Taken Ch. 03

If you haven't read the first two chapters, this chapter will not be all that satisfying. For some, even reading all three chapters may not be so. As I have learned, not everyone appreciates what I write. But that's okay. There are those who enjoy it and who are kind enough to contact me to let me know that they do. I do appreciate the feedback that I get; good or bad, it guides me. Please let me know what you think.

I finished picking up the items that had spilled from my bag. I dug into its depths once again, finally finding my keys. I stood, turned, and opened the door to my truck. I climbed in. I threw my bag on the passenger seat. I started the engine. I didn't think. I just...did. I went through the motions without letting my mind start down the path of self-deprecation, self-loathing, wanting, arousal, need, desire.

"Stop it!"

My own voice startled me. I hadn't meant to say the words aloud, but there they were. I didn't have time to consider what had just happened. And I didn't have time to consider what would happen next. I put the truck in reverse and started back to my office.

The rest of the day was a blur. I sat at my desk, fingers flying over the keyboard as I filled out expense reports and time sheets. I updated my checkbook. I cleaned my office; straightening out things that didn't need to be straightened out. I knew I was just keeping myself busy, but I couldn't stop. If I stopped, I would start to think. If I thought too much, I would surely go insane. I just had to get through the day without thinking. I could think later. Or I could put it all behind me and pretend that it never happened. I didn't have to tell my husband. I didn't have to wonder why I let it happen. I didn't have to consider the consequences. I didn't have to think about wanting it to happen again.

My husband wasn't home when I pulled into the driveway. I had mixed emotions about that. I didn't want to have to face him at the moment, but I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts either. I unloaded my things from the truck and went inside. My lab greeted me at the door, bounding across the dining room and ramming his head into my legs. I smiled and welcomed his intrusion. It was something else to deal with that would keep me from my thoughts. I let him out onto the screen porch and grabbed his leash. We walked out into the yard and I opened the gate, releasing him to go do what dogs do. I sat on the steps, closed my eyes, tilted my head back to feel the sun on my face, and then the floodgates opened.

What kind of a woman allows a man to sexually assault her in public, in broad daylight? What kind of a woman gets off on a man treating her like some kind of slut? What the hell was I thinking? Why didn't I stop him? Why didn't I just walk away as soon he showed up at the river? What was so fucking wrong with me that the thought of him using me like that made me wet? I asked myself these questions over and over again. There weren't any answers. I'd been here before and asked the same questions. And the answers never came.

I thought back to that time long ago when I'd let a stranger touch me for the first time. No, I corrected, I didn't let him. I was a little girl. He molested me. I didn't, "let" him do it. But I didn't stop him. I sat, frozen, scared, silent, as his hand slid up my thigh and then into the hole in my blue jeans. I watched the lake and watched that little red and white bobber on the water as I felt his crooked, wrinkled fingers slide over that place where no one should touch me. I prayed for a fish to take the bait on my hook and flee. It would be a distraction. It would stop what was happening. It would stop him from touching me, from whispering in my ear; that raspy whisper that sounded like dead leaves sliding over asphalt. It would stop what I couldn't.

The tears started then. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to stop them. I had to let this run its course. I had to allow all of those feelings to flow through me until I could put the pieces into place and start to breathe again. What kind of a girl allowed a strange man to touch her that way? I wept, sobbed, let the feelings go, and I let the sun try to burn through my flesh and warm the parts of me that always felt cold.

When I was finally able to breathe again, I stood and went to collect the dog. I brought him into the house and went through the rest of my routine without thinking; a biscuit and a pat on the head, food in his bowl, a treat for the cats, water. I had to take care of things before I could start the process of sorting my thoughts. I'd been here before, and I would probably be here again. But I had to do it, or I would feel those thoughts eating into my brain and damaging everything I had come to grips with over the past few years.

I went to my office and pulled out my tattered journal. And I wrote; every thought, every word that had passed between us, every emotion, every desire, every fear. The words flowed onto the page quickly. I had to put the thoughts down or I might lose myself in them. If I wrote, I would be fine. I could let all of those thoughts flow out of me, pouring out though the ink of my pen, an extension of my hand, my outlet. I didn't know any other way to calm the demons that swarmed my brain. I didn't know any other way to analyze them and try to make sense of the path between then and now. It was crazy, but it worked. When my hand started to cramp and my neck hurt from being bent over my desk, I pushed on. At some point, the door to my office had opened and I had heard him say hello. He'd have taken one look at me, hunched over my desk, writing furiously, and left me in peace. He knew what it meant.

As the last word came to life on the page, I felt myself becoming lighter. I sat up, put down my pen, and sipped my now cold coffee. I rolled my head, feeling the muscles start to loosen in my neck. I took a few deep breaths and felt my mind clearing. I knew it wouldn't last, but for now at least, I could think about what had happened without crying, without losing control of my emotions. I could sit down and have a conversation with my husband and try to work through what I had done in a rational, logical manner. I closed my journal and replaced the large rubber band around its cracked spine, essentially locking away the thoughts that I had put down. I would come back to them after a while, but for now, I needed to focus on something else.

I found him in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. I stopped him mid-stride and took the plates from his hand. I leaned in and kissed him before turning to put the dishes away. He turned back to the task, knowing that I would talk when I was ready. As I watched him, I was reminded again why I loved him. He wouldn't pry. He would let me have my space and figure things out on my own. He respected my need for that, until it affected our relationship. And then he wouldn't let me forget that he was a part of my life that I couldn't stash away in a journal. He was flesh and blood, and wouldn't just go away. And that's what I needed. I needed him to not go away.

I leaned up against him as he stood at the sink. My arms wrapped around him and I pressed into him from behind. I leaned in closer and slid my tongue over the back of his neck. He shivered, and it made me smile. I loved how he responded to me. He grabbed the towel from the rack and dried his hands before turning around. His lips met mine and he slid his hands down my back. As his tongue slipped between my lips, I felt the heat rise within me. God, I loved this man. I loved the way his love and his need leached into me through his kisses. I loved the way that he touched me. I loved the way that he could make me wet in an instant.

His hand slipped beneath my shirt and my bra. As his thumb and forefinger squeezed my nipple, I moaned into his mouth. His kissed me harder in response. And then his squeeze tightened, and I gasped. He broke the kiss for a second, leaning his head back to study my face. I knew he was concerned, that he worried that he would hurt me. And I knew that at the same time, he wanted the response that that hurt would bring about. Whatever he saw in my face seemed to encourage him. He leaned back in, kissing me harder as he released my nipple and slid his hand down my stomach. As his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of my jeans, my thoughts returned to the moment beneath the bridge. I grabbed his hand, stopping his descent. I needed him, but I didn't want those thoughts flooding my brain while he touched me. I pulled him with me as I headed toward the bedroom.

We were undressed in no time and slipping beneath the covers of the bed. He kissed me again and my body came to life. His hand slipped between my legs and he moaned when he felt the wetness there. I ran my fingers over his cheek as I kissed him harder yet. I was desperate now, and he knew it. His mouth left mine and I reached above my head, grasping the wrought iron of the headboard as I felt his lips clamp down on my nipple. My breaths came in quick bursts, each carrying a word of encouragement as I felt his teeth clamping down on my flesh and his fingers sliding into my sex.

He reared back, taking the covers with him as he rose to his knees and then spread my legs wide. His fingers thrust in and out of me as he made a space for himself between them. He reached for my breast, his finger and thumb pinching my nipple hard, causing me to gasp. He didn't care this time. He didn't stop to weigh the consequences of hurting me. He drove me further into my need. I looked up into his eyes and he smiled down at me. He wouldn't stop until I was satisfied. And then he wouldn't stop until I begged him to. I watched as he leaned over me, as he concentrated on my face, watching my reaction as he drove me to the brink.

"Harder. Please." I begged.

He responded, thrusting his fingers into me harder yet, his knuckles hitting my flesh and driving it into bone. His grip tightened on my nipple and it took my breath away. I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw against the pain, feeling it flow through my body and drown itself in the pleasure that rose higher and higher with each thrust of his fingers. I thrust my hips upward, meeting each of those thrusts, desperate for more. And just as I found his rhythm, he withdrew his fingers and denied me of their pleasure. I looked up at him, a pitiful sound escaping my chest that gave sound to my need and frustration. And then his hand came down hard on my sex, the wet sound of the slap nearly drowned out by the sharp cry that burst from my throat.

"Fuck. Yes. Oh, yes." I hurled the words at him, begging him for more.

He looked down at me, smiling that smile that made me love him, made me need him, made me just a little bit humiliated by my own need. And then he brought his hand down again, watching my eyes as I sucked in a breath as if the air could quell the pain that flashed over my nerves, as if I could breathe in more even as it did so. He thrust his fingers back into me, hard, wet, driving, pushing me over the edge as I arched my back into him, feeling my body jerk and shake as wave after wave of pleasure took me.

My body collapsed onto the bed, spent, wasted, sated. But it wasn't over yet. It was his turn. He rolled me over onto my stomach and pulled my hips back until I was on my knees. I was still trying to catch my breath as he settled in behind me and placed his cock at the opening of my sex. I pushed back hard, wanting him inside me, my need overcoming my exhaustion. He wasted no time finding his pace. He drove into me hard and fast, his fingers digging into my flesh as he pushed my body into position. My breasts flattened against the mattress as I raised my ass higher and spread my legs painfully wide to give him access.

I felt him slide his hand along my spine, the touch reaching higher and higher until his fingers stretched into my hair and wrapped themselves up in me. He pulled, raising my head back and arching my body until it would arch no more. Every muscle was taut, every nerve sung out, and I was right where I needed to be. The words escaped my mouth with each breath as I panted. I begged for more, I begged him not to stop. I begged, and it brought me closer to the edge of the precipice that I felt every time we were together. And then I was lost; falling, weightless, driving him onward until he caught me in his need and brought me back with a final deep thrust of his hips.

He collapsed onto me, my weight taking his as we lay together, panting, spent, and sweating. I closed my eyes, feeling his hands cover mine, his fingers finding the spaces between my fingers and trapping me in his embrace. Nothing in the world could ever feel as good as having the man who loved you wrap you up tightly in his arms and make you feel safe, needed, loved. So why was there such a vast empty space in the corner of my mind that screamed out for more? And why couldn't I make it stop taunting me with glimpses of my mysterious stranger's eyes? Why did the mere thought of him cause my breath to catch and my abdomen to clench?

I felt his weight shift as he rolled from atop me and collapsed onto the bed next to me. I turned to him and found him watching me. I loved the look of content in his eyes, but wished that it wasn't dampened by a look of concern as well. I smiled at him, just to reassure him that it was okay. I ran the tip of my finger down his cheek, needing to touch him, to feel him, to let him know that I was there with him and not somewhere else. I leaned in and kissed him gently, the tip of my tongue sliding over his lips, tasting him. I pulled back and smiled at him, knowing that it was time to talk now.

"I love you with all of my heart and soul." I whispered.

"I love you with all my heart and soul too, baby." He responded.

I rolled onto my back and found his hand, clasping it tightly in mine. I snuggled closer, and pressed my arm against his. I slipped my leg over his. I needed to feel him close. I needed him to be my anchor as I let the words come out, lest I drift off on the wave of emotions that I could feel swelling inside me.

"I need to talk to you about today."

We talked. Or at least I talked, and he listened, responding every so often with a noise to let me know that I had his attention. As the words flowed out of my mouth, I watched his face for the reaction that I knew was coming. I spoke, quickly, honestly, hurriedly even, trying to get it all out before I lost my nerve. And when it finally came, it was apparent in his eyes. He wasn't jealous. He wasn't shocked or surprised even. He was angry, but not for the reason that one might guess. He was angry because I had put myself in a dangerous situation. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, it was with a clenched jaw.

"How could you put yourself in danger like that?" He asked, taking my hands in his.

I didn't know how to answer. I wish that I could take responsibility for my actions enough that I could promise him that I was safe at all times. But really, I knew better. I knew that I was compelled to follow that stranger under the bridge. I knew that I was compelled to let him touch me. I knew that I was compelled to respond to him the way that magnets are drawn to one another. I simply couldn't help myself. It was stupid. It was careless. It was spontaneous. But it was also necessary.

It took time to explain all of this to my husband again. He had heard it before, but he never really knew what it meant. Yes, I was accountable. Yes, at some point, I was probably able to walk away. But I chose not to take that out. I needed to be there. I needed everything that this man promised with his look, his touch, and his words. I knew what he was and he knew what I was. And sometimes things simply had to happen. I used all of those words, those justifications, those reasons. But when all was said and done, it came down to need. I needed what happened today. I needed it like I need air to breathe and water to drink. And I needed more.

By the time we had finished talking, I was worked up all over again. And he knew it of course. He also knew that this was different. He knew that I was thinking of my stranger, of him using me, of what had happened, of how I had cum so hard when he made me beg for it. Begging. How could something so humiliating be so arousing? How could asking to be used be such an aphrodisiac? How could I expect my husband to understand what confounded even me at times?

He had me on my back as soon as he saw the look in my eyes. His hands were on my breasts, his mouth took mine. I felt myself responding to my own need as though I might actually be able to sate it. He slid one hand lower and cupped my sex, digging into my flesh as he looked down at me.

"You're such a good little bitch." He whispered.

He drove his fingers into me, thrusting hard and deep, just the way he knew I liked it.

"You want it. You want his big, hard cock inside you. You want him to fuck you, use you. You want to be his good little bitch, don't you?"

I felt myself slipping away as his words reached my ears. I felt his fingers inside me, driving me to the edge as he held me fast against my truck door. I felt myself shrinking, no longer the strong woman that my husband knew and loved, but the small, needy girl that begged to be touched, to be used, to be allowed to cum. I heard my husband's words, but I wasn't in my bedroom any longer. I was with my stranger; feeling his touch, my husband's hand a proxy, hearing his words, telling me to beg, feeling his mouth on mine, and making me want. I was lost between reality and fantasy and I didn't know how to differentiate between the two.

"You're going to go back, aren't you?" My husband asked as he drove into me, forcing me to admit my need and feeding it with his words and his hands.

"Yes."

My voice sounded small as it reached my own ears. And when it did, when I admitted my need, I felt my body explode in a wave of pleasure so intense that it took my breath away. I came hard, squeezing my thighs together and trapping my husband's hand between them. He leaned in and kiss me hard, devouring my mouth with his, forcing his tongue into my mouth, bringing me back, reminding me how much he loved me. Letting me know that I was safe.

As I lay in bed that night, listening to the sound of my husband's slow, deep breaths, I wondered if I would see my mysterious stranger again. I wondered if I wanted to. I wondered if my husband's attempts to give me what I needed were enough to satisfy me. I knew he couldn't bring himself to hurt me more than he had today. I knew that even what he had given me was bordering on too much for him to handle. And there was something else missing. I knew what I was doing when I was with my husband. I knew that really, all it amounted to was topping from the bottom. I had read about it. I had discussed it with people on-line in the chat rooms that I frequented. And I knew that even though it scratched an itch, so to speak, that it didn't sate the need that I felt to be used, controlled, and dominated. For that to happen, I needed my mysterious stranger. To quench that hunger, I didn't need the pleasure that was given to me out of love. I needed pleasure taken from me.