The Dangerous Hero

by Barlow, Linda

  His fingers found her, probed her, and retreated. She cried out softly in protest. It was getting harder to keep her arms and hands still. She ached to touch him, and she was beginning to feel the strain of holding the position. His fingers returned, slipping between her folds while she arched and twisted beneath him. He placed the flat of his other hand between her shoulder blades and pressed her breasts harder against the mattress, while her hips remained raised against the pillow. "Spread your legs a little more, and then hold your body still."

  "Oh my god, I don't think I can."

  "You will," he said in that hard tone he acquired at a certain point in his arousal cycle. Bad Boy was in control, she thought, laughing a little. One finger parted her and plunged inside, and her laugh turned into a moan. "Lift your hips a bit, but don't move them otherwise.…."

  "Stephen…" Her voice rose in a plea as he continued to tease her.

  When he relented and reached a little farther, probing her clit with his damp finger, she disregarded his instructions and ground her hips against his hand. He gave her another swat on the behind, harder this time. "I told you not to move."

  "I can't help it, Master."

  "I enjoy making it difficult for you." He rubbed her ass where he had swatted her and kissed the spot. "But I want your obedience anyway. It's all about endurance and control."

  "I endure, you control?"

  "Yep." He gave her another slap on the ass, a lot harder. She felt a hard edge of pain, and then a burning. But it was not exactly a bad feeling. "Does it bother you when I strike you like that?"

  "No, it's okay." she said, thankful that it really was okay. "I kinda like it."

  He was kneading her ass now, which felt wonderful. His body was smooth and hard, and she knew from the slight movements he was making against her that he was very turned on. When was he was going to enter her? Had he put on a condom yet? She didn't think so. She wished he'd hurry up….her belly was churning with lust.

  "Have you read anything about predicament bondage?"

  "Um, no?"

  "When you go home, look it up. Interesting exploration of control and endurance. Here's an example—turn over on your back."

  She flipped over a little awkwardly. He was looming over her, not giving her much room to maneuver. When she saw his hard-boned face, his eyes intent, his mouth a slash in his dark face, she felt another surge of desire, liquid and hot. She reached up to caress him, wanting to touch him and return some of the pleasure he had been giving her. She cupped his cheek, feeling the rough slide of his stubble against her palm and fingertips. He hadn't shaved, and it looked good on him.

  He smiled and captured her hand, bringing her palm to his lips. He licked her, then bit down, just a little. His dick looked enormous, and he was stroking it absently, seeming to be less concerned with his own feelings than with hers.

  "I want you inside me, Stephen."

  "Not yet. Stretch your arms up over your head. Now try lifting your heels up, off the mattress, and hold your legs about a foot in the air."

  She did it, and immediately felt the strain. "Are you implying that I need to work my stomach muscles?"

  He chuckled. "No." His caressed her belly with a gentle hand. "I love your stomach muscles. How long can you keep your legs in that position, do you think?"

  "Not that long."

  "You can let them down. Now imagine this: there's a hook in the ceiling with a rope going through it. Right about there." He pointed upward to a spot that would be over her belly if there were a hook in the ceiling. There wasn't. He began playing with her breasts again. "You're wearing clamps on your nipples." He pinched one, and then the other. "The clamps are attached to thin chains, which are themselves attached to one end of the rope that drops down from the ceiling. When I pull on the other end of the rope, which feeds into the ring, the tension on your nipples is increased."

  "Okay," she said, envisioning this.

  "Now the second part: you have leather cuffs on your ankles." One of his hands slipped between her legs and began stroking her labia as he spoke. "They are bound together and attached to the other end of the rope that comes down from the ceiling. That rope can slide through the ring, one way or the other. Your legs can be jerked upward or let down by means of that rope." His thumb rubbed her clit, making her moan as her excitement mounted to an almost unbearable level.

  "I have you lift your legs about a foot off the mattress and then I tighten the rope so you are forced to keep your legs in the air. You can lower them when they get tired, but if you do, the rope slides through the ceiling ring and the slack vanishes from the other end. The other end, you'll remember, is attached to your nipple clamps." As he said this, his other hand pinched and pulled on her nipple, making her squirm. "Keeping your legs elevated will soon make your muscles tremble and ache. But lowering your legs to rest those tired muscles puts agonizing tension on your breasts. So you have to choose your discomfort, both of which are cruel. Thus, predicament bondage."

  During this explanation, he had continued to stimulate her clit, and she was now desperate for release. The bizarre predicament he had described had made the problem that much worse. She wasn't sure why the idea of this sensual torture thrilled her, but there was no denying that it did. "Stephen," she whimpered. "I need you to fuck me."

  He grinned, delighted at the way she was responding to him. "You are so kinky, Professor."

  She rolled her eyes at him. Arching her spine, she ground her pelvis into his hand, and then reached down to find his cock. She brushed her thumb lightly over the tip. "I'm sure there are predicaments I could use on you, too."

  "So disrespectful," he chided. "Didn't I tell you to keep your arms over your head? It's a good thing I'm going easy on you tonight."

  "You only ordered me to put my arms up. You didn't say I had to keep them there."

  Stephen chuckled, but soon he heard himself echoing her groans as she grasped him hard and started to stroke. He leapt at her touch. God, it felt so good, and so far everything was very promising. He'd pushed her a bit, but she hadn't freaked.

  "You’re beautiful," she said. "I mean, most men aren’t beautiful exactly, but you—your face, your body, your muscles, your cock—" she explored up and down the shaft. "You’re perfect. Really."

  "Hardly."

  "Yes. For me, you're perfect." She stroked him with more confidence, shot him an uncertain glance, then slid down in the bed to take him in her mouth. He wanted to thrust in deep, but he sensed that she wanted to worship. She obviously liked giving head, as she'd proven last weekend. He'd had many a lovely fantasy in the intervening days, remembering her hot, dark mouth, her agile tongue.

  The pleasure was building now, grabbing him in the vitals and sending heat radiating up his spine and out to his extremities. He fisted a hunk of her hair and lifted her away from his cock. He stretched out beside her and kissed her, finding her breasts with his fingers so he could play. Her arousal made her flesh richer, softer, damper. She felt warm to him, hot. He stroked her ass with one hand while teasing a nipple with the other. His cock was rubbing against her belly, hungry, twitchy, but he needed to drag the moment out.

  Then she was trying to straddle him. He didn't permit it. Instead, he flipped her over onto her belly again, made her kneel, and pressed her head down into the pillows with the heel of one hand. Exploring her upraised ass, he ordered her to spread her thighs for him. She did it, moaning. He slapped her ass, edging into the rough play he loved, but taking it easy, slow. She was breathing frantically, so he knew she was into it. When he drove a finger into her, she gasped and writhed against his hand. She was so ready, but he liked making her wait. Loved seeing her vulnerable. Loved the raw, uncontained power of sex.

  He wondered if she'd ever been fucked in her ass. He edged a finger against the rosebud and pressed. She squirmed and made a surprised sound. "Um...I don't....I've never—"

  "Good," he said, delighted that she still had something else he could teach her. "
I'm going to take everything you have. Everything you think is private." He wet his finger in her juices and thrust it inside her. "I'm going to own you, babe."

  She made a frantic sound and thrust her hips back toward him, driving his finger deeper. And then he couldn't wait any longer. He grabbed for his condoms and slapped one on. He covered her, spread her and guided his cock to her pussy from behind. He pushed in, slow and sure. She cried out softly. He felt himself shifting to his harsher self, as he almost always did when he was inside a woman, becoming even more hard and rough and inexorable as metal. Viola relaxed with him, easy, receptive, accommodating. Willing to go where he wanted to take her. She was a good partner. She always had been.

  Once he had a rhythm going, his hands sought out her breasts while his mouth found her shoulder and nuzzled. Since he knew now that she liked a little nipple torture, he pinched and squeezed. He tried to remember not to let it get too rough. Not yet. Not while she was learning. Melanie liked to be hurt during sex—really hurt. Bruised. The rougher he was, the better she liked it. But Viola was so new to this. He didn't know yet how far she'd want to go.

  He reached around in front to find her clit and circle it with a fingertip. Brushed his thumb over the hood. Retreated. Enjoyed her pleas for a moment, massaged the bud directly while driving his cock as deep as he could go.

  She started to come almost immediately, crying out with the force of it. He loved the way the spasms made her muscles clamp down on him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he focused on this moment, the heat, the friction, the need, the wanting, the swelling, pooling pleasure. Images flooded his brain—from long ago on that sunny beach and in that dark boathouse. Viola. The summer storm of his love, their wild, joyous passion.

  He was with her still as the pleasure ebbed and he fell back to earth. They separated, shifted and looked at each other, poised together on his bed. And he was with her, his forbidden teenage lover, reliving those lovely moments on a sunny beach—sweet, golden pleasures drawn out, one by one, with seabirds circling, waves breaking on rocks. No words. It came back, all of it, alive again as they'd gazed into one another's eyes and shared something powerful, something honest. Her heart, her spirit naked for him to cherish. A brief, precious glimpse before the shutters slammed down and her walls went up again.

  She glanced away, curling up on the mattress beside him. And it was then that Stephen realized how much she had changed. Perhaps not in essentials, but something was different. What had happened to her in the past decade? Was it him…his fault for loving her and abandoning her? Will she never going to forgive him for that? Or was it something else? Her marriage? Her divorce? Just life?

  Afterwards, she cuddled up to his side, resting her head on his shoulder while he slung an arm loosely around her. Their legs were entwined. She was affectionate. She insisted on kissing his eyelids and his forehead and his chin and telling him once again that she thought he was beautiful. Made him feel all warm and toasty. She seemed happy, and he wondered if he'd imagined that feeling of disconnection, that sense of something lost.

  Chapter 13

  The sky was beginning to lighten with the coming of the dawn when Viola awakened and stumbled to Stephen's bathroom. She felt dazed from lack of sleep and the satiety of love. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she and Stephen had settled down to doze, tightly wrapped in each other's arms. For most of the night, they had alternately made love and talked. She had learned about his family, including his neurologist mom and his younger sister Maggie, who was in her first year of residency as a gastroenterologist. He had heard all about her life at Whittacre. The only thing they had not discussed was the past.

  At some point she’d fallen asleep for a bit and awakened to find him gone, but he’d returned a little while later, explaining he’d had an idea for his book. "I think you’re inspiring me. I keep getting new insights on the plot, which is great because I've spent far too many weeks being stuck."

  Viola splashed cold water on her face and examined herself in the mirror over the sink. Her hair was a wild and flaming mess, and her eyes, though sleepy-looking, were glowing with contentment. Her cheeks were flushed from the roughness of Stephen's overnight growth of beard.

  Spontaneously, she smiled at herself in the mirror. She looked happy. And why not?

  It was happening just the way it had happened nine years ago. No one had ever made her feel the way he did. Their bodies were perfect together, but it was more than that. It felt as though something had slipped into place, putting all the random jigsaw pieces of her life together to produce a picture that actually made sense.

  Still grinning, Viola went back into the bedroom and stood looking down at her lover sleeping. He lay sprawled on his back, half covered by the bedspread, one arm stretched out as if unconsciously seeking her. The sculpted bones of his face seemed much less harsh than when he was wakeful. His expression was peaceful and the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth had been wiped away. He looked younger than his years.

  She was about to crawl back into bed beside him when she noticed the rosy hue extending out over the ocean, the forerunner of the sunrise, which she hardly ever saw. She was a night person, staying up late and rarely awakening before nine in the morning. This morning the rising sun seemed to symbolize a new beginning, and she wanted to watch it break out of the purple sea.

  She picked up his sweat shirt and drew it over her head. It was much too big for her, but she took a subtle pleasure in wearing something that had touched his body.

  She went to the circular staircase at the end of the bedroom. She had noticed it last night and asked Stephen what was up there, and he'd explained that the entire third story consisted of one large room, his studio, which was dominated by large windows. She wanted to see where he composed his novels, where he did all his work. It was also likely to be the best place from which to watch the dawn.

  The view was even more spectacular than she had imagined. The tide was high, and a strong wind ripped across the waves, creating thousands of foamy whitecaps beneath the pearly predawn sky. In the east, the sea was already a rolling carpet of hot pink and apricot, even though the sun had not yet made its appearance. Viola pulled Stephen's desk chair away from his computer table and sat down to watch. As the crimson sun burst from the sea, she felt her spirits lift even higher.

  She remained at the window in a kind of meditative trance until the sun was well over the horizon. Then, yawning, she rose to go back downstairs. But first she pushed the chair back over to Stephen's desk, lingering briefly to examine the place where he spent so much of his time.

  The computer screen was on. It was huge, and she wondered if she ought to shut it off. A colorful geometric screen saver was dancing across the screen, but even so, it must be wasting a lot of energy. Her own habit was to shut down electronic devices when they weren’t being used.

  She wouldn’t turn off the computer of course, lest any open files be lost, but it wouldn’t hurt to switch off the monitor. When she brushed her fingers over the keyboard in search of the off switch, the screen saver vanished, revealing the file he must have been working on earlier. It appeared to be a chapter from his latest Bartholomew Giles novel.

  She really didn’t intend what happened next. She would never have gone on his computer and searched for any of his files, but whole sentences seemed to leap off the screen at her. She couldn’t unsee them. Before she had even thought about what she was doing, she had read halfway down the page.

  It was a torture scene. Bartholomew Giles had captured two members of a secret cabal of Spanish agents who were plotting to assassinate Queen Elizabeth. A man and a woman. He had them down to his secret, illegal dungeon below his house. When neither prisoner would answer his questions, he had the woman put on the rack to be tortured while the man, who was also her lover, was forced to watch.

  What happened made Viola feel a little woozy. She didn’t want to keep reading, and if Stephen hadn’t been the writer, she probably would have stopped
. But there was a weird fascination reading words that he had authored. Despite the use of certain diction and terminology that must have come from the 16th century, the narrative voice sounded just like his own voice. The sentence style, with its intelligence and wit, was the same as the style he used when writing her personal emails.

  This created an odd sense of dislocation. This was Stephen speaking, but what he was saying was extremely dark and violent. Plus, it was written in a way that seemed perversely erotic. Although Bart wasn’t doing anything explicitly sexual to the poor woman, there was something about the description of her appearance, including the loving detail about the physical effects of the rack, that suggested that Bart was getting off on what he was doing. With a horrified fascination, she read the dialogue as he bent over his writhing victim and cranked the wheel of his rack up a notch or two. Then he took up a flogger with sharp metal hooks in the tips of each whip tail and dangled it over his victim's helpless, straining body. "Scream now for me," he said, and starting slashing her, tearing her flesh and savoring her cries.

  Her heart pounding, Viola reminded herself that this wasn’t new. Bart was a sadist, and there were similar scenes in Stephen’s former novels. The words, "scream now for me" were a refrain he’d used before; the signature phrase that meant Bart was taking his own perverse pleasure in the torture.

  It was these scenes that she had always objected to; most of the rest of the narrative was intelligent and witty, with extremely good research into 16th century life at the court of Elizabeth Tudor. There was a great deal that balanced out Stephen’s indulgence in, well, sadism. But she had never before had to confront the fact that he sat down at a computer and visualized these things. In the case of this particular scene, if he had gotten up out of bed to work on it tonight, that meant Bart had been torturing his victim in between their sessions of lovemaking.

  When did the scene come together in his head? Was he envisioning his vile hero abusing this woman while he was fucking her? If Bart got off on torture, did Stephen?