Maggie. I owe her so much. I think Viola has made me miss her, which is a difficult thing for me to admit. Maybe I’ll offer take her to breakfast Sunday.
“Why does feeling something scare you?” The softness in his voice brings me back to the present.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts; he’s not going to let this go is he? I shake my head. My eyes widen in alarm. We’re not having this conversation. I don’t want to go there. Disappointment flashes in his eyes, but thankfully he changes the subject.
“I suspected you knew Spanish at Amoeba, I saw you reading the back of a Spanish DVD. Why didn’t you tell me? And you’re Cuban.”
I ignore him. I untie his tie, and remove his shirt buttons with nimble fingers. I’m getting better at this. I pull his jacket off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. I feel his eyes on me. Pouring into me. I remove the pins from my hair, and let it fall in soft waves around me, over my breasts. I turn my eyes up to look at him.
I can see he is still feeling inquisitive; questions are no doubt bubbling up in his head. I walk away from him and boldly sit on the coffee table in the center of the living area, and cross my legs. I point my gloved finger at the couch, gesturing for him to sit. He walks over at a leisure pace and takes a seat before me. He’s shirtless now. His pants hang low on his hips. His body looks delicious. The pale moonlight illuminates his chest, and his glorious taught abdomen, his pants just barely conceal his pubic bone…
Yum.
I turn around, move my hair to the side and unzip my dress. I let it fall to my feet. My corset is pushing my breasts up high; I run my hands over the tops of them, and back down to my waist, down to my inner thighs. My fingertips gently stroke the tops of my stockings.
“Take your pants down,” I command, my voice a soft rasp. I look at the candle sitting in its clear round glass. I watch the flame dance for a moment as an idea blossoms in my mind. I remove the cloth from the coffee table in front of us and set the candle back down. His pants are off now, shoes too. He looks secure, at ease and relaxed with his body. I drink him in with my eyes. He’s…perfect.
I sit between his legs on the floor and slide his briefs down. I bite my lip, hard enough to taste blood, as my eyes consume his most resplendent body part. I watch it come to life. I run my hand over him, between his legs, gently cupping and stroking his heavy sack. I slide my gloves off. His erection is thick, long and hot in my hands. I drink him in. The expression on his face is almost tortured. I think he is bracing himself, he doesn’t know what to expect from me.
“Keep your arms at your side,” I say as I slowly straddle him. I push my breasts in his face, his hands move up to cup me. I slap his hands away, and he puts them back down to his side immediately, smiling wickedly.
“Each time you touch me without my permission, I’m going to drip hot fucking wax on you,” I growl in his ear.
That gets his breath pumping. His chest begins to heave subtly. I put my breasts under his face and grind against him. Resting my hands on his knees, I throw my head back and thrust my chest out to the slow rhythm of the music. I revel in the feel of his warm flesh pressed against mine.
I stand, and sit between his legs so that my rear is facing him. I slide across his lap, moving in time to the music. I slowly slide my panties off before I sit on the table to face him.
My hand glides down my body, between my legs. With one palm on the table and one softly rubbing and circling my sex, I let the sensation take over. I let out a soft moan. His expression darkens instantly, desire pooling in his eyes, he reaches forward and puts his hand on my thigh to spread my legs farther apart. In one swift motion, I grab his arm and push him back onto the couch. He flinches as our eyes meet.
“Spread your legs,” I growl.
He narrows his eyes but does what I ask. I take the candle and let a gentle stream of wax drip from the top of his thigh, across his pubic hair. He writhes and grits his teeth. It must burn, but not too terribly. I watch his erection twitch to life as glares at me and sits back, subdued.
He’s turned on, struggling to control himself. I watch him shift uncomfortably in his seat. It fuels my desire for him. I like this game. I watch his erection grow thicker; the crown of his penis looks bulbous and I fight the urge to lean forward and take him in my mouth.
I stand once more and turn around. Putting my hands flat on the coffee table, I arch my back. I rock and sway my hips. Taunting him, teasing him. I slide my hands over my cheeks, parting them so that I can run my middle finger up and down my seam. I feel myself get wet.
My man is being defiant, he lifts his hand to stroke me, but I’m faster. I turn swiftly, grab his arm with one hand, the candle in the other, and pour wax onto his chest as I push him back in his seat. I straddle him, my arm flat against his collarbone, candle held fast in the other hand. I can feel his thick erection just between my legs. Mmm. My body instantly heats. The pressure of his warm dick between my legs makes me groan as I begin to softly grind against him.
He leans forward and blows the candle out. I feel his smile rather than see it. I drip the remaining wax on his lower abdomen, some of it spills above my pubic bone. I gasp and cry out. This time he hisses, and swats the candle out of my hand. It thuds to the floor. He grabs hold of both of my wrists in his hands, pinning them behind me. My hips have a mind of their own. I continue grinding against him, I feel myself losing control. With one tilt of his pelvis, he pushes his erection right into me. I cry out in pain and surprise. He pushes into me again...mmm, and again. I try and struggle against him, but it’s no use. He has his vice-like grip on me. He rakes his teeth across the top of my breast and I soften instantly. My body feels like it’s humming.
He wraps his arms around me and buries himself into me over and over again. My breasts are almost fully exposed now. My corset needs to come off. I tangle my fingers into his hair, and he pushes me back onto the coffee table, my back striking it hard.
He starts fucking me, furiously. This is not gentle Vincent tonight. He pushes and thrusts inside of me so deep it’s almost painful. I can’t help but cry out as I push back against him. I pull his hair and he bites my lip. A bottomless groan sprouts from my throat as pleasure spikes from deep within my belly. He fills me, his erection swelling by the minute. My climax lazily comes to life as I tilt my hips up against him.
With my arms pinned up over my head, he pushes deep inside me. This time it’s different. I feel myself building from some hidden and cavernous place I didn’t know existed. My chest and belly ache with my building pleasure. My breath hitches in my throat and we both cry out.
“We still haven’t discussed anything,” he growls in my ear. “I haven’t—agreed to any—thing,” he grunts in synchronization with his hips.
He tugs the top of my corset down, I hear the tear and pop of the clasps being forced apart and my breasts spill out. He grips me hard, tight, pinching and rolling my nipple between his fingers. He takes the tip of my breast in his mouth, rolling his tongue around me, biting hard. I cry out. My body is buzzing so that I can hardly contain myself. I’ve lost control over this situation completely.
I force my fingers through his perfect hair, and he pumps into me, harder still. My breasts bounce along with his fury. I don’t know how much more I can take. It feels as though my insides are being rearranged. It hurts, but he feels so good and deep at the same time. I can feel his sack padding against me with each punishing blow. The rhythmical sound of our flesh slapping and striking tips me over the edge. Finally I grow weak, and throw myself back, and go completely limp. One arm is hanging off the table, my eyes closed, the other arm draped softly against his lower back. I grip his backside softly. Panting, moaning, sweating, letting him have his way.
He comes first. I roll my hips against him as he pumps in and out of me slowly, offering the perfect amount of pressure, and I climax, again! My legs stiffen, my scalp prickles and it keeps rolling through me; my body is on fire as my orgasm keeps blossoming from deep inside
of me, until it is in full bloom. Until I feel wrung out. Until, at last, I am depleted.
I am vaguely aware of Vincent scooping me up off the table and laying me in his lap as he sits on the couch. He has me curled up and cradled against his chest. That feeling of comfort sweeps over me again. I’m incredibly content, and sated in his arms.
He kisses the top of my head and inhales deeply. He begins tracing my arms with his fingertips, he trails down to my hips and thighs and then back up again. He tilts my face upward and kisses my eyes, until I reluctantly open them. To my surprise, his expression is stern, and almost angry. I shed my sleepiness in an instant. My eyes focus on his as I search for a clue as to what he’s feeling or thinking.
“Don’t ever lie to me, Lenore. Don’t. You don’t have to tell me everything I want to know, but do not lie to me.” He pauses and my heart rate spikes, “I know you care about me, you don’t have to say it. Do us both a favor, and be honest with me.”
His grandmother’s words spring forward in my mind. Her question about me being trustworthy echoes and rattles around in my skull. Am I trustworthy? I have many secrets, but does being honest mean I have to reveal everything?
More importantly, has he been lied to in the past? Has he been hurt? I’d hate to think so. What am I doing with him? What do I really want? Right now, my strong resolve has abandoned me. The thought is perplexing, here I was trying not to be a part of anything, but we clearly are heading in that direction like a speeding bullet, and it will take a tremendous amount of force to push things back the other way. We are inexorably moving forward whether I like it or not. And…it’s difficult to admit, but I think I’m beginning to like the idea more and more. With each ticking second, each passing moment that I spend with him, the idea of us is beginning to sound…right.
I’m dressed and back in his Mercedes moments later; I didn’t say a word after his lecture about honesty.
We sneak away without saying goodbye to anyone and drive back to my shop in silence. He stares out the windshield pensively, my hand in his, his thumb tracing my knuckles mechanically. My dress and corset are too restricting. I can’t wait to get home and slip into some comfortable flannel pajamas and think things through. I want to lie in bed and figure myself out, figure out how I feel about the possibility of a relationship with Vincent. Though it might prove difficult in my muddled state.
When I open my eyes, Vincent is gently pulling me from his car. He walks me to my door in gloomy silence. He kisses my hand, and stares at me for an eternity. It’s as if he is trying to memorize my face. I wonder what he’s thinking... He tangles his fingers into my hair as he pulls me toward his lips. He kisses me like it’s the last time we’ll see each other. I close my eyes and savor the taste and feel of him.
“Are you going back home?” I ask.
“No. I’m going back to my parents’ house; my mother is expecting me to make sure my dad and Benny behave themselves. I have some business to talk about with my dad tomorrow morning, too.” His voice is quiet with unspoken misery. I want to ask him to stay. I want to curl up next to him and wipe away his despair. Or perhaps it’s my own despair I’m feeling.
“Goodnight,” he whispers against my hair. He lets go and stalks away to his car. A torrent of emotion sweeps through me as I watch him go.
I open my shop doors and he departs. I listen as his car purrs through the quiet streets of Uptown. I’m too stubborn to admit that I wanted him to stay the night again, but it wouldn’t have been a good idea to ask him. It’ll set a dangerous precedent. I need time alone. I need to reflect on what exactly it is that I want, and what is happening around me. But I can’t help but feel hollow as I drag myself up the steps to my room.
I shower quickly, take some Aleve and drink a large glass of water. I collapse onto my bed. Bucky curls up on the floor next to me.
I replay the entire evening in my mind. What am I afraid of? I’m not like my mother, and Vincent is not like my stepfather. I won’t let myself end up like her. Twisted with guilt, controlled and physically beaten by a drunken asshole. That won’t happen to me. I know it won’t. So what is stopping me? Why do I feel the need to keep everyone at arms length?
Will I have to confess to him that my mother went insane or that I was adopted and changed my name so that my stepfather wouldn’t find me? Will I forever have to hide that I was hidden away in the basement so I wouldn’t get beaten or raped? It’s all too horrifying to even remember, to think about, and much less confess to someone. He’d never look at me in the same light.
I know my past has changed the way I think of myself, of what I think and feel of love, family and safety. None of us is ever safe. There are forces in this world that lie and wait to snatch the things you love away, even if you are innocent and kind.
If I were to enter into an honest relationship, I would eventually have to let it all out. Otherwise, I’d have to keep my past hidden forever; I’d have to keep a big and heavy part of myself secret. Even someone as inexperienced as I am knows that’s not the way to be in a relationship, not if there is to be any real trust. And that’s what I’ve done thus far. I’ve kept people distant so that I wouldn’t have to let them in. I don’t want to let the past out. Though at this moment, it feels like a heavy fog circling around me, building into something dark and menacing. A storm is building in and around me.
I hate to even think of the bastard. James. That was my stepfather’s fucking name. I hate him. I want to hurt him, the same way he hurt my mother. He raped her, and beat her. He wanted her to have his child, when he found out my mother had been taking birth control...I shudder at the thought. Well, he got his way. He got her pregnant, but he didn’t get his son. His heir to his shitty business, whatever it was he did, whatever it was that made him so wealthy. Wealthy enough to think he was untouchable. He was always so vague and secretive about it, his “business”.
“My business is my business, kid. Not yours.” He’d laugh heavily. He thought he was so clever.
I grip my pillow tightly just thinking about him. Anger lances through me. Boiling me from the inside out. I haven’t thought of any of this in such a long time. It’s toxic, my past, and my memories. It’s so toxic I can’t bear to let it out.
I don’t know how long I was left in the basement. Three months? Six months? So much of that time is lost. Soon my mother wasn’t able to come to me, to bring me food, and books. I was completely isolated. The few times my mother did come down, towards the end, she was so far off. She wasn’t even herself anymore. She wouldn’t hug me or touch me. Our maid, I can’t remember her name, she took care of me from time to time. But even she tried to remain distant, afraid that she would be punished if I were discovered.
They said I’d run away...
Once my mother was pregnant, and he couldn’t beat and rape her, he came in search of me. That’s what led me to take refuge in the basement. I fought him off, the drunken bastard. Thanks to him, I am now a scarred woman, ready to sabotage the one good thing in my life. I don’t know why. I don’t know why any of it happened to me.
I am in serious need of a new form of therapy. When I’d feel this cloud of anger in the past, I would just slip on my ballet shoes and dance, or pull out a needle and thread and create something from scraps of old material. Dance the pain and anger away. Make something beautiful out of something discarded and forgotten. But as the years have gone by, it hasn’t continued to be as effective. Its respite has become more and more brief. Sewing, ballet, burlesque, performingit’s the same. I can busy my mind and body, but it just isn’t enough. It doesn’t feel like enough. It’s a temporary relief.
It’s Vincent. He’s brought this on again. He’s made everything more intense. He’s brought on the surge of memories repressed. I feel as though I’m drowning. The volcano of feelings I have had buried so deeply are ready to erupt with an unstoppable ferocity. I need a more physical release. I feel like I need to hit something! My heart pounds loudly in my chest. Anger rolls thr
ough me, I squeeze my hands tightly around my pillowcase, I tighten my grip until my hands feel raw.
I take deep cleansing breaths and eventually I slip into a turbulent dream...
In my dream I am floating on a raft, in an endless black ocean. I’m cold, dehydrated, sick and hungry. I see shark fins, circling me. I pray, I pray to the Santa Barbara and tell her I will offer her my first-born son if she gets me to shore safely, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be mauled by sharks! I want to start a new life…I’m not ready to go yet. Not yet.
I scream, and curl up on the cold raft. Then I’m in the kitchen, the small kitchen of the apartment my mother and I used to live in before James came into our lives and ruined everything. My mother is standing before me, the crack of her hand stings my face.
“Con la Santa Barbara no se huega!”
I open my mouth to speak, to ask her forgiveness, but the words won’t come out. My throat is raw, my hands attempt to reach out, but fail. I can’t move. I can’t move anything…
I wake with a jolt. I have a dull headache and I’m panting and sobbing. Arms wrap tightly around me and I scream.
“Shh! Shh! It’s me, Jordan. I’m sorry, calm down! It’s okay.”
I wipe my tears with the back of my hand. Jordan? Why is he here? What time is it? I look at the clock. It’s 4:24 a.m. Panic swamps me.
“What? What’s happened? Why are you here?”
He shakes his head softly. “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”
I push his hands away and we both lay back onto my bed.
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