The Haunted (Sleeping with Monsters Book 1) (9 page)

“What
would you say to me if you could?” she whispered.

The
hands grasping her paused, as if in thought. And then he took a step towards
her and she could feel the heat of his erection against the cleft of her ass.

And
that, she supposed, nearly upside down and lost and confused was all he really
needed to say.

He
reached between them and pushed his cock down so that it slid between her legs,
and his head rubbed up against her clit. Behind her his thighs lined up with
hers and he leaned over her, covering her with his heat, then scratched fingers
down her back while pulsing himself against her, chaste by only the most
technical definition of the word. It was like he was trying to merge with her,
become one with her, envelope her inside him.

And
then it was his turn to be inside her. He repositioned himself, and she wasn’t
fully wet, but he slid in anyway, all hot and hard. She grunted gutturally at
being entered like that, and then it was like a faucet turned on inside of her,
she was a fountain, she felt it covering him and then running down the insides
of her thighs.

What
followed wasn’t sex. Not compared to any kind of sex she’d ever had before. She
didn’t know what it was – she only knew that he wanted her and he’d chained her
up and he was going to fuck her until she couldn’t take it anymore and then
possibly beyond. Her hair was dragging on the ground and all she could feel was
the stone with her toes, her ankles with her hands, the bar beneath her hips
and his cock ramming into her, bruising her against the bar again and again.

All
this time he’d always helped her come -- made her come – but she’d never once
managed to satisfy him. The time in the bathroom that Richard had interrupted
hardly counted – maybe this was what he needed to get off, to be totally,
utterly, in control.

At
the thought of her finally taming him, even if it took this -- she spread her
legs wider to withstand his assault. He made a sound at this, or she thought he
did, and then she started shouting with each of his thrusts. Animal sounds –
lost sounds -- because she knew no one would hear – and if no one could save
her now, neither could they condemn.

“Fuck
me,” she shouted out, an exclamation – but he took it as a command. The
friction between them, his heat sliding in and out, the fact that she was
trapped here and couldn’t get away – she wanted to get her hands free,
desperately, she needed to rub her clit, she wanted her pussy to wind around
him and make him hers – but she wanted him to come more, and harder, than he
ever had before in his life – or the next. “Fuck me fuck me fuck me,” she
cried, her voice rising in a whine.

Hands
grabbed her hips roughly, riding himself inside her in time with her words.

“Don’t
ever stop – just keep fucking me --“ her body vibrated with the words, with him
ramming into her, her pussy being filled again and again.

His
hands left her, and they must have grabbed hold of the bar she was slung across
because she felt the whole thing rattle as he yanked back, making her whole
body sway, limp as a rag doll.

“Fuck
fuck fuck,” she whispered, her pussy quivering on the edge even without her
clit, and behind her the ghost shuddered, bodily, three final times, hauling
her back across the beam she lay on, to finish spearing her with his hot cock.
She imagined she could feel his cum inside her, blazing a hot molten trail,
before sliding out again.

She
couldn’t breathe. She just lay there, chained, and whimpered. She wasn’t angry
or sad – there was no room for thoughts anymore, inside of her head. Heat
pulled away from her, left her standing and cold, wetness flowing between her
thighs, and she had a dizzy thought that he might leave her like this and never
let her go – but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered right now, not anymore.

The
chains holding her wrist to ankle fell free and hands almost helped her to
standing before she fell through them, on weak legs, to the ground with a
thump.

Warmth
enveloped her again, more gently now, holding her from behind, an arm
underneath her gravity swollen breasts and bar-bruised waist. He rocked her,
the ghost, slowly, as though she were a child, and from some well deep inside
she started crying. Honest, frustrated tears – crying for everything she’d lost
with Richard, all the time and all the hope, every time she’d been ignorant and
dumb and played a fool. It was like the Master’s cock were a stick and it’d
stirred up the very bottom of a very deep pond inside her, one that would never
be all the way clear again. Daphne knew she’d never manage to be as innocent as
she once had been. It was like growing up, and it felt awful.

She
curled forward, sobbing, and the Master held her, stroking back her hair from
her face, his heat the only solace she had in the darkness. It wouldn’t matter
how long she cried, or how hard, or how ugly she’d be afterwards – she wasn’t
going to scare him away. The knowledge of that was her only tow-line back to
sanity from the raw and unbound place she’d been.

When
she could breathe again, she felt his fingers on her face, slipping underneath
her blindfold, touching the trails of her tears. And then that same hand
lowered down between her sprawled open legs and touched her softly there and
she gasped.

She
would have thought any fire there had been entirely quenched by her crying, but
no – her tears had only washed everything clean. She was in a place beyond
trust or fear, a land of pure openness, and she moaned with his next touch.

She
felt him rumble behind her, pleased with her release – pleased to be retaking
control again. He didn’t need the chains and he didn’t need the bar, he just
pulled her back into his arms. One hand cradled a breast and rolled her nipple
between finger and thumb and the other rubbed at her clit.

She
crossed her arms over his, holding herself tighter to him, pinching her other
nipple, feeling the curve of his body behind hers, the heat where his stomach
met her back. His fingers played inside her now, brought out her wetness and
circled her with it, teasing at her most electric spot, before darting back
inside, taunting her, listening to her gasp.

He
played her and she let him. She gave into it as she’d never given into anything
before. She relaxed and let him have utter, utter, control, even moreso than
she had while she’d been chained. She willed herself into the experience and
then released any hopes she had, any desires, any needs, as she felt his
fingers pinch and pull and fill her up. She heard her own voice as from a great
distance, and it was like he’d turned her into an instrument, one only he could
play. She responded to everything he did, moaning, gasps, panting, whines,
muttered prayers to don’t stop, never stop again –

And
then she was there, closer to coming that she’d ever been aware of before, not
a sharp bright edge to fall over but a wall of delicious light to push through,
radiating out from her over her entire body, from fingertip to fingertip, from
toe to head --

And
then she hit the hardest orgasm she’d ever had in her life on the other side.
Her body roiled like she’d been flung on rocks, curved over and pulled tight,
muscles taut and then utterly released, again and again. She was shouting, she
heard herself shouting, she knew she was shouting, and then she relaxed into a
moan, falling through, falling down until she remembered where she was, on the
ground in a secret dungeon being held by a particularly talented ghost.

And
at last she laughed. Her voice was strange and harsh from all the other sounds
she’d made tonight, but the joy was genuine and it burbled up from inside her,
a secret place that she never knew she had and she thought she might never find
again. The ghost – the Master, her Master, her beloved Master, stood himself
and then carefully helped her to stand. Then he pulled her up stairs, made sure
she was steady, and led her through her own house until making her stop on what
she knew was tile and drew her a hot bath.

Daphne
stepped into the tub gingerly, and felt the steam of the water replace the heat
of his hands, and reached up for the blindfold to tug it down. She was alone,
except for the swirl of steam where she thought he had just been.

“Ma’am?”

Daphne
woke to Arthur’s polite knocking at her door in the morning.

“Did
I oversleep?”

“You
did, Ma’am,” Arthur said, through the door.

“I’m
so sorry –“ she scrabbled for her phone with one hand. No signal, but it’d been
an excellent alarm clock – up until she’d forgotten to set it.

“It’s
all right Ma’am – I just wanted to see if you were well.”

“I
am, Arthur. Just a little too much wine after you left last night was all.”
And…other things. Had everything really happened? Or had it all just been one
elaborate dream?

“Shall
we be seeing you for lunch in about an hour then, Ma’am?”

“That’d
be perfect, Arthur.”

With
him away from her door, she could think.

What
proof did she have that last night had even happened? She kicked off her sheets
and found out – her arms and legs were stiff, and her pussy and hips were sore.

God.
It had been
real. All the magical oddity of it. She’d never been like that before, and it’d
never felt so good for her – she could still remember the sensation of that
orgasm, like she’d been falling through time and space – her hands wound in the
sheets just thinking of it.

Could
it be like that here, every night?

If
it was, would she survive it?

She
looked around the room, as though the Master might be looking in and then
laughed at herself. Richard’s escapades – whoever he was doing, wherever he was
-- had nothing on her.

Daphne
took another shower, at the end of which she only felt like she’d worked out
hard the day before. She carefully dried her hair and put on just enough
make-up to look ‘natural’, whatever that was for someone who was getting regularly
fucked by a ghost.

She
took a seat at the end of the table, as Arthur brought her lunch.

“You
look lovely, Ma’am.”

“Thank
you.”

“You’re
positively glowing,” he went on.

“Must
be all the beauty rest,” she said distractedly, pulling her chair in.

Daphne
spent most of lunch toying with it. After last night…what did she owe the
Master? She couldn’t fall in love with him – he wasn’t really there. But he
made her feel, so intensely – was he just using her? Was she just using him? Why
did she have to think about it so much now?

The
last, she knew the answer to, at least, if she were honest with herself. There
was only one reason she’d asked Jason to come over and it had nothing to do
with moving the dresser. After last night she felt the owed the Master if not
monogamy, then an explanation.

“Not
hungry, Ma’am?” Arthur inquired, after a polite time had passed.

“Not
really. A little nauseous is all.”

“Do
you need a doctor? We could go into town –“

“Oh,
no, that’s all right –“ She bit the inside of her lip. “I’m fine now. Just come
and get me when Mr. Gale arrives, please.”

“Of
course, Ma’am.”

Leaving
Arthur behind with dishes, she slunk out into the hall – and then into the
library, where the Master’s portrait was staring down. She stood in the middle
of the room and knew he was here, even if he wasn’t touching her.

“Please
don’t be mad.”

If
last night was him in a good mood, she didn’t think her body could stand it if
she made him angry.

“You
do understand what I want here, don’t you?” she asked him, and swallowed. “It’s
not that I don’t want to stay here – because I do. You know I do. I want to be
with you. But -- I also want a child -- and you can’t give me that. Please
don’t be mad.”

Daphne
got the sensation of electricity around her, like she was standing on a hill in
the middle of a thunderstorm. She turned around to look over her shoulders,
feeling like he might be standing there. Then she shook herself and took a
strong stance.

“I’m
not asking for forgiveness – or permission. I’m just asking you to
understand.”

Before
lightning could strike her or the portrait come to life, she heard the
melodious chimes of the doorbell being rung from the back door, and she raced
to pretend she’d been waiting upstairs this whole time.

Daphne
heard Arthur let Jason in. “So good of you to come, Mr. Gale.”

“It’s
fine, I was in the neighborhood this morning.”

She
slowed and descended the final few stairs with decorum and a smile. “Jason.
Thanks for coming,” she said, overly innocent.

He
looked up at her and smirked a little. He hadn’t forgotten their rendezvous and
she felt a current pass between them, same as it had when she’d been framed by
her window and he’d eagerly watched.

“You’re
welcome,” he said, equally innocent. “So where’s this dresser?” he said, and
looked around, arms flexed.

With
Jason’s help they were able to move the dresser into its final position, and a
number of other small items of furniture, including some of the statues.

He
refused to let her help, worried that she’d hurt herself or get dirty in turns,
and instead used every opportunity he had to show himself off to her, like this
was some sort of audition…which, Daphne realized, it sort of was. She couldn’t
feel the Master’s disapproving looming anymore, and hoped that he’d gotten over
his anger from this morning as Jason moved the last piece of carved wood.

“Are
you sure that’s not a door stopper?”

“I
think it’s supposed to be modern.” She tilted her head. “But now that you
mention it – I wouldn’t place bets.” She laughed and he laughed, and Arthur
returned.

“More
tea?” he offered.

“No,
thank you,” Jason said, straightening up. “I’m done for the day. It’s time to
go home,” he said, looking at her, and she flushed.

A
man had his pride. It was her turn.

“I
do have a question about the stable, after all. Since you’re here -- can I show
you?” she asked. She felt like the words were rushing out of her mouth, too
fast.

He
leaned against the wall behind him and squinted his eyes knowingly at her,
taking all of her in. “Of course.”