In Thoughts of You, by Nick Scipio

Author’s Introduction: Mat Twassel challenged the writers on ASSD to write a story inspired by the Jack Vettriano painting In Thoughts of You. After looking at the painting, I had a weird idea for a story, and this is the result.

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Jennifer stared through the gossamer curtains at the city skyline. She looked into heart of the pregnant, steel grey clouds; they diffused the light into an overall brightness as the sun came up, unseen. She looked but did not see, her mind wandering over the events of the night before. She wound her memories back, seeing everything in reverse, tasting the emotions as she saw the events in her mind’s eye.

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She had gone to sleep with the light on and a novel propped on her chest. She didn’t know how long she had slept, or what had woken her, but she had suddenly opened her eyes to find the curtains, so sheer and thin, blowing in the gentle wind of the city. It was quiet outside the window. She’d listened for a moment, getting her bearings, trying to discern what had woken her.

Had she left the windows open before going to bed?

No.

For a moment, fear gripped her, but she calmed herself quickly. No one could get in, she was on the fourth floor, with no fire escape. So she picked up her bookmark, nestled it between the pages warmed by her chest, and set the book on the nightstand. Then she reached up and turned off the light. She wanted to enjoy the city light as it played across the ceiling, filtered and transformed by the diaphanous curtains.

When she finally threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, she thought she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She darted her eyes around the room, but saw only the deepening shadows of the loft apartment.

She worked hard to pay for the loft, doing extra design work on her computer at home for enough money to buy a few little extras. Sometimes the extras were milk and bread. Other times, when the work was good, the extras were Prada shoes, like the ones she’d bought last month. Jennifer smiled when she thought of the shoes.

She stood and moved towards the window, standing and enjoying the breeze and the solitude of the normally busy city street below. It was a pleasant night, with a touch of moisture in the air. It would probably rain tomorrow, she thought to herself.

She had rented the loft because of the windows. They were so large, and let in so much light. The apartment was so bright and airy because of them, and despite its cramped size, it felt much bigger. Jennifer liked her windows. She was reluctant to close them, even though… Even though nothing, she thought to herself. No one could get in, she was on the fourth floor, with no fire escape. It was her mantra.

So she hugged her arms around her chest, feeling her nipples harden in the cool night air. The thin t-shirt she wore was hardly proof against the slightly damp chill, and she shivered. Outside the window, the city slumbered; no cars moved along her street, no one walked their dogs. It was quiet. Peaceful.

When she felt the shivers spread from her arms and shoulders to her entire body, Jennifer turned from the window and stood transfixed. Standing before her was a figure, impossibly close. She recoiled in fear, an automatic reaction to someone invading her personal bubble of space. When she looked at the man—it was definitely a man—a chill ran down her spine.

No one could get in, she was on the fourth floor, with no fire escape.

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

No one could get in, she was on the fourth floor, with no fire escape.

It was her mantra.

She opened her eyes again and he was still there, still close, still silent. Her gaze darted around the room again as her heart raced. Her hands were suddenly blocks of ice, and she shivered again, the chill fed by her fear. She could not escape without moving past him. She was trapped.

When he reached out to her, it was a casual thing, almost offhand. She stood, rooted in place, and watched in slow motion as his hand came out and took hers. His hand was so warm, it comforted her, and she shook off the feeling with a visible effort, not wanting to take pleasure in the touch of a stranger, an invader. Yet she had no choice, her hands were cold, so cold, and his were warm.

He pulled her, and she came. She willed herself to scream, to cry out, but no sound escaped her throat. Who was he? How did he get here? What was he going to do with her? She tried to scream again, but her mouth was dry, and once again, no sound would come.

When he moved her towards the bed, her panic swelled afresh, and she knew his intent. No! She cried out, inside her mind, desperately wishing her voice would shape the screams her thoughts had formed. Instead, she was silent, and followed willingly.

At the edge of the bed, her comforter thrown back where she’d left it, he pulled the thin fabric of the shirt over her head, releasing her breasts. She shivered as the cool air washed over the firm, warm flesh, raising goose bumps. Her nipples were already erect, but they hardened further at the thought of him looking at them.

He tossed her shirt aside and then lowered her bikini panties, her plain, white bikini panties. They were her comfortable panties, the ones she wore when she knew she would be going to bed alone. She’d been wearing the comfortable ones for many months now, too many months. With no one to see it, why wear fancy underwear? And so he tossed her comfortable panties with her t-shirt. She stood naked before him.

The light from the city outside the window was too dim to make him out well, but she watched him disrobe with a detached curiosity that she couldn’t understand. She should be screaming, not admiring the turn of his shoulders, with their strong, well-formed muscles.

He was not a large man, yet still powerful and well built. If she’d met him on the street, she’d have admired him. She shouldn’t have admired him now, he’d invaded her loft, somehow, some way. But she couldn’t help herself, so she looked him over as he pulled his tight shirt over his head and revealed a hairless, muscular chest.

Jennifer was a sucker for a good looking chest, and she felt her juices begin to flow, despite her desire to remain un-aroused. He removed his skin-tight pants, and she tried to see his cock where she knew it had just sprung free. It was too dark, and she quietly lamented that she’d turned off the light.

Despite her fear, she was becoming aroused. She knew she shouldn’t be, but she was. A man had invaded her loft and they now both stood naked, only a few feet apart, and her only reaction was a growing arousal. She was shocked, and scared, and beginning to become excited, although she would not consciously admit it. It had been too long since she’d worn the lacy underwear, the underwear meant to be removed by another. It had been too long since she wasn’t the one taking off her panties. Too long, and her body knew it, though her mind still rebelled.

He walked towards her and she sat down heavily on the side of the bed, the edge catching her knees and forcing her down. She was at a level with his manhood now, and he reached out to put a strong hand on the back of her head. She wanted to taste him, but she knew she should resist. The pressure of his hand was inexorable, and she could smell his musk, taste the tang of his body: the body of a man.

Her face pressed into his groin and she felt his penis twitch in response. She shouldn’t have wanted to, but Jennifer yearned to take him in her mouth, to make him give her what she’d been without for so long. Working long hours couldn’t buy extras like this. She inhaled, and felt her eyes droop as the heady scent washed over her senses.

She knew she shouldn’t, but she wanted to, so badly. She opened her mouth, then hesitated. He became insistent, and she felt her desire ratchet up a notch. Outwardly, she resisted as best as she could, but inside, deep inside where she wouldn’t yet admit it, she wanted it, she needed it. She opened her mouth and took him inside, feeling the texture of his soft skin as his manhood slowly expanded, filling her mouth and sliding over her tongue.

Jennifer worked on him eagerly, wanting to taste him, savoring his flavor. Her tongue slid along the underside of his glans and she heard him gasp. When she took him as deep as she could, he gasped again, and she was soon rewarded for her efforts. She could smell his come before she tasted it. The acrid, salty tang gushed over her tongue and down her throat.

She knew he would last longer the second time. She knew there would be a second time, but that she wouldn’t have a chance to taste him then, to smell him. She knew where he would spend himself the second time. And perhaps the third. It frightened her. It frightened her that she wanted it so badly.

When he pushed her towards the center of the bed, she wasn’t surprised. When he kissed his way up her belly to the swell of her breasts, she was surprised. He captured a stiff nipple in his mouth and sucked, sending waves of pleasure radiating from the contact. Jennifer closed her eyes and savored the feeling, which she had so long been without. He switched to the other nipple and she shuddered in pleasure, feeling the increase in moisture and heat between her legs.

She reached between his legs, captured his semi-erect manhood, and stroked it slowly as his lips performed their magic on her diamond-hard nipples. He was quickly hard again, and she was ready for him, her juices flowing freely from the furnace of her pussy.

The bulbous head of his organ bumped against her thigh as he climbed between her legs. She felt him position himself at her opening and then push. Her eyes closed involuntarily as she relished the feeling of his length sliding into her easily. When she felt his pubis grind against hers, she gasped. He was so thick. She could feel every ridge, every vein of his manhood, stretching her like she hadn’t been stretched in a long, long time. Too long, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath through her nose and concentrating on the feelings between her legs.

He moved within her and she shuddered as the first tendrils of her climax tickled her belly. She normally couldn’t come when she was on the bottom, but it had been so long that her whole body had become one large erogenous zone, and everywhere he touched seemed to set her skin afire, making her tingle and tremble with long un-sated desire. She felt her muscles clench and release, and felt the gush of moisture between her legs as her orgasm overtook her. She arched her back and felt him thrust deeply within her, helping her along by grinding his hips against her, moving his body so that her clitoris throbbed and sent sparks of ecstasy shooting through her nerves.

When it was over, he moved within her again and she felt that drowsy, tingly, languorous, lightheaded feeling she got sometimes when she’d come really hard. The pressure inside her built again as he sped his pace, pistoning his hips against her, driving himself deeper inside her.

Suddenly, he rolled onto his back and carried her with him. His hands supported her by the flanks until she steadied herself. When she did, his hands, so strong, reached up to cup her breasts, and gently rolled her nipples in their grasp. She began to ride him, guided by the subtle touch of his hands on her breasts and her own mounting desire.

Her orgasm was building, stronger than the first, and she rotated her hips, rubbing her clit against the base of his shaft. When her climax took her, she clamped her eyes shut and rolled with it, letting the crashing waves of pleasure take her where they would. Vaguely, she felt him erupting within her, filling her with his semen as the throes of orgasm closed out the world around them. Her existence shrank to a tiny sphere that encompassed only the two of them.

Jennifer knew she should be frightened, or angry, but in the post-orgasmic haze, she couldn’t muster any such feelings. She collapsed against his chest, sweating and heaving with their shared exertions. She mewled against him and felt his organ slowly shrinking within her. She wanted the feeling to last forever.

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Some time later, Jennifer knew not how long, she felt him shift. He rolled her onto her back and she felt him moving between her legs. His erection bumped against her inner thigh, and she felt her pussy turn molten at the touch. He was inside her, pounding hard, before she came fully awake.

When she reached up to stroke his face, he jammed himself inside her and held his hips steady. With the flick of his wrist, her arm was secured to the bedpost with silken cords. Another flick of the wrist and her other arm was bound as well. She pulled against the restraints and quickly realized that she could not escape them. In that moment, she began to understand who he was.

As soon as Jennifer was secured, he began thrusting within her again. His hips hammered into her, driving his cock deep into her pussy. She shuddered at the sensations and watched his face as he concentrated on fucking her. In moments, she felt his member swell within her and he held still, pumping his semen into her belly.

When he was done, he withdrew from her and straddled her chest, running his slippery dick over her lips. She opened them to admit it, tasting their mingled juices as she cleaned him with her lips and tongue. By the time he was satisfied with her efforts, he was growing erect again.

In a trice, her hands were freed and she was pulled to her feet. He led her to the small bathroom and flicked on the overhead light. In the harsh glare, she got her first good look at his face. She thought she knew who he was, but she simply wasn’t sure. She’d never seen him close up, never seen him without his…

He turned on the water and adjusted the temperature. When it was perfect, he gently pushed her into the tub, climbing after her and pulling the shower curtain. With the water streaming over them, he rinsed her off. Then he turned her and entered her from behind. With one hand on her firm breast and the other between her legs, he began to thrust into her.

The hand between her legs was tripping over her clit as he filled her, and she felt the beginnings of another orgasm growing in her belly. He pumped her for a long time, letting things build slowly. When he finally came, his orgasm triggered her own, and they came together, his arms wrapped around her and his chest pressed against her back.

Afterward, he washed her tenderly, taking care to reach every part of her. She took the washcloth from his hands and returned the favor, marveling at the ripple and play of his muscles. She was almost positive she knew who he was. His physique matched all the pictures she’d ever seen of him, and her certainty grew with each passing moment.

With it came a realization. If he came back to her, back to her bed, she would have him. In fact, she realized with a start, she wanted him back. For a long, lost moment, it was all she could think about: when would she see him again?

They finished their shower in the silence that had permeated the entire night. When they were dry, he went to her small wardrobe and began picking out clothes. She smiled when she saw the Prada pumps with the 3” heels. She smiled again when she saw her black silk bra and panty set, one of the sets meant to be taken off by another. She dressed for him, watching him watching her, his member semi-erect and bobbing gently as he moved.

In the light spilling from the bathroom, she saw his clothes in a pile at the end of the bed and she knew instantly that she’d been right about who he was. Now that she knew who he was, excitement flooded her at the thought, the thrill, of feeling him between her legs again, feeling his body move over hers and fill her with his come.

When she was dressed, she stood before him. The clothes he had picked out were all black, all silk. She had chosen a silver bracelet herself, to accentuate her wrists and draw his attention to her movements.

“I’ve always liked the Black Widow look,” he said, speaking for the first time.

Jennifer smiled and pirouetted for him. His cock twitched, and she hoped he would have her kneel between his legs and bring him off one more time.

“Make us some tea,” he said, startling her out of her carnal thoughts. “With lemon.”

She wanted to suck him again, wanted to taste his essence. She wanted to please him. If tea would please him, then she would make it. She smiled at the thought of setting up housekeeping with him and bustled about the small kitchenette, putting the kettle on the small stove. When it boiled, she pulled it off the heat before the shrill whistle peaked. She poured the hot water into her two best cups, heirlooms from her grandmother, and let the tea bags steep, cutting lemon slices as they did.

Jennifer returned to him with the cups and saucers. She watched him drink his in silence, quietly lusting after his naked body. Her mind drifted, and she thought of him bending her over and taking her, fucking her, in her “Black Widow” outfit. When he stood and reached for his clothes, she kept that hope for another time. She watched him dress with something close to the fear she had felt at the beginning of the night. Seeing him now, in the outfit made famous by pictures in the newspaper, how could she not know who he was? Then the gnawing fear returned tenfold. She didn’t know his name, his real name. She only knew what the newspapers called him.

When would she see him again? How could she find him? Her panic grew until he walked towards her, fully dressed at last, his face obscured by the famous hood. With a flick of his wrists, the chair between the windows was covered in a gauzy, silken sheet. He gently pushed her back until she sat down. Then he handed her cup of tea to her as he scooted the footstool up for her to rest her feet on.

“I know who you are,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“Will you come back for me?”

“Perhaps.”

And with that, he was out the window and gone.

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Jennifer blinked and realized that the sun was now fully up. Her tea, untouched, had gone cold. She stared out the window and watched the wind whip the flags on the buildings across the street. It was going to rain soon, the grey bellies of the clouds looked ready to burst at any moment. At least he had closed the window behind him as he left.

Her only problem, aside from when he would return to her, was how to get up from the chair. The white sheet was sticky, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t stand. She felt like a fly, trapped in a web. She was a fly, trapped in a web.

When would he return? When would he release her? When would he thrust himself into her and make her come so hard she passed out from the sensation? Her thoughts were of him and only him.

But with a growing sense of annoyance, she realized that her legs had gone to sleep. Her arms were trapped as well, caught by the sticky, silken webbing covering the chair. At the moment, she didn’t care if he did fuck her when he returned.

As long as he returned.

As long as he freed her from this infernal chair, she mentally snarled.

“Lousy love ’em and leave ’em wallcrawler,” she said in a quiet, frustrated voice. “Web me into the chair, willya?! Indeed!”

She fumed for a moment and then finally decided to throw decorum to the wind.

“Spiderman!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, hoping someone would hear her and investigate. “Get me out of this chair! Do you hear me?!”

The End

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