La verite sur les contes Blanche Neige
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FidèleChapter 6 free porn video
What the hell just happened?
The question echoed all through the night, and lingered long after he awoke. He’d planned to hit the gym this morning, but entering the house seemed like a complication he wasn’t ready to face, and so he settled for a run on the beach followed by a chilly but invigorating swim. (This time, he remembered to leave a towel on the dock.) By the time he was done, almost fifty percent of his hangover had been suppressed. Unfortunately, one hundred percent of his guilt, confusion, and arousal remained intact.
Seriously, what the hell happened last night?
He’d gone to bed numb. Shocked. Overwhelmed. He’d woken up in the same state, and despite a fair bit physical exertion and the bracing slap of the lake water, he remained fundamentally zombified as he stood under the shower’s warm rain.
Wasn’t this exactly what I hoped for, despite all my anxiety? Kathryn — majestic, sensual, untouchable Kathryn — finally took the reins, so to speak, and released the sexual tension between us in a delightfully unexpected way. Her touch was even more thrilling than I imagined it would be, and despite how much I drank before she arrived, it’s a moment I’ll never forget. Not as long as I live. So why do I feel such a threatening sense of wrongness? Other than the obvious, I mean.
Unlike his post-boat trip flights of erotic fancy, Luke had yet to reimagine last night into more than it was, for he was still trying to grapple with events as they actually occurred. There was a point up to which their interaction made complete sense, an interregnum during which it seemed unlikely but thrilling, and then a coda that he still couldn’t wrap his head around.
Unexpectedly deciding to join him when her night turned sour seemed entirely in character, given their escapes to the lake and her pleas to spend more time with her. That she was tactile he already knew all too well; that she was very far from shy was something he was also coming to learn. Lowered inhibitions as the wine flowed were a known quantity. But when she asked him to touch her is where his understanding began to falter, for her teasing — and he was increasingly comfortable with his conclusion that she’d been knowingly, deliberately teasing him for days, one he’d reached even before her confession — had always remained just on the other side of propriety. Barely, at times, yet it hadn’t crossed the line.
Until last night. He had no idea what the tipping point was between begging him to move his massage above her knee and suddenly getting up and leaving, but at least that was something about which he could reliably hypothesize: what felt good in the moment, eased by inebriation, turned into something too risky to let continue. Still, from his perspective it indeed crossed the line between teasing and torture, and had she not returned he’d have forever wondered just how cognizant of that line-crossing she was.
But what happened later ... there was no logic, no common sense, no reason that he could see. He’d heard her reasons, and they seemed plain enough, but they also seemed tremendously out of character. All the times and ways I fantasized about how I might seduce her or she might seduce me ... not once did it ever play out like that. It was either more serious, romantic, and controlled, or it was an explosion of passion in the heat of a vulnerable moment. Last night seemed like a consolation prize.
Threads of meaning, or at least of comparison and context, wrapped themselves around the raw memory. Of nights in bars, meeting someone, leaving together, retreating to an apartment, beginning the slow dance towards union ... and then the woman disappearing into the bathroom for an unusually long time, reappearing with the unfortunate news that certain activities were off the table due to the unexpectedly early arrival of a complicating factor. On occasion, this led to a compensatory blowjob before an early end to the evening.
That’s exactly what it felt like. Neither a consummation, nor a prelude, nor a promise of escalation, but a participatory medal. “Thanks for being a good sport, earlier. Here’s your orgasm. Don’t forget to clean up the mess.” To his dismay, he realized that he didn’t much like the feeling. I could never have imagined being anything less than ecstatic over the slightest sexual contact with Kathryn, yet here I am feeling exactly that: less than ecstatic. Why? What does it mean?
Answers remained elusive, but his shower had now lasted a good twenty minutes and he’d yet to accomplish any of the usual shower-related tasks. As efficiently as possible, he finished, got dressed, and — moving with a strange caution, as if he feared hidden traps or unexpected enemies — descended to the cellar.
He’d been working for a while when Kathryn finally staggered in, clutching the back of her head. Without a word she glanced at Luke’s laptop screen, sat down opposite him, and started handing him bottles.
“Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled. “Long night. Still hasn’t ended. I should be fine by next year.”
He peered at her over his laptop, full of curiosity and anticipation, searching for any sign that she acknowledged what happened, but her face was an impenetrable mask of ache and throb and haze. Well, I’ve felt like that before, and to be honest I still kinda do. Anyway, it’s sure to come up over lunch, if not sooner.
Still, his tension grew as they worked in silence. Knowing that the more pointed he was, the more his words would annoy, he tried to keep his voice as quiet and passive as possible. “I don’t mind if you want to take the day off.”
She sighed, then winced at a sharp pain in her temple. “No, this is worthy penance. I need penance. I deserve penance. Also, the lights in here are as much as I can handle right now.”
“I don’t like seeing you suffer.”
“Oh, I’m suffering alright. I’m suffering the afterness of a bad night of badness.”
He was unable to keep surprise from his voice, though it came at the cost of elevated volume. “You’re a Buffy fan?”
Holding up her hand and grimacing, she answered, “Yes I am, please speak quietly, and can we talk about this another time? My ability to endure enthusiasm is nonexistent right now.”
He summoned up a thematically appropriate quote. “Fire bad, tree pretty?”
Despite herself, she managed a weak smile. “Exactly. Now hush. In fact, why don’t we reenact ‘Hush’ and work silently for the rest of the morning?”
Nodding, he went back to work, though he spared her a sympathetic glance from time to time. She doesn’t look one bit less beautiful, even in this state. But she’s clearly hurting. I certainly understand why she’s not up for talking about last night. Well, it doesn’t matter yet. I can be patient.
She slumped in a chair while he put together the least challenging lunch he could manage on short notice: plain toast, a small bowl of clear chicken broth, and water. Her thousand-mile stare into the soup made his heart break, but he respected her obvious wishes and remained quiet ... at least until she finally broke the impasse.
“I suppose we should talk about last night.”
He tensed, for there was no telling where this conversation might lead. “Only if you want to.”
“Consider it part of the penance. Look, I’m really sorry for barging in on you unannounced. I didn’t get the sense that you minded, at least to the extent that I remember whether or not you did, but I feel like I monopolized your time. And I really should have left earlier.”
I’m not quite sure I understand where she’s going with this. “You’re right, I really didn’t mind. I had a great time, and it was certainly an ... interesting night.” There. That should indicate that I’m open to talking about what happened.
“I also feel bad for stealing your rather fantastic Champagne. The first thing I saw when I woke up was the empty bottle on the nightstand. It was like some sort of hectoring sentinel reminding me of all my misdeeds and regrets.”
Uh-oh. Misdeeds and regrets. Well, I was prepared for this. “You did nothing to regret, Kathryn. At least not from my perspective. I opened the Champagne for both of us to enjoy.”
A blush colored her heretofore washed-out cheeks as she continued. “And then there’s ... Luke, I feel really bad about the massage. It seemed like a whimsical, even playful, idea at the time, and you are marvelous with your hands, but ... well, there’s no way to say it that’s not embarrassing: I let it go too far. I’m sorry. I should know better.”
The massage went too far? What about later? “I didn’t exactly mind that either.”
Her color deepened. “That really only makes it worse. Because even though I was pretty drunk, I knew you wouldn’t. I’d never expect you to turn down an invitation that blatant. But that’s exactly why I should’ve been more careful.”
Struggling to find an appropriate response to a conversation that was increasingly bewildering in its wandering elisions, he chose to remain silent, waiting for her to broach the most delicate subject of all.
“Anyway, I’m way too old to say something stupid like ‘I’m never going to drink that much again,’ and you wouldn’t believe me if I did. For better or worse, I’ve no doubt there will be more moments like that between us. So I want to apologize in advance, and beg your tolerance in putting up with excess friskiness the next time it happens. Or you can just kick me out and make me go to bed like a sensible person. Either will be fine.”
Are we really not going to talk about the rest? Can it possibly be that she doesn’t remember? God, it’d be just my luck if she’s forgotten the whole thing. But I have to know.
“Seriously, don’t worry about it. You’ll almost certainly have to take care of me in the same state once or twice. To be honest,” he said with as much lightness as he could affect, “I’m a little surprised you remember that much.”
With a quiet chuckle, she answered, “Believe me, I spent a long time staring at the ceiling before I pieced it all together. Coming over here at all was a matter of forcing one foot in front of the other, because I mostly just wanted to hide under the covers. At least when I staggered to my bed last night I had the sense to stay there, rather than ... I don’t know, go for a midnight swim or something.”
She doesn’t remember! So what am I supposed to do now? Pretend it never happened? I guess that’s my only choice, because it’s the only decent thing to do. Nothing good can come from me reminding her if she truly doesn’t remember what she did.
“Don’t give it another thought. I mean it. Let’s just ... look, I’ve been enjoying each and every day with you more than the last, and I wouldn’t want anything to get in the way of that. And no matter how unexpected it was, or how inebriated we were, I had a great time last night.”
She squinted at him for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you. But despite having received undeserved absolution, I shall continue my term in purgatory until my sins have been paid in full or my blood alcohol level returns to normal, whichever comes last.”
Feigning a laugh, for he was still unsettled by this unexpected turn of events, they returned to work.
An hour later, however, Kathryn started shifting uncomfortably, breathing more heavily, and making soft noises that indicated she was struggling to retain equilibrium. Every time he glanced at her in concern she was perspiring more heavily. He wondered if she was about to be sick.
She stood up, touching her neck as if feeling her pulse. “Luke, I need to excuse myself for a bit. Sorry. I’ll be back. I just...” She turned and practically ran from the cellar. He heard her sprinting up the stairs even before the door clicked shut. Shaking his head in sympathy at her malaise, he returned to his task.
Fifteen minutes later, however, she still hadn’t returned. I should probably make sure she’s okay. Maybe she’s napping on the bed again? At the very least I should see if there’s anything I can do to help. Get her some water, hold her hair back, something. As quietly as possible, he ascended the staircase.
Nope, not on the bed. The door to the bathroom was open, and worrisome sounds were emerging from within. He moved closer, and now the noises were unmistakable: repetitive exhalations of what sounded like stomach-churning misery in the form of long groans. She must be dry heaving. The poor thing. Leaning close to the door, he half-whispered her name. No response. Sticking his head just inside the doorframe, he repeated his call, louder this time.
“Kathryn?”
There was still no answer. More concerned than ever, he pushed the door wide open and entered the bathroom. She was leaning over the sink, holding on to the counter with one hand while her body convulsed.
Oh my god...
His eyes fell to the yoga pants that were bunched around her buttocks, exposing their enticing upper curves and no longer clinging quite so tightly to her upper thighs. Her other hand — the one that wasn’t braced against the sink — was busy between her thighs. What he initially thought might be abdominal convulsions were instead a rhythmic oscillation of her hips punctuated by soft groans that he now realized were of pleasure rather than pain.
She wasn’t ill, she was horny! Does this mean she finally remembers?
Compelled by animal instinct, abandoned by restraint, consumed by primal desire, he moved closer. “Kathryn.” It was a demand — there was no way she couldn’t hear him — and yet again she failed to respond. Taking this as all the permission he’d ever need, he nestled his loins against her flexing buttocks and slid his hands around her exposed waist. She grabbed one and moved it between her legs until it was pressed against her drenched sex, guiding his fingers up, down, and into her sodden hole until he picked up the rhythm. His other hand she elevated until it gripped a fulsome breast, pressing his thumb and forefinger together to pinch her swollen nipple through her thin shirt.
The pace she set was a frenetic one, for she was obviously close to orgasm. Whether it would be her first or just the latest among many was unclear. The heat and slick wetness of her surprisingly tight channel was an ecstasy beyond his imagination, the softness of her breast a revelation of perfection beyond all hope. Her ass ground against his erection as he worked her; ever harder, ever faster.
With a body-rending shudder, she came ... her breathy moans strangled and strained, as if she was enduring some form of pain alongside her climax ... and he kept his fingers inside her until her trembling stilled. As her breathing slowed to a steady cadence, she extracted his fingers from her sex and removed his hand from her breast. His fingers were literally dripping with her arousal.
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