Even after several weeks, Lena still found the absurd elegance of Michael's suite at the Hoffmeister somewhat surreal: the ornate, fussy furniture and decorations, the deep pile carpet into which her feet sank to the ankles, the gigantic heavenly bed that was so tall she had to literally climb into it, its linens so finely woven they slipped through her fingers. And best of all, the absolute undisturbed quiet. She sighed with satisfaction, snuggling under the foot-thick goosedown duvet.
Beside her, Michael lounged propped up on a pile of pillows, arms folded behind his head, smoking one of his abominable cigars and thinking his inscrutable thoughts. Thick blue-tinged clouds issued upwards, drifting lazily toward her and making her cough.
Finally she had had enough. "Stop that!" she said, playfully snatching the cigar out of his mouth and dropping it into a crystal ashtray on the nightstand on her side of the bed.
Instantly his demeanor changed. Moving so quickly she had no chance to react, he seized her wrists and pinned her down, crushing her into the mattress with his entire weight. She struggled as it became increasingly difficult to breathe. Kurwa, but he was strong! With her arms, hips and legs immobilized, she could not muster enough leverage to push him away. Straining with exertion and fury, swearing between clenched teeth, she butted him hard in the jaw with her forehead.
Crack! went the flat of his hand against her cheek, snapping her head to the side; she cried out, her ears ringing. When the dizziness abated, she realized that he was laughing. And intensely aroused. She lay unresisting as he rutted savagely into her, his cock harder than she'd ever felt it before –- certainly harder than it had been an hour ago, when she'd had to use every trick she knew to get him off. Cursing herself as her body responded to the mechanical movements, to the shameful allure of giving in to being overmastered, her hips started to rock to meet his thrusts. Long before she could have been spurred to any kind of release, though, the relentless pistoning gave way to a series of juddering spasms, his come jetting into her in hot, sticky gouts, and then he was heavily still.
Panting, he raised himself up onto his elbows, the hard muscles of his chest and arms veneered in a shimmer of sweat. There was a trickle of blood at the split in his lower lip where her head had struck, and he was smiling.
He shifted his weight to one arm and brought the other hand to her face; she flinched, but he merely stroked the bruised flesh tenderly, whispering, "Shhhhh." Lying atop her, he reached for the still-smoldering cigar and drew on it a few times; the tip glowed, the edges of the leaves coiling and writhing redly. Almost abstractedly, he pressed the burning end to her left arm.
Lena froze in shock, seeing and feeling and hearing the skin pucker and sizzle. The smell, acrid at first, then disconcertingly reminiscent of roast pork, nearly made her gag. But the pain grew too acute and she shouted, then screamed.
He blinked down at her as if seeing her for the first time, then rolled off, stretching. Casually tugging the covers over them both, he lounged back into a pile of pillows, arms once again behind his head, puffing away at the cigar. Occasionally he turned to blow a stream of thick blue-tinged smoke directly into her face.
She curled into a tight ball, fighting tears, the throbbing in her arm so intense it was all but visible, and said nothing.
