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I should hate him after what he did back there in that dressing room. It was humiliating and scary at times. Yet one more reminder of his control over me, how what I want doesn't matter.
But in the end, it was the same as before, when he went down on me. I wanted him, wanted what he was giving me. It was torture not being able to scream out how good it felt and how much I loved it.
This is not who I thought I was. What else do I not know about myself?
I can't think about anything right now but how much I want to get in the bathtub and scrub myself clean, though I doubt there’s enough soap in the world strong enough to clean my conscience. I should not want this. I shouldn't crave his touch.
Yet as I fill the tub and strip off my clothes, all I can remember is the thrill of it. How hard I came.
How I can't wait until it happens again and again.
I can't make sense of this. On the one hand, as I slide into the tub and surround myself with bubbles, I think back on the man I met at the hotel and how kind he was, that instant attraction I felt. That attraction is still there. I can't deny it. Something about the chemistry between us and what happens when he touches me is special. I know it.
If only he didn't go about things this way. That's the problem. This could all be different if he had pursued me instead of kidnapping me. There wouldn't be this lingering sense of wrongness. I wouldn't still feel like I have to hold myself back. I could let myself enjoy without the crippling sense of guilt like I’m betraying myself.
Instead of enjoying it almost against my will, like I did back at the store.
I close my eyes and lean back, a towel folded behind my head, and lose myself in the memory. The vague soreness between my legs leaves me thinking back to how hard he took me, relentless, like every stroke was a reminder of who I belong to. What I was meant for, and how hopeless it is to fight what's inevitable.
I sigh, hands sliding over my soapy breasts, while a familiar tingling sensation begins building in my pussy. I tease myself a little, playing with my nipples the way Warren did. When I close my eyes, I can almost imagine it's him, his hands, his touch sending delicious shivers through me with every caress.
But he didn't stop there, did he? And I don't plan to, either, slipping my right hand under the water, trailing it down my stomach, stroking my inner thighs. A soft sigh escapes my parted lips and echoes through the room before it's replaced with a sharp gasp at even the briefest brush against my swollen lips. I’m already so heated.
Just like he did it, I circle my clit, pinching my nipple with the other hand and barely stifling a moan. He knows exactly what will make me feel good, doesn’t he? Just how to touch me. Just where.
When I briefly open my eyes and land on the handheld attachment, a new idea takes root. It only takes a moment to figure out how to work it, and in no time, there's a strong, steady jet shooting from the center of the round head.
I dip it into the water, spreading my legs wider, placing that jet directly against my clit. Immediately, fireworks explode behind my eyelids. I was close as it was, but this is beyond anything I've ever been able to achieve with my fingers alone.
“Warren...” I moan, seeing him in front of me, imagining it's his tongue, his fingers, the blissful sensations stretching out until I don't know if I'm coming again or if I never stopped. My body is so hungry, starved for so long of satisfaction, of pleasure. It was never something I could afford to think about.
Now, there's nothing for me to do but sit in this tub and make myself come over and over, replaying every moment of our dressing room encounter. My skin’s flushed, my grieving rapid and ragged. So dirty, so wrong—but there's no pretending my body doesn't respond to the memory.
My fingers are no replacement for Warren's monster of a dick, but I remember what he did with his fingers the first day I was here and mimic the way he curled them, stroking me. Is this my G-spot? All I know is the sensations climb to an almost unbearable intensity. It's almost scary, and my instinct is to stop, but something deeper makes me go on. I have to trust myself.
“Oh yes,” I whisper when I can't hold it in anymore, working my clit with my other hand while I plunge deeper, deeper inside myself, massaging my wall. The rest of my body goes still, like every ounce of my focus is trained on the unbearable sweet sensations.
“Come for me.”I hear him in my head, and I moan in response as if he's here with me, and there's no choice but to do just that.
I give myself over to it, and it hits me hard, slamming into me with all the force of a hurricane, shaking my body and soul until there's nothing left to do but whimper and tremble and ride out the waves as long as I can, extending it with the help of the high-pressure jet against my nipples while I rub my lips, hips jerking spasmodically as one aftershock after another rolls over me.
Finally, it's too much. I sigh in sheer contentment, the thrill still fresh, a deep sense of satisfaction starting from my very soul and working its way through me.
I'm not crazy. I know what Warren did is technically wrong, that I shouldn't want him and shouldn't be grateful for every experience he's given me. Well, beyond scaring me shitless during the whole stalking thing.
But now I know I can forgive him for that because look at what he's given me. Not just incredible sex, but freedom. Freedom to explore myself without fear. Freedom to live the sort of life I never imagined possible. No more ducking the landlord, no more robbing Peter to pay Paul and just barely scraping by. From the very beginning, he saw something in me that he liked. That he wanted. I can't pretend I didn't feel the same about him, but as far as I was concerned, he was about as accessible as a mansion like the one I’m in now, as going on a no-holds-barred shopping spree in a store I would never have stepped foot in prior to today.
Now that I know what's real and that he doesn't want to hurt me—he only wants me to be happy—I can see things through different eyes.
I know what I want now. I want more of this. More pleasure, more freedom. I want what only he can give me.
It's all so clear.
Once my body is a little less shaky, and there's a better chance of being able to get out of the tub without falling over, I rinse myself off and step out feeling like a brand-new woman. This is more than simply the effect of a startlingly strong orgasm… though that didn't hurt.
This is clarity for the first time in my life. Knowing exactly what I want and how to get it.
He wants to have a special Christmas Eve dinner tonight? Then that's exactly what we'll have.
