by Gabi Moore
I let my head fall back, my head swirling full of steam, nipples hardening despite the heat, and I tried to focus on the almost maddening sensation of his hand heavy on my abdomen.
“I want to be an artist, like you,” I said quietly. I traced my lips over his wet torso, kissing trails over onto his broad, well-developed biceps and shoulders.
He stood tall and strong, looking down with pleasure as I kissed him, feet spread wide apart.
“An artist? There’s no such thing. All you have to do is keep following your intuition, keep going after what really excites you. How else does anything new come into the world unless someone is brave enough to think of it, from scratch?”
Slowly, his hand slid down from my belly and went lower, one tentative finger gliding neatly into the hungry folds of my body. I could feel him shaking. The tip of his finger sunk into a pool of syrupy wetness there.
I moaned.
“We can do whatever we want,” he whispered into my ear. This time, the pulse that thumped through me lingered around his fingertip, and soon I felt him stirring gooey sensations through me. It felt so fucking good. Again his lips were on mine, till he was kissing and stroking in rhythm, my hips obediently swirling in time against his rock-hard body. The water pelted down over us, melting every tension. Though I could hear the weight of his breathing, could see him pull back to bite his lip before diving in again for more, he was still masterful, still guiding our tongues, still stroking delicious, tiny circles right where I wanted them, till I was sure my whole body itself was melting, wet and quivering over his insistent fingers.
“Anything we want…?” I breathed into his neck.
“Anything.”
His finger slid into my pussy. I gasped, bending a little at the knee and collapsing more deeply onto him. Fuck. That felt amazing. Here in broad daylight, on a school night, when I had groveling to do, when I hadn’t yet begun to redeem my sorry self, right here, right now, with this dark stranger’s fingers in me till the knuckle …I could do nothing but whimper and lean further into it.
He groaned approvingly. The finger worked inside me, and then became two. Very much taller than me, he had to crouch over to kiss me, and I found myself balancing up on my tiptoes to lift and lower myself off his caresses in time, the dirtiest sensation pooling up somewhere deep inside me. He made it feel so easy to open my mouth up to him. So easy to spread my legs and fall down onto his strong forearms. So easy to let go…
When I next opened my eyes he had a soapy sponge in his hands. He gently dragged it over my body. I held out my arms, and then he crouched down in front of me, his back muscles rolling and tight under his skin.
I watched with fascination as he soaped me down, a flat hand following after the sponge to swirl around the line of suds. He washed me thoroughly, guiding his hand and the sponge over every part of me. The bathroom filled with the touching smell of antibacterial soap. My skin squeaked under his smooth caresses.
He stood back up, then admired me as he sloshed water over me to rinse me down. It felt good. He took his time. He washed each bubble away, then finished by stroking the wet snakes of hair away from my breasts and smoothing everything flat behind me.
Before I knew it, the water stopped.
I blinked and looked up as a few long drops fell out of the showerhead. He smiled at me, then flicked his head a little and gestured for me to get out. I obeyed and stepped into the crisp air outside, found towels and bundled us both. The ache inside was at fever pitch. I didn’t want soap bubbles and manners. I wanted him. I wanted to feel what it would feel like to have him in me…
We toweled ourselves off roughly and then, naked, he took my hand and guided me to his bedroom. At the threshold, I let his hand drop and I stopped, cooling drops spiraling down my legs and to my feet. He went inside his bedroom, plunked down on the purple bed and looked up at me expectantly.
“Am I about to do something stupid, Adam?”
His face darkened.
“What I mean is, well, I’m trying to be sober these days. I have a habit of …getting carried away with things, you know? Maybe that stuff we took last night has clouded my mind, and I’m not seeing thing clearly now…” I started saying.
The ache inside was retreating. Going somewhere deeper in.
He exhaled loudly. “Or maybe what you took didn’t cloud your mind, but opened it…?”
I wanted to believe it.
He sat up and crossed his legs on the bed, and looked at me standing in the doorway.
“Nyx, I meant what I said back there. We can do whatever we want. If you like, we can both get dressed right now and we can head off for some lunch somewhere. Or…” He looked down at the fabric of the bed, and stroked it absentmindedly. “Or you could come in here, and trust yourself, and see what you’d really like to do…”
He flicked a heavy gaze at me and all at once, the ache was back again.
I looked down and played with stepping my toes just an inch into the room. Maybe he was right? Maybe I didn’t need to beat myself up forever. It wasn’t my fault they got into the car and went out that day, was it? I placed a foot down square inside the bounds of the bedroom.
“You’re the perfect actor to play Bluebeard, you know that? You’re so delightfully evil,” I said and laughed.
Slowly, I walked over to the bed and lay down beside him. He pretended to pout and be offended, but then we were kissing again, and soon his hand was again between my legs, again finding that sweet, sweet spot and stroking it into a frenzy.
I let him.
The more we kissed the more I let go. Screw it all. I liked it. All of it. And this is what I wanted, wasn’t it?
“Will you be Bluebeard for me?” I asked, before I realized what I was saying.
“What?”
He held my head in his hands, looking at me quizzically.
“In one of the scenes, the wedding night, you know, when Bluebeard consummates his marriage, I want you to be him. And I want to be the girl,” I gushed. It was a crazy idea. He’d laugh at me for sure. But I said it anyway. He did laugh.
“And I thought you weren’t an actress, huh?” he said and gave me a playful slap on the butt.
I nestled into his chest, trying to hide the fact that I was blushing hard. Again.
“It’s OK if you don’t want to, it’s a dumb idea I know, I’m sorry…” I said, but he lifted my face and stared hard at me, examining it the same way he had the first time we had met.
“What are you saying, dear?”
“I was just…
“That’s not a fitting way for the lady of the manor to speak. And as my wife I’d thank you to comport yourself with a little more equanimity.”
His face was stony as rock. My eyes went wide. My heart fluttered like a caged animal in my chest. I throbbed.
“I’m …I’m sorry, my lord.”
I felt the hairs, one by one, stand up straight on the back of my neck. He looked me slowly over, buried his fingers in the hair at the base of my neck and gently pulled. Though my eyes instinctively fell closed, I could feel the warmth of his breath as his lips passed over my neck and down onto my collarbone. Like he was testing me. Tasting me. I swallowed hard.
“Open your legs,” he said, and all at once he was upright, on his knees and peering down at me with a dark hunger in his eyes. I flopped over onto my back and let my legs fall open for him. The exposure sent a dirty thrill right through me. I turned my head into the nest of still damp hair on the pillow and played coy for a little as he eyed me dangerously, cock bouncing hard just above the pale skin of my thighs.
“I’m a virtuous woman, my lord…” I said meekly.
I had no idea where the fuck that had come from, but when I said, I meant it. And he looked at me as though he weren’t pretending either. I was the hapless girl, Boulotte, and yes, he was dark, menacing, dangerously sexy Bluebeard.
He wrapped both hands around my thighs and pulled me roughly towards him, lifting my hips off
the bed. I arched up in anticipation.
“You were a virtuous woman, my dear…” he said, and pressed an urgent thumb against my clit.
I moaned.
None of this was in the script, anyway. We were just making it up. Could we really do anything we wanted?
He grabbed his shaft and teased the entrance to my body, making me ache for him. His hands were rough and insistent on my legs, and when he wedged his swollen tip into me, I felt little waves of pleasure bursting and popping all through me, as my body opened to take him. In another inch he slid, and then another, taking his sweet, delicious time about it, setting me on fire somewhere deep inside me.
I looked up at him and gasped. He was no longer Adam. Not really. He was … someone else. As his hips settled into that ancient, dominating rhythm inside me, his expert fingers still on my clit, I watched his entire body clench and tighten into something different, something …scary. With each thrust into me he drove in deeper, and deeper still, till his full length had loosened my trembling body completely, and we were knotted together in one hot, tight spot.
“Wider,” he growled, and pulled my knees up. I groaned as he sunk into new depths inside me.
“Oh fuck,” I whimpered. Something flickered over his face, and he froze.
“What filth is this on my lady’s lips? Do I need remind her again of her new station, of her duties as my wife?
His voice wasn’t his own. God he was a good actor. All that power and mischief I had seen in his eyes the first time I had met him… that brutal, wild spirit of raw energy in him that had made me blush and turn away before – well, now I stared straight at it, full on, the entire length of his cock buried in me and nowhere to go but deeper.
“My lord, did you not hear me? I shall speak again: fuck,” I said, but this time I said the word slowly and deliberately, biting down on my lower lip as I relished each and every syllable. He looked at me with lightning in his eyes. I could almost hear the breath rushing in and out of his broad chest. Without tearing his gaze from mine, he pulled back his hips and threw them back into me, driving his dick even deeper into me, shooting electricity through my whole body. I saw stars.
“I said, fuck, my lord…” I whispered, quiet but defiant as my eyes met his again.
Again came his powerful hips, pounding down hard into mine and flooding my poor body with the most intense waves of ecstasy. I was soon close to coming …but I wasn’t done just yet.
“You defy me, then?” he said darkly, his voice hard and rough as gravel.
“Yes, I defy you, husband,” I said, bright and clear, and braced for another violent thrust, and another, and another. I bit down on my own lip to stop from squealing. He was so incredibly deep. His hands gripping tightly round my hipbones, I was utterly his …but I wasn’t going to surrender without a bit of a fight. His lips curled a little as I watched him struggle with the waves of pleasure beating through his own hard body, and I realized with delight that he was just as close as I was.
“Fuck,” I said again, this time taunting, teasing, daring him to do his worst.
To my surprise he flopped down onto me, his eyebrows in a tormented kink on his gorgeous face. He kissed me. Kissed away the ‘filth’.
I giggled. He kissed me again. I could feel him hardening inside me, inching closer to the edge. Gone was the sexy rage and power. Now, I felt the full weight of him as he perched above me, moments from orgasm. We both froze together, bodies twitching and breathing hard. I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine. They were so bright, those black eyes of his. I smiled and squeezed.
“Oh fuck,” he said, and instantly his body was spasming and bucking on top of mine. It was almost too wonderful to watch. And I felt it – I felt him shooting wads of hot cum into my body, and the thought alone, the thought of him giving it to me so deep inside…
The cry in my throat caught and came out mangled. Around his gorgeous pulsing body, my own body reached a sweet, hot spot of bliss and then exploded, melting me with it and sending great heaving waves of bliss all through me. We held one another as we came, riding out the pleasure, one jagged breath at a time. Then he collapsed onto me, slick with sweat and raining down a torrent of kisses on my neck and shoulders. My body twitched and shuddered around him, but then gradually went quiet.
He buried his head in the crook of my neck. I wrapped exhausted hands round his back and clasped my fingers there, trying to anchor myself again, to come back to terra firma. Our hearts banged against one another in our chests, pressed up close. But soon, they went quiet too.
In my mind, a great red velvet curtain closed, and I heard the distant sound of applause.
Chapter Ten
Piece by piece, it was coming together. With each chunk of shaped chipboard, each lick of paint, Bluebeard’s sinister castle was coming alive on the stage.
I had envisioned a massive DIY project – something that would have me donning dungarees and chopping and hammering the nitty gritty with woodworking tools, and hot glue, and a nailgun. But it was nothing like that. Instead, it felt more like …alchemy.
The elements were all unremarkable. The building blocks were ordinary and came from bulk discount hardware stores. The design elements were standard. But something …something was different about Bluebeard’s castle. It was so much more than the sum of its parts. The stage emerged before my eyes like something that existed already, and was merely being resurrected, like a strange beast hauled in parts from somewhere underground and pieced together on the topside world.
It felt magical.
Maybe a little dangerous.
One month had passed since I had stood blubbering in Tamara’s office, trying desperately to look as though I hadn’t spent the night curled in Adam’s arms, a head full of forbidden thoughts. One month since he had touched me. And looked hard into my eyes. And made me feel things I thought I had taught myself not to feel anymore.
But one month was more than enough time. As the stage came to life in front of me, I felt different too. The rest of the team had noticed. Tamara had noticed. And now I was coming to rehearsals more often, joining in on discussions that a set designer typically wouldn’t join in on. They were asking my opinion, asking questions. And, bizarrely, I was answering them.
We were rehearsing an early scene, the part where Bluebeard woos and seduces the young female lead, overriding her good sense and courting her to a doomed marriage. The setting was to be a forest. Bluebeard, groomed crisp like a gentleman aristocrat, takes the girl out in a gilded carriage and overwhelms her, and though her intuition warns her against him, she succumbs to his charms and agrees to marry him. The scene was meant to be a perfect balance between charming and creepy, joyful and yet foreboding. The trees in the forest were meant to stand aside in quiet celebration …although some trees were dark and ominous. I had painted each dark leaf, each sinister looking branch. I had to admit, it looked good. I was proud of myself.
“So this isn’t like a ballet, yeah? said Tamara. “You’re not prancing in as this pretty pair, you know what I mean?”
She was in her favorite place, center front in the audience, script in hand and her favorite bitchy expression as she looked at the scene unfolding on the stage in front of her. It was late, but we were on a role today. Everyone wanted to get it right.
“Should he not follow her, perhaps? I said. “A little stalker-ish maybe?”
Tamara thought about this and then waved her hands at Adam and the lead actress, Belinda, to get them to try again. They walked off and entered stage left again, but this time, Belinda wandered on, a perfect babe in the woods, looking sweetly at the Perspex flowers on the stage and doing a good job of looking like red riding hood in the forest before the wolf spies her. Adam – Bluebeard – paced slowly behind her, hands behind his back like a general, watching her intently, the eyes of a hunter.
“Nice… yes that works nicely,” Tamara said as she watched. Belinda launched into her lines – lines I had heard so many times I
nearly knew them by heart – but I couldn’t pay attention.
All I could think about was the naughty ache I felt in my body. The incessant heat between my legs. It was ridiculous, but just the sight of him was torture.
He was wearing a tastefully holey green sweater and plain trousers, and bare feet (typical Adam) …but I knew what was underneath.
He was saying his lines perfectly, with emotion, delivering them flawlessly and with that energy I had grown to admire so much ...but I knew what else those lips could so. His hands were expressive and moved artfully as he paced the stage and carried along the story in the way that only he knew how. But I knew about those hands. Those fingers. I knew the other, secret things they were capable of…
“And scene!” said Tamara, and clapped her hands together. Her eyes were sparkling.
Belinda bounded off stage and came down to chat with us as the crew whisked the wheeled trees off the stage and lifted the gauzy backdrop. And voila, the scene was done and the magical forest was removed.
Belinda was beautiful. A classic actress. Ingrid Bergman, but with highlights and freckles. A smile broad as the Cheshire cat’s and a lithe figure that I envied.
“I have such a good feeling about this!” she said and plonked down on the seat beside Tamara and I as the stage crew conjured up the next scene, the wedding scene.
But even though my eyes were downcast, I felt him. Felt him watching me, sidling over to where we sat, taking his time with his strong, muscular body as he stepped off the stage like a god descending Olympus or something. He gave me goosebumps. I folded and unfolded the worn edge of the script in my hands, avoiding looking up at him.
“The wedding scene is going to be a challenge,” I said to Tamara.
We were planning something radical. The aisle would unfold down into the audience. Actors seated amongst the rows would spring up and participate. Confetti …in the shape of tiny skulls. A peachy glow from above on track lighting that would cost us a fortune and would be a complete first for the college.
