I am so so sorry for my abrupt, unexpected, extended absence! My computer was out of commission, and it's finally up and running now.
I really wanted to get another chapter to you guys before the New Year, and I think I've succeeded.
All is well-as I hope is with all of you!
xoxo
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Sunday, June 12 2011 - evening
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I lose myself in thought as we make the drive home.
This day has been amazing, yes, but now the darker thoughts are creeping in-the doubtful, jabbing, negative voices that remind me she still doesn't know enough about me. Parts that I am not willing to share with her.
She saw a jubilant, carefree man on The Grace today, but that's not who I am... Is it? It feels strange, to be able to have these carefree moments with Ana. In them, I feel wholly and totally myself-but who I'm acting like is so totally unlike myself. It's shocking and humbling and rejuvenating. Again I'm reminded of the fact that she seems to be making in me a new man, every day that we're together.
I'm reminded again that I can never wholly become this new, jubilant, loving, carefree man she-god knows how-seems to see in me. There is too much darkness, I'm too fucked up. It is an impossibility.
But oh, how I wish it weren't. Because I want to be that man I become when I am with her. I long for it, ache for it, with every fibre, deep down in the soul I'd thought I'd lost.
As it is, we always come back to this... The life I've brought Ana into that has darkened her, but at the same time has enlightened her. She has met every obstacle so far head on, with far more strength I assumed she had. My wealth, my teeth-gritting fame, the contract, my lifestyle and the many mini-obstacles that came with it, and now... Leila.
I am suddenly on high alert, acutely aware of my every surrounding, as we enter the outskirts of my neighborhood. And I am looking for her, searching with eyes I wish could see through walls. I trust Taylor and his team, but she's gotten past them before. It stands to reason, doesn't it, that she could do it once more. And one more time I cannot spare, for that one more time could be too late.
After our long, languid day of lovemaking, boating and eating, the tension slips in, slithering itself between my bones like an old friend that you actually hate. Tension, apprehension, stress, is my near-constant companion, especially as of late. It lifts my shoulders, and tightens my hands around the steering wheel. I scan every young brunette on the sidewalk with intensely close inspection, but none of them are Leila.
I pull into the underground parking garage and park in the usual spot, seeing that Sawyer is here, patrolling. I ordered him to be down here upon arrival ahead of time, but despite knowing he'd be here, I am unexpectedly relieved for the extra guard, the spare set of eyes, and hands, and ears, to protect Ana.
She greets him as he opens the passenger side door for her.
"Miss Steele," he greets her, and then to me, "Mr. Grey."
"No sign?"
"No, sir," he replies.
I nod. Somehow this makes it worse, and the tension rears its ugly head, making me angry, on edge. I grip Ana's hand and pull her toward the elevator. Paranoia has me believing she could be around every corner, armed and ready to take us off guard.
Once we're safely behind the closed doors of the elevator, I turn to regard Anastasia.
"You are not allowed out of here alone. You understand?" I'm aware I sound harsh, cruel even.
"Okay," she says, and something about her expression makes me think she's suppressing a smile. Instead of being angered by it, I find myself fighting amusement in my own expression. The mischief, the sparkle in those blue eyes, is impossible to resist.
"What's so funny?"
"You are," she replies, as if it's obvious.
"Me? Miss Steele? Why am I funny?" Playfully, I pull my lips into a pout.
"Don't pout," she orders, her voice suddenly soft, her eyes just slightly unfocused.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because it has the same effect on me as I have on you when I do this." And then she chomps down on that lush, lower lip.
I feel my eyebrows lift in surprise. "Really?" Deliberately, I pout again, and bend to kiss her swiftly. Or, I mean to kiss her swiftly. But when her lips meet mine, a torch is lit between us, and the elevator shaft goes up in flames.
In a nanosecond, our hands are on each other-hers in my hair, mine on her face, pushing her back against the elevator wall with my body. Our tongues meet, twisting around each other, and I can taste her and she tastes divine.
Everything inside me rises to the surface like a flush, and I'm suddenly aware of every emotion I am feeling-passion, desire, lust, love, anxiety, stress, tension, anger, always anger in one form or another.
The ping and halt of the elevator interrupts us. The doors open, and I reluctantly pull away from the kiss.
"Whoa."
"Whoa," she responds, cheeks flushed, pulling precious air into her lungs.
I stare down at her for a moment, enamored by her beauty, and the passion that seems to mirror my own.
"What you do to me, Ana," I murmur, running my thumb along her lower lip.
She kisses the corner of my mouth. "What you do to me, Christian."
Her words fan the flames inside me, and I'd like to get her to bed. Immediately after I've been debriefed. I release her from the wall, and take her hand in mine. "Come."
When we step into the foyer, Taylor is waiting, and I wonder how long he's been standing there. I didn't see him when the doors opened.
"Good evening, Taylor," I greet him.
"Mr. Grey, Miss Steele," he replies.
"I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday," Ana says, and flashes a grin at Taylor, who flushes.
Immediately, reactive irritation spikes in my veins at her coy, playful attitude toward Taylor.
"That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele," he says. What the hell?!
"I thought so, too," she responds. The fuck?!
I tighten my grip on her hand, aware that I must be scowling.
"If you two have quite finished, I'd like a debriefing." I turn my glare on Taylor, who I hope is reminded of just where his place is in this house. Gone are my friendly thoughts from yesterday-can it only have been yesterday?-; Taylor can be replaced if he doesn't watch where he steps.
"I'll be with you shortly. I just want a word with Miss Steele," I tell Taylor, leading her through the foyer and into my bedroom, closing the door behind us.
"Don't flirt with the staff, Anastasia."
Her mouth opens, she looks surprised by my anger, and it closes again. Finally, she says, "I wasn't flirting. I was being friendly-there is a difference."
"Don't be friendly with the staff or flirt with them," I snap, "I don't like it."
"I'm sorry," she says, and has the grace to look shamefaced. Her gaze is downcast now, directed at her knotted fingers.
I can't stand not seeing her face, her eyes, and so I reach for her chin, tilting her face up until I can. I realize that maybe I've been too harsh, too domineering about this. She really doesn't know the effect she has on men. The poor girl can be rather clueless.
"You know how jealous I am," I whisper to her.
"You have no reason to be jealous, Christian," she argues softly, "You own me body and soul."
I blink, surprised by her proclamation. It is difficult to process, altogether impossible to believe, that she wants, needs, desires me, as much as I want, need and desire her.
I press my lips against hers briefly.
"I won't be long," I tell her, "Make yourself at home." I'd much rather make myself at home inside of her, but duty calls, and I turn, leaving her in my bedroom.
I approach Taylor, who still stands at attention in the foyer.
"In my office," I say, and gesture toward the room.
Once inside, I pace over to the windows. "I won't have you conversing with Miss Steele that way, Taylor," I tell him calmly, "It is not your place, and I can have you replaced."
"I apologize, Mr. Grey," he says simply.
I nod. "So, debriefing."
"Like I said on the phone this afternoon, the fire escape breech has been taken care of. I think that must be where she was getting in, with a key she stole from somewhere. As a precaution, we've changed all the locks, we've swept every single room. There has been no sign of her all weekend, Mr. Grey."
"None at all?"
"No, sir."
I sigh in frustration. This has been going on far too long. She needs to be found, and given the help she needs, before she does something rash. Again.
We finish up, and I head back toward the bedroom. When I first step inside, I don't see Ana anywhere, but then I see the light filtering out from the walk in closet, and I head toward it. She's standing in the midst, staring at all her clothes, now crowded in with mine. It looks... Nice.
"Oh, they managed the move," I say, having completely forgotten I asked that to be done until now.
"What's wrong?" she asks me.
Rather than trying to hide things from her again-because she always gets it out of me anyway-I say, "Taylor thinks Leila was getting in through the emergency stairwell. She must have had a key. All the locks have been changed now. Taylor's team has done a sweep of every room in the apartment. She's not here." I'm surprised by how much this aggravates me. At least if they'd found her here, while Ana was safely gone, she'd be in a hospital by now. As it is, she's still at large. "I wish I knew where she was," I admit, "She's evading all our attempts to find her when she needs help." I frown, troubled.
Ana comes to me and wraps her arms around me. Automatically, mine come up to enfold her, and I kiss the top of her head, grateful for her closeness.
"What will you do when you find her?" she questions.
"Dr. Flynn has a place."
"What about her husband?"
"He's washed his hands of her," I say, aware I sound contrite and angry. I have a right to be. That man is an asshole. "Her family is in Connecticut. I think she's very much on her own out there." Not only where she comes from, but out there now, this very night, on the streets, lost, roaming aimlessly-well, no. She has one purpose. But she's ill. She needs treatment and therapy and medication. She needs shelter and good, hearty meals and company-even if it is only therapists and fellow patients.
"That's sad," Ana says.
The thought of Ana being sad for a woman who could very much want her dead makes me uncomfortable, so I decide to change the subject.
"Are you okay with all your stuff being here? I want you to share my room." I know this will distract her.
"Yes," she replies.
"I want you sleeping with me. I don't have nightmares when you're with me." And I know where you are at all times.
"You have nightmares?" she asks me.
"Yes."
It might just be me, but I think I feel her tighten her hold on me, incrementally.
After a moment she says, "I was just getting my clothes ready for work tomorrow."
"Work!" I can't restrain my sudden, horrified outburst. I let her go, so I can look at her face, so I can tell whether she's joking or not.
Clearly she's not, because she says, "Yes, work." She looks bemused, thrown by my reaction.
How can she be so stupid?
"But Leila-she's out there." I pause, warring with myself. On one hand, Ana has her own life, and her own independence, and her own job. She should go to work if she wants to. But on the other, there is a mentally unstable woman, armed with a gun, possibly after her. Who approached her at that very workplace, for the first time. My decision is made. It will be impossible to keep her properly protected. "I don't want you to go to work."
The old Christian would have said 'You are not going to work'. But this new, metamorphic Christian is different. He realizes that the woman of his affection has a say. He realizes he cannot control her. He is not her Dominant. She is not his submissive. They are a unit, a couple, with each their own personality, goals and lives.
The thought makes me crazy.
"That's ridiculous, Christian. I have to go to work," she protests.
"No, you don't." I have more money than the both of us needs. There is no necessity for her to be working. I can provide completely for her.
"I have a new job," she insists, "which I enjoy. Of course I have to go to work."
"No, you don't," I repeat.
"Do you think I am going to stay here twiddling my thumbs while you're off being Master of the Universe?" she demands.
"Frankly... Yes," I admit.
Exasperation crosses her expression. "Christian, I need to go to work."
"No, you don't," I insist.
"Yes. I. Do." She slows her words down, as if she were talking to someone less than intelligent. It offends me.
I scowl at her. "It's not safe."
"Christian... I need to work for a living, and I'll be fine," she says.
"No, you don't need to work for a living-and how do you know you'll be fine?" I'm aware that the volume of my voice has risen several notches, but she's being ridiculous.
"For heaven's sake, Christian, Leila was standing at the end of your bed, and she didn't harm me, and yes, I do need to work. I don't want to be beholden to you. I have my student loans to pay."
She makes a point there, about Leila, but I still don't like this. I'm not convinced she doesn't want to hurt her. And who the fuck cares about her student loans?
My mouth smooths itself into a firm, unyielding line as she plants her hands on her hips.
"I don't want you going to work."
"It's not up to you, Christian," she argues, "This is not your decision to make."
Fuck, I know it! I run my hand through my hair, staring at her, grappling for words, someway to convince her to stay, but even as I search for a conclusion, I know she's right. If she wants to go to work, she's going to go to work. So I search for a compromise.
"Sawyer will come with you," I decide.
"Christian, that's not necessary," she protests, "You're being irrational."
"Irrational?" I snap. I am not the fucking irrational one here; she is! "Either he comes with you, or I will be really irrational and keep you here."
"How, exactly?" she challenges.
"Oh, I'd find a way, Anastasia. Don't push me."
"Okay!" she relents, holding her hands up, palms forward. "Okay-Sawyer can come with me if it makes you feel better." She rolls her eyes, and before I can catch myself, I feel my own narrow into slits, and I take a step toward her.
When she takes a step back, I realize myself, and pull up immediately.
I take a deep breath, pushing my hands through my hair.
Cool it, Grey.
"Shall I give you a tour?" It's the first thing that pops into my mind, in order to distract myself from the dark, swirling thoughts that tempt me-punishment and violence..
"Okay," she says slowly, carefully, confused by my sudden change in direction, I think.
I offer my hand to her, and causing me great relief, she takes it. I squeeze it gently.
"I didn't mean to frighten you," I tell her.
"You didn't. I was just getting ready to run," she jokes.
"Run?" I repeat, apprehension jolting through me like a lightening bolt.
"I'm joking!" she cries.
Relieved-but pissed she'd make a joke like that-I lead her from the closet and back through the bedroom.
I show her the rooms upstairs-playroom, which we skip over quickly, the three spare bedrooms, and Taylor and Gail's wing, which includes a kitchen, living area and bedroom each. Downstairs, the TV room across from my study catches her interest, and we stop there.
"So, you do have an Xbox?" she says, smirking, upon seeing the various gaming consoles I hardly ever play with.
"Yes, but I'm crap at it," I admit. "Elliot always beats me. That was funny, when you thought I meant this room was my playroom." I grin at her, recalling the memory. How innocent, how naive, she was.
"I'm glad you find me amusing, Mr. Grey," she snaps.
"That you are, Miss Steele-when you're not being exasperating, of course."
"I'm usually exasperating when you're being unreasonable," she counters.
"Me? Unreasonable?"
"Yes, Mr. Grey. Unreasonable could be your middle name."
"I don't have a middle name," I tell her.
"Unreasonable would suit, then," she decides.
"I think that's a matter of opinion, Miss Steele," I argue playfully.
"I would be interested in Dr. Flynn's professional opinion," she muses.
I smirk. Oh, I can only imagine what he'd say. In fact, I think he's called me unreasonable a few times.
"I thought Trevelyan was your middle name," Ana says.
"No. Surname. Trevelyan-Grey."
"But you don't use it." She's confused.
"It's too long." Doesn't matter. "Come." I take her out of the "play" room, through the great room to the main corridor past the utility room, through the wine cellar, and into Taylor's office.
He stands at attention when we walk in.
"Hi, Taylor. I'm just giving Anastasia a tour." Discreetly, I scan the wall of security monitors, fixed on the balcony, stairwell, service elevator and foyer. There is no sign of anyone.
He nods at me, and at Ana when she smiles at him.
I take her hand again and guide her to the library.
"And of course, you've been in here," I conclude, pushing open the door.
Her eyes fall on the billiard table in the center of the room.
"Shall we play?" she suggests.
I smile, surprised and pleased. "Okay," I agree. "Have you played before?"
"A few times," she says mysteriously, and something about her tone makes me suspicious. I narrow my eyes at her, cocking my head to one side.
"You're a hopeless liar, Anastasia," I call her out, "Either you've never played before or-"
She licks her lips, wetting them, and the site is... Seductive. "Frightened of a little competition?" she challenges.
"Frightened of a little girl like you?" I banter.
"A wager, Mr. Grey," she suggests.
"You're that confident, Miss Steele? What would you like to wager?"
"If I win, you'll take me back into the playroom," she says.
I stare at her blankly, her words not quite sinking in. Did she really just say that?
"And if I win?"
"Then it's your choice."
I mull over my answer a moment. "Okay, deal," I say, smirking at her, deciding on my own side of the wager, deciding I'll leave it as a surprise. I'm fairly confident in my ability to win. "Do you want to play pool, English snooker, or carom billiards?"
"Pool, please. I don't know the others."
Her words boost my ego.
Quickly, I rack the pool balls, and hand Anastasia a cue and some chalk.
"Would you like to break?" I ask her coquettishly.
"Okay." She chalks the end of her cue, and as she purses her lips to blow the excess away, she stares up at me through her lashes. I know what she's doing, but I feel my body respond anyway. My dick doesn't play games, apparently.
I watch her line up the white ball, bending slightly, admiring the lines and curves of her body as she does so. I'm surprised, distracted by her body, by the clack of the balls striking together, spinning wildly in every direction. I watch in stunned disbelief as a striped ball lands in the top right pocket.
"I choose stripes," she calls, feigning purity, grinning at me shyly. 'Played a few times' my ass.
I feel my mouth twist in amusement. "Be my guest."
She pockets the next three balls seemingly without a sweat. I'm almost too distracted by her bending and stretching to care. That ass, the view I get down her top...
On her fourth go, she misses the green-striped ball by half an inch. A flutter of relief goes through me.
"You know, Anastasia, I could stand here and watch you leaning and stretching across the billiard table all day."
On cue, she blushes, and I'm pleased by the sight. I always love seeing that pink flush in her cheeks, but if it's distracting her, then that's just another plus. To up the ante, I peel off my cream sweater and leave it on the back of a chair.
I bend to take my first shot, and successfully pocket the purple solid in the middle left pocket. Blue in the top left, green in the bottom, and maroon in the middle left once more. On my fifth go, I shoot too enthusiastically and sink the white ball. Damn it.
"A very elementary mistake, Mr. Grey," she teases.
I simper at her. "Ah, Miss Steele, I am but a foolish mortal. Your turn, I believe."
"You're not trying to lose, are you?" Her eyes narrow in speculation.
"Oh no," I assure her, stepping back to let her forward. "For what I have in mind as the prize, I want to win, Anastasia." I shrug. "But then, I always want to win."
She glares at me and proceeds to take her turn, and now I know she's bending low and stretching long to tease me, flashing me shots of her cleavage and behind at every available turn. At one point she glances up at me.
"I know what you're doing," I whisper to her, my mouth dry, my blood hot. And fuck me, it's working.
She cocks her head to the side, pretending innocence, and running her fisted hand up and down her cue a few times. I imagine that hand on my cock.
"Oh. I am just deciding where to take my next shot."
She leans across and takes a shot, then comes around to bend down directly in front of me, giving me an eyeful of that delicious behind. Her blue blouse lifts ever so slightly to reveal a teasing sliver of smooth, porcelain skin.
I can't help my gasp, and I think it causes her to miss.
I move to stand behind her, where she's still bent over the table, and brush my hand over the round curve of her behind.
"Are you waving this around to taunt me, Miss Steele?" I smack her on the right cheek firmly.
I head her sharp intake of breath. "Yes."
"Be careful what you wish for, baby."
I leave her and move to the other side of the table, taking my own shot. Red in the left side pocket. I line up the white with the yellow, shoot, and just miss.
I look up in time to see her grin like the chesire cat.
"Red Room, here we come," she sing-songs.
I lift one brow and gesture for her to take her turn.
She knocks down the green stripe easily, and by some work of God-which I was not depending on-she sinks the orange stripe as well.
"Name your pocket."
"Top left-hand," she says, takes aim, hits, and misses.
Well!
I grin at her wickedly, sinking the two remaining solid balls quickly.
I take the opportunity to straighten and chalk my cue.
"If I win... I am going to spank you, then fuck you over this billiard table," I reveal.
I see her response, the way she shifts, the way her eyes darken.
"Top right," I murmur and bend again. Oh so easily, the black sinks into the pocket. And that's it. I've won.
I straighten, unable to hide my ferocious, giddy grin. I abandon my cue on the table and walk slowly over to her.
"You're not going to be a sore loser, are you?" I quip.
"Depends how hard you spank me," she whispers, and it looks like she's leaning on her pool cue for support. I take it from her and set it aside. I hook my finger into the deep neckline of her shirt and tug her toward me.
"Well, let's count your misdemeanors, Miss Steele." I count on my fingers. "One, making me jealous of my own staff. Two, arguing with me about work. And three, waving your delectable derriere at me for the last twenty minutes." I brush my nose against hers. "I want you to take your jeans and this very fetching shirt off. Now." I plant a soft kiss against her even softer, plumper lips, and head over to the door to lock it.
I turn to gaze at her, and she hasn't moved. She stands there, beside the billiard table, like a deer in the headlights. A fine, gorgeous flush has made it's way across her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose, and her lips are slightly parted. The blue of her irises has melted, and I want to sink into them.
"Clothes, Anastasia," I urge her. "You appear to still be wearing them. Take them off-or I will do it for you."
"You do it," she murmurs, her voice low and husky, and oh so needful and sexy. I grin at her.
"Oh, Miss Steele. It's a dirty job, but I think I can rise to the challenge."
"You normally rise to most challenges, Mr. Grey," she responds, cocking an eyebrow. I can't bite back my smirk. Very punny, Miss Steele.
"Why, Miss Steele, whatever do you mean?" I pause at the desk built into the bookshelves, picking up a twelve-inch Perspex ruler on my way. I grip each end, bending it slightly so that it flexes, fixing my eyes on hers.
By the way her thighs flex, just slightly, I know I've gotten the reaction I've been searching for. I slip the ruler into my back pocket and approach her, dropping to my knees before her to undo her shoelaces. I pull her shoes and socks off, and then grip her by the hips, slipping my fingers into her waistband, feeling that smooth, smooth skin hiding below.
I undo the button and zipper, peeking up at her, grinning, as I pull down her jeans. The sheer white lace panties she wears leaves almost nothing to the imagination, and I can't resist running my nose up the front of them, breathing her in. Oh, the delectable elixir of Anastasia Steele...
"I want to be quite rough with you, Ana. You'll have to tell me to stop if it's too much," I warn her in a whisper.
I plant a kiss on that sweet smelling damp spot, eliciting a low moan.
"Safeword?" she mumbles.
"No, no safeword, just tell me to stop, and I'll stop," I promise, "Understand?" I kiss her once more, nuzzling against the fur-brushed mound of pink, supple flesh. She is silent.
I stop, standing.
"Answer me."
"Yes, yes, I understand," she says.
"You've been dropping hints and giving me mixed signals all day, Anastasia. You said you were worried I'd lost my edge. I'm not sure what you meant by that, and I don't know how serious you were, but we are going to find out. I don't want to go back into the playroom yet, so we can try this now, but if you don't like it, you must promise to tell me."
She must see the anxious intensity in my eyes, because hers soften.
"I'll tell you," she vows, "No safeword."
I don't think she knows how important this is to me, the communication. This was the condition I allowed myself to step across the line for. This is hard, unbelievably hard, harder than she knows.
"We're lovers, Anastasia. Lovers don't need safewords." I try to remind her, and myself. I frown, suddenly unsure. "Do they?"
"I guess not," she says, "I promise."
I stare intensely into her face, searching for something that will tell me the absolution of how this will turn out. Will she communicate properly with me? Can I trust her to be open and honest with me?
I can see she wants it, in the flush of her cheeks and the sheen in her eyes. The way she looks at me lets me know she trusts me implicitly, she's not scared, and that's all the encouragement I need.
I reach up to release each button on her shirt. Once completely undone, I leave it there, not pushing it over her shoulders, and reach for the nearby pool cue.
"You play well, Miss Steele. I must say I'm surprised. Why don't you sink the black?"
She does as she's told, setting up the white ball and taking the cue from me. She leans over the table, and I stand right behind her as she does so. As she bends forward I admire the length of her legs, and the view through her sheer panties.
I run my fingers up and down her leg.
"I am going to miss if you keep doing that," she breathes shakily.
"I don't care if you hit or miss, baby," I assure her, "I just wanted to see you like this-partially dressed, stretched out on my billiard table. Do you have any idea how hot you look at this moment?"
I hear her take a deep breath as I stroke her backside, trying to compose herself enough to take the shot.
"Top left," her quiet voice sounds, and she hits the white ball. As it connects, I smack her hard on the ass.
She yelps loudly, and beyond her shoulder, the white hits the black, and the black hits the green cushion of the table.
I run my hand over her backside again, rubbing away the pain, caressing.
"Oh, I think you need to try that again. You should concentrate, Anastasia."
I can hear her breathing, quickened now, as I set the black ball up again and then roll the white ball down to her. She catches it and lines it up once more, playing along.
Oh, she looks absolutely irresistible, standing there in her undone blouse and white lacy bra and panties.
"Uh-uh," I admonish as she starts to bend. "Just wait."
I move behind her once more, stroking her left thigh, so silky against my hand, and then her backside once more.
"Take aim," I urge in whisper.
A moan escapes her, and she lines it up. White hits black and I strike again. She misses once more.
"Oh no!"
"Once more, baby. And if you miss this time, I'm really going to let you have it."
I walk down the length of the billiard table once more, setting up the ball once again, and then stride back to her, taking my time. The anticipation is killing me. I'm aching in my pants, but this is all part of the game.
I position myself behind her, stroking her ass once more, at home in my hands.
"You can do it," I encourage her. I'm lying, of course. I'll make sure that she doesn't.
She pushes back against me, and I smack her lightly in response.
"Eager, Miss Steele? Well, let's get rid of these." I slip her panties over her hips and pull them off. I plant a soft kiss on each cheek, admiring the glossy pink.
"Take the shot, baby."
The shoots, and I would laugh if I weren't so high strung, when the white misses the black completely.
I lean over her, flattening her into the table, pressing my erection into her backside.
Feel me, baby.
I take the cue from her hand, and roll it to the side of the table.
"You missed. Put your hands flat on the table."
Immediately, she concedes.
"Good. I'm going to spank you now and next time, maybe you won't." I shift just slightly, keeping my hard cock pressed against her left hip, and admire her, flat against the table, cheek pressed to the baize, hands spread flat.
She groans softly.
I caress the smooth, exposed skin of her backside, reaching up with the other hand to hold her down.
"Open your legs."
She hesitates a moment too long, and I wield the ruler, smacking her hard across the buttocks. The sound is louder, sharper than the sting it leaves, but she gasps anyway. I hit her again.
"Legs," I urge.
This time she spreads them, breath hot, heavy, expectant.
Oh, yes, baby, open yourself to me... Let me see you.
Even now, I can see the glistening wetness on her thighs. I strike once more. And another time. And a few more.
Each time, each sharp smack, makes my cock twitch, my blood boil hotter.
This is carnal and rough and hot, and I am so in my element...
I am so turned on, so ready, all feeling, lost in this.
I bring the ruler down again, and she moans loudly. In response I groan and hit her again, and again, and again... Harder, and harder, and-
"Stop," she says, her voice cutting clear and bright through my psyche, bringing immediate awareness.
I drop the ruler and let her go.
"Enough?" I breathe.
"Yes," she says.
"I want to fuck you now," I tell her. I want to so badly, but if she doesn't want to... Oh fucking god, I need her. I need to be inside her, need to feel her all around me...
"Yes," she murmurs needfully, and I am relieved.
I undo my fly, and she stays where she is, panting against the table. From my pocket I retrieve a condom, and set it beside her hip.
But first, I ease two fingers inside of her, moving in a circular motion. Oh yes. She's ready.
I rip the foil packet open and roll on the condom. I position myself between her legs, pushing them wider apart.
Then, I fill her, feeling her give way around me, accommodating my shape, welcoming me in. My ears take on a muted, hollow ring as I enter her, filled to the brim with sensation, with the scent of her, and the feel of her-not only her wet, tight, damp flesh, but her skin, smooth and soft.
I can't help but release my groan of pure bliss-I barely hear it.
I hang on to her hips, pulling out, and then pushing all the way back in, quickly, sharply. She cries out at the sudden invasion and I stop for a minute.
"Again?"
"Yes... I'm fine. Lose yourself... Take me with you," she pleads, breathless.
I moan, her words erotic, blissful, orgasmic, and I do just that. I lose myself in her, taking her with me, climbing that mountain so familiar, but never growing old. It's new every time with her. Every time is better than the last, more intense, with more feeling.
I feel her begin to quiver around me and quicken my movements, egging her on, brushing against that spongy spot of hers again and again and again, and it does her in. She explodes around me, and her orgasm triggers my own.
I fall into an abyss so deep and dark, but so full of glimmering blue light, soft, I can't explain the feeling. I am blind, and yet full of sight, completely numb, but able to feel every little thing, all at the same time.