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23
Karma
My role… My stupid role, as it turns out, is to play the part of his bride. Why the hell does he have to marry me, though? If I ask him again, he’ll pull that line of the fact that my father owes him, blah, blah, blah. But surely, that’s not the only reason he’s marrying me? There has to be something more, something else, some other reason why he’s going through with his wedding. It can't be because he finds me attractive, right? Though he does… I mean, he must, considering how he can’t seem to keep his hands off of me every time we are together. And yet, he also pulls back before he can complete what he started. Like, at the fabric shop. It’s as if there’s an internal war he’s waging with himself every time he sees me. He wants me, but he hates himself for wanting me…
And well, the feeling’s mutual. I hate myself for how my body responds to him. For how I understand those dark desires inside of him. Everything that I have tried to lock up inside of myself, from the time I had first been aware of the edginess inside of me, seems to respond to his presence. It’s as if I can’t keep my innermost feelings hidden around him anymore. His corruption attracts the filth I’d thought I had buried deep inside of myself; which I had never dared to acknowledge, to be fair, before him.
That coarseness inside of me which had spurred me on to stitch the kind of wedding dress in which I had always hoped to be married. I run my fingers down the black silk dress that I crafted in just forty-eight hours. It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you cannot access the internet or talk to any of your friends and family.
On our way back from the shopping trip, Michael had informed me that we were getting married in three days. He had told me that he would have a dress delivered to me if I didn’t promise to stitch my own dress. He had seemed uncertain I’d have the time to do it myself, but I had assured him I could work quickly. After all, I already knew the design I wanted. Then, I had reminded him of all the fabric he had purchased for me and that it would be wrong to let that go waste. I had asked him for a sewing machine, and to my surprise, he had told me it was already on its way.
How strange that he hadn’t refused me. If anything, he seemed more than happy to indulge me on this. Like he had in taking me to the fabric shop. He knows I am a designer, but has he guessed just how much I need to create? It’s a passion so deeply embedded in my cells it’s as vital as breathing. As intrinsic as that filth that resides in the core of me. Something I, in fact, channeled when I designed and stitched and gave shape to fabric.
Creating a dress, somehow, eases that heaviness that resides within me. Almost as much as getting myself off does. Well, okay, not quite, but the sensation is similar. It’s like I am channeling all of those forbidden desires inside of me and giving shape to something concrete, something I can wear and feel and touch, something that, on some level, feels as real as the shadows that crawl inside of me.
I haven’t made it out of the room in the last few days, pausing only long enough to eat. That’s how it is for me. Once the muse takes over, I can’t stop for anything. All I have to do is get out of the way and let the creativity pour through me.
So, I'd measured and pinned and cut and sewn, and adjusted, and hand-stitched the final embellishments. I’d tried on the dress earlier and known it was almost there… Almost… Something was missing. A last adornment, a final trimming… Something to just push it over the edge.
My brain feels too tired, my fingers begin to cramp from the amount of time I had held the needle between them. Not to mention, the headache that has been building up behind my eyes. Shit. I need a break. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and my knees threaten to buckle. I yawn so loudly that my jaw cracks. The cool night air blowing in through the open window makes me shiver. I peel the dress off, carefully lay it over a chair. Then, clad only in my panties, I crawl into bed and under the covers to close my eyes.
The next thing I know, something infiltrates my consciousness. I come awake, but don’t open my eyes. There’s someone in the room; I am sure of it. Someone who’s not moving, but standing over me, watching me. The hair on my forearms rises. My heart begins to thud.
Ever since Michael brought me here, I’ve been unable to shake the sensation of being watched. I assume he has eyes on the room, that he’s watching me… Hell, of course, he is.
I’m not naive enough to think he’d, for one second, take his attention off of his asset. But this is different. This is not the eye of a camera on me. This is someone watching me, in real time.
My left leg cramps. I want to shake it out, but resist the effort. I draw in a breath, force myself to stay silent. A gust of wind blows in from the open window. I smell the brine of the sea, before it fades away, leaving behind that unmistakable masculine scent of testosterone, musky like leather with a hint of woodsmoke, that fills my senses. My belly trembles and my thighs clench. Moisture laces my core and I know then, it is him. Fucking Michael. He’s in my room. What the hell is he doing, creeping around here in the middle of the night… Or is it early morning?
Fucking stalker. I regulate my breathing, force myself to stay still. Force my muscles to unwind, one by one, as he remains motionless. The minutes stretch. My pulse rate ratchets up, as it always does when he’s anywhere close to me.
He stands there watching me, not moving, not saying anything. Gah, what the hell is he up to? His breathing seems to deepen. I sense him shift closer, the heat of his body sears my arm, and I know he is leaning over me. I sense the warmth of his breath on my cheek, then the hair on my forehead rises. I sense him sniff at my throat…
What the—? Is he smelling me? The heat of his body recedes, I sense him straighten, then the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh. Wait, what? Is he getting off? Is he actually masturbating here in my bedroom? Watching me?! Why the hell couldn’t he do so when he was watching me via the cameras? Why did he have to come in and watch me in real time?
I sense his breathing grow ragged, and my heart slams against my rib cage. His actions seem to intensify, the sound of him pleasuring himself growing more frantic. My belly flip-flops and moisture laces my core. I resist the urge to squeeze my thighs together. To slide my fingers inside my panties and shove them inside my aching core. Damn it, I should not be turned on, should not find this—whatever it is he is indulging in—so much of a turn on. A low groan rumbles from him, then I hear his breathing catch, sense him shudder as he climaxes. Heat sluices my veins and my toes curl. My core clenches on itself. I want to come so badly, as well. Why the hell do I find this so much of a turn on?
Then heat envelops me, the scent of him grows deeper as he leans over me. Something wet touches my lips, such a whisper of a touch that if I hadn’t been awake and attuned to him, I wouldn’t have caught it. I resist the urge to flick my tongue out and sample it. I sense him hesitate, then he touches his lips to mine, but before I can react, he’s moving away. I hear his footsteps recede, then the door softly closes.
I crack my eyes open, but of course, the room is empty. I flick my tongue out and the taste of him—musky, dark and salty—trickles over my tongue. Did he...is that…did he dab his cum onto my lips and then kiss me to rub it into my mouth? Oh, my god!
I run my tongue across my lips, and the salty, dark taste of him fills my palate. I swallow down every last drop of his arousal, then slide my fingers under my panties, inside my wet channel and proceed to work them in and out of me. In and out, I increase the intensity of my movements, add a third finger, then a fourth. Shit, it's no substitute for the thickness I really want between my legs… Or the closeness of his skin on mine, his breath on my cheek, his lips on mine, his tongue playing with mine... As he grinds his heel into my swollen clit and makes me come. Heat suffuses my skin. My toes curl, my thighs clench, as I continue to pleasure myself with my fingers, chasing that elusive climax. No way, can I go back to sleep when I feel so empty inside and yearning, and…strangely, very aroused after that bizarre performance from Michael.
Had he sensed that I was wake? Did he know just how much of a need that would kindle inside of me? Had he realized just how horny it would make me to sense him come by just watching me? The thought of his long fingers around his fat dick as he grasped his thick length and got himself off sends me over the edge. The trembling overwhelms me and I climax around my fingers. I collapse into the bed, rub my cheek into the pillow and blow out a breath. Then, I bring my fingers to my mouth and suck on them. If I pretend hard enough, I can taste the dark flavor of his mixed with the sweeter tang of my cum. A heaviness grips my limbs and my eyes flutter shut.
When I open them next, light is streaming in through the window.
I sit up, glance around the room. Had I imagined it all? Did he really come into my room last night? Had he actually jerked off watching me sleep? Shit. I drag my fingers through my hair. Why the hell am I not more shocked, more grossed out by what happened?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, when there’s a knock on the door. Cassandra walks in.
"Buongiorno," she smiles at me, "it’s such a beautiful day for a wedding."
I stare at her. Seriously, did she just say that? I brush past her and walk to the dressing table, sitting down. "I assume you are here to help me with my hair and make-up."
"I am here to help you get dressed for your wedding." She beams at me, her face all bright and happy, like this is actually some honest-to-god, real wedding, or some such shit.
"You and I both know, this wedding is a sham," I murmur, "so you can cut the act."
