Juliet Takes Stage Ch. 02

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(This is the last part of “Juliet Takes Stage” — you really should read that first!)


Meredith died in a car accident not long after that class where Ken had finally shown me — shown us all — that there was nothing dry or academic about Shakespeare.

She had been coming to pick Ken up after a rehearsal. Taylor Ferris, who was a year ahead of me, a junior on the volleyball team, had apparently been coked to the gills, driving her parents’ big old Hummer at about ninety on our little suburb’s quiet streets. Taylor’s tank had t-boned Meredith’s Prius at an intersection just two blocks from the school.

Working the backstage crew for that show, I’d been standing out in the parking lot with Ken, chatting about nothing, basking in his presence, when we heard the sirens and saw the lights.

We watched for a minute, and I think I said something like, “Hope everyone’s okay,” before Ken pulled out his phone and tried to call Meredith.

When she didn’t answer, Ken just began to run güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri — first at a jog, and then at a sprint — toward the flashing lights. Not knowing what else to do, I ran with him.

The Prius was wrapped around the front of the Hummer like a bow tie. The huge SUV seemed hardly to have been scratched. Taylor was sitting in the open door, talking to an EMT. Her face was slack and pasty, but she looked fine. A police officer stood to the side, cross-armed.

“Meredith?” I heard Ken say. He began to run toward the wreck of his wife’s car. “MEREDITH?”

Two firemen stopped Ken, grabbing his arms. “MEREDITH!” Ken tried to struggle past them. The two big men in their rescue gear had to wrap their arms around Ken to keep him from bulling his way to the wreckage.

The one closest to me looked green, as if he were about to vomit — or to cry.

“His wife,” I asked the man. “Is she —?”

Gritting his teeth, the fireman shook his head.



“FUCK!” güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri screams Ken, thrusting even deeper, until at last I feel his balls slap against my open cunt, his pubic hair tickling my lower back, which causes me to contract the muscles in my ass, squeezing him tight, and we both groan.

“I have you,” I rasp, anything but on-voice. “All of you. Mine.”

“Yours,” he groans, sliding out and then slamming back in, beginning to fuck my ass in earnest. Fuck it hard.

His fist in my hair pulls my head up, back to him, so that his teeth close on my neck and his left hand, which has been clutching my hip, grasps none too gently at my breasts.

Scary. Terrifying.

Sexy as fucking hell: the heat of him, the pressure of him, so deep inside me. His hips are slapping against the flesh of my ass, and the rhythm is building to a crescendo that might scatter me into the sky like a million sparks — Cut him out in little güvenilir bahis şirketleri stars… — and Ken’s left hand, the one I love to watch him stroke himself with, slides down my sweat-slick belly and between my thighs, where my cunt lies open and flowing, weeping in sympathy and envy as he plows my ass. With no preliminaries — taking possession — he slides two fingers deep into my pussy and with his thumb flicks at my clit, and I can feel an explosion, an awful, awesome volcanic explosion of an orgasm building up inside of me, can feel as first the wall between his fingers in my cunt and his cock in my ass and then the rest of my lower body turns to lava.

“YOURS,” Ken growls, slamming into me, “yours, and you… you… you are fucking MINE!”

Ken is — usually — an incredibly thoughtful, gentle lover. He knows the power that he has over me, and he is usually careful never to abuse it. But in that moment, there is nothing gentle about him: I gave him all of me, and he is taking me, claiming me completely. “Yours,” I weep, feeling my orgasm begin to flutter, to squeeze against his fingers, his swelling cock. “All yours.”

And with that, he erupts, and I explode, and there is nothing little about the Little Death that we share, howling and cursing, in that moment.


(Thanks for reading!)

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