The Bleakest of Seasons Pt. 02

The food arrives, and you snuggle up on the couch with him and eat sautéed vegetables and fried rice with a sweet and sour sauce. Scott keeps getting you to drink water, which would be annoying if you weren't finding yourself ravenously thirsty.

You watch the movie wrapped in one of his warm blankets and snuggled up against him.

It's not a particularly well written film, and sleep claims you quickly, which is probably what he had in mind. You feel him lift you off the couch and carry you to the bed then set you down and tuck you under the covers. It's blissful, but doesn't feel quite right.

Moments later you feel him shake your shoulder and he gets you to sit up so you can take another pair of extra strength ibuprofen and some more water.

You toss back the pills and take a long pull of the water and hand it back to him. He turns and takes the glass back to the sink, and as you watch him you make a quick decision and pull the pyjama top up and over your head and toss it to the floor.

He turns back from the kitchen and spies you reclining on the bed, then shakes his head.

'Addie... we really need to give your body a rest now.'

'Then get over here and cuddle up. I want to feel your skin against me.' And in me, you think to yourself.

He nods and then slides off the pyjama bottoms he had been wearing and settles into the bed next to you. You turn and face him, then slowly slide a leg over him and then slide on top of him.

'Addie, come on!' He protests.

'Shush Scott. You want me to sleep, yes?'

'Yes. You need rest.'

'Well, I'll relax better with you inside me.'

He sighs. You slip a hand down and massage him, your fingernails tracing over his skin and tickling the head of his manhood. He responds like he always does, and his little monster stirs to life. It takes only minutes of gentle manipulation to bring him fully erect and hard and then you calmly hold yourself open and then guide him inside you. Your hips slide down his pelvis until you're both pressed directly against his groin and he's buried deep inside you.

You freeze like that for a moment and revel in it. This man, this strange, twisted chubby little man, he satisfies you. He more than satisfies you.

You'd tell him how you feel, but you're afraid this is just passion and lust and if you say that word too soon you're afraid he might run.

So you stay silent, and bite your lip, and try not to buck and start something that will just lead to more sweat and exhaustion. Because at this moment, you just want him inside you and nothing more.

And as impossible as it is, he doesn't push for it either. He's just content to stay inside you and not use you for pleasure. He knows you're looking for something else a little more delicate right now, and he's trying not to ruin it.

You gently lean forward, your breathing deep and controlled and slowly rest your head on his chest. He wraps an arm around you and slowly pulls the blanket over you both with his free hand, removing the chill from your skin and making this intimate moment even moreso.

If you could freeze any one moment and keep it forever, this would probably be it. His body is warm, almost hot, and his flabby body surprisingly makes for an excellent pillow.

You drift, sort of conscious and kind of dreaming at the same time.

Finally, to fight off the urge to say that word, you shake yourself out of your haze for a moment and twist your head up and place your mouth on his own.

It's a tender kiss, and you both say things to each other that words are not required for.

And after you finish this quiet discussion that uses no words, you lay your head on his chest and let sleep take you.

When the dreams come, they are odd, strange things. But you still feel safe, because you can feel him holding you, inside you, underneath you even while you sleep.

And that feels right.

Like a relentless force, the sun slowly attacks your slumber. First it starts to creep into the windows, and sneaks across the floor. Slowly, deviously it stalks you as you lie in bed wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets.

It waits and shifts in place for you to show a moment of weakness and vulnerability. And just when you think you're going to sleep forever, it attacks and sunlight splashes across your eyelids.

You groan and snuggle into the pillows, waging a mighty war with consciousness. Your struggle is valiant, but it's a relentless opponent and finally, your eyelids crack open and you look around.

First of all, you're no longer on top of Scott and he's not inside you.

That's not surprising. It couldn't have been that comfortable trying to sleep with you draped overtop of him. Nor was it feasible to maintain an erection for eight hours while sleeping... even for him.

But the fact that he slid you off of him gently without waking you and disengaged himself from the bed is interesting. Where is he?

You slowly sit up, then gasp. Everything aches or throbs when you move. Your stomach feels like you spent a day at the gym doing crunches. The welts on your thighs have turned to bruises and they complain loudly about every move you make. And your chest looks like... bruised fruit. Deep purple and green spots cover your ivory skin and all the twisting and pinching has left your nipples incredibly sensitive.

You groan and gently lay back down, afraid to rub against the sheets. Or move. Or breathe.

As you do that, you hear tapping.

Is he on the computer again?

Cautiously, wary of starting another argument with your body that you know you won't win, you look over at his bench. He sits in a pair of cotton sleep pants and studies a screen intently. Numbers scroll by in a little window and he taps a couple of commands rapidly into a second command line prompt.

You watch him for a moment. You like computers, but you probably know more about your car than how computers and the internet really work. Scott treats computers almost like some sort of arcane art form. He runs music through his stereo from his phone via voice command. He digs up arcane information in minutes and runs servers in other cities through black screens of text.

The chubby little nerd has some skills, you have to admit that.

You watch him for a moment, then remember that you needed to call into work and let them know that you weren't feeling well. You lurch up out of bed and then freeze as your body yells at you for moving at all.

Good Christ, you certainly like getting and wearing his marks, but this is going to take some time to get used to. You remember him firmly insisting you to take the ibuprofen yesterday and keeping you hydrated and you shudder to think how you would feel if he hadn't bothered with that.

You limp over to your pile of clothing on the floor and retrieve your purse from the bag it had been stuffed into when you both returned from the mall. Your cell phone is out and in your hand as soon as you dig it out and you call into HR to let them know you need a personal day.

As you leave the message, you imagine that between your shredded vocal chords and intermittent groans that at least you'll sound authentically ill.

The message left, you stand there for a moment. Sore and cold, you place a hand on the counter and lean against it for a moment, focusing on your breathing.

You just feel sore. You've done yoga and pilates and felt a little tender the next day, but this is far worse. Your flesh just feels savaged, and you still feel exhausted after a deep and almost dreamless sleep.

If it hadn't felt fantastic you'd be really pissed at him.

You hear him slide the chair back and walk towards you. You'd like to look up and smile at him, but you can't find the energy.

'Holy shit Addie! Are you all right?' He asks as he eyes your battered body. His hands slip over your shoulders and start to knead the flesh.

'M'better now...' You murmur.

'Hang on, let's get some more ibuprofen into you and some more liquids.'

'Sounds fantastic.' You say with less enthusiasm. The hands on your shoulders felt great.

Scott pulls open the fridge and pulls out a small bag of oranges. He grabs a manual juicer out a cupboard door, then grabs a large French knife out of a drawer and proceeds to cut the oranges in half. You watch with interest as he quickly crushes the flesh of the oranges on the metal rims of the juicer and then extracts the juice into a glass for you.

Two things spring to mind.

First, you've never had anyone go to the effort to get you fresh squeezed orange juice, let alone do it themselves. (And judging by the amount of effort Scott is putting into this, it's a pain in the ass to do this manually.)

Two, you can identify with those oranges. You rub your chest and groan and wonder if he might have been more delicate with the fruit on the table as opposed to the globes on your chest.

He finishes up the last of the oranges and pours the liquid into a tall glass, then sets it on the counter for a minute so he can rummage in his fridge freezer. A moment later he tops up the glass with ice cubes, grabs the anti-inflammatory in his other hand and brings it to you.

The pills are small and coated, and they vanish down your throat with a gulp of the fresh orange juice. It's impossibly sweet and just delicious. And Scott pulls up a chair for you to rest on while you savor it and he cleans up the mess.

It doesn't take him long and you watch him putter around his little kitchenette cleaning it up. The board and juicer go into the dishwasher but he manually cleans the knife under hot water and then dries it and puts it away.

He sees you eyeing him and smiles.

'Gotta take care of my knives.'

'Are they expensive knives?' You ask, genuinely curious.

'Not really, they just work better when you take care of them, clean them and sharpen them.'

You rest your face in your palms and watch him. He's kind of adorable.

Dammit, you're getting aroused again.

You shift on the chair, clasping your legs together. A little groan escapes your lips. Scott smiles and walks around behind you. His hands are hot on your shoulders a second later and he's rubbing and kneading them gently.

Dammit! You don't think you can take another Olympic level sexual marathon. And yet here you are, groaning and squirming under his fingers.

You sit there quietly and try to meditate. His touch makes it difficult. His fingers are gentle and deft and he slowly draws the ache out of your shoulders and back. His hands slide down to your lower back and your resolve slowly crumbles to dust.

You grasp the ice cold orange juice, and pour the last of the absurdly sweet juice down your throat. It's cold, delicious and the sensation of the near freezing, sweet liquid sliding down into your stomach is ridiculously glorious.

It isn't enough however.

Slowly, you turn around on the stool and face him. He raises and eyebrow, and in return you slowly part your legs wide, revealing your glistening sex waiting for him. You pull his hands to your breasts and you feel your nostrils flare and breathing pick up as he touches you.

'Addie. We shouldn't.'

'Why not?' You whisper back huskily. Fuck restraint. You want him now.

He leans in, nuzzles your ear gently. His hands carefully massage your breasts. The bruises ache as he touches them. You don't care. Every ache comes with a little memory and each memory is a little delight to recall.

You can't stop gasping for air. You make a superhuman effort to lift your head and see him behind you, eyes still closed, still inside you. Sweat trickles down his own pale skin, and his chest heaves like he just finished running.

'You need rest girl.'

You shiver when he calls you girl. It makes you want to do things for him and to him. He knows it too. Sometimes he whispers it in your ear right in the middle of taking your body again and again and again in the most delightful form of conditioning you have ever experienced.

'We could rest together. After. If we were gentle...' You ask in a little girl's voice, almost like you are asking for a cookie. A very naughty cookie.

'Addie, we're a lot of things, but we are not gentle with each other.' He whispers back.

'No, we aren't.' You acknowledge, you lack of argument surprising you.

'And even if we could be gentle, would you want me to be?'

'No.', You whisper, again with a certainty that surprises you.

'Go back to bed girl. I have to do some work, then we'll go out and find something to distract you. Ok?'

'Scott... I ... Scott...' You're whining. Why are you whining?

'Girl. Listen to me. Get of the chair. Go lay down in the comfy bed. Nap for a little while.' He leans over and whispers into your ear. His hand slips down between your legs and he slides a finger inside you. You inhale and press into him, hopeful that this is just the start.

'If you're a good girl, daddy will give you a treat.' Another finger slides inside you. You shudder at the sensation and try to spread your legs wider for him.

'What if I'm not a good girl?' You whisper back.

'Then, Addison, we can go back into the ladies room until I am convinced that you will be a good girl.' He says firmly.

You freeze, uncertain for a moment. You don't want to go back into that room with him. Yet you do want to go back in there with him. He let's out his darkness in that room. And you want him to let it go.

He was terrifying in that room. He hurt you and scared you and did things to you that you are almost terrified to remember. But you also remember your heart pounding and your blood rushing and the brutally intimate moment you shared after he chained you to that wall.

You suck on your lower lip. You're afraid you have no limits with this man. Worse, you're afraid that you don't want him to have any limits either.

You hesitate as long as you can, knowing that the moment you make your decision, he's going to send you back to the warm comfy bed and go back to work.

'How long do you have to work?' You whisper in his ear.

'Just an hour or so. I have to synchronize some sequel servers on the west coast, that's all. One database is a little corrupted so it's taking longer than I thought.' His index finger twitches inside you, you unconsciously squeeze it in return.

'I'll be a good little girl.' You whisper back, despite your fervent desire to be bad. He does have work to do. Everything still hurts. You're certain you'll have more fun with a treat than if you go back in that room.

Liar, you think to yourself.

Scott smiles and slowly withdraws his fingers from you, deliberately dragging them across your clitoris. You gasp as he does so, and he takes advantage of your open mouth to insert the same fingers.

You refuse to break his gaze as you clean your own juices from him. You make promises with your tongue that you will keep as soon as he gives you an opportunity.

His hands grip your hip and he slides you off the chair and you press into him. All aches and pains are now forgotten. You want him. You want him inside you all the time. It's been so long since any man made you feel like this. And it's never felt this intense.

'Bed Girl. Now.' He says in your ear, firmly but not unkindly.

Reluctantly, you pull away from him. He has to work. Then you get a treat.

As you slide back under the covers and artfully obscure some but not all of your body to him, you think one thing.

You really like treats.

The dream sneaks up on you like it always does.

You've never discussed it with Scott. You chatted about it once with him, and he knows, but he never knew the exact details.

You sneak home early from work. You're excited. There's planning to do, and the invitations need to get done and you need to set that appointment with the wedding planner... although you are sorely tempted to just do it all yourself.

Brad's jacket is on the hook, his boots are by the door. He's home too! You giggle with glee. Maybe you can slip a little private time in with him before you really get cracking.

Quietly, you sneak up the stairs, hoping that you can surprise him.

You hear him first. He's gasping for air.

Why is he doing that? Is he exercising? Is he hurt?

Why do you hear a woman moaning?

Your stomach twists. He couldn't possibly be doing that. Not here. Not in your own bed.

Quietly, you push the door open and neither of them notices you standing there, stunned silent as he thrusts away into her.

You can't remember her face. Does it matter?

Your mouth tastes of copper. Your teeth have bitten down on your lip so hard the skin has broken.

He turns to look at you and smiles?

'What's wrong Addison?' He says calmly.

How could he? Who is she? Does he even care that you just changed the sheets for fresh sheet Sunday?

Does he care that he just shattered every mote of you?

'What's wrong Addie?' Someone else says.

And you struggle with it. You hate the dream, but you don't want to leave it. You loved him, the bastard. You think at times you still love him, but how can you love anyone that cares so little for you?

Someone shakes your shoulder.

Disoriented, you open your eyes slowly.

Scott leans over you, concern on his face.

'Hey kiddo. Are you ok?'

You try to talk but you can't work your mouth yet. The blanket is tangled around you and hot and your skin is slick with sweat.

He reaches out with his hand to stroke your hair and instinctively you bat his hand away. Abruptly you flail about, feeling constrained by the blankets and your own messy hair.

Scott recoils slightly, surprised by your response and then he pulls the blankets away from you so you can squirm free. Abruptly you rip yourself out of the snugly cocoon and roll away from him until you smack into the wall. You scuttle yourself back into the corner and just hug your knees to your chest then bury your chin in your chest. You refuse to cry, but your chest heaves and you let one little whimper creep out.

That fuck. That bastard. That son of a bitch. Why? Why did he have to do that to you?

Why did you have to see it? Did he want you to see it? Was he just that... stupid?

'Uh... ok. I'm going to assume that was a bad dream.' Scott says quietly.

You just nod your head.

'I'm sorry.' You say, and hope he'll let it go. It's embarrassing and painful and you hate the fact that this stupid piece of mental scar tissue has intruded on this moment when you actually have felt happy in what feels like a very long time.

You both sit still for a moment, Scott confused and you embarrassed. Then he slowly sides over the bed. He reaches out to touch your foot.

You curl it away from him. You're still embarrassed, you still see... Brad obliterating everything you thought you knew. Leaving a hole in you.

It's never fun watching your whole life become ashes. It leaves a mark.

You look up at Scott, his face is filled with concern, and for once he doesn't look confident and sure of his next move.

Huh. So all you have to do is freak out and he's putty in your hands. Good to know.

'Listen... I just... I mean... if you want to talk about it...' He starts.

'No. I don't.' You respond flatly.

He nods, still not breaking your vision.

'Then we don't have to talk about it. Ever. Whatever you need.'

You nod. Maybe you will talk with him about it one day. Maybe not. You want to trust him, but your track record with people you trust is not great.

He slides over against the wall, opens his arms to you.

'C'mere.' He says.

You sit for a moment, then slide up against him silently. He wraps his arm around you and gently starts massaging your head and straightening out your hair with his free hand.

You sigh. This day had started so well, with such promise and that stupid dream derailed it.

'Hey.' He says, his hand still rubbing you gently.