Blind Carnival

Locked Up

Part 2 of today's double update.

Hope you enjoy!

Love, 

K. xx

***

The sound of handcuffs sliding along the railing of the wooden headboard is unexpected and will be filed for future reference. It sounds like a giant zipper is being decisively opened.

He moves his arms closer to each other and slides down a bit, now almost flat on the bed. She quickly calculates what's the best approach to it. She doesn't have a visual in her head, but she also doubts it would have helped. After all, sex is never what they show in porn. Unless one tries to make it look like porn, but she doubts it yields even remotely satisfying results. At some point she's straddling his chest, and she looks down. He seems to be in a very eager anticipation. She decides that there should still be some sort of a prelude, and she leans backwards and brushes the tips of her fingers along his cock. The curve is very pronounced, and she assumes that indeed John can't wait. She strokes for a few seconds, and she might be enjoying herself too much, since he returns her to the previous endeavours by a choked pleading 'Liv...'

After all, it's all mechanics. She places her knees wider, he slides lower. It starts pretty much like the last few times the two of them were in a similar - but not really - position. He probably did some research, she shortly thinks. There's none of the monotony and repetitiveness of the first time. If the last time he performed averaging on solid B - and with her instructing, it was definitely an A - at the moment he shows the potential to move into the Harry Potter universe and reach Outstanding levels.

Everything that she previously researched about the position starts making sense. It is indeed very open, she can't close her legs, and she's indeed vulnerable. So, she can see why men would enjoy it. On the other hand, by moving her knees wider apart, she can shift and, more interestingly, apply pressure. It's fun, it's hot, it's not the hard work some people described on forums.

And then she understands where the complaints come from. Since she's the one who has to hold her body upright, once his tongue starts thrusting into her just the way she fancies it, her thigh muscles strain and start shaking. And her buttocks start feeling the iconic burn, the one they advise you to achieve when you do your time in the gym.

This is better than going to the gym. Her hands are clasped around the railing, she's moaning loudly, and she's pretty sure about a minute ago she started rubbing herself on his beard. She'll get a beard burn. It'll be worth it.

She sees one flaw in this. She would really like to feel his hands groping her arse right now.

He jerks his arms, and the cuffs loudly bang against the railing. She reckons, the arse groping is something he'd fancy right now as well.

There are a couple of clichés that, as they say, do it for her, when they pop up in her head. One is he was exploring her folds with his tongue, and he was savouring her like an exotic fruit. It must be all those harlequin novels she hid under her mattress as a teen. And she knows that even her hiding place was cliché.

Nonetheless, back to the gorgeous male currently performing Outstanding cunnilingus, right there, under her yearning center. Both her favourite expressions apply here. He's clearly enjoying the process of exploration, and there's a certain playfulness to his motions. And that's why it works. Because it's not fun if it's done as a job, no matter the name.

There's another scraping noise in the room, and she realises it's her nails on the headboard. And then she looks down and meets his half-lidded eyes. All deities, that's hot! So bloody hot! And then she sees his pink top lip peek, and her clitoris receives a gentle suck. And that's about all she remembers.

The crisis hits her like the New Year's fireworks over the Eye. She emits a string of loud moans, then a squeak, because his lips are still on her, and then, with a sad whimpering noise she starts keeling on one side. She plops on the bed near him like a ragdoll. But not the nimble, perky one from that Burton's cartoon. More like that ugly Jemima ballerina ragdoll, which her Mum passed to her claiming it was her most cherished childhood possession. Olivia might be sporting the same blissful, rosy cheeked face. Her limbs are boiled Canalini pasta.

"Liv..." His voice is soft. "You look sleepy. Please, don't fall asleep without unlocking these."

He chuckles, and she groans. She isn't sure she can move any of her major muscles.

She makes a valiant attempt. She weakly stirs and rolls closer to the bedside table. She has half a thought to blindly push the key into his hand and see if it is indeed as easy as they show in police drama, but then she takes pity and sets him free.

He rubs his wrists, kisses her temple, and leaves to the washroom, probably to wash his face. The view of his gorgeous back is the last thing she remembers.

She wakes up in the middle of the night, thirsty, and sticky in places the Sun don't shine, and she quickly minces to the bathroom for a rinse, and to the kitchen for water. When she slides back into his arms, he wraps around her like the proverbial bear and nuzzles her neck.

"I'm sorry I fell asleep..." She isn't sure he can hear her.

"I took it as a compliment." He chuckles into her skin, and then wraps his arms and legs around her. It's apparently his idea of comfortable co-sleeping. "I'm fully satisfied, mind you," he adds. "But you can repay me next time if you fancy."

He yawns with gusto, and they go back to sleep.

***

In the morning he drops her off at her place, where they snog in his car like teens, making it so he'll probably be half an hour late for work.

Bea comes over, and Olivia and her spend the day verbally bashing Olivia's parents, eating popcorn, watching Meg Ryan films, and then verbally bashing Meg Ryan. Bea kicked Olivia's Father out of his mansion and is planning to sue his arse off with the help of her colleagues. Considering the usual honorarium for Bea's services as a barrister, Demetrios has a lot to worry about.

Tuesday threatens to repeat the previous day, and Olivia gently pushes Bea out of the flat. Bea needs to pick herself up and be Bea again. Self-pity isn't in her nature. When Olivia tells her that, Bea giggles at 'be Bea.' Olivia tells her to grow up and go back to being the independent, successful, passionate woman that she is. Bea sighs, and finally by eight at night, she's out of Olivia's flat. Olivia works a bit and goes to bed.

Funnily enough, on the contrary to her nice plan to finally sleep in her own bed and catch up on some kip, she tosses and turns, and realises she misses having a hairy furnace near her. She ends up jugging down two cups of warm milk and has a not so satisfying night of sleep.

On Wednesday, she finally sits down to work, futilely trying to remember what was even happening in her manuscript. It takes a lot of rereading and looking through her notebooks to remember that Gerome has found out that the protagonist's baby isn't his and is now threatening to expose her to papers.

Two days later, Olivia realises that her period was supposed to come four days before. That would be her period that has been as punctual as a Patek since she was thirteen. She checks, rechecks, and then starts laughing. After all, a pregnancy scare is the ultimate cliché. And why is it even called 'a scare?' She doubts that people feel scared when it happens. Confused, disbelieving, shell-shocked, pacing their flat and staring at their black and white cat, then huffing and puffing, then trying to convince themselves it is just absurd - that happens. Then the same people make themselves sit down and try to work, because this is just ridiculous! And then they grab their coat and go down to the pharmacy on the next block. And then they pee on a strip, although it's not morning and of course the test won't show anything.

Except it does. It shows two decisively thick and pink lines.