Chapter 25 #3
“Okay,” I whisper, again knowing that my consent isn’t necessary, that I’ve already given him a blanket yes for the year, and all I have left is the emergency lever of a single, deal-ending no. But I want him to know that I want it.
Maybe I am a slut after all.
Bell pushes a finger inside me, and I flinch, still tender from my initiation into his needs earlier today. He looks down at where his pointer finger has breached me up to the second knuckle and then sighs.
“I’m going to hell for this,” he says as he gets off the bed and goes to the narrow table on his side of the bed.
“But I can’t stop myself. I have to fuck you again or I’ll lose my goddamn mind.
” A laugh and then the sound of a drawer opening and then closing.
“Not that I haven’t already when it comes to you. ”
“I’m not that sore,” I hedge, and he levels me a look like he knows I’m lying before climbing onto the bed. He has a bottle and a condom; he settles on his knees between my legs.
“This has a small amount of lidocaine in it,” he says, handing the bottle to me. In the light coming from the bathroom, I can read the label. It’s a water-based lubricant. Four percent lidocaine, nothing outrageous, same as the bottle of Bactine in my medicine cabinet.
“So it’ll make me numb?”
He’s opening the condom packet and positioning the latex. “Not completely. It’s not safe to be entirely without sensation, since it’s important for you to feel if something is really wrong, but it might make things more bearable.” He starts rolling on the condom, sure and smooth.
“Have you…have you used it before?” I’m imagining legions of women in his bed, virgins, newly un-virgins, women familiar with sex but still struggling to keep up with his powerful libido.
“I have” comes the affirmative answer as he finishes with the condom and tosses the foil to the side. “Only on myself, though.”
“Why would you numb yourself?” I ask. “Wouldn’t that…make it not feel good?”
He laughs. “I didn’t numb my dick, Birdie,” he says warmly, and before I can ask what else he would have numbed, he adds, “We won’t use it if you don’t want to, but it works well with no other side effects, and you might be more comfortable.”
He is so strange sometimes, his power over me godlike in almost every sense, save for these peculiar carve outs in his mind. Birth control. Lidocaine. Maybe those things fall under the category of medical consent for him rather than sexual?
I don’t think it over for long. How can I when he’s kneeling in front of me like this, his drying hair now a crown of curls and the sunlight tracing over his carved collarbone and etched stomach, catching in the smattering of gold on his chest and below his navel and on the gleaming length of his latex-covered cock?
I want him to have sex with me, and the lubricant sounds nice, actually. A small solace for my overwhelmed body.
“Yes,” I say. “I want to try it.”
I’m rewarded with one of those dark, private smiles. “Good girl,” he murmurs. He takes the bottle, flips the cap, and drizzles a liberal amount on his fingers. And then—
“Oh!” I squeak. “It’s cold!”
“I’ll make it warm for you in a minute, baby,” he purrs.
He adds more lube to his fingers, and this time he doesn’t stop at the entrance but goes inside, painting the inner walls of my cunt with it.
His motions are heedful, considerate, and as he works, I become aware of the lidocaine taking effect.
The sensation of pressure is still there, but the stinging, the ache of having been penetrated, is receding into nothing.
He’s now wiping his fingers on the bath towel and then bracing a hand by my head, the other going to his groin to line his body up with mine.
Soon I feel pressure and the concept of slipperiness but nothing more as he rubs the head around my hole a few times before notching himself in place and pushing.
I have more questions about how and why he’s used this before, but the questions skitter away in the face of his invasion, in the curious feeling of nearly feeling nothing at all.
With only the pressure remaining and none of the pain, I’m able to absorb so much more about what’s happening.
I’m able to watch the ink of his pupils spread until his eyes are more black than blue; I’m able to watch the way his jaw clenches tight as he looks down at where we’re joined.
I can take in the magnificent architecture of his body as he works himself in to the hilt—the tendons in his arms, the strain of his shoulders and chest, the taut flex of his abdomen.
He isn’t concerned with my comfort right now, not with the numbing agent in effect, and he doesn’t work himself in and out gently but enters with one unhesitating push.
When he gets all the way inside, he pauses, his head hanging down, his ribs moving in hard, shuddering breaths.
“You have no idea,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t finish his sentence; he doesn’t elaborate.
I’m not sure I want him to, and yet a depraved part of me does—wants to know everything he thinks about me, everything he wants to do to me and how long he’s been obsessed with the idea of doing it.
After a long moment when he seems to simply endure being buried in my cunt, he moves again, drawing out to the tip and gliding back in.
I can tell from the tension in his stomach and hips that even with the lube, it takes a little effort to push in, but it doesn’t hurt; it doesn’t feel like anything but a deep, displacing squeeze.
Until, that is, he does it again, and his body makes brief contact with my clitoris.
Pleasure sparkles through my torso, and I gasp underneath him.
“I didn’t numb your clit,” he says. “You can still get yourself off if you want, you know.”
I look up at him, this toiling angel fucking my numbed body, and can’t decide if his beauty makes me shy or if his inhumanity makes me honest. Both, I suppose, but it’s the honesty that wins out in the moment.