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  The pressure in my loins slowly built and built, but before I could reach that plateau of pleasure before I knew I would have blown my load, he pulled away and climbed onto the bed beside me. He knelt down on the coverlet and crossed his wrists in the small of his back, offering them to me. He stayed that way, head down in submission, the candlelight flicking paintlike splashes of dark and light along his vertebrae, until I finally gave in, took a scarf from the red velvet box, a blue one, and knotted it around his wrists.

  He moaned as I worked. “Too tight?” I asked.

  “Tighter.”

  I knotted the scarf tighter until he gasped and arched his back, pressing himself against me. Next I tied a scarf around his eyes, a black one. The feel of his back pressing into my chest and belly made the pressure all the sweeter as it built within me. My hands roamed over his beautifully sculpted body and he seemed to melt against me, moaning and sighing. “God, I fucking love the way you touch me, Henry,” he whispered hoarsely. “Like you cherish me. Like this is something more than just sex.”

  “I do. This is.” I held him against me a long moment and buried my face in his vanilla-sweet hair. I wanted to hold him like this forever. I wanted to grow old with him. I started reaching for the lube and condoms we kept in the bedside drawer but Kit said, “No condoms tonight. I want to feel you, Henry. I want to feel your seed inside me.”

  I didn’t argue. I wanted him too much. I kissed along his neck. I pressed my cock between his ass cheeks. He groaned when I dry humped his ass, his bound hands pressed between us. I slid my increasingly slippery cock up his seam. He leaned back and begged me to fuck him. He said things then that I never would have expected to come from his mouth, beautiful, faintly perverse things.

  I pushed him down on the bed, held him there forcefully. He groaned in appreciation of my handling as I lowered my head and drew my tongue down his spine and the crack of his ass. How he trembled for me when I encircled his opening, wetting it thoroughly before pushing inward with my tongue. He wriggled and pushed backward, inviting me to go deeper. I went deeper, biting at his willing hole so he cried out as if I had hurt him. I stopped and waited as his body convulsed and he came with a lunge against our new sheets.

  When his throes of pleasure finally lessened, I slid my hands up his sweating stomach and pinched his nipples. He moaned like some virgin as I rubbed the wetness of my cock against his opening. He spread his legs, submitting to me, begging me to force him.

  “I don’t want to force you,” I said. I loved him too much.

  “You’re not really forcing me,” he said, sounding desperate. “No…I want you to force me. Do to me whatever you want tonight, Henry. And tomorrow night I’ll do the same to you. Fair play. That’s the deal, hon.”

  “What if I really hurt you?”

  “Then I’ll say Puss ‘N Boots and you’ll know you’ve gone too far.”

  I almost laughed at his choice of a safeword, but I could accept that. Fair play. I pressed against him and his anus yielded to me. He gave a lustful cry but pressed backward so I wouldn’t retreat. He wanted it rough tonight. Really rough. And suddenly everything in me wanted to give him that. I wanted to give him whatever he desired. I leaned forward, gripped the soft waves of his hair hard, until he groaned, and bent him further at the waist, at a more accommodating angle as I worked his ass, lunging in and out of him, using him. He moaned, his cheek on our pillow, as he bucked against me, resisting me, fighting me, inviting me. His legs glided against mine, the softness of his leather boots. Finally, my wild thrusts hit his sweet spot. He cried out, screeching like an alley cat in heat.

  I felt my balls tighten. I leaned forward and snagged my teeth in the side of his neck, biting him, really biting him as he screamed with release and I came hard inside him, pumping my seed deep inside his body.

  My release triggered his own second time. I quickly slid my hands down his body and groaned as I felt him come in my hands, spurting his seed between my fingers. I rubbed it against his belly, pulled him upward, and started pounding him once more on his knees, deep inside him, deeper than I’d ever been before.

  I realized I wasn’t done yet. I would never be done with him.

  We lunged and strained against one another, and I growled like a wild animal into the side of his pretty neck as another climax built inside me. “God…Henry…!” he whimpered when I came a second time. This time I had to pull out. There was simply too much of me inside him, and as I slid my slippery cock loose, my seed leaked from his body onto our sheets. I didn’t mind if our sheets smelled like sex, and us. I pulled him against me, cuddled him in my arms, and we collapsed to the bed, in the middle of our own combined mess.

  “That was incredible, Henry,” he said, nearly hiccupping with emotion as he blindly kissed my face all over. “I’ve never felt anything like that before with anyone. Do you love me? You won’t go anywhere?”

  “Oh honey,” I told him as I untied his wrists and removed his blind. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He grinned and his green eyes shone with mischief. He licked his lips like a guilty cat with a bowl full of cream. “Good. Because tomorrow night, Henry, you’re mine.”

  * * *

  BEAUTY’S SLEEP

  By Alex Crossman

  Usually, when a gal’s divorce papers first come through, she does something wild and spontaneous. Cuts and dyes her hair fuchsia, buys that chic little cocktail dress she never would have worn in any other life, takes a long-anticipated cruise. Unfortunately, I was neither wild nor spontaneous, and my best friends Sierra and Juanita were the first to complain about that.

  “You never get out, Fern,” they’d berate me. “You never live, chica!” “You don’t have the salsa, gringo-girl!” This last was said with a great big grin on my friend Sierra’s pretty face, who was, herself, half “gringo”.

  Of our little trio, I was the practical one, the one who had gone to medical school and had studied hard, who was dedicated to my job as an EMT First Responder. I had originally wanted to be a doctor, a pediatrician, but I soon learned that I loved the high energy of emergency work. I loved working over a cardiac arrest victim, or the victim of a shooting or drug overdose, and watching the hope in their faces when they realized that because of me, they were still breathing, still alive. For me, that was excitement, fulfillment and joy all wrapped up in one package.

  My marriage was another matter. At first I blamed myself, telling myself over and over that the long hours and swing shifts driving an ambulance were driving Chuck crazy, that he was a good man who lived with a crazy wife who worked a crazy job. It was hard not to feel guilty. In some ways, I felt I was putting work before my marriage, something my conservative mother didn’t approve of and complained about constantly.

  When Chuck’s drinking started, I felt even guiltier, like it was my fault. I begged Chuck to go to AA meetings, to get a mentor, to get help. I was willing to help him anyway I could, but Chuck was a cop on the Chicago PD, he was a tough guy by nature, and I knew how he and his friends were: any cry for help was a sign of weakness, proof that they were not men. They all drank draft beer, went to ballgames, and talked about how their wives were ball-busters. I took it all in stride, trying to be there for Chuck the way I was there for Clive every night, my First Responder partner.

  Then Chuck hit me.

  I figured it was a one-off, everything coming to a head like a bad boil and breaking open. I thought we would heal after that, and for a while we did and things were good again. Then we had a pregnancy scare—my period was late and I was sure I had forgotten to take my morning pill that day. I’d been exhausted the day before, my brain muddied by hours of driving an ambulance through endless lower Chicago traffic while a bunch of tough youths who had shot each other in a gang war bled all over the floor of the ambulance. Chuck said I’d forgotten accidently on purpose, that I wanted some brat so I wouldn’t have to work. Then he accused me of having an affair with Clive. I tried to be underst
anding; I knew he’d been drinking all evening. I tried to take the bottle away and he punched me in the stomach.

  It turned out I wasn’t pregnant, thank God. But something about that last night finally got through to me. I finally stopped making excuses for Chuck’s drinking and behavior and swiftly moved out of our little suburban house. I went to live with my friend Sierra for a few weeks until I could get my own apartment in the city. About that time, I started my divorce proceedings.

  Chuck showed up maybe a half dozen times, bearing increasingly expensive gifts and begging me to forgive him and take him back. He insisted he was a changed man after that last incident, that it had scared him sober. But I knew better. His dad was an alcoholic who had beat the crap out of his mom for almost thirty years. Well, I wasn’t about to become another battered woman, another statistic to be carried away in an ambulance one day. I sent him away, and when that wasn’t good enough for Chuck, I got a restraining order against him.

  The day the divorce papers came through, I called Sierra and Juanita and told them my exciting news. I thought I would feel sad or disappointed that my marriage hadn’t turned out the way I’d wanted, but instead I felt relieved—and incredibly alive for a change. It felt like a black cloud had lifted from over my head. I realized I was free of Chuck, that this was a new start for me. We went out drinking and dancing all night, and my two best Latinas were only too happy to drag me to a series of cheesy pickup bars and salsa clubs.

  I woke up the next morning in my brand new apartment, sleeping on my brand new mattress set, sans bed frame (I’d given Chuck all our furniture in the divorce settlement; I wanted nothing to remind me of him or our time together), my head pounding from too many margaritas, grinning like crazy, with the sun in my eyes. It was Saturday, I was off work, and I was a gal on a mission to outfit this sexy new apartment of mine and celebrate my new freedom.

  * * *

  I dressed and went out onto the street, no particular direction, hoping to find a furniture store within walking distance. I went maybe six blocks before I saw a gigantic sign above a shop that read: FAE’S EMPORIUM. There were some lovely antiques in the big picture window. I’d always loved antiques, so I just had to go inside.

  The emporium was empty and I got a shiver as I crossed the threshold. I looked at all the antique treasures scattered across the floor—the hope chests, highboys, carven armoires and floor-length mirrors. I even spotted unusual things like butter churns and spinning wheels.

  But it was the bed in the corner that caught my eye—it was a huge, handsome four-poster affair, big enough to accommodate my new, king-sized mattress set, and made of dark mahogany carved with all kinds of wood nymphs and little satyrs along the four tall wood posts. Not a modern bed outfitted with a normal canopy, instead it had wood slats that crisscrossed overhead in a medieval bough, with multiple gossamer veils of different colors twined around them. I thought how a bed like that was fit for a princess.

  Then I felt a stab of sadness. It was so beautiful it had to be far, far outside my budget.

  A plump, older women wearing a hand-crocheted, blue cardigan suddenly appeared at my side and said, “Do you like it, dearie?”

  I never heard her approach, her step was so light. I turned to her and blurted out, “Oh yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

  “It is. And reasonably priced, as well.”

  When she told me what she wanted for the magnificent bed, my jaw dropped in disbelief. “Is something wrong with it?” I asked. “It’s not going to fall apart on me the minute I get it home?”

  “Quite the opposite,” the plump woman told me with a cheeky smile. “It’s the perfect bed. Fit for a princess! It once belonged to Briar Rose and it was the bed upon which the princess slept for one hundred years after she fell beneath the spell of an evil fairy. I just know it’s been waiting for you, dearie. But you don’t believe all that, do you?”

  Her words made me shiver, the way she was mirroring my thoughts. Then I told myself it was just a draft in the old place and I was being spooked by nothing. She was cute and had a sweet smile. Of course I didn’t believe that. I thought the sweet old woman might even have a touch of Alzheimer’s.

  I bought the bed right then and there, and as I was signing our agreement, I said, “Are you Fae, by any chance?”

  “Yes, of course I am,” she answered brightly.

  * * *

  That first night, I wore my best new cotton nightgown for the new bed. I brushed my teeth with a grin and then brushed out my shoulder-length, honey-blond hair. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was short and small-boned, with pale skin and big, dark, doe eyes. Sierra and Juanita always complained I looked like some anime character come to life. I knew I looked childish, always had, and maybe that was the reason Chuck thought he could get away with what he’d done, but the nightgown—a beautiful, flattering affair I’d bought online from Victoria’s Secret, accented my small breasts and the curve of my shoulders. I felt really sexy for a change, which was odd considering I was sleeping alone.

  I stood in the bathroom doorway and just looked at the bed a long moment, drinking in its exotic charm and beauty. Then, on impulse, I took a running leap and jumped atop it. I hit the lavender comforter and it poofed out around me. I jumped up and down on it on my knees like an exuberant little kid, and the veils seemed to whisper and I swear the bed laughed with me. Then I threw myself down on my brand new pillows and gripped my great big body pillow and just lay there, smelling the sweet lavender of my sheets, enjoying the cool silken whisper of my bare skin on the microfiber fabric.

  I felt a little sad I was lying in this huge bed all alone, and I wondered if I would ever find the one, my knight in shining armor, a man who would love me and protect me. I wondered if men like that even existed anymore. Probably not.

  Then I pushed all the loneliness far away and ran my palms over the sheets. “You’re with me now, and you’re all mine,” I told the bed and laughed at my own silliness. Rolling over, I hit the lights and then snuggled down in a nest of cool sheets and warm blankets. The bed seemed to sigh beneath me. Within minutes I was asleep. And dreaming—

  * * *

  A crash startled me awake. I thought it must be my cat crawling over something she shouldn’t be crawling over in the kitchen, but then I heard a group of men shouting, and more crashing going on in my living room, behind the closed door, violent stuff that left me shuddering. It was followed by the clang of what sounded like swords in battle. It sounded like a medieval riot was going on out there!

  I sprang from my bed and reached for my cell phone on the nightstand, but in the dark, all I managed to knock over was a candle. A candle, of all things! I picked up the fallen candlestick, my only weapon, and crept as silent as possible to the door, wincing at the ice cold stones under my feet. I wondered where my nice shag rug had gone to.

  Another cry rang out, a roar of pain and rage, and the door I was standing behind was shouldered open by a man wearing a heavy suit of scales and armor. He crashed down to the floor, and I saw his face, looking upside down at me. It was a ghoulish sight, a milky white, weathered face that made him look like some kind of horror movie vampire or zombie. He had a huge, hooked nose, long, sparse, silvery grey hair, and the worse underbite I had ever seen. The human bulldog snarled up at me, almost knocking me over with his death-breath, and I whacked him across the face with the candlestick.

  The man who had knocked the creature through my door turned to me, an expression of surprise on his wickedly handsome face. I saw at once he had blond, boy-next-door looks, fierce eyes like pale sapphires, a full, kissably soft mouth, and a toned, palomino body to die a few deaths for. I immediately thought, If Ashton Kutcher and Orlando Bloom had a love child…then noticed he wore battle-worn black leather armor and was wielding a gigantic broadsword. Jumping Jesus, the perfect guy!

  “My lady!” he exclaimed, and I realized then that he was British, or British-esque, or something like that, and totally doable. “My
lady, what are you doing?” he said, looking down at the creature I had brained.

  “I’m Scarlet, in the library, with the candlestick!” I told him, waving around the candlestick as I could think of no wittier repartee in that moment.

  He blinked, oblivious to my Clue-reference, then pushed me aside as another of those creatures assailed us. I leaped back as the man who had saved me, the one I had secretly knighted as “Prince Charming,” turned his sword on the new threat. The two clashed their broadswords together, and I saw sparks leap off into the dark.

  Since the swords looked and sounded pretty damned real, I decided discretion was indeed the better part of valor. I was all for swordfights in swashbuckling movies. But in real life? Not so much. I ran back to the bed and jumped atop it, like that would save me somehow. But then I thought, Why do I have to be afraid? When I glanced around my bedroom, my eyes finally adjusting to the dark, I realized it was a vast suite full of heavy, handmade, medieval-style furnishings, with tapestries and coats of arms decorating the walls. It was pretty obvious I was dreaming. Thus, I could do anything I wanted—like the way you can throw yourself off the top of a building when you’re having a flying dream.

  One of those creatures with the bad underbite managed to skirt past Prince Charming as he was dispatching another of his enemy and glared at me with red, hate-filled eyes. He made a grunting noise like a pig and raised his broadsword menacingly. “Are you the healing-mage?” he demanded to know in badly accented English.

  And because this was my dream—inspired, it seemed, by some pimply teen’s medieval RPG—I shook my candlestick at him and said, “Yes, I am! What are you going to do about it?”

  “We have been sent to kill you, witch. You may die an honorable death on your knees, if you wish.”

  “How nice. You first!”

  The creature snorted and lunged at me, grabbing me around the ankle and dragging me down on my rump on the bed. I screamed and brought the candlestick down atop his pointed head, braining him and then marveling at the craftsmanship of the brass. Other than being a little dented, it was holding up pretty well!