Night at the Opera

You have been avoiding me.” 

He dragged a finger along her jaw and down her neck.  Her pulse fluttered against her skin like mothwings on a windowpane.

“No-no, I’ve just been bus-.”

He cut her off.  “Ah ah,” he whispered, pressing her against the wall.  “We had an understanding.  No excuses.” 

Serena’s eyes darted along the hallway, desperate for an interloper.  Her bare shoulders drew his touch, wicking it upward and her breath stuttered as he played his thumb along her collarbone.  When he pressed the web between thumb and forefinger against her trachea her lips parted in a gasp, pupils dilating as he closed his hand. 

She always scripted their encounters exquisitely but he chose the time.      

Trevor spun her through a doorway as footsteps echoed distantly, crushing her mouth with his.  With a kick he closed the door and flipped on the lights.  The opera’s wardrobe would have revealed its wonders to them had they cared. Instead, Trevor cleared a table with a sweep of his arm and lifted her up. 

Leather manacles from the props chest soon held her fast, wrist to ankle, ankle to wrist.  The buttons of her demure black gown pinged against the floor and her chest heaved erratically as he pressed against her.  She screamed when he thrust himself inside her and he returned his grip to her neck, fingers pressing in silent command.  She quivered under him and around his cock. 

He would fuck her, use her, just as scripted.


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