No lie, I reworked this at least twenty-five times.
Let me know what you think.
Thank you for being patient.
In my case, a lot of it!
If you're interested, review or PM me.
Welcome to the world that is PAD's life.
I don't own anything, Stephenie Meyer, but I like borrowing her stuff. My plot is mine.
My shock is no longer an issue. Anger's now percolating inside me, creating a fierce, scalding blend I'd like to pour down his throat or pitch at his face.
That bastard! He has me tasting my own underwear!
"Fuck you, let me go!" I yell unintelligibly into my Parisian bikinis—the ones, barely there, costing me more than a week's worth of groceries and presently giving my incisors a workout—the ones on any other given day, I would have a great deal of difficulty destroying.
He has some nerve, treating me like this, and is damned lucky both my hands are tied because I'd have no qualms at all about ripping off the body part with which he's obviously thinking and stuffing it in his mouth!
As my determined tongue tirelessly pokes and plods away at the foreign object, trying to dislodge the demure but thankfully scanty garment, I can't praise the powers that are enough for allowing me to void yesterday's Mexican food before my morning shower!
Cursing him with each breath, I move the fabric away from the back of my mouth, pushing it against my palate, sliding it past my teeth. I let my mouth work while my mind concentrates on other distractions, distractions like envisioning the finest intimates: silk, satin, lace, and even leather (not that I'd ever go there) and think about how far fashion has evolved in such a short time. My wandering imagination displays dainty apparel worn by buxom pin-up girls from each decade of the last hundred years all the way back to before the turn-of-the-century. Back then, though, I wouldn't exactly describe their clothing as dainty. Some of it was downright scary. I envisage women laundering, scrubbing their unmentionables, hanging their ballooning bloomers out to dry, and it finally dawns on me I could be in a situation far worse. As such, in this moment, I am very appreciative of the fact I didn't live back then with him doing what he is now because I would most likely have already died from asphyxiation. Of course, this doesn't excuse him, considering he's still holding me captive!
Reality beckons, bringing me back to the moment, and I scream garbled nonsense into the fabric, hoping he'll come to his senses and regain some of his niceness so he'll decide to release me.
He's wedged the textile enough to keep me breathing but stop me from talking, making me wonder if he's done this before or is just that lucky. My natural instinct has me attempting to cough, trying to keep the item from slipping down my throat, but this proves almost impossible as my gag reflex is making me want to vomit, causing me to salivate, making me want to swallow it.
Come to think of it, I've never swallowed his. Blech! Is that something I'd consider?
Hell, no! Not now! Not ever!
Getting back to my present situation, with this new revelation, I continue coughing but do so more carefully, making small gains with my tongue, millimeter by millimeter, using it like a plow to push away at the sheer, snowy, material. In doing so, I come very close to dislodging the obstruction, telling myself a just a little more.
Ptui! . . . Ptui! . . . Ptui!
One last final combination of pushing and spitting . . . ptui . . . releases my panties while unleashing my words.
"You dick! You fucking prick! You arrogant asshole! You're not going to get away with this!"
Somewhere in between each exclamation I fully surprise myself, managing to refill my lungs while giving a voice to my temper.
Appearing unfazed by my outburst, I hear him release a quiet chuckle, which intrigues me because he usually doesn't seem to have a sense of humor. I also hear the clink of his ring sliding against the metal of the handrail encircling the room as he once again, wordlessly, moves toward our things.
I try picturing the simple band, worn on the third finger of his left hand. It's something I've frequently asked about, but he's never given me any straight answer regarding its significance. From what I've gathered, it's the one piece of jewelry he never removes. Unfortunately, this evasiveness conjures up in me all kinds of negative thoughts. He's probably some player, duping his poor wife, duping the people setting up this experiment, duping me! His deceitfulness is disgusting. At least I truly have no one. I don't have to pretend, but that's what's unsettling about my assumption. His ordinarily spineless personality doesn't mesh with him being a cheat. He honestly does act like a gentleman each time we're here—well, as much of a gentleman as he can, considering what we do—that is until today.
Gentleman my ass!
Acknowledging I no longer need to concentrate on unobstructed breathing, I try twisting myself out of the hold in which he's placed me, but any attempt I make proves pointless. My wrists, crossing overhead, rub against each other, bone to bone, while the rigid hide of his belt digs into the meaty part of my thumb, hurting me. Regardless of what I do, it's futile for me to struggle. I just can't free myself.
This isn't a game anymore!
Because the word quit doesn't hide in my closet, I make one last violent attempt to break free, causing my shoulders to grind and pop, reminding me that my thirty-six year-old body—presently craving glucosamine—has seen better days.
Aah, grinding then popping. Dance floors. Stair wells. Office closets. I had a lot of fun back then, back then when I wasn't as mean like a wolverine!
There's nothing wrong with holding one's own in the corporate forest.
Why would I want to hold on to my own when I could be holding on to someone else's, someone male that is?
As much as I hate him winning, I'd hate tearing my body parts because of it even more. It's for this reason I conclude if I know what's good for me, I should back down before seriously injuring something. Aside from presently taking time away from my job, I don't need to add doctor visits, physical therapy, and possibly even surgery if I can't restrain my obstinacy.
My chest rises and falls as I pant, pulling the cool, dry, air-conditioned air through my nose. I try keeping my mind off my discomfort, but in doing so, lose my awareness and, subsequently, fail to pay much attention to what he is doing. This proves a bad move on my part, considering he's already back at his side of the bed, standing next to me.
Sneaky bastard! I don't appreciate being caught off guard!
I sense him beginning to lean over when my fight response makes an encore.
This is about survival instincts, not being a lady, so I scrape what phlegm I can—which isn't easy, considering I used up most of it trying to rid myself of my panties. I make nasally, guttural noises, and decide, what the hell, I should just go for gusto, hawking it at him. So I do!
I'm not sure I got a bull's-eye and hit his face, but I do know I at least struck my target because I hear him snickering while most likely removing my spit off him, only to smear it back on me, over my left tit, just grazing the nipple, which slightly responds.
I'd say it's more than just slightly.
I'm not stupid. I know he's enjoying this—probably too much. I also know he's using this opportunity to discern my proximity. Just as I figure this out, he's already initiated his plan.
He brings his right knee onto the bed, nudging my hip, then begins maneuvering the item he procured on his little excursion, the one skimming my brow, the one now making me fume which he sets next to my head.
"My dress belt! I had it custom made along with my bag and shoes left back at my office. You had better not damage it. If I find one scratch . . ."
Still poised, on his leg and knee, he leans over me, bracing his weight, pressing his right hand into the mattress next to my shoulder.
It comes out of nowhere, from somewhere I don't realize exists, and shocks the shit out of me, making me forget where I am. His mouth covers mine, completely consuming it, and if I didn't know better, I would think he was suffocating me. He doesn't pinch my nose closed, so I guess he just wants to make a point; but right now, I'm not sure exactly what that is. Once I stop yelling, he starts moving his tongue. He cautiously runs it over my teeth, most likely testing if I'll bite. When I don't, he sticks a toe in the water and touches the roof of my mouth, making sure it is still safe before diving in. When he does, my tongue surprisingly meets his, and though skittish at first, we quickly become two seals frolicking in the same ocean, rolling under the current, floating on the surface, and bumping while we bob, trying to toss the same ball. Then we rest, settling, giving our lips a chance to tug and pull and knead flesh grateful for the experience. Sensations move throughout me, lighting pleasure centers like streetlamps wired to tandem circuits. My whole body, buzzing with illumination, doesn't want him to stop, but he does, drawing one last pull, sucking my skin, releasing my lip, the upper lip not minding his newly found upper hand.
Still dazed, I don't object as he loops the thin lizard accessory I fortuitously chose this morning, never once thinking I would be having an Indiana-Jones-Holy-Grail-style-selection moment determining my fate while I dressed. He slips the textured reptile skin, dyed black, under the back of my head, sliding it down to my neck. Then he threads the tapered end through the buckle but leaves the belt unfastened.
He hesitates, waiting for another protest, but I put my attitude in park, believing that I'm making the right call, permitting him to make the decisions . . . even if it's just this once.
Understanding he probably has no intentions of changing his mind, releasing me, I still make a reasonable plea. "Just don't . . . don't hurt me." My mouth acts alone, pleading, seeking his sympathy. It shocks my calcified heart, causing it to beat double-time while my brain deciphers the words I just said. I'm not comfortable being vulnerable. I don't hand over my well being to just anyone, and it's not only the thought of physical injury bothering me—it's the emotional pain, too. I've let him into my personal space. I've let him do things to me no one has ever done. I've also trusted him like no one else and hate not knowing what he'll do next.
Speaking of which.
He grabs my panties, lying next to my ear, and eases the now spittle-soaked fabric under my belt, placing it over my mouth. He secures the cloth by giving the leather a slight tug, stretching it, coaxing the animal skin to follow the contour of my hollowed cheeks before he slips the buckle prong through a belt notch, keeping the garment in place. He then rotates the belt, a hundred eighty degrees, so the metal and excess leather are at the back of my head near the nape of my neck. This time, I surmise his actions are more about maintaining the mood rather than harboring spite.
My reasoning asks me why I'm permitting him to do this, but my stubbornness, not really caring about my reasoning, just wants to kick him in his junk. What he is doing is demeaning, and I shouldn't have to tolerate it. End of discussion.
I need to stop being a drama queen and suck it up! I'm tougher than this! Right now, it's just a muzzle, not a gag! I can always get my revenge later.
At least now I can swallow and breathe unhindered, and though I continue feeling apprehensive, I should have faith in him not to harm me. After all, he'd be stupid to mess with me when we're being recorded. Unfortunately, that does little to make me feel at ease, considering I have yet to move or communicate with a bite restraint strapped over my mouth!
I need to keep my edge.
Even quite tense, I squash down my uneasy thoughts. I'm letting him do this but still feel equal parts pissed and panicked. It would be a lot easier if he were to just kiss me as he did before. No games. No sex. No hassle.
Whoa! Did I just admit I liked his lips?
I'm confused and probably having trouble with my circulation. Clearly, I'm not thinking clearly. I start shifting my weight to relieve the uncomfortable tightness I feel in my chest. Obviously, I'm not used to someone restraining me. That's what must be clouding my brain.
Almost as if he's reading my mind, he leans over and loosens the tether from the headboard, not freeing, but at least lessening some of the tension, easing some of the pressure off my chest. As he moves away, returning to his prior position, his underarm hair brushes my nose.
It's soft. It tickles. He smells especially good today, too!
Now is not the time for me to get soft.
It's not the time for him to get soft, either, and for my sake, I hope he isn't. Wet noodle canoodling is more trouble than what it's worth.
For self-preservation, I decide to begrudgingly give in to his actions. I can't see, can't speak, and can't use my hands, but I can think.
Aside from reciting positive affirmations or giving myself a pep talk, I do what I do before losing a deal or reprimanding an employee. I exhale.
My psychiatrist tells me I need to practice visualizing more often. I pretend I'm blowing out all of those candles appearing on my last birthday cake, the cake my mom made me, the one with all of those tiny individual flickers, the flickers taunting me, the ones telling me I'm already too old and should be helping my own little boy and girl blow out candles on their own cakes. As my breath pushes its way past what now feels like a damp sponge guarding my mouth, I consider my thoughts. My mom threw me that party because I had no one else. Her upstairs and downstairs neighbors came, but there were no real friends of mine. My dad, just a teenager himself, broke up with my mom when she had just turned sixteen and found out she was pregnant with me. My mom's mom, the grandma I never knew, had just died from ovarian cancer. With my mom's dad dying from a factory accident a few years before, my mom didn't have anyone except for my grandma, and now my mom didn't even have her. Italian, Catholic, and completely alone, my mom sought help from those she knew would provide it, the sisters at the parochial school she attended.
With everything out of my lungs, I forcefully inhale, trying to pull enough air past the obstruction under my nose. Panties over my mouth aren't anywhere near as bad as panties in my mouth, but they still impede my breathing. The last thing I want to do is pass out.
I think about the belt holding my undies in place, the one stifling my rants. I guess it's not necessarily all bad. I can't believe I'm thinking this, but him forcing me to be quiet is somewhat tranquilizing. I stop short of saying it's comfortable because I'd be a lunatic if I went there, but there is something pleasant about not hearing myself berate others, bark derogatory comments, or say horribly disparaging things.
My eardrums aren't vibrating either.
I think I need to think about that.
I used to be a great daughter, a good girlfriend, a caring coworker, and a nice person.
I think being a nice person like him can be overrated. Look how long it took for him to stand up to me.
Have I become that bad?
Yes, I have.
I surrender to the moment, but not to him. He hasn't earned it yet. Not hearing my shrill sounds is actually affording me a modicum of serenity. Deep breaths allow me to dispel some of my frustration but obviously don't completely quell my worrying. I'd be mad to submit to everything he could do, but I can't afford to lose my cool either. I'm at his mercy and need to act diplomatically.
Count to ten.
One. Two. Three . . .
Four. Five. Six . . .
Seven. Eight. Nine . . .
Rigorous massage . . .
with warm oil . . .
and hot rocks . . .
by a man named Klaus . . .
who has great hands . . .
and an even greater body.
There's a body in front of me that isn't half bad either.
Uh-uh, I will not be sucked in by the moment. I'm not here to think about that! He's still clearly dangerous!
Would I think it was any better if he were the one doing the sucking?
I don't know!
I feel my feet pressing into the bedspread over the mattress.
I still need to let him get in and out, so I can get back for my meeting.
In and out as opposed getting it on? I think I'm missing the point. Maybe his point is the point I'm missing.
This is just therapy! Forget hurting him; clearly, I'm the one needing a kick in the vagina!
I think I need a time out.
In any other situation, I would consider using "R" word to describe this, forced sex. In any other environment, it would constitute a felony, but here we're supposed to be consenting. All of the other times, we didn't have issues. Well, I didn't have issues because I called all the shots. Today it's different. It's the same story but a new chapter. Maybe it's even a new book.
I'm not here to think about that.
But he's showing backbone.
To put me in my place.
No one does that!
Maybe they ought to.
No one else silences me.
I think that driver-less carriage has pulled away.
Yeah, and he should suffer the consequences for it.
Am I sure about that?
I'm not sure if I'm sure about anything.
Well, I'm sure that's a first.
He stands up on both feet, and I hear him crack what I think is his neck before he drops to the carpet. A small thump on the floor leads me to believe he has dropped to both knees. The scuffing noises and subsequent whispered counting tells me he's doing push-ups. He's never done them here before, so I'm both surprised and curious. Maybe he needs to calm down, too.
Or pump up.
I put my snarky self in check and decide to just absorb the experience.
I listen to his measured breaths and imagine his hands and feet at equal distance as he moves himself up and down. I giggle thinking about his penis getting rug burn when touching the carpet.
When he reaches what I think is fifty, he stands up and breathes deeply for about ten seconds. With one last exhale, he decides to rejoin me.
He begins by placing his left knee on the bed at my thigh. The foam mattress compresses deeper as he swings his other knee over me and aligns his body with mine while straddling my hips.
The part now tapping at my stomach—the one he previously proclaimed flaccid—isn't anywhere near deflated, now.
"Lift up." He says with a deep whisper.
He pushes into the bed with both hands, causing his forearms to graze the sides of my breasts as he evenly distributes his weight while hunched over me.
The radiation off his body is warm, like a burst of moist air from a hot oven.
His perspiration and cologne, entangling with the pheromones he's emitting from just having exercised, is intoxicating.
The biology of sex and drugs course I took in college is telling me that my body's natural inclination toward letting him mount me is a normal, conditioned response.
He gathers the spread and sheets from underneath me and shoves the linens down to the end of the bed.
As much as my mind wants me to push him back, my body wants more for me to grab him, holding on, pulling him forward to lick, suck, and dig my nails into.
Involuntarily, I plant my feet firmly into the memory mattress and welcome the quicksand sensation, stabilizing me. Like a hungry hamster starving for just about anything food-related, I'm here, ready to nibble.
My feet sink deeper, assisting my thighs in raising my pelvis. My elevated hips unapologetically search for his while I seek the rest of him.
Today, I'm actually interested in what he's doing and providing he lets me have my hands back at some point, maybe I can work myself up, getting a little release before I go back to work. I think I deserve it.
Yeah. Today, a release would be nice. I can go back to being a bitch next time.
Both his hands support my back while holding my ribs as he lowers my body back down to a lying position, effectively closing my parted legs. Wisps of lengthy hair from the top of his head sweep the underside of my chin and brush my neck before floating over my breastbone. Then his lips part, moistening the skin over my sternum, making me want him to do that again before he moves away.
I involuntarily push with my feet, feeling the burning in my thighs, the straining in my chest, and the stretching in my arms. I want him.
"Not yet, sweetheart." There's no malice in his term of endearment this time.
Tingling courses all over me like painful shivers from a high fever. Everything is very sensitive and feels much more intense.
On the left side of my body, beginning with my wrist, he starts tracing on my skin, drawing an imaginary line, using just the tip of his index finger. He skims the smooth flesh at the underside of my arm, traveling down over my forearm, pausing for a moment, pressing into the crux of my elbow. From there he glides as if on ice to my armpit, making me squirm when scraping his nail against where I just shaved this morning. Not yet content with making me wiggle, he circles my breast, using the pad of his thumb, leaving only his imprint. He pulls his hand away long enough to lick his thumb before spreading a tiny bit of moisture, his taste, over my nipple. He puckers, gently blowing a minuscule puff, only enough air necessary for a single beat of a dragonfly's wing. That little bit of breath blown over my dampened nipple, makes my legs jump like I'm a wooden toy with a pull string.
"As much as I'd like to take care of me, this time it's all about you."
His voice is pure maple syrup heated and poured over whipped butter, churned from fresh cream. I want his melted butter spread all over my body, enveloping my warm bread just popped from a hot toaster, warm bread I hope he continues sprinkling with his sweetened words, sweetened with his brand of confectioner's sugar, the sugar dotting his syrup, blanketing his butter, melting on my bread—bread, I hope, he'll savor before he devours.
Mmm. For the first time since we've started, I don't think our session will be long enough.
So what do you think of Bella's stranger now?
Should he hold back or just give it to her?
Now that we know a little more about her backstory, what are you thinking about his?
Please let me know what you're thinking.
Thank you, Chayasara.
Thank you for your patience and for reading.