Insidious (21 page)

Naïvely, I did. “Yes.”

Spreading my legs, he kissed the inside of my thighs, each kiss moving closer and closer to my sex.

“I’ll never get tired of your scent, so sweet.” His tongue lapped my slit. “So good.” Another lick.

I wanted more. “Please,” I said as I gripped the sheets in anticipation.

More carefully positioned licks and kisses, so close yet not penetrating and not touching my clit. “What do you want?” he taunted.

“I want your cock,” I proclaimed with confidence.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Stewart kneeling between my legs, his cock right in front of me. “Touch it, Tori. Feel what’s going to be inside of you.”

Uncertainly, I reached out and stroked the smooth, stretched skin. He moaned as it twitched with veins protruding and balls hanging heavily below. A drip of pre-come shimmered at the head.

“That’s it. Stroke it.”

My hand surrounded it: my thumb and fingers unable to touch. I looked up to his approving gaze. “Are you sure it will fit?” I asked.

“I’m sure.”

Reaching for a condom that I didn’t realize he had, he slid the sheathing over the length and eased his body over mine. “Relax, Tori. Open for me.”

I lifted my knees. Slowly he moved over me. When the head of his cock pushed against my entrance, I gasped.

“It’s all right. Let me in.”

I closed my eyes and concentrated on his words as slowly his cock moved in and out, in and out, each time penetrating deeper than the time before. The only thing I could think about was the stretching of my core as pain gave way to pleasure. Sounds came from my lips as I once again grasped the soft sheets and fought the urge to pull away, but with each thrust that buried his hard cock deeper inside of me, I knew there was nowhere for me to go. Pain and pleasure intermixed as he filled me to my core.

“Fuck! You feel so good, so fucking tight.”

Nothing else in the world mattered. With his balls against my ass, he stilled. When I opened my eyes, I saw only him. His voice filled the bedroom suite.

“God, you’re amazing. Are you all right?”

I was. I was stretched, sore, and filled. Nodding, I smiled while a tear trickled from the corner of my eye.

Stewart lapped the tear with his tongue and rained kisses on my neck and breasts. Teasing my nipples, he sucked each one, creating taut, hard nubs. All the while, his cock moved in and out of me. In no time, the ache in my thighs gave way to a building tension that was forming inside of me. Subconsciously, I began to move in sync with him. My hips danced with each of his thrusts as his pace increased. The internal pressure was like nothing I’d ever known. It was nothing like what his fingers or mouth had been able to produce. Grabbing my ass, he pulled me closer, willing my already spread thighs farther apart and pounded his cock against my core.

We were almost there, almost to the peak of the mountain, and then with one final thrust he brought me to the top. The orgasm hit all at once. There was nothing else in the world: no aching muscles, no extended family. It was only the two of us. With his warm skin burning against mine, I fell. No, he threw me to the depths below. Screaming his name, I plummeted until there was nothing left. My only movement was the spasms flowing inside of me from head to toe.

“Fuck! I love the way your pussy milks my cock,” he said as he continued to pump. “You’re not done. Not yet.”

How did he know I wasn’t done?
I was lying in pieces, unable to move. He reached between us and rolled my already swollen clit between his fingers. I called out at the delicious pain. I didn’t know how much more I could take. The friction of his cock, in and out, the movement of his fingers. I couldn’t breathe as the mountain formed in the distance. Again his lips and teeth found my breasts. Kisses gave way to nips. The mountain had the highest peak I’d ever seen and the journey was long. Undaunted, Stewart pushed me upward, thrust, by thrust, until my entire body hung precariously on the ledge.

“Now!” he demanded, pinching my clit and drilling into my depth. My second orgasm hit harder than the first. My newly painted nails dug into his broad shoulders. It was the only way to keep from washing away as each new wave roared through me. Stewart screamed, “Oh, fuck!” as he slammed into me one last time. His engorged cock pulsed inside my now tender core as he collapsed on top of me.

Paralyzed and mute, I lay below my fiancé, surrounded by his warmth. When he finally moved, I was left feeling empty, until he pulled me close to his side and kissed my hair. “Go to sleep, my Tori. Tomorrow we leave for our wedding.”

IN CINDERELLA, THE handsome prince saved the poor girl from her wicked stepmother. In Snow White, the handsome prince saved the young, unwanted princess. Children’s fairytales of happily-ever-after began the process of planting the seed in young girls’ minds that princes truly existed. Many of the stories didn’t begin that way: instead, they originated from tales of brutality and violence devised by the brothers Grimm. With that in mind, perhaps the fairytales shouldn’t center on the prevailing of good, but the presence of evil. For without evil was there truly good?

The fairytale I’d been sold, the one that made the reality of my sale bearable, gave way to the true nature of my situation a little over a year after I became Mrs. Stewart Harrington. The façade of my prince shattered with my introduction to Stewart’s
other
apartment. With all that had happened, I’d forgotten about its existence, until that was no longer possible.

“Remember the contract, my darling,” Stewart said as he led me from the elevator in what appeared on the outside to be a warehouse in a more secluded part of town.

Though this was the first time he’d mentioned the contract since before our wedding, I wasn’t sure how he thought I could forget.

Up until the evening when I first saw the warehouse, my days were spent integrating my way into the world of the socially elite. I’d been welcomed with open arms and knives at the ready. As Stewart’s wife, no one dared publicly forbid me entrance into the clubs and organizations frequented by the upper one percent. Yet, I wasn’t naïve enough to assume that the welcome I received was the one shared behind closed doors. After all, I was younger than some of my new friends’ children, perhaps even grandchildren. There was more than what I saw on the surface. I would soon learn the depth.

I saw the looks as I was introduced. The women who invited me to play tennis and plan events were no more my friends than the girls at the academy had been. Thankfully, like most women, I’d been initiated early and I could hold my own. Being female enabled one the keen ability to smile politely and loathe internally. My mother’s influence continued to seep into my dark core. Stepping into her shoes had never been my plan, but plans change. To fulfill my new obligations, I wore the proverbial bitch boots proudly.

It didn’t take long for me to forget how Stewart and I began. I hadn’t expected love, but what I found was as close to it as I’d known. My heart leapt when Stewart praised the things that I did. I loved the gleam in his blue eyes as I walked beside him or held to his arm at the elite social events. No longer did it feel as though we were for show. I genuinely enjoyed his company and it seemed that he did mine. Whether at the apartment or at our sprawling mansion outside of the city, he was attentive and engaged.

Often, I’d accompany him on business trips, proud to be Mrs. Stewart Harrington. He’d been right when he told me not to worry about his age. I marveled at his prowess in bed and took each new introduction—each new position or toy—as an adventure. Never had I imagined the life I lived, and never did I regret my signature.

Not until that night.

Unlocking the door to his warehouse apartment, Stewart led me inside. I soon realized that we’d entered on the second level. As Stewart hit switches, the cavernous room below came into view. Standing at the banister, I saw the stark contrast to our downtown apartment near the beach. As opposed to floor to ceiling windows, this place had none; instead, the perimeter was nothing but tall brick walls void of decoration. Two stories above was the only possible source of natural light: a large skylight. Given the late hour, it appeared as dark and dense as the bricks.

In a corner of the room below was a kitchen with a granite-covered bar and three stools. In another corner were sofas, chairs, and a TV. The starkness of the furnishings reminded me of a struggling bachelor or college student. Though Stewart had only been married to me for a year,
struggling
hadn’t been a word that could be used to describe him, perhaps ever.

As I looked around, I couldn’t help but wonder why, with our downtown apartment and large estate outside of Miami, was this extra residence necessary? Silently, he led me down the stairs. When the staircase turned, my gaze settled on the area of the room that was not visible from the entry. My curiosity turned to horror as my heartbeat intensified and my footsteps stalled. Taking in the raised platform containing a large four-poster bed, bile rose in my throat. Near the platform was one large, overstuffed chair.

Though the contract had outlined specifics regarding consent for sexual activities, up until that moment, Stewart had never proposed anything that I deemed out of the ordinary. With everything he initiated, I’d willingly followed. There was no doubt that he’d taken me to places I’d never been. However, I innately knew that there was something vile about the scene before me.

Tugging my hand, he encouraged my steps. “Don’t stop now, Mrs. Harrington.”

“Stewart? What is this?”

“This is where my fantasies come true.”

My neck straightened as I tried to comprehend. “I-I don’t understand? We have sex. We have a lot of sex. Why do you need an apartment for it? What’s wrong with our home?”

Though my mind spun, my feet continued to move. Nearing the bed, he said, “I’m not complaining about our sex life, Victoria. I like what we do at home. This is different. This is why I married you. This is what our contract was about.”

The contract came back to me: clauses and addendums. One particular sentence came back:
outside the experience
.
What the hell?

“Stewart, what happens here? What do you expect of me?”

“Nothing has happened here since our agreement. I’m not sleeping with other women, if that’s what you’re asking. I did before we met. I have needs.” He directed me to sit upon the bed and touched my cheek. With a difference in his tone, he continued, “As of late, Mrs. Harrington, most of those needs have been very well met.”

“Most?” My stomach continued to churn. “Just say it. What do you think I’ll do here?”

His grin twisted. “I
know
what you’ll do here. You’ll do as I say. We have a contract, a legally binding agreement.”

“I-I still don’t—”

He touched my lips. “I’ve maintained my side of our deal. You have my name, access to my money. Your sister has been accepted at Johns Hopkins.” He tilted his head. “Have I denied you anything?”

“N-No,” I answered with obvious trepidation.

“And you will
not
deny me. I told you before that if something made you uncomfortable, I would be there for you. You’ll never be here alone. I’ll always be here.”

I shook my head. “I don’t understand! Why wouldn’t you be here? If I’m supposed to do something, something to do with sex…” my words trailed away as the upheaval in my stomach became impossible to ignore. A quick look to the side showed me a door. I prayed it contained what I needed as I bolted from the bed, flung the door wide, and vomited my dinner in the toilet.

With my head pounding and my body shaking, I moved to the sink and, cupping water, rinsed my mouth. With my head on the sink, I turned toward my husband and demanded, “Just say it!” My volume rose. “Don’t make my imagination take me places I don’t want to be.”

Reaching for my hand, he helped me stand upright. “Where exactly is that beautiful imagination going?”

I already knew that Stewart enjoyed watching me pleasure myself. Often, he’d encourage me to masturbate, even introducing me to use toys so that he could watch as I came apart. “It’s something about watching, isn’t it? That’s why there’s a chair. Please tell me that there’ll be no one else here besides us.”

“I can’t.”

My brows rose as I repeated, “You can’t?”

“You’re a beautiful woman. I’ve told you how many men want you. I wasn’t lying. They do. And I love watching those beautiful lips cry out. I want to be the one orchestrating; I want to watch as other men use you. I want to be the one to give you that pleasure.”

“No!”

“No?” he quirked. “Mrs. Harrington, that word was removed from your vocabulary the day you signed my contract.”

“I-I can’t. I don’t want to be with other men. I want to be with you.”
At that moment, even that wasn’t true.

“And you will. You’ll be with me. I still want to be with you. The idea of watching is making me hard right now. I bet if I lifted the skirt of that pretty little dress, I’d find that you’re wet thinking about it.”