A Rush Of Blood To The Head Ch. 02 free porn video

Lucy is brought to her knees.

I called Mark on my way home but he didn't answer. It was only after I went through a traffic light that I realized it was red. Slowing down was difficult; I watched the speedometer tick down until I was only doing 10 above the speed-limit.

He waited for me on the couch. A baseball game was on, volume low, and he held a glass of whiskey in one hand.

Mark's eyes met my own when I locked the front door. We studied each another. His eyes traveled down my body, and swept back up to my face.

"Was yoga fun?" he asked, breaking the silence. He didn't ask what I expected—like, "where the hell have you been?!"— and it shook me.

I pasted on a smile and sat down next to him. "Not really, but I made a new friend. We went out to the bar a few blocks away and I lost track of time." I leant over and kissed him. "Sorry," I whispered against his lips. "I should have called."

"It was dickish of you."

He was letting me off the hook. He knew I was lying; he knew me probably better than anyone.

Something tugged at my heart. I swallowed and touched his jaw. His dark eyes stared down at me, fathomless and omniscient. When they stared too hard at me, I pulled away and got up, him following me at the heels.

We went upstairs and I rushed into the bathroom, desperate for privacy and a long, scalding shower. I stood under the water, letting the spray fall over my body. I intentionally blocked out all thought, focusing instead on the tiles in front of me. Darkness would creep back into my consciousness, however. My flesh intwined with Luke's came back in flashes. I swore I could smell his cologne on me.

Then I saw the hickey on my breast. I didn't know what to do, so I scrubbed it with soap until the entire expanse of skin was raw and red. The bruise was already blue, and there was a hint of teeth pressed into it. I rushed out of the shower and lathered lotion on the skin. It was an angry, stubborn mark, an emblem of my betrayal. I'd joked about cum on my breasts representing a symbol of my carnal success, a proud badge I wore showing my slutty accomplishment; now my hickey burned as red as Hester's letter.

I pulled out concealer and did my best to cover it. I rehearsed what I'd say to Mark if he probed into my story further. I tried not to imagine what would happen if he found out, if he somehow knew. I'd never been a good liar.

Eventually I came out into the bedroom with my robe tightly wrapped around me. Mark was there in his boxers, turning down the covers. He looked at me closely, searching for something.

I reached over and turned off the lights.

***********************

The next morning Mark left without waking me up. I rose at noon, disoriented and sore from the night before. A peek at my breast left me anxious; the mark was still there.

Like a robot, I went downstairs and made coffee. I looked around the house, wondering if there was anything to clean up. The maid typically came on Saturdays, yet everything was spotless, per usual. But I was desperate to distract myself, and fought every selfish instinct to run back to Luke.

Would we fuck right away? Would I receive a new hickey on my other breast, one that would also arouse mixed emotions of pleasure and shame? I chose not to go down that road. We had our moment, and we got each other out of our systems.

It was better not to wonder why I still fantasized about the expanse of his back, the dips of skin between his bones, the one side of his smile that curved higher than the other.

So I went shopping. I bought a new Chanel bag and an obscene amount of pricey makeup. A gorgeous ruby ring called to me and I purchased it without even looking at the price. Store and store blended together, and the only thing I was conscious of was the process of swiping my credit card.

But cleaning my bank account wouldn't absolve me of my filthy past.

I sat and tried to think who I could call, who could distract me or dissuade me from ruining my life. It was heartbreaking to realize I didn't have a genuine friend left in the world. I'd abandoned my past when I married. I only socialized with the Stepford Wives, and our relationships couldn't possibly have been more superficial. And how could I confess to them, of all people?

There was David, but he was at work and I didn't know how he'd take my discretion. Affairs were an accepted part of our world; affairs with husbands' coworkers or wives' friends were inconceivable.

It was nearly two in the afternoon when I couldn't find any other excuse to be a good person.

I knocked on the door and he opened it, not looking at all surprised. He didn't look annoyed I was late, either. He wore black silk boxers, which I found tacky and pretentious, but he didn't give me a chance to make fun of him.

He kissed me right there, right in the hall where anyone could see. The sound of a door slamming in the distance registered somewhere in the back of my lust-fogged mind but I didn't care. His hands immediately came to my breasts, hidden beneath the loose dress I wore. He groaned into my mouth when he found me braless.

Wordlessly he pulled away and took me by the hand, dragging me into the darkness of the room.

********

I wish I could say I remembered anything more than us merging together in silence, Luke filling me as expertly and roughly as if he'd done it a million times. I wish even more that I could say we shared love-drenched declarations, or waxed on about great literature, or even said anything that meant a damn.

The truth is we fucked. Purely and simply, primally and needfully. Over and over again, I took him in my mouth or he fucked me from behind. He loved me on top, grinding and using his cock to come. When I screamed I was too tired and went to take a shower, he stalked after me not five minutes later and entered me before I could protest. And I didn't want to protest, anyway.

We dozed for a while. I asked him about another tattoo on his back, a swirling dark wing; belonging to what being, I couldn't determine. Something he got with a bunch of his friends, he said, but he didn't explain any further. His fingers trailed the length of a scar on my leg.

"How'd you get this?" he asked, kissing it.

I fanned my hair out on the pillow and pulled the covers up over our heads, so that we were inside our own cloth cocoon.

"I fell off my bike."

He smiled against my thigh. "Really? I thought you said you didn't know how to ride a bike."

"I don't. My dad tried to teach me but I kept falling, and he got impatient... and I tried to do it by myself and fell. My mom screamed at my dad the whole time we waited in the ER."

His hands slid up my legs and he pushed his body up so I could just feel the faint whisper of his breathing against my pussy. "Your parents were abusive?"

"No," I moaned. I cleared my throat. "No. They were just normal parents. They fucked me up as much as any parents do."

"Have you heard of my father?"

I remembered the gossip when he first came to dinner. An influential man, supposedly, though I didn't recognize the name. I didn't know much about the names of people who hadn't always been in my circle. "Yes. You've barely mentioned him, though."

"He's not worth mentioning. He fucked me up much more than the average father does. I'm like him in a lot of ways, though."

My fingers ran through his hair and his scruffy cheek nuzzled my hip.

"I don't think I've called my parents in at least two months. Maybe more. I'm a bad daughter."

And a bad wife, I thought to myself.

He kissed me right on my clit and my legs flexed, grabbing hold to one of his. He exhaled in a slow, hot puff. I could literally feel the wetness seep from me. The need for him was desperate and inexplicable, and all I thought was more. More, more, more. I'd die with that word on my lips if it meant his were on me, touching me anywhere.

The desire was embarrassing. I'd never wanted a man like this, and if I had, he certainly was never made aware of it. I'd had my boyfriends in high school, and they pursued me. If I really liked them, I ignored them. I made them work for it, because men never want what's easy. Not for long, anyway. What they say is true: it worked. They sent me flowers (this went on as early as when we were thirteen). They called the house, or they waited for me at the end of the hallways at school. They groveled on their knees, and I loved every minute of it. I was Woman, and I fucking roared.

To know now that this was what it felt like for them was... humbling. Luke was a blurry shape to me; the lines of his personality were barely defined. I didn't know if he could play chess, or if he liked any of the books I did, or if he even tipped waiters well. To find him during this part of my life was torment because my life was already written.

He was someone I was actually myself with, and that was horrific and shattering for me because then he could truly hurt me. All my life I was a stereotype, and how I loved it! Blonde, busty and bitchy. It wasn't who it was, but I let it be what I was. Men idealized me and that was all swell. I played coy with the men that liked that; I was domineering with the men who liked a challenge.

Now I was in bed with a man I didn't know at all, who was this strange dichotomy of rich and poor, of kind and cruel to the point he was fucking his partner's wife, of surprisingly soft and devastatingly hard. Everyone had to be human, I supposed. Everyone possessed shadows that held all of the things they were, they could be, they wished to be, that they failed being. Everybody was really a shapeless drawing on a blank white page. Weren't we told time and time again in life that no one was really as you thought them to be? That the human mind was far more creative, far kinder or sicker, than reality? Christ, even what we see every day is inverted in some complicated process in our eyes. We see the world upside down. And who fucking cares? We seek meaning, anyway.

I couldn't add up the pieces of Luke I held. Who was this man? And why did I want him so badly? Maybe because he was in control, I decided. For the first time someone owned me, and not the other way around, and it was maddening and addicting. He controlled me.

He moved up my body and pressed his cock against me. "You look upset."

"I'm not upset."

Luke smiled and kissed my chin. "You're a terrible liar. What's wrong?"

My hands touched his ass and pulled him closer to me. The proximity of his cock was torture, but it was the kind of torture a person loves. Like when you poke a bruise, or run your finger over a cut, just to make sure it still hurts. I wanted him, but I wanted More. I knew I wanted more even before we were finished. The wanting was unbearable.

Maybe he saw that naked desire in my eyes, because he stopped asking and just pushed inside.

His mouth found my throat. "You like this."

It wasn't a question, so I didn't answer. There would be no point in denying, or attempting to be shy about it. The terror in my heart whispered I wanted this and liked this more than he did. He maintained in control. His black eyes still spoke no secrets. His mouth opened only when he felt it should.

I caressed the tattoo on his back and wondered just who was fucking me, just who I was throwing my life away for. And if it mattered.

He sped up and I stopped thinking. He pushed back so he could watch himself enter me in one dive, and pull out in a regretful slide.

"It's so hot to see you sucking on me even as I pull out," he sighed. It pleased me that he sounded as if some of the cautious control he held slipped.

He pulled all the way out and roughly twisted me onto my stomach. My legs were unceremoniously spread, my ass lifted, and he was inside me before I could moan. Now he ceased playing and drove us to come.

He released inside me without announcement or flourish. I looked over my shoulder and saw him, his expression stained red and frozen with painful ecstasy. It was enough to make me grasp him tighter inside me as I came. My head fell back to the pillow, which I screamed into even as he moved off of me.

His hand ran over my sweaty back. "That was fucking amazing."

I made a lazy and tired murmur of agreement.

"It's time for you to leave," he said, his breath still uneven.

My eyes squinted open. "What?"

"You have to be home soon, right?"

Already sharpened reality was coming back into focus and I hated it. I wanted to lay spent on the dirty sheets and have him suck my nipples. I wanted to lap at his cock and taste the both of us on him. I didn't want to go home, to return to the crafted Lucy.

He laughed at my reluctance and got up, his half-hard cock dangling between his legs. I thought for maybe the millionth time in my life how strange dicks were. Hadn't I gone on about this before? How they all looked so different, but in the end they worked the same. How they could one minute fill with need, and the next release any urgency with one long flood. And then it was over. The man could zip up his pants, though still feel foggy, and whistle and go back to life. So much like their cocks. What they desperately needed one minute, the next they entirely forgot.

His cum was still warm inside me and he was ready to leave. Hadn't he been the one to ask me to come back? Who kept the hotel room so I could come and fuck him more?

"Get up, Lucy." He slapped my ass. "Up!"

I somehow managed to sit up, feeling drowsy and unsatisfied even though my orgasm had been intense.

"When will I see you again?" I asked. The neediest question ever invented. I never thought I'd say the words.

The power shifted between us. Yesterday I was the unsure one, the uncommitted one.

Today he wore the business suit, and with it came the brutality that was often paired with it.

He stepped into his pants and buttoned up his dress shirt before he looked at me. "We'll figure it out."

Something cold trickled down my spine. "But when do you think?"

His tie wasn't even done as he reached for the hotel door's knob. "We'll see."

****************

I didn't have his number. That stupid, ridiculous fact didn't come to mind until I was pulling up my driveway.

On one hand this was good. I couldn't text him late at night, and I couldn't call and plead for him to meet me somewhere.

On the other hand I couldn't do any of these things and was left wretched and unsure.

It was getting dark outside and my house was eerily quiet when I went inside. My shopping bags were at the bottom of the stairs, just as I left them. I'd left the kitchen light on, and the milk on the counter. It would be spoiled now.

My legs suddenly felt weak so I sat on the couch, feeling like my life forever changed and yet everything was depressingly the same.

********************

I waited around the office building for a few days. When Mark began to find it peculiar, I stopped. I listened eagerly for his name whenever Mark talked about work, or conferred about a case on the phone. I was always disappointed.

Mark watched me closely, too. He knew something was off with me, something different from me being distraught over not catching the latest sale or being unable to get my roots done. He left it alone, thank God, but I sensed his attention and it set me on edge.

Two weeks passed. The craving got worse. I could barely sit still, let alone talk normally.

I didn't even know where he lived! I googled him hundreds of times, read dozens of articles about his stone-cold father and found a few newspaper mentioning him playing college football. That was it.

It occurred to me David might know. I hadn't seen or heard from him since the last dinner party. It was unlike the both of us to be so out of touch. We were the realest members of our little clique, and yet the most deceitful. We played our roles, and we played them well, but we whispered the truth to each other always.

I found myself missing him. Saturday I decided I'd just go see him and catch up, and then somehow branch out to the topic of Luke. Everyone loved talking about him, anyways.

I didn't bother calling ahead. David's car was parked neatly in the driveway. I knocked at the door and it was a good five minutes before it creaked open.

"Lucy?"

"Is this a bad time?"

David turned his head and murmured something I couldn't hear to someone behind him, someone I also couldn't quite make out. He turned back to me and I noticed David was growing in a beard. He looked like an entirely different person to me and I became even more unsettled than I was before.

Then he stepped out, wearing only a Speedo. Some things never changed, and I smiled faintly, never thinking I'd thank God David was wearing a Speedo.

"What's up?" He looked as pleasant as ever, but there was an edge to him. A polite patience he used with the others. I didn't like it.

"Are you busy? Sorry I didn't call but-"

"It's fine," he said, cutting me off. He wanted to get back inside, I realized. Was it a lover? I could relate, obviously.

"Do you have a guy in there?" I asked, smile widening. "I didn't know you were seeing anyone!"

His cheeks turned red. "It's new."

"How new?"

He pulled at his hair and sighed. "Like six months new."

Silence stretched between us.

I was hurt David hadn't told me. And he knew it; I saw it in the vague sense of guilt lingering on his face. We'd gotten drunk on his patio one day and we went on and on about sex and he hadn't said a peep. I asked him all the time about his dates. Sometimes he alluded to seriously dating one or two of them, but it wouldn't be long before he confided this one's dick was too small, another was too thin.

"Wow." It became awkward. I stared at his bare feet. "Congratulations."

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything about it, I just want to keep a low-profile with this one. The guys at the firm love to harass me, you know, and this is serious. It's getting serious, anyway. Really serious."

I nodded and looked up at him. "Sure. I won't say anything."

He smiled. "Thanks." What relief burst from him. "So what's up today? I'd invite you in but it's not exactly the best time."

My mouth opened but I couldn't say anything. I couldn't beg him to be my friend, to hear me out. It seemed like too big a thing to casually confess on someone's doorstep, and I felt out of place with David for the first time since we bonded at one of our miserable events.

So I grinned and shrugged my shoulders. "Was bored. Wanted to know if you wanted to go shopping, but I see you're spending your time much more wisely. And happily. It's no biggie."

David laughed and hugged me. "Thanks, Luce. Call me soon, okay?"

I waved before I got in my car, and cried all the way home.

********

Another week. No word. Mark brought me out to dinner one night and told me to dress exceptionally. We were going to someplace new, he told me, with a boyish smile on his face. We valued novelty of any kind.

I thought perhaps a few of the others might be there and my spirits were lifted for the first time since I left that musty hotel room.

A silver dress that dipped in a scandalous V down my back seemed appropriate. Sapphire earrings dripped from my ears, but I left my wedding ring off. Mark gave me an appreciative once-over, and then we were on our way to the newest restaurant. It was a grand opening; all kinds of impressive people were there.

But there was no Luke.

If Mark noticed my excitement deflated at some point during the evening, he didn't show it. He ran into people he knew, talked shop, flirted with women and spent an obscene amount of money at the bar. I drove us home because he was drunk, singing Led Zeppelin and reminiscing about all the pot he smoked in college. I loved these moments, the glimpses into the real Mark, the old Mark untainted by reality.

He followed me up the stairs and nearly ripped off my dress to fuck me.

The silver material was bunched at my waist; he'd pulled down the top so he could bite my nipples, and yanked up the bottom so he could thrust himself inside me. My body responded immediately; no one could deny there wasn't passion in my marriage. I loved sex, that was no surprise, but fucking my husband felt like some bizarre betrayal.

Mark definitely felt my reluctance, and as if it challenged him, he fucked me harder than he had in a long time.

"This pussy? Is mine," he swore, flicking my clit almost angrily.

It wasn't unusual for him to express possessiveness over my body, but it was the first time I resented those words.

We both were sweating and panting by the time we collapsed in each other's arms, spent and splintered.

I could go back to this, I told myself. I could go back to being a normal, bored, suburban housewife with a workaholic husband who made me come just fine. I didn't have many complaints before, and any problems I had were of the first-world variety. Loneliness came with the territory.

But there was no excitement. Nothing forbidden. One of the wives I knew was a klepto. Another lost herself in d**gs. The others spent and gossiped and drank.

Perhaps my high, my flare of rebelliousness, was Luke and that's why I was so obsessed, so eager to lie and connive.

Mark snored next to me, but even in his sleep he held me close while my mind couldn't have been farther away.

***************

The next afternoon I snapped.

I put on a red dress Mark bought me months before, one he told me I was only allowed to wear on a very special occasion. I decided to forgo too much eye makeup, and focused instead on blending just the right shades of red to paint my lips. My hair was pinned up in a messy sort of bun, and I wore no jewelry.

I went to the office around lunchtime. Mark would be out with a client, he mentioned that morning. He whistled as he made his coffee.

So I waited in the staircase. I really had no reason to suspect Luke might come down it, or up it, or really anywhere near it. But something whispered to me—something evil and wicked—to wait there.

I called the office. The general secretary answered. I asked to be transferred to Luke.

She paused for a moment, and I wondered if she recognized my voice. How many times had I phoned when Mark left his cell home?

Regardless, she said nothing and put me through.

"Hello?"

My eyes shut with relief. What I would have done if he hadn't answered, I didn't know. "I'm in the staircase. Come now."

"Lucy? Lucy, what the hell are you doing?"

"Come now or I'll come to get you."

The phone clicked. I knew he was coming.

I felt like a lunatic. A reckless woman desperate for a man.

For those crazy minutes while I waited for him, I finally understood Marilyn Monroe's wounded desperation over the men who never could quite love her enough. The ache Cleopatra felt when she discovered Caesar was dead—or worse, that Marc Antony had married someone else—became clear to me. The dazzling grief Queen Victoria felt for Albert, so intense she swore to wear black forever, was a cold tremor in my chest.

All these women I'd probably viewed with scorn at some point in my life, even if the last two were supposedly strong creatures in their time, and I was no better than them. No better at all.

Then I realized how pretentious I was being and I laughed out loud. I was a woman of luxury, fucking someone other than her husband, and I was glorifying it. Romanticizing it. It repulsed me nearly as much as it amused me.

My laughter echoed in the staircase. I was unraveling and I could see it happening, like a speeding car heading straight for a brick wall, and it didn't matter.

Luke ran down the stairs and appeared before me. He was furious; his cheeks were red and his alien eyes burned blacker than I'd ever seen them.

"What the hell are you doing?"

I hiked up the red dress and leant against the tiled wall. "I want you to fuck me."

Luke stared at me as if he couldn't process the words. His dark eyes scanned my body and then my face.

"Are you k**ding?" I shook my head. "drunk?" Again, I shook my head. He peered closer at my eyes.

"I need you. I've needed you. Where have you been?"

"Busy," he said. He looked around uncomfortably. "I would have called you. This really wasn't a great way to get my attention, Lucy."

"But it got your attention, no?"

His eyes glittered. With lust or anger, I couldn't tell. "Go home."

"Not until you fuck me. My pussy is begging for it. I'm so wet and I need you. Fuck me with that cock until I'm screaming."

Something changed in his expression. "Stop."

I slipped my fingers into my panties and dropped the pink lace to my ankles. He watched the movement with unique fascination.

Then I deliberately licked two fingers, enjoying the warmth in my belly when his eyes glowed, and showed him how I could make them disappear inside me.

He must've decided the risk was worth it. Maybe he even enjoyed it as much as I did.

He silently pushed my hand away and replaced it with his own. My head smacked back against the wall painfully but I didn't care. He was touching me and it was amazing.

And so twisted. Illicit. How that got me off! It was still so astonishing.

I was close to coming when he stepped back and unzipped his pants. His cock pushed into my pelvis.

"Put me inside," he hissed.

I decided to fuck with him, as he'd been fucking with me. I dropped to my knees in my pretty little red dress and swallowed him into my throat. He rested his hands against the wall and bent his head to watch me. Sometimes I moved my mouth fast and my pussy would clench when I watched his eyes crinkle in that pleasurable pain. When I felt like being a bitch, I removed the wet heat of my mouth and flicked just the tip of my tongue against the head of his cock.

He grew tired of my torment, and since he was the more dominant of the two when it came right down to it, he hauled me back up, pushed the top of my dress down so hard I heard the back tore, and sucked my nipple into his mouth. His wet cock pushed against my thigh, blindly searching for my pussy.

That high went to my head. Here I was again, a woman who held something a man wanted. He was going to fuck me here, at his workplace. He was so dizzy with lust he didn't care, at least in this moment, and the power ignited inside my core.

I did as he asked before and placed the head just near my clit. A spasm of indescribable desire coursed through my body as the sponginess moved against the unbearable wetness.

Then he was inside me, and all rational thought evaporated. He fucked me so hard my hair fell out of its bun. His hands tugged and slapped and squeezed at my breasts, my clit, my ass. It was all his for the taking.

"I'm gonna come," he grunted and he wrapped his hands around locks of my hear to yank my head back. Tears came to my eyes.

"Me too."

I felt him swell and pulse, and then all of his cum was inside me and he was kissing me to keep my screams from echoing. He still shoved his cock in and out, riding us both through the best orgasm of my life. I felt him seep out, the warm cum coating the bottom of my dress, and I didn't even care.

He pulled away and there was red lipstick all over his mouth. His hand grasped my throat and he pushed his thumb down on the front. He tilted my head up more and panted into my face.

"Don't ever fucking do this again."

He peeked around, zipped up his pants and left me wanting More all over again.

Eventually it dawned on me I was half-naked in a considerably busy staircase, freshly fucked. I tried to put myself together, to tame my hair and the wild grin stretching across my face.

That's when I saw her. Patricia.

The wife who hated me most.

She was about two flights down, her head cocked around the corner.

She didn't look shocked, or horrified. She didn't even look gleeful that she caught me—and I knew by her eyes that she saw it all, or enough to indict me. She held a plastic bag with a local restaurant's name on it. She must have come see Bruce, though I knew both would rather be doing other things. It was a familiar ruse all the wives had, the meeting for lunch bit, and the husbands played along with it; and of course, it took up time in the yawning expanse of domesticity.

She stared at me. Her eyes catalogued my hair, my exposed and raw nipples. She even looked at the one heel that had fallen off me in the encounter. I stared back. She was emotionless and in that moment, so was I; she stared at me as if I were a semi-interesting book cover.

A door slammed somewhere upstairs. We unfroze. She turned her back on me and I pulled my dress up. By the time I made it out in the lobby, she was gone.

**************

The drive home was surreal. I passed the same streets I always did. The same schools released the same students, the same parking lots had the same cars honking, the same trees led me into the same neighborhood.

My body was thrumming but my mind was numb.

My cellphone beeped when I was inside. It was a voicemail, from who else but Patricia. I had anticipated it, really.

Normally I'd procrastinate listening and retreat into a fantasy world, but I pressed play. It was her voice, one I'd grown to loathe, and her message was succinct.

"Pool tomorrow at my house. Come at 10am. See you then."

I knew I would go. What I didn't know was whether or not she told her husband, or the other wives. Mark.

I ran into the bathroom and saw my lipstick smeared face, my crazy hair and my ruined dress. I looked like I'd been attacked in a dark alley, as if I'd suffered some immense trauma.

I puked into the sink until there was nothing left in my body but self-loathing and a familiar desire to destruct.

And still, I wanted More.