Intrusion Ch. 02

Pulling her gaze away from his, Miranda peered down at his 'gift', wanting desperately to know why he seemed so pissed off. It was a photograph, the image sharp and crisp, the lighting for the image damn near perfect, leaving every last detail in place. As she looked closer at the photo, Miranda's heart sank; it was a photo of her, taken earlier in the day. It showed her standing at the counter of the café as she talked with Caleb. The photo had captured the exact moment he had taken her hand and pressed it to his lips. The image captured everything about her reaction: her bright, flirtatious smile, her demure blush, her willing acquiescence to his playful kiss.

The more she stared at the photo, the more she realized that she was the source of his anger. That photo showed the one thing a man like him – a man who craved control and power – could never stand: Her. Being intimate. With someone else. The photo represented a lapse in his control, a break in his pattern of dominance, a break he couldn't stand for. That was why he was here, to reassert his control and regain what he had decided belonged to him. She might want Caleb, but she would never have him, not if her intruder had any say about it.

She continued staring at the picture, another realization slowly dawning on her. This was his photo. He'd taken it of her. Which meant that he had been there in the café with her, watching her from afar, waiting for her to make a move he didn't approve of. He. Was. There. All the time she'd spent fantasizing about seeing the man behind the mask, all those silly little dreams about randomly bumping into him in public. She'd almost done it! He'd been there with her, sitting just out of sight, blending in with the rest of the world. She remembered being so disappointed that Caleb hadn't magically turned out to be her mysterious intruder. He'd been there all along, she was just looking in the wrong direction.

Wait a minute. If he was there. . .

She pulled her gaze away from the photo, staring up at him, astonished at the amount of gall this man had. "You were following me?!"

He never answered, instead turning away from her and headed towards the bed. His hand lashed out and latched onto her slender wrist, dragging her with him as he walked. She yelped as she was dragged forward, the photo slipping from her grasp and fluttering to the ground. She was jerked along with him, tripping over her own feet as they approached the bed. He stopped abruptly at the edge of her bedframe, stepping aside slightly to make room for her. He swung his arm forward, letting go of her wrist as she toppled forward onto the bed. The thick layers of bedding flew up around her on impact, the motion leaving her momentarily dazed.

She felt the bed dip beside her as he took a seat on her bed, felt his warm hands slip under her hips and pull her backwards and around, laying her across his thighs just like last time. Miranda kicked against his grip, trying to claw her way free from his grip. He placed on hand across the small of her back, holding her steady while his free hand reached up and grabbed both of her wrists, pinning them to the bed and trapping her. She still fought against him, doing what she could to kick and squirm away from him. His body was still stronger than hers, though, and her efforts left her exhausted rather than free.

Her momentary fatigue gave her intruder the chance he was waiting for. The hand that was bracing her back slid down and flipped up the back edge of her skirt, exposing her lacy panties. His gloved fingers slipped under the waistband and pulled it down, leaving her panties around her thighs and her ass bare. Miranda's heart skipped a beat and she whimpered softly. She knew exactly what was coming, and it wouldn't be good.

His gloved hand smoothed across the curve of her ass, making her body twitch involuntarily. Despite being pinned to her bed, and a fair amount of certainty of what was going to happen next, she couldn't help but enjoy the smooth warmth of those leather-clad fingers sliding along her flesh. The feeling was so seductive, no matter what the circumstance was. She suspected that he'd made that move specifically because she couldn't resist it; it weakened her resolve, made her easier to manage.

His hand lifted away from her skin for a moment, then swung back down onto her ass cheek, smacking it with far more force than last time. This strike stung badly, and she buried her face in the bedding to muffle her squeals of pain. He repeated the motion on her other cheek, pausing to let the sting soak into her flesh. She whimpered again. This wasn't the same playful spanking he'd given her a few weeks ago. This was punishment, reprimanding her for stepping outside of his lines and flirting with someone who wasn't him.

He delivered a smattering of blows across her ass cheeks, slapping her tender flesh at random so she could never brace for the blows. Miranda buried her face into the thick bedding, biting down on her lip to muffle her yelps. She tried to squirm away from him, but the hand pinning her wrists to the bed held her firm, never letting her move more than an inch or so. She was trapped beneath his hands, left to endure his punishment without any chance of escape. Finally, after what felt like endless minutes of burning, stinging slaps, he stopped. Miranda gasped in relief, though she remained painfully aware that her torture wasn't quite over. Her cheeks burned, her skin now hot and tender to the touch. She remained still and silent, hoping that he'd vented most of his rage and that he might go easier on her for the remainder of her punishment.

Luck, as it turned out, was not on her side. Her released her wrists and slipped both hands under her hips, unceremoniously pushing her off his lap and onto her sheets. She lay completely still, breathing heavily as she groaned in discomfort and embarrassment. Once again, her body had betrayed her. Despite his much stronger strikes against her bottom, the heat and pressure from his hand had managed to light a tiny spark of arousal deep within her belly. With her cheeks still red and stinging from his assault, Miranda could feel a tiny hint of moisture beading at the entrance of her sex. His dominance was certifiably exciting, no matter how much anger he used to fuel it.

She heard the sharp pull of a zipper, followed by a quieter tearing of plastic. Her heart sunk, a small whine escaping from her lips. She'd been right: her punishment wasn't over yet. His gloved hands slipped under her hips again, raising them off the bed and pulling her sharply backwards towards the edge of her mattress. She went willingly, burying her face into the sheets again. One of his hands slipped between her thighs, forcing them apart as stepped forward, the tip of his cock barely brushing against her slit. She jumped slightly at the contact, but offered no resistance.

He bucked his hips forward, driving his cock into her body without any attempt at gentleness. She yelped at the sudden force of his entry. There was no seductive teasing here, not erotic foreplay to make her more receptive to his intentions. This was another layer of her punishment. She'd crossed a line by breaking free from his control, and he meant to claw it back. He pulled back and bucked forward again, building his rhythm, his thrusts hard and fast. She dug her fingers into the bedding, closing her eyes and she willingly accepted what was hopefully the last of her penance.

His hands slid to her hips, holding her in place as he fucked her. There was no teasing of her breasts, so sensuous tracing of her spine, no attempt to draw her into his own pleasure. It was clear that this session was meant for him, not her. And yet, like clockwork, her body began to respond to him, flaring up at his rough attentions, beads of sweat starting to form on her skin as he worked her over. His rough pace did nothing to diminish her own arousal; the fact this his cock kept rubbing against her sweet spot didn't help. But that was simply a coincidence. His was pleasuring himself, the fact that she was becoming aroused was simply happenstance.

She writhed against him slightly, her own arousal building as he forced his cock in and out of her pussy. Maddeningly, she tried leaning backwards to force him deeper, tried to angle her hips so he could rub against her more forcefully. She never dared to move her hands. The desire to reach down and stroke her clit, to find any kind of pleasure from this trap was all-consuming, but she never even twitched a finger. She'd pissed him off enough already. If she tried to move, her punishment could get far worse.

He shifted again, slipping on hand down along her stomach, then down between her thighs. One gloved finger slipped between the lips of her sex, seeking her clitoris. She bucked against him when he brushed against him, an uncomfortable wave of fire racing through her blood. His finger pressed down sharply on her sensitive nub, roughly rubbing and circling around it. Miranda groaned into the bedsheets. Just like the rest of her punishment, this pleasure would be forced, jarring and unavoidable. Almost like an afterthought, as if he realized that giving her an orgasm in the midst of his punishment would be more brutal than leaving her bereft of one.

Whether planned or spontaneous, it worked. Her forced orgasm rushed through her, sudden and forceful despite the pleasure, making her fingers curl into the sheets as her body trembled around him. He bucked his hips forward, driving his cock as deep as he could go. She heard his low groan, felt his cock twitch and spasm inside her. He held still for a moment, reveling in his climax while she remained frozen below him. When the last frantic spasms of his cock subsided, he pulled away from her, his cock slipping from her pussy. There was no love or tenderness here, just his anger. His spankings, her orgasm, his own climax, they were all made to satisfy him and reprimand her. She whined again, suddenly empty and feeling hopelessly unsatisfied.

His hands slipped from her hips, letting her collapse into her bed. She heaved in deep, frantic breaths, her pulse racing and her body now uncomfortably aroused. She remained still, eyes closed, splayed out of the bedding, listening as he re-zipped his pants and sighed to himself. He took a few steps away from the bed, his heavy footsteps heading towards the couch. She could barely hear the soft scrape of paper against wood as he collected his photograph from the floor. His remained silent for a moment, and Miranda lost herself in the uncomfortable silence, her body finally coming down from its own unfulfilled high.

She heard him sigh heavily, listened as his footsteps approached the bed once more. She squeezed her eyes closed, her body tensing for another round of sharp smacks. Instead, he tapped the back of her thigh lightly with his palm. She inhaled sharply, momentarily dazed at the lack of pain. His hand rested on her thigh for a moment, then glided upwards, tracing over the curve of her ass and along the length of her spine. His fingers trailed off at her shoulders, pulling the warmed leather away from her skin. She whimpered one last time, instantly missing that soothing heat.

His footsteps moved, this time heading towards her window. She heard him flip the latch and shove the window upwards, letting a burst of chilled air flood the room. There was the soft rustle of clothing as he hauled himself out of the small opening, then a sharp click as he closed the window, leaving her in total silence. He'd left without much ceremony, abandoning her to reflect on her actions and recover on her own.

Speechlessly, Miranda hauled herself up and slowly crawled towards the head of her bed. Still rattled from his rougher tough and abrupt departure, she pulled the blankets away from one corner and gingerly slipped under the covers, wincing slightly as her ass cheeks brushed against the sheets. She pulled the blankets tightly around her, cocooning herself within their warmth. She took a sharp breath, trying her best to re-center her thoughts. She didn't want to cry, she didn't want to scream. All she wanted was for her mind to drift easily off to sleep, to wake up and realize this entire episode had been nothing but a dream.

She buried her face into her pillow, her mind a dizzying flood of emotions. She felt used, abused, embarrassed, and even a little contrite. It was clear that he didn't appreciate her experimenting with other men, and the last thing she wanted was another round of those vicious spankings; the first ones were wonderful, these weren't. It seemed like he was demanding that she put portions of her life on hold to satisfy him. Not her whole life, because he'd never tried to stop her from going to work or spending time with friends, just the romantic portion of it. To appease him, her desire for Caleb would have to be pushed aside.

She'd have to come to terms with her new role in life. She was no longer single, at least not in the normal sense of the word. She was her intruder's new plaything, his little toy that her could twist and turn and control however he liked. She was his to tease and torment, taking and giving pleasure as he saw fit. She could never have a normal love life, never go out on the weekends looking for potential dates, or swinging by cafes in hopes of running into another cute cashier. No, not any more. She had a new male presence in her life, one that was domineering and intelligent and far more prepared for this kind of life than she was. He was in charge of their relationship, not the other way around.

There would be only one man in her life. He'd make sure of that.

*****

Why doesn't she smile at me like that?

He stood outside on his balcony, still clinging to the photo, the soft breeze causing the edges of the paper to flutter aimlessly in his fingers. The warmth of her apartment was miles away, replaced by the coldness of his own room and the emptiness of his own bed. He'd been standing outside, studying the picture for hours, trying to figure out just what about that image had made him feel so hollow. Was it her smile? The way she'd blushed at the cashier when he'd said her name? The way she'd so willingly let that little cockroach raise her hand, so compliant when he'd kissed her fingers?

The memory of that moment made him shudder in disgust. Their close encounter had been completely spontaneous; he'd been sitting at the far corner of the cafe, enjoying a brief, sacred moment to himself when she'd waltzed into with her friend. Her initial appearance had been a surprise to him – he never knew she ventured this deep into the city center – but he gleefully enjoyed the extra view of her. God, she'd looked so tempting in the skirt. He'd imagined himself dragging her away from her table and into one of the secluded stall of the café's bathrooms, pinning her to the door and sliding his hand up her shirt so he could massage her breasts with his bare hands. He'd nearly done it, too, but the prospect of being caught feeling up a woman in a public bathroom was too much of a risk.

His fantasy didn't last long, though. It was when she'd approached the counter, when she'd started flirting with that brainless, muscle-bound meathead that his temper had started to flare. He'd had to summon every ounce of his self-control not to storm over to the counter, snatch her wrist out of that idiot's hand, and drag her away from his opposition. He scowled to himself. The audacity that worthless fool had to touch his prize. Unforgivable. If he'd had the chance, he would have happily smashed his fist into that asshole's perfectly chiseled face. The memory kicked up a fresh wave of jealousy, bringing his personal version of Gollum bubbling to the surface.

Smeagol had it right. Must have the precious. He stole it from us. Sneaky little café worker.

He sighed to himself, tearing his gaze away from that maddening photograph. He tried to refocus his thoughts, scanning for something – anything - else to dwell upon. His mind unconsciously selected the image of her splayed across his thighs, her skirt flipped up towards her waist, her panties pulled down around her thighs, the smooth flesh of her ass warm and pink in the aftermath of his spankings. He smiled to himself as he replayed that moment, his cock twitching slightly beneath his pants.

She's so compliant with me. So easy and willing. So why doesn't she smile at me like that?

The better question was: why would she smile at him? He was the masked man who'd spent the last few months sneaking into her apartment at random intervals, scaring the fuck out of her, and forcing her into some pretty vulnerable sexual positions. He was her own personal monster, a shadow that stalked and approached only her, never giving thought to anyone else. He was her hunter, she was his prey. Not many people would willingly smile at someone so domineering and invasive.

And yet, despite all of his intrusions and manipulations, she'd never moved against him. She'd only changed the latch on her window once, after their first encounter, then left it alone, realizing that a different set of locks wasn't going to stop him. She still hadn't called the cops on his ass, or even tried to open a case, and she never had any of the building's maintenance or security workers make an extra round through her floor. No, even after all of the scares, bumps, and bruises he'd given her, she hadn't once tried to stop him. If anything, she seemed to be growing more accustomed to his spontaneous intrusions. She didn't fight nearly as much as she had the first time he'd taken her by surprise; she'd resist him, sure, but now she almost seemed to take pleasure in her new submissive role, adjusting her reactions accordingly. Her kicks and struggles were less powerful, her yelps and squeals softer, willingly letting him dominate her but still playing her part as the frightened victim. Yes, she was slotting into her place nicely.

He stepped away from the balcony railing, leaning his back up against the sliding glass door that led into his bedroom, the night-chilled glass making him shiver involuntarily. His gaze drifted back down to the photograph, desire welling up in his veins. He slid his thumb over the glossy surface of the picture, using it to cover up the image of that stupid fucktard cashier. His gaze fixated fully on Miranda's frozen image: her electrifying smile, her deliciously innocent blush, the delicate outline of her figure. He smiled to himself, tracing her image with the tip of his finger. He imagined what she'd look like lashed to his own bed, her hands bound to the bed post with his leather belt. The cheeks of her would be ass bright pink from repeated smacks from his hand, her pussy swollen and dripping with arousal. Her full, sensuous lips would pull back into a beguiling grin as she'd caress him with her brilliant green eyes.

His grin turned impish. Oh, yes. She would smile at him like that someday.