The End

by Charlotte E Hart

  “Alana?” he growls. It’s all low and possessive, the same tone he used last night when he made me beg for him. I snarl again then suck in some air before I swivel back to him, only to find him looking too damned glorious for words as he stands there. It makes my insides melt. Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that I can still feel him in there. His cock, his hand, his come. It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating. What sort of man doesn’t love, or perhaps even know how to? “This is what you wanted from me.”

  I spin again and walk through the door towards an elevator, very nearly telling him that this is absolutely not what I wanted. Then I swish myself straight back around to face him, my feet striding forward with little care for my actions. I want love, not whatever this is.

  “Why the hell did you bother rescuing me if this is all I get from you?” I yell, barely able to contain whatever emotion is halting me from just doing it like he said it had to be. “Hey? Why not just let me fucking drown?” He stalls, his mouth opening and then shutting. “Seriously, what the hell is the point in you and me, short of your perversions?”

  He glowers, his eyes flicking to the guy who’s still holding the door open. What? He’s bothered about someone knowing? Idiot. I laugh. I adore his fucking perversions; doesn’t he know that? My own mouth stops mid-rant, my brain catching up with what I’ve just thought. I look at the floor, trying to assimilate the information, to find a place for it. I adore his perversions. It makes me look at my wrists until I move the bracelet entirely and check the bruise that’s defacing my skin. It glows a slight purple hint at me, reminding me of the rest of them that I found this morning in the bath. I’m covered in them, my bits in particular, although nothing hurts, not with any real pain anyway. It’s comforting in some way, soothing, reminding me of him with every step I take.

  “Finally finding yourself, Alana?” he says conceitedly. My head snaps back up to him, confusion and irritability still waging a war inside my mind. Screw him.

  I’m whirling and wandering off again before I can process anything, the fire in me doused by his superiority. I don’t look at him as he arrives beside me, his finger reaching for the elevator button. I just narrow my eyes at his hand, watching it move calmly, a sense of righteousness about its glide through the bloody air. “If you beg, you can have some more. I never have fucked on a rooftop.” He’s not about to either. Not with a willing partner, anyway. Still, the damned hand is as attractive as ever, tempting thought to no end. It makes me sigh, or huff. I’m not entirely sure which reaction I’m offering. It’s not consent, though, I know that much as the door pings and opens. That’s a definite. Arse.

  The short pitch of the elevator seems endless, the small box around us reminding me of confines, ones that involve the straps he put across me last night to hold me down. The thought has a smile creeping across my face before I’ve contained it, regardless of my irritation. Memories flood me. The taste of him, the smell. The way he gripped my skin, the way he whispered all the words, taunting me with the next drive inwards. And I can’t stop my eyes meeting his in the mirror because of it, wanting them to join again. He stares blatantly, as if he holds every right to do so. No smirk, no frown, just a relaxed face as he keeps looking into me.

  “Why did I save you?” he asks, a slight tilt of his head as if he doesn’t know who he’s asking the question to. It’s as confusing as my own mind.

  “Probably because I would have drowned without you.” It’s true, even if it doesn’t offer anything other than facts. It’s just yet another clinical decision-making process on his part, I’m sure. “Because it was practical to do so.”

  “Mmmm.” That’s all I get, as he breaks our locked gaze and stares at the door instead. No rolling sentiment of love. No show of desire or romance. Not even the slightest hint of care. It was just practical to do so. I’m just something he saved so he could maul me again. That’s all.

  The doors open again and he steps out, leaving me behind. I stare after him, wondering what I’m supposed to do with those thoughts. It makes me look at my hands, noting the tremor that’s subsiding with each passing day. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he is. Or perhaps it’s just the fact that I’m not putting any speed inside me anymore. I’ve not even really had what I would consider withdrawals, not that I know of anyway. It makes me consider if I need his help or not. Maybe I can do this without him. I could just go home. Find my own path.

  “I won’t let you go, Alana. Not yet,” he calls back, his brogues clanking the tarmac as he walks towards a car that’s idling by the side of the road. “I’m not finished with you.”

  He holds his hand out to me as he keeps walking, offering me that side of him I’m so desperate to see. He doesn’t even turn back to me, probably because he knows I’ll follow. My knees lock, and I wobble on my heels, some part of me fighting the momentum that still wants to travel after him regardless of all this angst inside. I wish I could say I don’t want to follow him. Wish I could keep this venom inside going and let it show me my own route out of all this, but it’s a lie to try. I know it. I can feel it in the way my heart keeps trying to push me forward again. And I can sense it in the way my body screams for more of what he wants to deliver to my skin. I miss it already, rebelliously tormented by this newfound need for pain to be applied.

  He just opens the door of the black car when he gets there and waits, one hand resting on the top of the frame, his suit falling in its impeccable cut. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t flinch or move. He just expects me to arrive at some point, yielding to whatever he requires. And it’s ludicrous I know, but my legs propel me to him without much more thought. I might have tried to stop them, might have tried to apply rationale to matters, attempt to save my heart the breaking that’s coming for it, but it doesn’t work. Nothing appears to. I even try to huff as I wander forward, chastising him, or me, but that’s a lie, too, because I’m smiling quietly, apparently enjoying this strange union of ours.

  “You’re not boring, Blaine,” I say, ducking under his arm and sliding myself in to the back, refusing to look at his face. “I’ll give you that.”

  Silence lingers as the car begins to travel, nothing more than hearts beating and the rumble of the ground beneath us as night begins to fall around us. It’s heady, making me consider a drink, something to take the edge off my irrational emotions. A glass of Sancerre would be nice, followed by a truckload of gin.

  “Make yourself come,” he says quietly. My eyes shoot to his, astounded by the way he just says it so openly in the back of a car when there’s a driver in here. He’s just lounging there, his eyes relaxed as they gaze at me, his mouth soft and ready for a kissing he doesn’t deserve. “Just do it, Alana.”

  “But...” I snatch a glance at the driver then look back at Blaine, nodding my head in the driver’s direction. “He’ll be able to…”

  “See you? Yes. And hear, too. But that’s not your concern.” He leans forward, his fingers reaching towards my ankle and picking it up. “Spread your legs and make yourself come for me.” There’s a slight fight in my reaction to his handling, but it’s as much of a lie as it was when I tried not to walk towards him. “You want free, this is how you get it,” he says, a damn smile spreading over his face as I keep tugging at him. “Or we could keep fighting. You’ll do as I want in the end either way.”

  Arrogant fucking dick.

  Unfortunately, he’s probably right, and I know it because my leg’s weakening, almost wanting to open for him as he tightens his grip a little. It’s not a show of strength, though. It never damn well is. It’s something instinctual in me, something at my base core, telling me to yield. It makes me give in and just accept his wish regardless of my fear. And he knows it the moment I widen my crotch to him, the ankle in his grip going lax to accommodate his tugging.

  “Better,” he says, as he releases me and waits for me to get on with it. The tension makes me falter, hardly knowing if I can even achieve that in here. It’s not something I
’ve done before, and the thought of the driver being here makes me nervous, but my hand travels over my skin anyway, all the time keeping my eyes trained on the man who’s making me do this. And within seconds, the rest of the damn car seems to disappear, tingling sensations taking over and guiding me onwards. My hand lowers further and slides the slit open on my dress, searching for access to the place he wants me to go. It’s comforting somehow, giving me a direction to stop me thinking about all the other confusions he causes, quiet again once I focus in on the task at hand.

  “Inside you,” he says, his tone turning to the one I love, its texture like a blanket over me in the midst of this hedonistic delight. I slide downwards again, my fingers wandering over the boned corset I’m strapped into and inching into the black lace of my g-string. He moves suddenly, the speed of it causing me to jerk in response, wondering what’s coming. The slight lift of the corner of his mouth makes me frown, my nerves getting the better of me, and my legs clamping closed at the same time.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he says, picking up my legs and lifting my arse to grab hold of the g-string. The sides come down my thighs as quick as a knife through butter, removing the apparently offending item as they do. He pockets it and sits back again to watch, the curve of his mouth still in place at my look of panic. “Carry on.” Right. I shake my head a little, struggling to get my mojo back and looking back at the driver. “No, Alana,” he snaps, making me swing back to him. “Where do you look?” At him. That’s where I look.

  I pull in a long breath and begin again, letting myself be lulled back to him, my heel lifting to bend my leg up onto the seat as my fingers tentatively travel again. He just keeps looking at me, directly at me. There’s no wandering of eyes as I let my fingers caress my clit, trying to wake it up. No deviation so he can see what I’m doing. He’s focused only on my reactions to myself, like he’s trying to help me with nothing but his eyes. It makes me swirl into their chocolate brown depths, imagining his hand on me instead. The thought makes me smile and then gasp as a shudder descends, my insides beckoning me towards them.

  “Both hands,” he says, still a vision of calm as my breathing starts to escalate, my legs widening again. “Fuck yourself with them.” I roll my eyes back at his words, letting my other hand join in on the party, my fingers dragging my thigh to reach as I lean back further. Nothing else exists in this car as I keep rubbing, my own calm beginning to come as I hold myself open, teasing the edges and prolonging the climax that’s coming for me. It makes me moan at my own torment, as I slowly start pushing two fingers in, letting their movement upwards tease more elicit groans from my mouth. Oh god, it’s so dark in here. So full of Blaine and quiet. Nothing else is in here with us. No noise, no interference. No threat or consequences. It’s just our little world filled with fun and torture, the world outside passing by in a blur.

  I smile at the words in my head as my breath hitches again, my fingers pushing in deeper as my other hand starts rubbing furiously. The whole fucking situation elevates my groans to broken gasps for air, the heat swelling around me and making me desperate to come. I open my eyes to watch him again, knowing it’ll help me find the final shunt I need to make it happen, and find him looking at my hands, his mouth slightly open, his eyes narrowed. He’s so fucking handsome as he near death stares the thing he wants most. It makes me groan again, wiling him to take over for me, make me come in his own way. One damn touch and I’d explode. One slide of his thumb. One grip of his fingers. Anything to help me over this final hurdle. I gasp again, imagining it, my eyes fluttering closed as the heat builds, my stomach muscles clenching around the orgasm that’s chasing me. It floods me with images of the time we’ve spent fucking. The church. His bed. That bench I’m coming to love. Oh god, I can’t breathe all of a sudden, and yet I want nothing but his hand over my mouth, his weight on me, holding me down.

  “Stop,” he snaps, a sudden sharp pain on my ankle. My eyes fly open, my hands continuing of their own accord regardless of his order. Screw that, I’m nearly there. I pant out, still feeling my insides as I clench around my fingers furiously. “You will stop, Alana, or you’ll regret your decision to defy me.” My brow furrows, my fingers slowing a little at the thought as he smiles, and rolls his finger over my ankle. “Make a choice.” The clenching continues inside, my breath wanting nothing more than to stop again so I can carry on and finish what he made me do, but he’s got that look. It tells me he means it this time. He’s not playing. There won’t be anything nice about his punishment for this if I challenge him. It reminds me of the feeling when that belt buckle hit my bits, causing all sorts of pain to collide inside me. Or the damned cage I despise. That thought alone is enough for me to slow my hands to nothing and pull them away altogether, hoping to appease whatever monster was beginning to appear.

  It leaves me aching as he watches me carefully and continues rubbing my ankle softly, until he eventually turns away, a small lick of his lips signalling the end of our sexual conversation. I don’t turn away this time, rather stare at him, wondering what the hell goes through his head sometimes. Was that for him, or me? Was I supposed to learn something from the experience, other than feeling empty and unsatisfied again? I let his hand soothe me to some degree, feeling the gentleness in his fondle pull me back into normality again.

  “What was that about?” I ask, not understanding a bloody thing.

  “A lesson in control.” My brows shoot up. Well, I suppose I did stop my orgasm, stupidly given my still aching crotch area. The thought makes me huff a little and glare at him, irritation lacing my every bone. The huff causes him to immediately dump my ankle back down on the seat, breaking our contact. “About who owns whom.”

  “You think you can frighten me into doing what I’m told?”

  He doesn’t answer that, rather looks back out of the window again as the car pulls up, clicking the handle the moment it does and getting out. I stare at the back of his suit as he waits, his hand on the frame as usual, waiting for me to follow. I huff again and clamber across the seat, rubbing my crotch on the seat one last time for some form of relief from my non-orgasm and then getting out to stand in front of him.

  “Where are we then?” I ask, looking around and waiting for him to educate me as to what this date is all about, because so far it’s been fucking appalling.

  Again, he doesn’t answer. He just looks up, scanning the skyscrapers, and then starts walking off in the direction of a building.

  The door looms, dark red in colour, as I, yet again, follow blindly, not at all sure why I’m bothering. I mean, I can’t even have orgasms now? That’s not acceptable, especially after all the crap he’s given me. The pain. The snarls. The fucking cage. I’m going mad. That must be the reason for all this. I’m utterly insane.

  “Red or white?” he asks, as we walk through the door and head around some corners, a small man scampering alongside us the moment we reach another doorway.

  “Mr. Jacobs, Sir,” he says, his head bowing. The formality surprises me, regardless of our attire. I’ve never seen anyone bow and scrape around him, even in that first innocuous venue where I met him with all its submissives dotted about. “Where would you like her?” What? Who? Is he talking about me? Blaine keeps walking, his footfalls as calm as clouds drifting by as I hurry to catch up, the mere thought of me going anywhere in this place without him totally alarming.

  “Red or white, Alana?” Blaine asks, his hand coming back for me and clasping mine before I can decide if he deserves it or not.

  “What?”

  “Wine?”

  “Oh, red, please.” He nods and continues on again, towing me with him until we arrive in a large foyer. I stare up, half stumbling, amazed at the majesty of it given the bland outside of the building. “Wow.” That’s all I’ve got. The ceiling is around forty feet up from us, a huge cascade of stone work elaborately decorated with bosses and intricate carving. Botticelli paintings lie between the buttresses, lining routes to heaven and hell. “Tha
t’s incredible.” I’m so lost in my musings I don’t really feel his hand leaving mine, or notice him wander off as I spin circles underneath the art work, slowly drawing my eyes over the imagery.

  “Miss, if you could follow me,” the man’s voice says. I look back at him, wondering what he’s talking about, and then look for Blaine, who’s disappeared.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, stupefied and desperately scanning for Blaine again.

  “The show, miss.” Oh, right. “Where’s Mr. Jacobs gone?”

  “He’ll be waiting for you, miss.” Okay…

  I follow the man as he begins walking off, scanning the lines of corridors and doors off the room, all elaborately decorated again. It’s like I’m in the Royal Albert Hall, gold leafing and gilding everywhere. It’s beautiful, reminding me of sophistication and manners, something our other ‘dates’ have been sorely lacking in given the venues.

  We eventually turn into a small door, the heat hitting me the moment it opens.

  “Ah, come on, come on,” a hassled looking man says, his yellow outfit as garish as his clearly very homosexual flamboyancy. “I’ve been waiting for you. Did you get caught up in traffic?” What?

  He appraises me, his eyes travelling over my body, roaming it and then nodding to himself about something. “Yes, oh yes, this is lovely. Did he pick it?” I have no clue what this man is talking about, so much so that I look behind me, wondering if he’s talking about someone else. “I think you’ll do just fine like that.” I’m sure I will. I rub the sides of my dress down, unconcerned about what he thinks of my attire.