Chapter Six
Caught Red Fingered
Rachel Williams
I can’t sleep.
I knew I wouldn’t, but I still lie here staring at the ceiling like maybe exhaustion will sneak up and club me unconscious.
It doesn’t. I’m too wired, and the cabin is too damn small.
Bishop is on the floor.
On the floor.
Like some kind of martyr. Like he’s punishing himself. Like he thinks I’m made of glass and he’ll break me if he gets too close. Or, the crushing thought occurs to me, he would rather sleep on the floor than with me.
It’s ridiculous and infuriating. I want to get up and kick him. Demand he get into bed with me.
But that’s crazy, I absolutely can’t do that. If I get up I will demand something else and I am not brave enough to face his rejection.
He’s lying on his back, one arm over his chest, the other thrown out to the side. His breathing is steady, controlled, like he’s forcing himself to relax. But I know him. I know the tension in his shoulders isn’t sleep. He’s awake. He’s pretending.
I roll onto my side, watching him in the dim light.
He shouldn’t be on the floor. He looks uncomfortable, even in stillness. The blanket he insisted on using is barely covering him. His jacket is folded under his head like a makeshift pillow.
I feel guilty, and stupid for feeling guilty.
I should be asleep. I should be thinking about the missing agent, the case, what the hell is in the woods, the danger we’re walking into at dawn.
Instead, Im thinking about the way he looked at me earlier, that flash of something raw, something he didn’t mean to show. About the way he said he didn’t want me in danger.
The way it felt when he had a hold of me.
The craving for him comes back and I curse my stupidity.
Now I will never sleep. I shift again, restless.
“Are you awake?” I whisper.
Nothing.
Still staring at the beams on the ceiling, I hear the deep and steady rhythm of his breathing relax into normal sleep.
Currently, I’m replaying the fantasy I have of him aggressively kissing me, throwing me down on his desk so he can fuck me like an animal and tell me what a bad girl I’ve been.
Throwing his files to the ground and savaging me like an animal, pushing me to the brink and praising me for taking it like a good girl.
You know, the usual. Totally normal thoughts to be having about a man twice my age. God, Daddy issues much?
Nearly screaming with how turned on I am and desperate for relief, I slide my hand into my pajamas and through my soaking wet pussy. Hours of thinking of all the ways he could use me, and I am going out of my mind.
I just need to take the edge off, so I can finally sleep. Not going to shock and awe, going for relief.
Starting with small circles on my clit, I hold in my moan and tilt my head back. Far from easing the ache, it only intensifies.
Without even trying to, I picture Bishop getting up off the floor, climbing into bed, and ripping my clothes off with force. The way he would look at my naked body, the anticipation on his face.
I have seen him in the gym occasionally. He may be nearly sixty, but god, does he have a nice body. Firm and muscular.
I can picture it, the way he would dominate me. I know with certainty he could get me off. No way a man that controlled doesn’t know what he’s doing. He would have made it his mission to excel.
Shutting my eyes tightly, I work my clit and slide my fingers down to finger myself roughly.
I want it hard and rough; I want him to punish me for being so naughty. For touching myself. Rhythmically fucking myself and trying to be quiet about it is becoming difficult.
I don’t want soft. I don’t want controlled.
I want him unhinged. Desperate for me.
The fantasy changes to him choking me, fucking me raw, growling that I have no right to touch myself. To touch what is his.
Oh fuck yes that’s doing it for me, I’ve been so bad. Punish me.
The orgasm starts to build and my fingers move faster, chasing it. Lifting up my knees and slamming them into me while I rub hard, I can feel it cresting. I want it so badly.
The image of him changing again to putting me across his lap, tying me up and spanking me while he fingers me just like this. I can almost feel the harsh sting of each slap of his hand.
Oh god, oh god, yes.
“Oh god Bishop.” I moan as it finally hits, my whole body locking up with the intensity and I can’t stop. But I lose the rhythm after the third orgasm, and it slows to low pulses that spread throughout my limbs.
Opening my eyes, I realize that I said it out loud.
Freezing in panic I look over to make sure he was still asleep only to lock eyes with him, sitting up, watching me.
Fuck.
We stare at one another; he looks one second from exploding in rage and I can’t think of a single thing to say.
Well I can, but I shoot them down one by one.
Why are you so angry?
It’s a compliment?
Please spank me for being naughty?
No probably shouldn’t say that.
I should be embarrassed, but Im not.
I have never been shy sexually. I know what I want, and what I like. But I wasn’t planning on being caught.
It wasn’t intentional. I thought he was asleep.
Pushing himself up off the floor, he glares at me, and I gotta be honest, its making me needy again.
Not to mention I can see his solid length through his thin sweatpants, and it does not disappoint.
Of course the asshole has a big dick. And of course he would never ever touch me. The thought is depressing.
He grabs his makeshift pillow and the blanket and takes them both into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
I flinch at the sound.
Its not the first time I have been made to feel shame for something natural. But I refuse to let it get to me, those days are over and behind me. Only the scars remain. An excellent reminder of why I will not apologize.
No longer relaxed, I lay back down, unsure of what else to do, and hope I pass out so I don’t have to face him when he comes out.
Maybe he didn’t notice?