We're making out in the back of that blacked-out windowed car when I come up with an idea that makes my mind relate myself to Jones when she first met him. "Take me out for dinner."
Seatbelts forgotten, I'm pressed to the glass of the left hand side door, his hands curving up my ribcage to cup the underside of my breasts through my dress. His form is a huge disadvantage in this situation, but we make do. Panting into my mouth, he brings himself away for a second to look at me. And I'm so scared, that in this instant, he's going to judge me as non-compliant.
It worries me that not only am I concerned he's going to do something bad to me, but that I feel I have disappointed him. A want to be compliant without being asked for this whole escapade is not a good thing. I shouldn't feel like impressing him, and yet I do. I'm never going to be able to compete with his feelings for Jones, but it sure as hell won't stop me trying. I'm jealous, not because she's his first choice, but for the sake that I'm second. How fucking cute.
"Another night, Hart." He says, in his tone that as dismissive as her. In this moment, I completely ignore the fact that he's said that he's said it will be another night, and focus on instead how much I want to kiss Jones. I wonder if being with them both intimately will feel like having an affair with both the wife and the husband of a dysfunctional, long-time-wed couple one after another.
In a domesticated life, I would meet him before he went out for the night with his co-workers and colleagues; fuck him quick and dirty in a car somewhere secretive – maybe the coast? Afterwards, maybe after drinking alone and pining over being someone's dirty little secret, I would go to her, and we'd make passionate, soft love the way women do, all slow and romanticised in their bed. I'd have left both lives behind before he returns; neither having a clue the other had committed adultery.
Unfortunately, that picturesque and completely nauseating fantasy will never be, as I'm pretty damn sure that – even if they did get married – Jones would sooner be planning how to escape his grasp than sleep with me on the quiet. "What's your first name, Hart? I just found out I hadn't asked." His hands have left my breast, and I must have zoned out in thought before he could get through to me.
"Jane." I was distracted, yet again, so obeying the command was the only thing I did. I wasn't thinking enough to add a sassy twist at the end. Is this what it's like for everyone under his control? A consistent blandness to each and every action and word? Unless, of course, he tells you to be emotive.
"Well, Jane Hart... I have just the thing for you." He leans back, extending a limp-wristed hand to help me up. He untangles his gangly knees from each side of my legs, and sits down in the middle inelegantly. "You're going to love it." Awh, seriously?! That is not on! Well, at least he hasn't begun 'it' yet.
"You don't have to make me love it, y'know." I say, the least bit irritated that I can only feel my own emotions in the background of love.
"Shush. Just put your knees either side of my legs and sit on my lap. There's a good girl." Men who've spoken to me like that have been yelled at so much that they've always ran off before the beating. He says it, and it's perfectly beautiful without being unnecessarily patronizing. I comply with the demand, and I have to admit it's more comfortable than our previous position. Then again, there's little desperation left to our actions, like we have all the time we need. His voice is so beautiful; I could bottle it and sell it for a hundred dollars a pop. He could talk trigonometry and I'd still be soaked.
His lips find mine again, his hands passionately on my back, supporting me – holding me into him. I reach my hands into his hair, pulling, tugging him to me. It's like that time on the sofa, but I'm less distracted by any form of mission. I'm on top, and I do love it. His stubble burns my cheeks. I love it. His hold on my back pulls me into his lap, and when I feel his erection I love it. "We're always home, my darling. From now on, I want you to do everything I say without question or your opinions unless I ask for them." Oh, that bastard. "I've enjoyed playing your game of reciprocity, but enough is enough."
Fuck him. No, not literally... But yes literally. And right now, I want to wriggle away not for the sake of getting the hell out of dodge, but for the sake of my own goddamn ego. Why did I even think I'd have a night of dedicated worship and control over the world's biggest control freak, other than myself, and get away with it? Who am I to think, just because I carry out his will in a way that's convenient for me, that I'd be able to evade his nature, and break a habit of a lifetime? Yeah, I've been a bit hopeful.
Either way, I'm going to love every second of what he's doing, but it will not be on my terms... I think that hurts my pride and collapses my safe-guard a lot more than I thought it would before I headed out to meet him. Fuck, I'm an overconfident idiot. I'm losing my favourite game, and he's winning his yet again.
"Don't look like that, Hart. If you hadn't pulled that stunt yesterday, you could have tied me up in industrial zip-ties, as long as you pleasured me." The image makes my body shudder against him, and the hand that curls back around to stroke my sex upwards through my dress makes me loose balance and fall into his chest, my head bowing to his pectoral. I whine, grinding against the little friction I'm getting. He's right, I do love it.
I tug on his hair, and he grunts, kissing up my neck, moving his hand back to my tailbone. A little more pressure applied makes me arch my breasts into his chest, makes me straighten up to look at him in the eyes. I make a mewl of protest, seeking his lips again. "You're beautiful, Hart. And I haven't even told you to be as wanton as her yet."