Part 16

Day 90

On the morning of his wedding reception, Jonathan Rupert Stanford was up before the sun. Outside the window was the orange glow of a streetlight; it cast its glare up through the prison-bar pattern of the shutters, painting zebra stripes on the ceiling overhead. He was sweating and his heart was racing. He had dreamed that he was alone, and that all the world had somehow gone, and left him behind. He had been alone on a long, featureless void; all that he could see was sere grey stone, with a purple-black sky above, devoid of any feature: no insect or grass or sky or even sunlight. It had been the most bitter desolation he had ever known.

His arms were empty. The bed was empty.

For a moment Jon felt a scream of panic in his head, blotting out all other thought. Was the dream true? Had Caitlyn left him? Had something gone wrong—some decision he had made, some off-hand thing he had said, some quirk in her conscience—to cause her to give up and abandon him again? Was he, once again, alone? But then his eyes fell upon a streak of yellowish light on the floor of the bathroom, light leaking out from the toilet closet, and the thought penetrated his crazed mind that she might have merely gotten up to go to the bathroom—a hypothesis supported by the rattle of a toilet bowl in use. Never mind. False alarm.

She seemed to be in there a long time; as his sweat cooled and his heart slowed, he wondered if her departure had been the reason he'd woken. He couldn't remember what the dream had been before all everything had been taken away, but he did know the rapidity of dreams; he could remember times when he'd been visited by half-hour epics in the seven minutes allotted to him by the "snooze" button. Perhaps his subconscious mind had noticed her withdrawing from his arms and worked it into the dream.

And that caused me to dream about the end of the world?

Of course it did. What else would it be?

When she came back to bed, her expression suggested she was surprised to find him awake, but she smiled and slid into his arms and kissed him nonetheless. "Good morning," she said.

"Better, now that you're here."

"I hope I didn't wake you," she said.

"It's okay," he said. "Besides, I doubt this'll be the first time."

"Mmm," she said. She snuggled into his arms, feeling how good it was to be there—his warm, strong body protecting her from harm, his arms gathering her to him. His embrace made her feel precious. And it was good to be reminded that they would have the rest of their lives together. She had doubted that, too often, over the course of their first ninety days.

She became suddenly aware of the clamminess of his skin, and how hard his heart was going. "Honey, are you okay?"

"Umm," he said, his voice vibrating in his chest. "I had kind of a bad dream."

"Oh," she said. "Why? My parents weren't that traumatic last night, were they?"

"No, it wasn't that," Jon said. "They were ... They were different. For the first time I felt like they accepted me."

"Yeah."

"For the first time, I felt like they accepted you. Like they weren't just storing up things to complain about later."

"Ohh, they still have stuff to say about me," Caitlyn said with a wry smile. "They just let me ignore it now."

"Still. That's a big step."

"Yeah."

She felt his lips brush the top of her head. "You guys have come a long way."

"We have." It had not always been easy; already she'd had three arguments with her parents about whether or not they'd fallen back into their old ways, and she'd been living with Jon again ever since that fateful day. Of course, being with Jon wasn't always perfect either. But they were trying. All of them were trying. "We all have."

"Yeah."

"Then what was your nightmare about?"

"Well..." She felt him tense a little. "You had left me."

Was that his nightmare? Just that?—that I'd gone?

... But then again, hasn't that been his nightmare? And mine, too?

She kissed his chest, right above the beating heart. "But I came back."

"Yeah." His arms tightened around her, drawing her close. "Yeah."

When she awoke again, there was sunlight instead of lamplight slanting through the windows. A glance at the clock showed that it was nearly nine; they didn't need to be anywhere until the reception. Jon was still asleep, the heat of his morning wood pressed against her. That gave her an idea: she wanted him to wake up with him in her mouth.

And in this case at least, what Caitlyn wanted, Caitlyn got.

She knew the exact moment when he snapped back to consciousness—his breath caught, and his whole body tensed a little. Then she felt his hands caressing her face, stroking her hair. "Baby, you should know," he said, "I'm not going to last much longer."

She smiled up at him. "Good."

She fastened her lips around his erection and began to suck in earnest. She positioned her tongue to stroke the little underside ridge while she bobbed up and down the shaft, giving him the in-out motion she knew would stimulate him best. And when she felt his climax boil over, she brought him deep into her mouth so that he spurted to the back, and she swallowed it all as he came.

The dazed look in his eyes as he opened them was all the reward she wanted. He drew her to him and kissed her, and then tucked her head under his chin. She curled up on his chest, feeling his heart beat under her, totally content.

"Okay," he said eventually. "Now that you've done that, I really have to go to the bathroom."

When he returned, he cupped her chin with a hand. "How come you swallow sometimes and others you don't?"

It was a good question, one she had been thinking about herself. The first time she'd done fellatio on him, she had decided she never wanted to taste cum again, nor feel it in her mouth; but as time had passed, her opinion had changed. Certainly she never had a problem with the actual fellating, only with the cum at the end; certainly she began to like sucking him off more and more, especially after she realized how fun it was to be right there (right there) when he came, feeling it through lips and tongue instead of only through two layers of skin and nerve and tissue, when he was inside her down below. (It was fun to have him come there too, of course, but the simple fact was that her genitals were not designed for detailed observation.) And ever since they'd reunited, they'd been making love seemingly non-stop; she'd sucked him off almost every day, sometimes at his urging and sometimes of her own volition—but only sometimes did she swallow.

"I dunno," she said, shrugging. "I think ... It has to do with my mood at the time. Sometimes you want me to, and I like to, but ... I don't really like having cum in my mouth."

"Fair enough," he said. "I'm not sure I would either."

"But ... If I'm really into it, and I'm doing it because I want to, then ... It ... It's actually kind of a turn-on for me. I, like ... It's really hot to think that I'm using my body to bring you off. It's really hot to be ... Part of that process, and to use every faculty I have to serve your pleasure. When I'm doing it, it's okay."

"So, let me get this straight," he said, amused. "If I ask you to do it, you don't want to swallow. But if you want to do it, you do."

"No, it's ... I still don't, if it's me doing it. It's more that..." She struggled to articulate the thought. " ... There's more important things than the fact that I don't want to swallow."

He was silent for a moment.

"Why? Is that ... Weird?"

"No," he said, "actually, I was just thinking that maybe that's the right way to approach the whole thing. Even if it makes you uncomfortable, you should think about whether it makes your partner happy, and ... Just ... Go for it."

His words made her feel a little ashamed of herself. "And here it took me three months to pick up on the idea."

"It's okay," he said. "You were new to sex. There was a lot you had to get used to."

"Yeah, but ... That was the attitude I was taking to the whole rest of my life," she said. " 'If it makes other people happy, then it's worth it—even if it makes me unhappy.' That's what I was doing for other people ... But not to you." She sighed. "Heck, I was even ignoring you to do it for other people. That's lousy."

"Nonsense," he said. "You were still getting used to it. No shame in that. Besides, a lot of what I wanted to try, we ended up not liking."

"Yeah, but ... I shouldn't've hesitated. I never did with anything else in my life."

Suddenly he gave a soft laugh. "God, look at us. You're arguing that I should be upset, and I'm arguing that you shouldn't. Talk about ass-backwards."

She smiled. "Yeah, I guess this is the better way to do it."

"Remember that one time we were in the Shellview library, and we were arguing about who should carry the books?"

The memory widened her smile. "You were saying that you were the boyfriend, so you should carry all of them. And I was saying that it was my research project, so I should carry all of them."

"And the librarian said, 'If that's all you have to argue about, you're in good shape.' We smiled the whole way to the car."

"It seems so long ago," she said. "Was it really ... Early November?"

"Well ... We've come a long way since then," he said, taking her hand in his own. He had her left hand, which had the wedding ring on it. "Things have changed. We've gotten stronger."

"And had our share of troubles," she said.

"And had those," he said, kissing her hand. "But..." He leaned in, and instinctively she tilted her head to receive his lips. "In the end..." He kissed her again, beginning to shift his weight. "I think ... Our love ... Is still ... That strong." In between kisses he levered himself forward, so that now she lay beneath him, pinned to the bed—just the way she liked it.

"I sure hope so," she whispered, entwining her arms around his neck, "because I can't think of anyone I'd rather spend the rest of my life with."

They kissed for a long time, simply enjoying the moment; she cradled him in her arms, caressing his back as his lips began to wander over her flesh, coaxing him to lie in between her legs. She loved him; she loved how he could make her body feel. When his lips attached themselves to her nipples, she sighed and pressed herself up to meet him. She could already feel the bar of his erection against her leg, and the corresponding warmth between her own legs—a sense of slipperiness, and the beginnings of an ache begging to be filled.

His hand slipped between her legs, and breath rushed out of her at the dual stimulation. She felt the heel of his palm against her clitoris, his middle finger across her opening, its tip on the little patch of flesh between her pussy and her anus; then he began to rock his hand from side to side, and thought became a low priority. He was making her ready, preparing to make her his, and she gave him free rein over her, gave him her body to do with as he pleased.

And he did.

As he continued to fondle her, he reached up to put her hand on his member; taking his instructions, she began to stroke it. And when he had judged she was ready, he withdrew his hand from below and, to her surprise, cupped her cheek with his hand. She smelled her own arousal there, felt her own wetness against her cheek; and, in acceptance, she pressed his hand to her face with her own, turned it to kiss his palm.

She saw the light in his eyes and had an instant to wonder what it meant. Then he had her: her hands pinned by his own, pinned above her head. Suddenly she was trapped, her hips pressed to the bed by his own, her hands and arms trapped in place, her breasts exposed and proud in their silvery-wet arousal.

She saw the light in his eyes and felt a thrill of fear, chased by a thrill of excitement.

"Well, I've got you now," he said, sounding very smug. "What, precisely, am I going to do with you?"

She recognized the play-acting in his voice and responded to it. She knew how a proper woman was supposed to react. "You may have captured my body, you vile man, but you shall never have my spirit."

He gave her a leer that was actually rather convincing. "It's not your spirit I want, missy." And, without letting go of her hands, he dove at her breasts again.

It was the same as before; it was so much better. Her whole body felt ramped up; her heart thundered in her ears. Before she could at least squirm in reaction or something; now she was trapped, almost completely immobile, and her only option was to suffer through it—as if feeling every sensation doubled could be counted as 'suffering.' Her breasts felt twice as sensitive as normal; she could feel his lips, the bumps of his tongue against her nipples, the faint pulling sensation as he sucked, even the warm rush of breath through his nose against her skin.

He tried to move her wrists together, and she struggled, only partially in play. But Jon was stronger than her (of course he was), and suddenly she was pinioned by only one hand. Now he had one free—and where should it go but between her legs.

"The young miss seems to like it," observed Jon in his reedy 'villain' voice.

She had to think to find an appropriate response for that one; it was hard, with pleasure coursing through her this way. "Have you no mercy, you beast? My body may have yielded to you, but in my heart I will resist you until the end."

"Oh, go ahead and resist then," he said, with that thin grin, "it makes it more fun."

She did—for all the good it did her. Though she bucked against him, he held fast; he did outweigh her by a fourth or so. And—purely by coincidence, of course—every movement brought her clit into sharp contact with his hand, sending shocks and tingles through her body. By the time she had given up, she was panting even harder than before—and only partially from the exertion.

"Hmmm," said her 'assailant.' "I think you're ready for what I've got in mind."

Martyred to the last, she gave a dramatic sigh. "Do as you please, you uncouth ruffian. But know that every moment of pleasure my body experiences will only sanctify me in the eyes of the Lord."

"Well then," he sniggered, "you ought to be pleased: your holiness is the most important thing on my mind."

Her surprise at that remark—it was the last thing she would have expected his 'character' to say—must have shown in his eyes, for he chortled again and then reached down to position himself at her entrance. There was a moment of fumbling as she felt the head of his cock brushing against her labia; and then he was sinking into her, in and in, caressing her with every vein and ridge, until finally he had bottomed out inside her and there was no more to give.

"Feeling holy yet?" he said.

"Ha," she returned, "it would take more than that to sanctify me."

"Got a high opinion of yourself, dontcha," he mumbled offhand.

It was almost too much; she felt a laugh bubble up and had to force it back down. "I'm worth far more than a scoundrel like you," she retorted, her game face back on. Why does he have to talk? Why can't he just fuck me?

He affected offense. "Why, now. That's an unkind thing for a woman to say. Guess I'll have to convince you."

"And how, precisely, do you plan to do that?" she said.

He withdrew and pushed back in, just one. She gasped, feeling the thrust all the way up her body, from her hips to her bobbing breasts to the flex of her arms.

"A man has his ways," he said.

Each thrust was exquisite torture; she felt sensitive, so sensitive, and every movement was magnified. She felt the ridge around the head of his cock pressing against her inside walls with every thrust and withdrawal, felt his balls brushing against her ass; he had moved up her body, and every thrust brought her clit into contact with the base of his cock. He was resting his weight on her, mostly, pressing her into the bed; she could feel the rigid tension in his arms from holding himself up. Unable to brace herself, her whole body moved with each thrust, absorbing the shock; she felt her breasts swinging free, her nipples brushing up and down against his chest with every thrust. His face was there, right there, eyes crimped in concentration. And through it all was the glorious sensation of his cock inside her, his body against hers, his strength holding her down, her body bearing up to him, pressing up to him, welcoming him, wanting more, urging him on despite her own immobility. She wanted this. She wanted him.

Suddenly she was cumming—she didn't even know how it happened, only that it had: she felt the power overwhelm her, and then it was bursting through her, and for one transcendent moment she felt with perfect clarity every ridge and vein of him, every inch of his skin pressed against hers—the stiffness of his nipples, his ribs pressing down on her, his breath on her face, the bristle of his public hair tangled in her own—before she was gone; her body spased and contracted around him, clenching at his cock with marvelous strength, exhausting itself against his body, and she was plummeting over the edge, falling, lost to her pleasure, gone.

When she could feel again, she opened her eyes to find his face still hovering above her; the hard intrusion down below was still present. "Well, now," he snickered. "Looks like someone's gotten a mite holier. Now it's my turn."

It was in-character for her to just lie there and take it, and she barely felt able to move anyway. Besides, he must have been close; it was only a minute or so of him rutting away at her, which was just fine because that was about how long it took for her to come back to earth. Lying there, trying to keep an exhausted smile from her face, she felt him pushing into her, penetrating her, caressing himself against her pussy, using her exquisite embrace to bring himself to his pleasure; felt him stiffen, heard the little groan; felt him push his way as deep as he could; felt the sudden warmth inside her, the pulsing sensation, the way his cock throbbed as it squirted inside her, the change from burst to slow gush as the last of his cum dribbled out into her. She wished she were more awake to enjoy it.

Then he collapsed against her, spent.

For a long time all there was was their breathing, the sound of their exhaustion. She broke it first. "Baby?"

He knew from that word that she had broken character, that the long charade was over. "Yeah?"

"I love you. I love you so much."

"I love you too," he whispered, and released her hands so that she could hug him.

Then, still joined, they fell asleep again.

The reception, they had decided, was going to be mostly for fun.

True, people were allowed to dress up, but only if they felt like it, and the Stanfords had emphasized in the invitations that no presents were required or, in fact, allowed (unless someone should happen to feel really moved by the Spirit, they wrote, at which point it would be only polite to accept this kind and Christian gesture). The food, though catered by the hotel providing the hall, was as cheap as Jon felt they could get away with, and the DJ was a friend of Caitlyn's from Shellview State who had offered a significant you're-my-friend discount. (Actually, she had offered to do it for free, wanting the exposure and experience, but Caitlyn had insisted on some sort of fee.) As formal occasions went, this was going to be about as informal as one could get; as Jon and Caitlyn saw it, it was more important to get together the people they loved, and have fun with them, than anything else.