INTRODUCTION:
This is the final episode of this story. I've had a lot of encouraging comments; for which, thank you sincerely. I trust that some of the 'anonymous' may feel just a bit embarrassed when they find out that it isn't what they'd believed it to be -- but I won't hold my breath waiting for any apologies! This one means a lot to me -- hopefully you'll understand why when you reach the end -- and it's also just about written itself at times.
*
It wasn't just the bed and its covers that made me feel warm and comfortable, it was also the complete darkness of my bedroom. That room, thanks to my husband's attention to detail -- and his consideration -- was my sanctuary and my refuge.
Some people are afraid of the dark and I can understand that; walking home on my own one time after a power cut, on a moonless night, I will admit that I was terrified. But that was different; there were strangely-shaped shadows that moved eerily as the wind moved the branches of the trees, and every sound seemed to echo or be enhanced in some way. My room was different. There were no shadows because there was no light, and the unimpaired blackness of my surroundings was as comforting as a favourite blanket.
That night, I seemed to have folded it around me. Perhaps I was unconsciously trying to hide from all the pressures and strains of the way my life had gone; I don't know, I'm no psychologist, but I do know that I was under a lot of stress at the time. I'd spent the evening at home, as usual, but I'd had Annabelle to keep me company.
Okay, if you've been following this story, I know that may come as a surprise so I'd better explain a little.
Although we hadn't exactly hit it off to begin with, after the accident Annabelle -- or Anna as she preferred to be known and which I was now used to calling her -- had turned out to be rather different from my early impression of her. She was, of course, in her own words, 'a self-admitted, cock-hungry slut,' but she was so open about it that it simply made me laugh. That was her lifestyle -- and she was very well aware that it could never be mine. I'm not going to go into her personal history (she's already decided to that herself on this site eventually), but I ended up feeling unable to find any way to condemn her for what she was and what she did.
Once you got past that, she was actually a lovely person. Whilst I was in the process of recovering, she would come around almost every day to cook and clean -- and it was a bit embarrassing to find that she was a far more efficient cleaner than I've ever been! I also discovered that she was far more intelligent than her bubbly personality made her out to be. She took an interest in everything; world news, politics; scientific progress -- you name it. Therefore, when she had an occasional free evening (not that there were many, given the social life she led with her fiancé, Morton), I enjoyed being able to relax over a glass or two of wine with her and swap some stories about our very different backgrounds.
The previous evening had been the latest of our get-togethers. We'd drank some wine, sent out for an Indian takeaway meal and talked for hours. Disappointingly perhaps, for some readers, there was no mention of sex or of our partners -- it was a real 'girls' night in' where we talked about holidays we'd enjoyed, our very different schooldays, clothes, music -- stuff like that. We hadn't really noticed time passing until it was very late and, not for the first time, decided that she should sleep in the spare room rather than make the journey home.
I know that I'd been very slightly drunk -- not staggering or, I hope, talking a load of rubbish as I sometimes do when I've had too much -- but I had a nice glow about me as I insisted on leaving the clearing up for the next day, and we went to our rooms tired but contented.
I must have been more tired than I'd realised because I didn't even bother to put my pyjamas on, I just stripped, threw all the clothes into the laundry basket and practically fell into my bed. I slept well -- very well -- which was exactly what I really needed.
What time it was when I was disturbed, I had no idea. As I've said, the room -- my wonderful haven -- was totally dark, and I think I was probably in that state of half-waking, half-sleeping or, possibly, just emerging from a pleasant dream, when I felt the familiar sensation of a warm hand stealing across my body and gently clasping my breast. It felt so pleasant that I wasn't the least bit disturbed by it, especially when Harry's thumb and forefinger tweaked my instantly responsive nipple.
I think I just managed a small groan of pleasure, kept my eyes closed, and wallowed in the exquisite feelings. As ever, there was a gentle series of feathery kisses planted on the back of my neck and across my shoulders, quickly followed by the consciousness of his warm body pressing closer and the unambiguous intention announced by the wickedly solid shaft that pressed against the back of my thighs.
Moments later, his left arm slid around me so that, for a few seconds, both of my nipples received the attention they craved. That made me gasp with pleasure, but it was brief-lived as one hand made the short journey downwards to where the impatient warmth and wetness craved its touch.
It was almost unreal -- as if my mind had simply closed down and left my body to accept the delights being offered -- as if it was, perhaps, the ideal continuation of whatever dream I'd been having, and I made no attempt to halt its progress when a finger found the already wet place it was seeking. There wasn't the usual slow and sensual touching and stroking, the stiffened finger merely pressed straight into me and began to poke back and forth vigorously but, in my highly charged state, that fitted well with my mood. So well, in fact, that I lazily parted my legs as the tip of the rigid erection sought to replace the industrious finger.
That was when it happened! There was a sharp stinging feeling, as if something was tugging fiercely on one of my hairs, and it made me give a small, but aggrieved yelp. It also made me reach, down automatically to make whatever adjustment was necessary to ease it, and it only took a second to learn that that the bracelet-type watchstrap had managed to trap one of my pubic hairs as the finger was working on me.
Was it that pain that brought me to my senses? Or was it the realisation that Harry never wore a watch? Maybe it was both. I suppose I'll never know. What I do know is that I suddenly understood that it wasn't Harry who was trying, frantically now, to insert his erection into me! For a second, maybe two, I simply froze with the horror of what was happening, and that brief hesitation was very nearly enough to bring about a disaster.
Recovering, I immediately tried to wriggle free, but the hand that was against my entrance tightened and tried to hold me in place while the hard penis poked desperately in search of invasion. I kept on squirming, trying to get free of it but, whoever was holding me was clearly strong and, when I tried to scream, the hand that had been fondling my breast was suddenly clamped over my mouth and I heard Morton's voice say:
"Shut up, you stupid bitch! You know you want it! You haven't had any for...."
