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I can’t believe we are at this moment. I am sliding into her and she is
slick and delicious. I smell her
all around me; she invades my senses and permeates my very soul.
Sydney urges me to be rough with her, jerking her hips
erratically. Her reactions to my
touch are almost violent. She is
pumping away her hips beneath me, attempting to force me to pick up the pace.
But I won’t let her do that, she can’t escape the reality that she is fucking
me. I won’t let this be over
before it really begins.
No, I want her to be fully aware that she is fucking
Andrew Sark not Michael Vaughn.
I’ve had enough one night stands. In this business, I have never wanted for a bed
companion. But with Sydney,
everything that I usually work so hard to avoid seems silly. She makes me want something
more. She has something
intangible, irresistible. She’s
miles above the rest.
So I withdraw from her making her gasp. And I slowly, tantalizingly reenter
brushing the head of my cock against her clit. She is so hot and tight, unused. I want to burst in her heated flesh, but I won’t. I want this to be slow and tender and
sweet. And I want Sydney to
remember this. To remember that she is here in a bed with me willingly. That she can leave at any time. That she consented. I watch as her brow knots in
frustration. She wants release, but something is holding her back, and the
last thing she will do is ask me to help her.
She feels so good, oh so good. I’m getting to the breaking
point but Sydney is still only in the beginning of her arousal. My pride demands that I satisfy her,
but she is so far away. I
finally place my index finger on her clit and start sharp circling strokes. I
am amazed that this does not do her in, that she is still only mildly
aroused. Finally, I realize that
I alone am not enough to satisfy her.
So I give in. ‘Sydney, do you want to come?”
“Yes,” she hisses at me.
“Then, let go.
Close your eyes. Be yourself.
You can pretend I’m him.”
I cringe as I whisper slowly into her ear.
She acquieses and relinquishes her tightly held control,
so she can dream of her secret desire. It’s as though she has gone to another
place – his place not my place.
She finally allows her arousal to ramp up, and I’m letting her direct
our actions. She flips us over
so she is on top in an attempt to dominate me. She takes over our pace, and hot warm tears drip down onto
my face.
Finally she has found what she needs to come. She screams his name, “Michael!” It breaks the spell. I didn’t expect it wound me
like this, but now I am the one who is crying. She opens her eyes and catches my weakness, and I see the
look of horror in her face. She
is the first to disengage and leave me in the wet spot. She gets out of bed, and searches for
her clothes. Her dress is torn
from our earlier fight, so she grabs my tux shirt and ties it around
her.
She takes the artifact that she bought with her actions
and leaves the room without saying a word.
* * * * * *
What have I done? What have I done? Oh! God! What have I
done??
Everything is a haze in that detached post-orgasmic
oblivion. My mind is numb, what
do I do? Get up. Get up. Get Up.
Leave. Run Away.
It’s chilly outside.
There’s snow on the ground and I am walking through the city in a
party dress and Sark’s shirt.
I’m sure my make-up is streaked down my face. People are staring at me like I am a
cheap whore, who got messed up by a john.
I find a pay phone, dial the access code, give my code
name, and request a pick up. I
tell them that I will be in the square in front of the cathedral in fifteen
minutes.
So I sit on the steps, watching dawn slowly blush across
the sky. The world is full of an
incongruous combination of ridiculously early risers and late night revelers,
who are only now heading home. I
drift back into a daze, my mind replaying the physical pleasure of Sark. Release is not always the
satisfaction it’s supposed to be.
And then there are black polished shoes standing before
me, and I look up to see my dad staring at me with shocked concern in his
eyes. He wordlessly extends his
hand and helps me up. He
shepherds me through the streets to a hotel. If I wasn’t so out of it, I might be impressed that we are
going to the Ritz.
The concierge gives us a disapproving look, but my father
stares him down.
We get up to the room, and all I want to do is go to sleep
for a few days and ignore the real world until the ache between my thighs is
gone. But my father starts in,
inspecting me.
“Sydney, are you okay.”
“Yes,” I say dejectedly.
“Sydney, it’s obvious you’ve been assaulted. Did He Hurt You?”
“No dad, it was nothing like that – the bruises are from
the counter mission. “
“Sydney, I know this is hard to talk about, but we need to
get you medical attention. Were
you raped?”
“NO! I had sex okay!
Not everything is about the damned mission. I know you think of me as your virginal daughter, but we
both know how sex goes hand and hand with the spy business. I had sex tonight and it was
consensual. I fucked him.”
At that moment we hear a cough, and I turn to stare at
Vaughn. God how long has he been
listening? I see a hurt
look on his face and then he pulls together a mask of professionalism.
My dad looks lost and disappointed, like he wants to hit
something, anything but accept that his little girl knows how to play with
the bad boys.
Vaughn breaks the silence. “Jack, I need to debrief Sydney, why don’t you arrange to
find some new clothes for her.”
My father opens his mouth to protest, but then decides to
remove himself from the situation and let Vaughn handle me. I don’t know if that is a blessing or
a curse.
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