Breaking My Own Rules Ch. 10

byChimera44©

After he rolled me onto my belly and straddled me, his fingers were in my hair again, and it took me a moment to realize he was gathering it, then wrapping it around his fist. He pulled gently, as if testing his work, then his knee was between my legs, spreading them until his other knee was there and he was lifting my ass with his free arm under my belly, his cock rubbing along my pussy lips, sopping up my juices. I expected him to slam into me, was bracing for it, as the hand twisted in my hair pushed firmly down between my shoulders and he leaned over me. Instead, when his cock had thoroughly acquainted itself with my outer lips, it began an ever so slow penetration, like a first time visitor to a haunted house. As if it was ready to beat a hasty retreat at the first 'boo.' His other hand flattened against my belly, and I was effectively pinned beneath him, unable to do any more than just savor the sensation at the pace he was willing to deliver it. I was pretty sure if I begged him to go faster, it would just earn me one of those laughs. Wasn't it against the Geneva Convention to laugh at somebody as you tortured them?

As his cock made it's slow, timid progression, the hand between my shoulders twisted just as slowly, like a slow motion massage, until I realized that as it twisted, it was pulling my hair tighter, lifting my head and forcing my back to arch even more. And as my back arched, his hand splayed against my belly pressed up, trapping the orgasmic pressure that was beginning to build, with no outlet. I moaned, loudly, and tried to rock my hips, anything to find some relief from the pressure cooker that my belly had become. His hand slid farther down my spine, pulling my head even farther back and crushing my breasts against the mattress, so that whatever slight movement I achieved produced a friction against my hard nipples that shot electrical bolts to my clit.

When he finally began a rocking, thrusting motion, that direct line from nipples to clit became as intense a throbbing stimulation as if a tongue or fingers were assaulting my clit, and it contributed to the seething cauldron that my belly had become. My fingers were gripping the sheets for dear life and my breath, when I remembered to breathe, was coming in ragged pants. He, on the other hand, wasn't making a sound. Perhaps deep in concentration, mastering his absolute control over my body. This was no case of 'don't you dare come till I give you permission,' but neither was it like being taken to the brink over and over again. This was 'I will not let you come until I choose,' because there was no brink until he was ready to say there was.

Suddenly, his one hand flew free of my hair and his other hand disappeared from my belly. I was exploding, figuratively and, I'm pretty sure, literally. I screamed and that shriek was broken into staccato screeching as he began slamming into me as he had in the past, balls slapping against my clit as he used my hips to pull me back on his cock with each thrust. I might have even termed it painful if I were not coming apart at the seams around him. My whole body was spasming, sucking at him, begging his cock never to stop. I was suspecting my orgasm was never going to stop, so why should he get to?

Sometime later, when the mush within my skull gelled back into a brain again, I mumbled something profound like "Oh, my, god."

"Still think I don't know you?" he whispered from somewhere near my ear. Then he was wrapped around me and I was falling into the deep sleep of the well-fucked.

****

The next day, I was pacing again. I'm sure I was wearing furrows in his rug, but Francois never complained. I had called Jessica in the morning, only to be told that Crystal was still in the coma and they were bringing her out of it slowly, and, no, they did not know when she would wake up. She called me back some time later to tell me that Crystal's parents were flying in, and no, she didn't have any other news. I texted Randy and received back his usual terseness. "These things take time. Don't worry." I was pretty sure he had 'Don't worry,' programmed into a hot key.

For lunch, Francois had set out a plate of crackers and cheese and sausages, so I took time out from my pacing to do some stress eating, figuring that was allowed since I was undoubtedly burning the calories right back off. Francois had taken a plate of goodies back to his computer, saying something about a deadline. I was trying hard not to disturb him, but, damn, just being in the same room with him made me want his arms wrapped around me, for comfort, and, well, other stuff. I borrowed Francois' phone several times to try to reach Jessica, but it kept going to her voice mail. Francois assured me repeatedly that she was probably just in a dead zone within the hospital. Something about magic wall paint that kept the cell signals from penetrating. The fourth time I asked to borrow his phone, he bluntly told me no, but then said, "Go get a jacket. Let's go for a walk," to take the sting out of his words.

"But what if someone calls?" I protested. "And your deadline?"

"We'll have our phones," he explained patiently. "And I just submitted the story. Wonders of the computer age. You press a button and things shoot around the world."

I stared at him. "I'm losing it, aren't I?"

He smiled at me, but then he said, "Jacket. Go now or I will spank you again. And not be so gentle this time."

I gulped, still a bit sore from the night before, and ran for the bedroom to find my jacket. A few moments later, we were on the street and walking through a pleasant neighborhood of brownstones, delis, green grocers. Everything felt so normal, not in crisis mode at all, and I began to relax despite myself. "How much longer do you think it will be?" I asked him.

He shrugged in that way he had. "I don't know about these things."

That was of no use at all to me. "Will you ask Randy? He just keeps telling me not to worry."

"Skylar, Randall is a computer programmer. I suspect he knows even less than I do. He is giving the police what help he can, but it is in their hands."

I scrunched up my shoulders. "I'm afraid someone else is going to get hurt," I admitted.

He put his arm around me. "I know. I understand, little one." He kissed the top of my head. He wasn't my BIG little brother, but he was a pretty good stand in. Okay, in certain ways, he was even better.

A little later, Francois received a text. He read it and seemed thoughtful for a moment. "Randall says the police want to talk to you this evening."

"Okay," I said with a shrug. I didn't understand why he - finally - seemed concerned. "Does he say where?"

"They will come to my apartment." Again, his brow was furrowed. I stepped in front of him, forcing him to a stop.

"What?" I demanded. "Why do you seem so concerned all of a sudden?"

"Come. There is a beautiful park over this way." He laid his arm over my shoulder again. I slipped underneath it and stared at him. I actually had two radars. One was my pity radar. The other was my distract-Sky-at-all-costs-so-she-doesn't-fly-off-the-handle radar. My father and my brother were particularly good at setting that radar off. In fact, the radar going off was usually far worse than if they'd simply given me a straight answer to begin with. Except when it had to do with my mother's death. I'd always wanted to believe that I'd moved beyond that, but I hadn't and they knew it. On the other hand, their attempts to distract me were so clumsy, I'd lose it anyway. And right now, that's how Francois' attempt to redirect me to some park felt. He gestured in the direction of the park with the hand that still held the cell phone and I grabbed for it before he realized. Unfortunately, it had already gone back to sleep, or wherever cell phones go when they aren't in use. He took it back from me and called up the text from Randy to show me. "See? Just what I told you. I'm not keeping anything from you, Skylar."

I glanced at the text, but then I looked back at him with squinty eyes. His brow was still furrowed. My radar was still screaming at me. He may not know any more, but he suspected something. "You either tell me what you're thinking or I'm going to go all berserkoid on your ass right here in the middle of the street," I told him in no uncertain terms.

"Berserkoid?" he asked with a puzzled frown.

"You won't find it in your French/English dictionary, but it's real and I'm an expert," I proclaimed with my hands on my hips. "Now talk to me."

He sighed heavily. "Can we keep walking?"

"If you keep talking," I bargained.

"Please. This way," he said, and we were back to the park thing again. I balked, but then he added, "I've done some crime reporting. In France," he amended. My experiences may mean nothing, here, but perhaps there is some commonality."

The radar alarms faded slightly and I fell into step beside him. His arm was back around my shoulders. Perhaps a little tighter now. If he thought that would control me in berserkoid mode, my BIG little brother could tell him some horror stories. I let it pass, though, because at least he was talking to me. "Well?" I demanded, when he paused too long.

"When the police did not want to talk to you right away, I assumed they did not believe what happened to Crystal was related to your... lover's spat."

"My what!?"

"I am speaking for the police," he said in his 'calm down' voice. "I suspect that they have found something now which suggests that there was a connection. I also suspect that, if they want to question you at the apartment, they believe there is some danger to you and do not want you showing up where someone may be watching for you."

"Wait, let me get this straight," I said stopping again. "When I said all that, you didn't believe, but now the police are saying that, you do believe?"

"No, Skylar. I am trying to say that now the police believe. It is like Randall has said. Your friend has revealed himself, made mistakes."

"Oh," I said, not sure if I was mollified or not. "But then why are you so concerned?"

He didn't answer for a long time, and when I began to tense up again, he pulled me closer and said, "I am concerned about you."

I started to relax, liking that answer from him, until the implications began to rain down on me. "Wait, what?"

This time, he was the one who stopped walking. "Randall has told me you have been reluctant to give him details about your relationship. The other night, you were reluctant to talk to me about it. I am concerned how hard it will be on you to talk to strangers, the police, about it."

"Oh," I said. Then, "Oh!" None of that had even occurred to me. Details? No fucking way in hell! I'd done things with him - well, had things done to me by him - that weren't even in the lexicon of a Wisconsin girl. In my naiveite, I had imagined just being able to say something along the lines of, 'Yeah we had sex, then I decided I didn't want to anymore and he got pissed about it.' But de-fucking-tails? That were going to wind up in a police report somewhere? Maybe electronic? Maybe on the internet? Maybe where my dad could see it and have a heart attack? No. Fucking. Way.

"Skylar?" Francois said, bringing me back to the here and now. I stared at him. How weird is it that this person I only met a couple of days ago knew me better than I knew myself?

"I can't," I whispered.

"You can. It will not be easy, but you can," he reassured me, gesturing yet again to this unseen park.

I only looked in that direction. My feet weren't about to move. "I need to run away," I mumbled, more to myself than to him. It didn't matter, because my feet weren't listening either way.

"You want to run away," he corrected softly. "You don't need to. You've become much stronger than you realize."

I scoffed. "Dr. Tom has made me strong? Well, that is what he promised me. Of course, so did Oprah and Dr. Phil. And Charles Atlas in the comic books, ya know, when the bullies kicked sand in your face at the beach? I'm not moving from this spot." I fell dramatically to the sidewalk, hurting my tailbone and realizing they never mentioned that part in drama queen school. Bruised tailbones. Who knew? It was supposed to be all about knights in shining armor who came to rescue you and put up with all your drama because, after all, you became royalty when they married you. If they married you. If they didn't dump you right back on your tailbone on the sidewalk. The nearest thing I had to a knight in shining armor was Francois, but at least he did pick me up from the sidewalk.

In a moment of lucidity, I asked, "Why are you still here?" thinking, rightly so in my humble opinion, that he should be the one running away.

He took hold of my chin to capture my undivided attention - admittedly not any easy thing to do when I got like this. "I am still here for the same reason all of your friends are still here. Because you are worth it." He studied me for a moment, then emphatically repeated, "You are worth it."

I had no idea how to respond to that, so instead, I said, "I thought we were going to the park?"

He laughed and took me under his arm again, and this time we managed to keep walking all the way to the park, though I rubbed my sore tailbone several times along the way. We eventually settled on a bench and he tucked me under his arm. I felt so warm and safe, that the ordeal to come almost faded from my mind. Almost. "How am I going to do this, Francois?" I whispered.

He was thoughtful for a moment, then said, "When I went to school to become a journalist, I was taught that, when you are interviewing someone, what they are thinking is often more important than what they are telling you. The best interview is when you can get someone to tell you what they are thinking, not what they want you to hear, or what they think you want to hear. So, imagine you are telling me what happened when you first met this man. But tell me, instead, what you are thinking."

I tucked my feet up on the bench and leaned deeper into his warmth, thinking about what he said, but then he reprimanded me. "Do not think about it too hard, Skylar. Just say what you are thinking."

"I'm..." I shook my head against his shoulder, biting my lip.

His lips brushed my hair. "You can do this," he said quietly, with gentle encouragement.

"I'm afraid you'll think I was stupid," I blurted out. "Because I was stupid."

I expected him to deny that he would think that, or argue with me, even without knowing the details. Instead, what he said was, "Do you know what I hear, when you say that?"

"That I was stupid," I said, with a full-on pout. Wasn't he listening to me?

"No. What I hear is that you have judged yourself, and very harshly from the sound of it. And that you expect others to judge you the same. That is what you are really afraid of. Not embarrassing details. Judgement."

"Maybe," I said slowly, chewing that over.

"When I first met you, you told me he made you feel desirable."

"Yeah," I agreed. Old news.

"You, forgive me, but you have very low self-esteem, Skylar. Would you agree?"

"I guess so," I mumbled.

"You have disappointed yourself and so you assume everyone else is disappointed with you. Yes?"

"Disappointed is putting it mildly." I was scrunching up smaller and smaller. He pulled me closer.

"How would you put it?" he asked softly.

"Devastated."

"Why?" I shook my head, but I'd never yet been able to dissuade him when he decided he wanted an answer from me. "Skylar," he said sternly with that damn Dom voice.

"Because I killed my mom," I exclaimed, trying to pull away so that I could stomp and kick something and scream at the world. That was always my way of dealing with the memory; throwing a tantrum.

He used both arms to hold me tight, denying my escape and my tantrum. "Explain," he said, and what should have been a harsh command came out instead as gentle, kindly encouragement.

Without the release of a full-blown tantrum, my only other resource was to start bawling, so I did just that, and his handkerchief was instantly there, almost as if he'd seen my crying jag coming. Maybe he had. Anyway, he sat patiently until the waterworks slowed. I'd told hardly anybody about that night. In fact, my father had to repeat my story for the police. I never could bring myself to tell them. The correlation didn't escape me. But I found myself telling Francois, in between the occasional sobs that still broke through.

"We were in the car. Driving home from the school. There had been tryouts for the debate team that night. I was in the back seat, crying. She was trying to calm me down. I kept telling her she didn't understand. She got more and more exasperated with me. Finally, she turned in her seat and grabbed my arm, to get my attention, I guess. I yanked my arm back, causing her to swerve into a tree. If I hadn't been such a baby, she'd still be alive."

I was waiting for him to recoil from me in horror, but he kissed my hair and said, "You were a child. You were disappointed you didn't make the team. It wasn't your fault that she allowed herself to be distracted from driving."

"That's the whole point!" I almost shouted. "I did make the team. I was disappointed that I'd only placed second. How childish is that!?!"

"Shh," he said calmly, despite my histrionics. "You were a child acting childishly. It was her job not to let it distract her."

"I can't believe you're blaming her," I moaned.

"Did your family blame you? Did the police?" he asked, as if he already knew the answer.

"No." I was irritated that he'd won that admission from me so easily.

"But you still blame you. You weren't perfect and because of it your mother is dead." He had a really bright, white light and he seemed to love shining it on all the shadows of my world. "So now, when you aren't perfect, when you do something you should have known better than to do, you're killing her all over again in your heart, judging yourself far more harshly than anyone else would."

"And when I am perfect, I don't deserve it, because I killed her," I whispered, repeating what a child psychologist had once tried to explain to me and my dad. I was always judging myself, and always finding myself wanting. I dropped out of college when I was doing well, because whether I was perfect and valedictorian, or only second place, I would have relived my mother's death yet again and judged myself unworthy. I took a low-paying, mind-numbing job because I didn't deserve a job that fit my skills, or if it challenged my skills, because I might have failed. Unworthy. I drove my dad crazy, because everything that he wanted for me, everything that he believed beyond a doubt I was capable of attaining, I ran away from.

"Did I choose him because I wanted to be punished?" My little girl voice was back.

"No," Francois said. "That may be part of the reason you let him keep coming back. That is something you must work out. But you chose him because he played you. He saw someone who thought they were undesirable, unlovable, easy to control." I thought about the way he got me to drink a shot that first night, even though I never drink shots. It was one of my rules. The first of so many that he easily led me to break. Francois was quiet a moment, as if giving me space to work through to where my thoughts were leading me. "Skylar, you weren't stupid. You were used, played. And that is exactly how others will see it."

"But I stayed."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. Every time he showed up again. Every fucking time."

"You're missing the operative phrase there. You didn't stay. You fell back with him when he 'showed up.' When he was there, playing you." He tightened his hold on me. "Randy told me he talked to Shawna. She told him you were always trying to avoid the guy, changing your locks, staying home behind deadbolts."

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