how her state of mind was affecting her daily rhythm. However, in her efforts to appear calm and collected, Margaret exaggerated her act so much that people who had never met her before would look at her countenance and interpret her frowning exterior as a sign of extreme ill-humor. In such situations she became quite aware of how her own body was becoming a burden; she was not supposed to feel anything like this, let alone give in to that feeling. Her state of being was gradually growing into a vile thing that she wished she had not come to known at all.
That night something happened that definitely did not help to calm down Margaret's nerve. If anything, it made her physical condition much worse.
It all began with Mr. Thornton's proposition in the semi-darkness. His words reached her after he had undone himself from the majority of his clothing; only his shirt and trousers had remained, and he had undone the first two buttons of his shirt.
"There is something I want to ask you. Or rather, ask of you," he said, while he sat down next to her on the edge of the bed.
"I am listening," Margaret said.
"I wish-" he stopped, "would you-" he stopped again and sighed, "promise me you will tell me if you do not want me to do what I am about to suggest, for it is something that might shock you. Promise me, Margaret."
She nodded, not sure if the feeling that crept up her spine was anticipation or something else, "I promise."
"I-" he began hesitantly, then with more confidence but with a blush rising on his cheeks, "I have kissed all of these places," he said, touching her face with his hand, his thumb moving from her lips to her jaw, and from her jaw to her neck, "but tonight I wish to see and kiss all of you."
Margaret could promptly feel her own cheeks burning, and the sound of his voice was still in her ears even though he had stopped talking. She did not know where to look. She did not dare looking him in the eye, and she was afraid that looking away would be impolite. She found a middle ground by staring down at her own hands, while her fingers pulled at the fabric of her nightgown.
Kissing all of her? She had not even been aware of that possibility. How had this come about all of a sudden? She was not certain if she wanted to know how he already knew what he wanted to do to her in detail, while she had always been in the dark about those things herself. It was likely that he had thought about this before, and this idea made the back of her neck tingle.
She was torn. Her hesitance originated from the same source that told her that she should accept his request: her brain. Was this not cheating? Did his proposed act not immediately spoil their agreement to wait? She was not certain, but she did not dare asking him. She quickly reasoned that the practices that went on in their private sphere were their secret to keep, and this realization caused a sweet anticipation to grow in her limbs and the pit of her stomach. If she knew him well enough (and she was positive that she did know him quite well by now), he would be gentle with her. This idea was enough of a reassurance for her to yield to his desire to press his mouth against previously uncharted territory.
Margaret got up from the bed. Mr. Thornton - under the impression she got up because he had offended her – stood up as well, ready to apologize. She stared up at him with arched brows, and without a further word she started unbuttoning the first button of her nightgown, trying to ignore her shaking hands. She hadn't given herself too much time to contemplate his idea, knowing she would start to regret her impulsive decision if she thought about it for too long.
When he understood what she was doing, he sat back on the edge of the bed. She could see him glancing up at her from underneath his eyelids every once in a while as she progressed with her buttons. He had never seen much of her bare skin, but this was about to change, and the idea scared her but exhilarated her at the same time.
Once she had finished the row on the front of her nightgown, she had to collect herself for a moment to gather courage. She could do this - she could be brave. She pulled the obstructive material over her head, feeling how the cold air in the room affected her unprotected skin immediately.
It was her husband's turn not knowing where to look: his gaze was fixed at what seemed to be his own knees. This realization made Margaret feel so overly exposed that she felt a lump rise in her throat. Here she was, completely bare before him, and he did not even dare to look at her!
She stepped closer to the bed and draped her nightgown over the edge, her hands lingering against the fabric a little too long, as though she was holding onto it for leverage.
"John?" she asked, her voice shaking. His eyes snapped to her head, completely trying to avoid the further expanse of her skin. Margaret felt the tears sting in her eyes. Why did he react to her like this? Had she done something wrong?
She said his name again, louder this time, and she wished she could stop her voice from wavering. She reached out for him with one hand, and all she wanted was for him to acknowledge her. To her great relief he took her hand and pulled her closer, making her stand in between his legs. He finally dared to look at any parts of her physique that were not located above her shoulders.
"I am sorry," he said solemnly, "I was overcome, that is all. You are beautiful."
He looked up at her, and she could just make out how large his pupils were while she bent down to kiss him, her hands at the sides of his head and her fingers in his hair. She could feel him reach out and place his hands on her sides, where they remained stationary as though he did not know what to do with them. She leaned back, her fingertips still in his hair. Neither of them knew what to say. His lips were parted, his thumbs moving up and down against her skin.
Then in an impulsive (but slightly reckless) act of passion, he pulled her against his body as closely as he could and pressed his mouth against a spot just below her clavicle.
"You should probably lie down," he said, his breath tickling her skin. She followed his instructions, lying back with her head against her pillow. He followed, lying down next to her on his side, leaning in so he could reach every extremity of her skin.
He started his journey by kissing her mouth, one of his hands at the base of her neck. He had not been exaggerating when he had promised to kiss all of her. He took his time, paying attention to her face (nose, cheeks, and forehead included), her neck, a stray freckle on her shoulder, and her clavicles. He reached out for her hands and kissed the palms as well as the pulse point in her wrists. He then moved down to press his mouth against her sternum and her breasts.
Margaret watched his every move carefully, leaning into his touch every now and then and sighing contently. He moved lower yet, not neglecting her ribs and navel. She could see his nose bending against her body, and she bit down on her lip when his tongue darted out, leaving small damp trails all over her stomach.
And yet, too soon, he had reached that place she had not wished to think about. She was grateful that he did not continue immediately but stopped to look up at her. One of his hands was at her hips, his fingers dipping into the clefts and curves there.
"Shall I use my fingers first?" he asked.
To Margaret the idea of him continuing his journey with his hand seemed comforting. She agreed by nodding her head, not daring to speak out loud. She felt his hand moving carefully to come at rest between her legs. She bent her leg, providing him with better access and herself with more comfort. He seemed unsure about how to proceed, because at first his hand lay there, dormant, and his eyes were shimmering with concentration as well as fascination.
Eventually, his fingers started exploring her. His touch felt rather foreign: it even felt slightly unpleasant at first. Margaret whispered that he should not be pressing as hard as he did, her face hot with unnecessary shame as she made that remark.
His touches became feather-light, not just for her sake but for his own as well: he was mapping her out, wanting to know which road he had to walk down to make her writhe. Eventually, for a reason Margaret could not place his fingers started gliding against her more easily, and her discomfort was replaced by something else entirely. She was certain he could feel how her pulse was beating in the places he was attending to, and she could barely control the way her body wanted to meet up with his fingers.
"Am I doing this right?" he asked, his cheeks turning a darker shade of red.
"I-I think so, yes. Is it supposed to feel like this?" Margaret said, feeling quite small all of a sudden.
"What do you mean?" he said, stopping his ministrations for a moment, "I am not hurting you, am I?"
"No," she shook her head, trying to avoid his gaze. She bit her lip, and with a voice so altered and soft she was surprised she could even hear herself, she said: "but when you – when you touch me, can you feel my pulse?"
Mr. Thornton looked at her, understanding washing over his face all of a sudden, as he realized that his wife was not strictly speaking familiar with the part of her anatomy he was paying attention to.
"Do you know what you feel like?" he asked. Margaret shook her head, confirming his suspicions.
"Give me your hand," he said; it sounded like a command rather than a question, but Margaret trusted him completely. It was then that she realized how important the trust-building between them had been. If he had asked her to do this on their first night, she would have panicked, but now she was anticipating what he was about to do.
She reached down, and he caught her hand with his own. He put her hand where his own had been just moments before. He guided her every moment with his fingers.
She had expected wanting to pull away immediately, but to her own surprise she did not feel this urge at all. Perhaps the feeling of shame stayed absent because he was teaching her how her body worked.
Her own hands were smaller, her fingers more delicate than his, and yet her own strokes against her body made the place underneath her fingers throb. Margaret had not been aware that this was an option, either; that women could touch themselves in such a way. She thought of the act itself as improper, although the actual practice led her to believe that the only result was pleasure.
She had to bend her leg a little further to reach all the places he directed her to. He was making sure she felt every spot of the soft, sensitive, and slightly damp flesh. She even felt one of her fingers slip into the first inches of the entrance of her body, but that sensation felt so strange and overwhelming that she did not repeat it, for the sound her fingers made against that spot made her shy away. The wetness she had felt there was what she was most surprised about. Was this what her body did when she found herself in such a heightened state? It would account for his touches starting to sting less earlier on, and Margaret assumed it was nature's way of facilitating the process they were slowly working towards. She hoped he would not be annoyed because of the way her body behaved, for she could not help it. It was his own doing after all, he had caused her to react in such a way.
After a while he let her do all the work, barely covering her hand anymore but still brushing his thumb against her knuckles every once in a while. He had seen the hesitance in her movements when his hand left hers, because he tried to soothe her.
"It is alright, Margaret," he said, "this is all you."
Margaret realized the absurdity of it all. He had not even needed an hour to figure out how her body worked, whereas this body had been hers for years, and she could not even call herself familiar with most of its functions.
And gradually, while she was getting lost in herself, the repulsion she had harbored against giving in to such desires started to fade. She started to feel the desperation soaring through her veins, and she needed more still, because the friction was not enough. Her fingers began stroking more furiously, her breath hitching with every move. She felt herself growing lighter, and she was nearly ready to float away when a voice pulled her back down, back to the bed. At once, Margaret became very conscious of the position and state of her own body.
"Please, leave something for me."
Mr. Thornton's voice was so low in volume and tone that Margaret could barely hear it, and he was not doing it on purpose: it was the only way he knew how to speak at that moment.
He shifted his body, kneeling in between her legs. He tried to avoid touching any of the parts below her waistline, not managing very well because Margaret could feel the fabric of his trousers rub against her legs. He kissed the back of her hand before she retreated it and lifted it into eyesight, inspecting the residue of her bodily fluids that had settled on her fingers. She rested both of her hands on her stomach, as she was not quite sure what to do with her limbs.
He pushed against her knees, urging her to keep her legs further apart. She could feel his fingers against her once more, but this time it was less experimental: it was to create space for his mouth. She could see and feel him bend over her, and then his mouth touched the spot where her own hand had been. For the life of her, Margaret could not stop herself from gasping.
At first he kissed her like he would kiss her mouth, carefully and tenderly, but the tenderness soon faded when she felt his tongue against her, folding it, curling it, and dragging it up her sex.
All these new sensations were as new for Margaret as they were delicious, and a languid and slightly surprised "oh" escaped her. She tried to bite her lip to keep the sound in, but failed. She shut her eyes tightly, partly because of the excitement, but mainly because she felt like he would not be able to hear her if her eyes were closed; it made her feel she could hide from him. Of course this was highly illogical, for he had heard after all. He chuckled against her, and she thought she could hear a hint of pride in this noise.
He leaned back, his fingers brushing against the paths his tongue had followed moments before. The nearer his fingertips came to the front of her body, the harder Margaret had to try to stop her legs from twitching. Her hand shot down, grasping his fingers and pressing them against that tiny spot that, upon being touched, made her whole frame jump. It was as though she had found the relief for the itch she had felt…an itch that had seemed impossible to scratch before.
"Oh, I see," was his reply while he looked down pensively. He sought her gaze then, his eyes not leaving hers while he slowly rubbed patterns against the place she had indicated. He then resumed his actions with his mouth without taking away the friction of his fingers, and that combination proved to be heavenly.
Margaret moaned softly into the air. She felt herself growing estranged from her own body, because her heart was beating erratically in her ears, her chest, and other (more delicate) places. Her hands grew restless. She found herself pulling at the sheets around her at first, but when that did not feel satisfactory enough she grasped for the hair on his head. Her mind started begging her body to let go from that force it seemed to be carrying within her; her own anatomy had her in chains.
Her mouth grew dry because she could not keep it closed. The wordless sounds inside her mind transformed into the shape his name. John. The proper noun became a cadence that expanded itself in her mind at first, then filled her lungs and mouth before it finally came spilling over her lips. This was all his fault; his fingers kept brushing against her, his tongue was tasting her - inside and out; and he, he…
No coherent thought remained, and Margaret was no longer certain if her cries crossed the border of her lips or not. It felt as though her body had reached its breaking point, giving in and toppling over. Her back arched on its own accord, and in low down inside her body she felt something she could only describe as pleasant convulsions. She barely even noticed how her fingernails had dug into his scalp.
The feeling subsided gradually, yet rather too quickly for her liking. Margaret lay there, still but not quite silent. Her breathing was embarrassingly loud, and her chest was heaving. The feeling between her legs was different now: it was no longer an ache, but a pleasant, satisfied pounding of her heart pulse in places it would not normally be felt.
Mr. Thornton lay down next to her, and Margaret swallowed away the dryness in her throat before she kissed him. She realized she had missed the presence of his mouth against hers, but now she tasted something on his lips and tongue that had not been there before.
"Would you tell me how that felt?" he asked, brushing away a strand of hair from her temple.
Margaret remained quiet. She tried not to wonder how he knew what her body had done, and tried to recreate the sensation in her mind instead. No matter how many adjectives she used, she could not possibly express the feeling of utter abandon she had felt. With a body numbed by sensations she crawled to the edge of the bed and pulled on her nightgown. She was glad to be wearing something to protect herself from the temperature of the room, and to have something to hide the blush (the very one that was showing on the entire expanse of her skin) as well.
"It was unexpectedly pleasant," she said, wanting to continue, but she fell quiet and settled down next to him on the mattress again. She honestly did not know how to express herself in this instance.
"I am glad of it," he said, not pushing her to add any more details.
Margaret realized she had been brushing her fingers against the side of his neck to distract herself. She felt the goose bumps rise on his skin.
"Margaret," he started once again, "if there is anything you wish to do, in the same way I asked of you tonight, please tell me."
There were things she wished to see, to take up in her mind, even if it would not soothe her, but she was too hesitant to ask because she feared it might mean committing herself to something she did not want. She had felt what his affected body felt like against her when he had pressed down against her a few nights before, but she had not the desire to reach out and touch. She simply wanted to see.
"Please do not misunderstand me," she said, "I love you, but I do not want…that. I fear I have already given all of my courage to you tonight."
"I understand."
Margaret sighed.
"If I must be honest, there is one thing," she tucked her head underneath his chin. With her eyes closed she whispered: "I want to see what your body looks like. I want to be certain about what is going to happen when this month passes, but most importantly I want to see you…all of you."
Mr. Thornton left her side, standing up from the bed. Margaret watched while he undressed, but when he had finished and looked down at her, she felt the same degree of shame he must have felt when she appeared before him in that state of undress. She tried not to blink too obviously while she took in every part of his anatomy, and even in the limited light the candles in their room provided she could see how his underlying muscle structure moved. She noticed that he, too, was ashamed, because when he laid down next to her on his side he tried to shield himself from her glances.
Despite her own body being covered, Margaret was the one feeling exposed. She reached out, surprised at how warm his chest felt underneath her fingers. Her fingers swept across the hollow of his throat, and she pressed one kiss to each of his collar bones. She nestled her face against his chest, her nose bending against his ribcage.
"Shall I tell you what is supposed to happen?" he asked.
Margaret could not help but glance at all of his physique once again, past the trail of dark hair that decorated his abdomen. She thought about everything that had transpired between them, and she realized he would not have to tell her: she had already known before this evening started, her body had just been in a state of denial.
"I believe I might know," she said, looking up. The look on Mr. Thornton's face displayed his concern, where Margaret did not feel anything at all at that moment; her mind had simply gone numb. He laced his fingers through hers and placed their hands on the left side of his chest, where his heart was beating steadily in his ribcage.
"It will just be us, Margaret, it will be alright," he promised her.
As it turned out, it was a promise he would have to break.
