Darkest Fantasies (16 page)

Except for
that time in the hall.

She grew warm
with the memory. Why could he not just let go with her more often?
God, that had been good. She grimaced, he had not even recognised
her orgasm when it had arrived, assuming that his virtual rape had
hurt her. What an idiot! But then, so had she been for so long.
Hemmed in by convention, by fear of being wanton. Sex was so much
better than she had ever realised it could be. But it was still not
enough. Kevin had fucked her out of his own necessity; a need
brought on by anger, pique, jealousy - all sorts of reasons. But
not for the one she wanted him to experience; the desire to please
her equally.

In spite of
his recent ordeals, he was still being very superior and
condescending. She thought of the earrings he had bought her, and
knew what it meant when people talked about grinding their teeth.
Had all the other little trinkets he had given her over the three
years of their marriage been out of guilt? If so, he had well and
truly played the field while she had remained in virtual ignorance.
What a fool she had been! And what an insensitive bastard he'd
been, pleasing all those other women, and not the one that
mattered.

Fingers curled
into claws, reached towards him slightly, but with an effort she
relaxed. Madam Tisset had been wrong in one respect; it was not
just his fault, they had both been at fault. They had fallen into
their roles in the marriage with serious lack of thought and total
commitment to Victorian ideals. God, she had even been married in
white, like a virgin. Barring the broken hymen, she might well have
been one for all she knew about sex. How innocent she had been!

She had
supposed that lying on her back and thinking of England was enough,
because that was all Kevin demanded. And she guessed he had thought
her happy to be the wife his Victorian upbringing had led him to
expect. In his defence, she mused, he probably really did want his
wife to be a 'nice' girl, because a nice girl would not play
around. If she had acted like a bitch in heat in the early days of
their marriage, he probably would have assumed she was being as
unfaithful as he was, and that would have finished the marriage
before it had a chance. She knew that in spite of living in the
twentieth century, Kevin did cherish the rather quaint notion that
it was acceptable for men to be unfaithful, but not women. Where
did the men think the women they bonked came from? Outer space?

What he had to
be made to realise was that both his home comforts and his sexual
desires could be satisfied by his own wife. And the other part of
that realisation was of that he had to be made aware of her needs,
to realise that she was a red-blooded woman, and that it was not
bad to be so. Otherwise, one day she might really become a bitch in
heat, go off looking for satisfaction from some other man instead
of just doing it in her dreams.

But how?

Kevin was so
complacent he simply could not accept that homely little Esther had
a burning need to see her sexual fantasies enacted. He probably
didn't even think she had fantasies. And if she did, he probably
thought he was them. Arrogant prick! Yet she knew she was being
unkind in her thoughts. It had taken someone else to teach her that
dreams and fantasies were not necessarily wrong. It had also taken
a lot more soul-searching to find the strength of mind to put these
new thoughts into action.

She smiled,
lay back and closed her eyes. If he was not capable of thinking it
out on his own, she would have to do it for him - but now was not
the time. With the ease of long practice, to satisfy her own
lustful cravings, she turned her drifting thoughts to a normal
morning, to seeing Kevin off with a wave of the hand before turning
to face her empty house.

This was her
own private dream; that the hallway was not empty.

As she closed
the door behind her, to her shock she realised there was a man
dressed in scruffy jeans and a checked shirt wedged behind it. She
stared for a brief moment before opening her mouth to scream. The
stranger leapt forward, rammed a hand over her mouth and pulled her
into the curve of his body with his other hand. She reached up,
whimpering, to scrabble instinctively at the ridges of muscle which
confined her.

'Keep still!'
he commanded harshly. 'I don't want to hurt to you.'

She turned to
stone and froze compliantly in his arms at the implied threat. He
sidled to the kitchen window, and she went with him, feet
scrabbling for purchase, the whites of her eyes gleaming up at the
chiselled beauty of his face. He pulled back the net curtain a
fraction. Locked in an unloving embrace, they both watched. The
road was still. Eventually she felt his body relax.

'It seems I've
lost them. Now, if I take my hand away do you promise not to
scream?'

After a second
she nodded. Did she have any choice? He moved his hand away
fraction, tensed at her indrawn breath, then released her save for
a hand on one shoulder. He indicated a small kitchen chair. 'Sit
down. Push the chair right in and put your hands on the table.'

'What are
you—?'

Blue eyes
inflicted a warning, stilled her tongue. 'I've just escaped, and
I'm not about to give myself up without a fight. Does that scare
you?'

'Yes,' she
said honestly.

'Good.'

He continued
to watch the road with hawk-like ferocity while she sat there,
hands on the table as she'd been told, watching him. He was not a
large man, but compact, lithe, his whole body tense and volatile as
if waiting to explode into action. There was a primitive beauty
about him, something wild and untamed, not at all what she was used
to in her own socially-aware husband. With a faint shiver of
something tantalising, she saw the way his tight jeans moulded
against his thighs and recalled the way his rock-hard chest had
pressed against her.

They were a
still tableau for a while, he at the window, she at the table. Then
gradually he relaxed, turned to face her, and drawled, 'Well, it
seems I did lose them, after all. That's nice, isn't it?'

He leaned
against the sink, crossing bronzed forearms across his chest. Above
them a sprinkling of dark curly hair escaped his unbuttoned shirt.
He had a sort of careless grace, with his brilliant blue eyes, and
slightly unkempt hair, but she was not deceived. This man was a
criminal, desperate to remain at large.

Then, to her
horror she saw a dawning interest in their situation in his gaze,
and realised his eyes began to assess her with new awareness. 'I
think I would be wise to stay here for a while,' he commented,
amusement touching his eyes at her comprehension.

She flushed,
fleetingly touching her fingertips to a slightly bruised lip. 'My
husband—'

'Will not
return till after five, darling,' he interrupted confidently.
'True?'

She nodded,
then it was too late to lie.

His lazy gaze
stripped her. 'Then we have plenty of time to get to know each
other better before I have to leave.'

'I - I can't,'
she whispered. 'My husband—'

'Isn't here -
I am. And besides, you have no choice.' He crossed the gap between
them in two easy strides and took a firm handful of her hair. He
twisted insistently, turning her face up to his, and gazed into her
eyes as he lifted her to her feet. The chair squeaked back along
the tiled floor. She was pulled into a close embrace, his chest
smothering her soft breasts, then his lips pressed on hers.

She pushed
ineffectually at him, but his hand knotted a little tighter in her
hair, bringing tears to her eyes. He drew back a fraction. 'I like
my women to respond,' he warned, his breath a warm whisper on her
lips.

Fearfully she
opened her mouth, and responded to his kiss with something less
than enthusiasm. It seemed to satisfy him, though. His other hand
crept around her back, pressing her tightly to him, leaving her in
no doubt that he was already turned on.

Her own hands
fluttered against his hips, then grasped his shirt as he pulled her
off balance.

'Pull my shirt
out,' he commanded, his tongue lapping her lips between words. 'I
want to feel your hands on me.'

Shocked to
quivering compliance, she tugged obediently at the fabric, and then
whispered back, 'I can't. It's too tight.'

'Then undo my
jeans.'

She fumbled
with the heavy fabric, the dark-treacle promise in his voice
sending waves of desire to her very core. She undid the button,
then slid the zipper down. He groaned deep in his throat as her
hands brushed up against the huge lump in his trousers and managed
to pull his shirt free. Her fingers slid up the taut skin beneath
to discover he truly was as muscular as he had seemed, all lean
whipcord strength. She wondered what the police wanted him for, but
didn't wonder anything very much after that, because he was now
moving against her with a building intensity. He ripped her blouse
from her waistband, reached inside to undo her bra, then his hand
was pressing and circling the mound of flesh, rolling the tight
nipple between brutish fingers. She gasped, but could say nothing
because his tongue was invading her mouth, his lips possessing
hers, silencing any complaints she may have felt obliged to a
utter.

Then his hand
slid down, pushed inside her skirt and pants to encompass one firm
buttock. Panicked, she put her hands against his chest and tried to
push away, but it was like pushing at a brick wall. Nothing bent
beneath her frantic efforts. Suddenly his softness was gone. He
swore, turned her around suddenly, heaved her clothes down over her
hips and pushed to her face against the kitchen table, the one hand
holding her there, the other clumsy with haste as he tugged her
clothes down to her ankles and ripped them off. Her blouse he
pulled up savagely and left there, tangling her arms in a knot
above her head.

Then, as
quickly as it started, his violence was gone. 'Oh, you're
beautiful,' he grunted. One hand, more gentle now, held her by the
neck, forestalling movement, while the other caressed the white
lengths of her back, sending crazy signals of anger and desire to
the very core of her sex. The hand slid inexorably towards the
crease between her full buttocks, dwelt in tantalising pleasure for
a moment on her anus, and then slipped further to separate and
lubricate the thickened lips below.

She lay there
across the table, her useless hands trapped by fabric, her cheek
pressed to the scrubbed pine table, unable to do more than accept;
for although conscience told her to struggle, he had awakened in
her a desire of the same intensity as his own. A jeans-clad knee
inserted itself between her legs, opening her more fully for his
pleasure, making her available for his use. His hands left her body
for a moment, and she shuddered as the fabric of his own clothes
scraped past her inner thighs, letting her feel the heat of his
bare skin. He leaned down, kissed her shoulder, and murmured,
'You'll enjoy this. I know you will, you sexy whore,' and he pushed
his throbbing organ against the lubricated lips of her vagina. She
felt the heat of him pressing, opening her for his pleasure, and
her body sucked him in greedily, aroused by his forceful actions.
Holding her firmly by the shoulders he began to work himself
backwards and forwards, pleasing himself with slow and indulgent
strokes.

At first she
lay acquiescent, determined not to encourage him, but she could no
longer hold back. Groaning deep in her throat, Esther began to move
in unison with the muscled stranger. The unexpected response fired
him to new enthusiasm, and with the violence of mutual need, he
began to thrust to a climax within her captive body. Finding her
recumbent position on the table hindering his access, he released
her shoulders to lift her hips, the better to accommodate his
urgent erection. As he pounded against her she was brought to her
own peak, and even as he ejaculated with a triumphant roar, so did
she. There was a moment of union, of exhausted silence and drawn
breath before he withdrew with a faint curse of sated lust.

Esther made to
move, but he forestalled her. Holding her still with one heavy hand
he ripped the remains of her clothes from her, then pulled her to
her feet, letting her know in no uncertain terms who was in
charge.

'No,' he
grunted, 'show me the bathroom. That was a nice little aperitif.
Give me a few more moments and I'll come up with the main course.
And if you're a really good girl, we'll have a sweet before I bid
you farewell. This is as good a place as I can think of to sit
tight and wait for the evening.'

'But I—'

'Shut up!
Women always talk and spoil things.' He pulled her through the
living room and towards the stairs, his eyes roving, searching -
for what she did not know. He dragged her into the bathroom, but
washing was not on his mind. Not releasing the tight grip he had on
her upper arm, he began to throw open cupboards and rifle through
pots and jars. Eventually he gave a crow of delight. 'Ha! I knew
I'd find it: a fine, well-stocked emergency bag. What woman doesn't
have one?'

Esther had
dreamed of Kevin finding this bag full of rolls of sticky tape and
using it on her, but it took the stranger to do so. As he removed
the bag from under the sink she felt a tremor of excitement. What
was he going to do to her next?

He turned her
violently and began to bind her elbows together behind her back,
making her breasts thrust forward under that unnatural stress. She
gasped at the sudden movement and pulled involuntarily, but he
carried on binding until her forearms and hands were totally
encased by white bandage. She pulled at her wrists, and a tremor
flitted through her body at the confinement. She was already putty
in his hands, but now she felt absolutely vulnerable, exposed,
available for whatever he wanted to do.