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“Yes.”
“I bet they were so stuck that you could see it, yeah?” he whispers. “I bet you could see the shape of your rosy pussy through your wet panties. I bet your rosy pussy was so swollen that she was bursting out of your panties too. Gushing and dripping, making everything sticky.”
I nod, rubbing my cheek against his. “Yes. Everything was all sticky and hot.”
Everything is sticky and hot.
Everything is swollen and achy. Everything is drenched in lust and my cream.
And I just want to come.
I just want him to make me come and I go to tell him that but he has other plans.
He wants something else from me, because he lets go of my thighs and brings both his hands up to my face. He grabs it and makes me look into his lusty, feverish eyes. “Tell me about the happy ending.” When I only blink at him and at his gorgeous, heated face, he licks his lips and explains, “Of that second dream.”
Panting, I whisper, “You burn it.”
He gets it.
He gets what I’m talking about. “The dress.”
“Yes.” I lick my lips. “Because you hate it so much and because it makes you so angry. You tear it off my body like you said you would and you… you burn it.”
“Good,” he growls. “Because I don’t want to look at it and wonder. I don’t want to wonder if that tight little rose between your legs, that tight little forbidden rose is as pinky and rosy as your fucking dress is.”
I want to tell him that it’s not forbidden.
My rose is his.
I want to give it to him.
But he doesn’t give me the time to respond. Because somehow he moves me, maneuvers me against his body in such a way that I shatter.
Even through the layers of clothing, his and mine, he manages to touch that spot on me, on my pussy, so that I break into pieces and come.
My breaths are all gone.
My heart’s all gone too.
I know I’m never getting it back, my heart, but he’s kind enough to give me my breaths back.
He’s kind enough to open his mouth over mine, drag our misty, steamy lips together, and breathe into me.
Only it stings.
Because he’s not kind enough to close those lips of his over mine and give me what I really want.
What I really need.
His kisses.
And he keeps doing that.
He keeps hurting me with his sweet breaths for days.
Because every day I write him a new dream and every day before the first bell when I go to give it to him, he tells me to get inside his office. He stands me by that same wall and asks me to read them out loud.
And then he hauls me up in his arms and spanks me.
He tells me to say things.
Or at least it starts out that way because his spanks, his growling words, his body, the way he smells me, the way he forgets to punish me in the middle of it all and simply kneads my flesh, simply feels it, forms it, molds it in his large hands, make me come.
Only there are no kisses and no budging on his part.
But I’m still not giving up.
I’ll never give up.
If I have to show him every day that I choose him, I will.
Only I don’t get to.
Because on one such day, I’m not at St. Mary’s like I thought I would be.
They take me away.
“We’re home, Miss Littleton.”
The voice wakes me up and I realize that the car has stopped moving.
Blinking, I look out from the window into the darkness and find that we’re indeed home. “Right. Sorry.” I straighten up in my seat. “Thanks, Charles.”
Charles, our driver, nods in the front seat and I pick up my backpack from the carpeted floor of my dad’s car, ready to get out. But as soon as I open the door, I remember something and stop.
“Oh, I forgot this,” I say to Charles and dig into my backpack, looking for something. “I made this really cute sketch for Janie. Martha said that she’s into Spider-Man these days.” I find the sketch that I had framed today. “Tell Janie that she made a great choice. But Iron Man is the man. I refuse to watch any more Marvel movies because they killed him in the last one.”
I mean, Tom Holland is great but Robert Downey Jr. is a total dream boat. That beard, that arrogance. His dry sarcastic remarks. That only comes with age and experience.
Charles takes the sketch from me for his granddaughter Janie; Martha’s his daughter and one of our staff members with perfect hands and one of my very good friends.
Charles looks at it and smiles. “This is wonderful. But you didn’t have to do that.”
I flush with pleasure; Charles, and of course Martha, have always been supportive of my art. Even so, I didn’t start showing off my sketches and making stuff for Janie — even though I’ve always wanted to — until I was sent to St. Mary’s and learned what acceptance looks like.
