Into The Middle/In Medias Res

Unfolding over ten chapters and an epilogue at a slow-burn pace, this psychological erotic drama takes the reader on the protagonist's emotional rollercoaster.

The erotic scenes do not cross into extremes that might offend or distress anyone; all characters are consenting adults above the age of eighteen.

Volunteer editor MikePaulWrites deserves a great deal of credit for this story; I could not have published it without him, given that English is not my native language. His patience, support, and knowledge are invaluable.

INTO THE MIDLE

FIRST CHAPTER

Honey in the mouth, gall in the heart/Mel in ore, fel in corde

Perhaps it was the way he ate--slowly, with relish, small mouthfuls, and the occasional closing of his eyes in complete savouring of the flavours--that made me think the evening with him might end well. Perhaps this would be different... Perhaps.

Someone who ate with such hedonistic pleasure surely had to approach a woman's body with that same hedonistic enjoyment. Right?

I needed an orgasm tonight, a quality orgasm--and bodily closeness. Just tonight, just to push through what tomorrow brings.

My mind had already been seduced, and that's promising; otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here now, enjoying this divine and damnably (justifiably) expensive dinner.

Mmmmm, those lips... that moment when he swallows and his neck muscles tense--it stirred something still, somewhat drowsy, an animal desire in me to leap across the table and rip his shirt open in hunger to expose his shoulders and chest to my gaze.

Don't look at him like he's prey, darling, maybe you could start behaving like... I don't know, like simply a woman, not like a starving animal.

My mind, my self-saboteur. Fuck that "simply a woman" business. Women aren't "simply ".

And I'm not looking at him like he's prey! I'm looking at him and imagining what he looks like without that shirt.

No, you're looking at him like he's a mouthful!

A very, very, very attractive mouthful!

Soften up a bit; let the man lead this story.

How stupid! If a woman has an animal passionate nature, should she hide it so a man feels like a man? Fuck that! I don't believe in it.

All right then, ride him like a wild thing, strip him of his need for dominance and be very surprised when he never rings you again. Look at him! Do you think this is a man who enjoys that?

No, I know. He definitely enjoyed feeling powerful, but he had respect too. Must there always be a game where someone wins and someone surrenders?

Darling, you've got a hole, he's got a stick, stick goes in hole! He fucks, you're fucked, that's how it goes.

Bollocks! I've fucked far more men than have fucked me!

Have you? And how many of them stuck around?

Touché!

"Don't tell me you're one of those who pokes at her plate and eats two mouthfuls counting calories."

His voice dragged me out of my eternal argument with myself. I become aware that I'd barely touched my food and had actually been poking at it with my fork for some time.

"Oh, no, calories burn easily; it's just my hunger that's currently of a different nature." I'd crossed the final boundary of the game we'd been playing for the last two weeks.

He said nothing, just slowly brought his fork to his lips and bit that food so damnably sensually, lowering his gaze slowly to my lips, so that my nipples hardened to an almost painful point and I hid the treacherous swallow of arousal with a gulp of wine.

"Just to clarify, is this a dinner where we professionally finalize our business arrangement, or is it more... of a private nature?" He asked over the rim of his glass, finally swallowing that fucking sexy mouthful that had tensed every muscle in my groin.

"You proposed the dinner. You tell me."

He paused again, taking a sip of wine with the hint of a satisfied smile, lowering his gaze to my shirt, through which my treacherous nipples were now undoubtedly visible, piercing even the bra designed to prevent precisely that. He was waking the beast in me, and I won't lie to myself or adapt. Just as soon as we get somewhere more private...

I'm not interested in games tonight, dominance, armour, masks, roles... Spontaneous and sincere. He was waking in me a wild passion. What could go wrong with that?

"So, which game are we playing tonight?" he asked, wiping his lips with his napkin in a very interesting way, not because he needed to, but because he knew what it would do to me.

"Pardon?" I asked without blinking, which is very difficult at a moment when you feel as though someone has just read your thoughts. I was desperate for a cigarette to focus me a bit.

"Are we being honest?" he asked, and the playfulness in his eyes suddenly took on a much deeper form, the form of passion.

"It would be my pleasure." I said, matching his gaze with equal passion, sincerely, without pretence.

"So you invite me to dinner, and your condition was that I let you choose the restaurant and pay for it."

"And you agreed," I said, leaning slightly across the table to be closer to his gaze, eye to eye, without filters and backroom games.

"Is this some kind of game? Because the boundary isn't clear to me, given the business arrangement."

"Which successfully ended today at three o'clock."

"Yes, which officially and successfully ended today at three o'clock."

"So what's confusing you?"

"Honestly, I don't know whether your insistence on paying for this meal wraps up the business side or..."

"No, I'm just sick of men being castrated by my independence and my bank account."

He laughed with a laugh so damnably well-calibrated that its frequency produced an instant spasm in my cunt.

"I'm aware of your value, darling. Your invoice arrived in accounting this morning."

"I told you at the first meeting that I'm expensive."

"I'm not complaining. I'm glad I passed that part of the test, believe me, you haven't castrated me in the slightest. If you had, I'd be castrated just watching you command the most important and most fucked-up department in my company with such calm authority during the biggest crisis we've had yet. Do you know what those closeted misogynist arseholes call you?"

"Icy Bitch."

"You know?"

"I know."

"Please explain to me, then, how you managed to stop them calling you 'Icy Bitch' with contempt and start calling you 'Icy Bitch' with unconcealed respect."

"Because I'm expensive, I know my job."

"Enlighten me. I'd love to enjoy the... details." His eyes were sliding across my breasts.

I exhaled my frustration, as I didn't want to switch my brain back into business mode.

Reluctantly, I decided to answer to wrap it up and return to the atmosphere that was making my skin crawl in anticipation of touch.

I told them: "If you weren't such whining pussies who bitch and fight like emotionally stunted kids squabbling about "who has the bigger one", I wouldn't have to be an icy bitch sorting your shit. And from now on you'll call me the Ice Bitch with capital letters and with respect."

He stared at me for several moments.

"I know, completely unprofessional vocabulary, but the only thing that worked with them."

And then he burst out laughing.

"And I missed that? Damn!"

"By the way, those are your toxic misogynist arseholes that you employed in your company. Qualis rex, talis grex."

"Ouch!"

Good! This is exactly what you needed! Very sensual.

Shut up! I'm just responding to provocation. And get out of my head.

"Any other questions?" I asked.

"Several. Something that's very confusing about this dinner. The suit... I thought you said you were going home to change and were done with work."

"Right."

"And you changed from a suit into... a suit?"

"Excellent observation."

"And put on a tie."

"I always wear suits and ties."

"I've noticed, I understand at work, but for a dinner that you and I have already known for some time will end anything but professionally? I mean, there are stories about you and suits; I just didn't think it was really like that."

"My wardrobe consists mainly of suits."

"Mainly?"

"And one little black dress that I no longer intend to wear. When I'm relaxing by the sea, I don't wear suits or ties, of course."

"Interesting..."

"And you're in a suit, too."

"Yes, but I'm... He paused.

"Mm-hmm, I see, you're a man, and I'm a woman and I should have shown up in some dress where I don't feel authentic, worn heels that would kill my spine and pretended to be something I'm not. Look, I love suits. I love their practicality, and I don't adapt to social norms that try to box me in, okay?"

"But a tie?"

"A tie is a fashion accessory and easier to control than unpredictable pearl necklaces."

"Well... at least you've let your hair down and taken off your jacket." And his eyes, with open pleasure, slid again from one breast to the other, now distinctly painfully tense. "I tried to imagine what you look like... with your hair down."

"And?"

"I'll only say my imagination was terribly stingy in comparison with... perception."

My cynical bastard brain just switched on the internal Spotify and hit play on that cheesy song "Je t'aime" with all that whispering and sighing. Damn, where can you be switched off? Besides, this part of the foreplay is dragging on too long...

"I risk my favourite chef hating me, but I'm now absolutely starving, if you understand me, and if you don't mind..."

Before I'd finished the sentence, he discreetly raised his hand, signalling to the waiter without taking his eyes off mine. I raised an eyebrow in an acutely sharp arc.

"Oops, sorry, habit." He apologized with a rather wicked smile, and it wasn't accidental in the slightest; it was an open provocation.

The waiter approached with that wonderfully discreet and proper tone

"Is everything all right?"

"Please convey my apologies to the chef and all compliments. This is the first time I'm putting work before his art, and I hope he'll forgive me the half-empty plates, but this business crisis demands we leave now."

With a slight bow, he went for the bill.

"What a beautifully refined lie." he said, and his voice finally revealed that it wasn't easy for him either between his legs.

"Oh, darling, he didn't believe a word, but he understood everything that needed to be understood."

And indeed, in record time he brought the bill with the same business politeness.

At the same moment we both reached for the bill, and at the last moment he pulled his hand back with that same wicked smile, testing my boundaries.

Card, thank you. A quick goodbye, and we were good to go.

I stood up impatiently, putting on my jacket. For a moment he hesitated, shifting nervously in his chair, slowly got up, with simultaneous comfort and discomfort, covering with his jacket, thrown over his arm, what was traitorously and visibly gravitating towards me.

The mildly cool evening air cooled the irresistible desire to a manageable level as we walked.

"Won't you put your jacket on? It's a bit chilly?"

"You know very well why the jacket has to stay where it is."

He was divorced; I'd checked thoroughly. He lived on the other side of the city. In shared circles, people spoke of him with respect. Maybe this would be different.

"And apparently you know where we're going." he concluded as I started crossing the street.

"If you don't mind a five-minute walk, my flat is the nearest destination."

"Mmm, efficient as you are at work: close to the restaurant, no dragging with driving and parking... organized and planned."

"Does that bother you?"

"Not in the slightest."

We walked in silence for some time, aware of each other's accelerated breathing.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he wrapped his arm around my waist, pulled me to his chest and, in the eternally romantic atmosphere, always present in the old cores of European cities, exposed our lips to an indescribable pleasure of the first taste while that stupid song continued spinning in my head with no way to switch it off. Damned romance! Is it feminine and romantic if I press my pubic bone into that lovely protrusion, or am I being too aggressive? Fuck, I don't give a damn! The belt buckles made a "clink" sound when I pressed myself against him. He responded with a muffled gasp as though he'd lost breath. Good! He slowly pulled away from my lips and with a slight grinding of his pelvis reciprocated my challenge.

"How much further do we have to walk?"

"Next street."

He barely let out a sound closest to a whimper. Yes, I believe it's not the most comfortable to walk so divinely swollen in perfectly pressed and not overly loose suit trousers. He was breathing faster and faster. I counted my steps until we reached the entrance to the building.

"Which floor?" His voice had taken on that wonderful rasping tone of male arousal.

"First."

Damned key, everything in my life is perfectly organized, but when I need to find the damned key, it always slips into some corner of my bag no matter how hard I try to keep it in place. Everything in that bag has a tendency not to stay where I put it.

"Neighbour!" a voice from behind.

Fuck! Not him, anyone but him! One of those people completely deaf and blind to the objective situation and needs of others, and when he starts talking, he can't stop.

"Good evening, neighbour."

"Looking for the key again? That's what it's like with women's bags, men are more practical. Me, I have it, right here in my pocket."

Yeah? How long does it take you then to pull out that fucking key and open the fucking entrance doors?

"Found it!" I exclaimed proudly and at lightning speed shoved the key in the lock.

Now we were both aching with anticipation, dear God, I was convinced that my arousal was dripping down my legs and that with each step you could hear the aroused squelching of my wet cunt.

"Tomorrow there's a residents' meeting. Have you got the agenda? We need to decide on replacing the gutters." and then he turned to him. "You know, with these lovely art nouveau buildings, there's always work, always something leaking somewhere, something needs fixing, something needs restoring... built in 1906, you know..."

Fuuuuck! The first floor never seemed so far away, as though someone had doubled the number of stairs in the meantime. We're standing in front of my door, fumbling with the key, breathing is mutually damned accelerated and threatening to turn into whimpering, and the neighbour is standing with us babbling about every possible repair if we want to preserve the history of this lovely architecture... Click! Finally, the door unlocked.

"I'm sorry, tomorrow, we'll..." Slamm! I literally slammed the door in his face. Tomorrow will be the time for guilt, not now, absolutely not now.

I turned toward him standing in my long, oversized hallway with a stiff cock in his trousers, waiting. Oh, for fuck's sake, yes, we need to get somewhere. It would be idiotic to rush and shag standing in the hallway when we've already waited so long. I took his hand and led him to the bedroom.

"So, how many square feet is this?"

"Too many."

"Impressive!" he said, casting quick glances at the rooms we were passing through.

Finally we made it to the bedroom.

"Bloody hell, it's like I've walked into some princess's palace bedroom. You've got canopies on the bed, pink, but you wear suits, interesting."

"Mum's decoration, somehow I feel bad changing it... Fuck, what are we talking about?"

"I have no idea, but I have a request."

"Anything you want." It had come out the shortest route from the speech centre to the mouth before it could pass rational inspection, while muscles were preparing for action. He looked strong enough to fuck me standing.

Mmm, again that laugh full of confidence... it's going to be tricky with the nipples, they're so irritated I'm not sure how much I can stand a touch.

"Please, can you undress yourself? I'd love to... mmm, I'd absolutely love to undress you slowly, but the suit... sorry, it's like undressing a man..."

"Homophobe!"

Again that laugh in that exciting key.

"Clothing is just clothing, but if my fucking suit bothers you so much, it would be my pleasure to remove it from your field of vision as soon as possible."

"It would be my indescribable pleasure."

Right, I'll apply a bit of braking, maybe he really has had enough, maybe I'm demotivating him if my passion reminds him of dominance, maybe I can let him lead us, maybe that's what he needs, maybe it will be easier later when I let my true nature out... I started slowly undressing; I wasn't hurrying, I wasn't taking my eyes off him while I tamed the energy of a pre-Homeric Amazon inside me. I deliberately played with the tie. He undressed far faster than me. And me? Button by button, slowly, if we really have to play some game tonight.

Sweet, if he thought I was struggling, maybe I should have told him I'm a queen of edging. He stood in front of me looking lovely, with that firm chest rising and falling breathlessly, with a cock pulsing with desire while I, in slow motion, was unbuttoning the cufflinks of my shirt. Black lace peeked from the open shirt; that fucking bra nearly exploded under the pressure. The nipples were already screaming for freedom. It's going to hurt like hell when he touches them. I hate pain! I hadn't even got to my trousers when he came closer. And he thought he was playing with me? Sweet! His hand slid from my stomach, across my chest, neck, tenderly burrowed into my hair and then...

Shock! He clenched his fist, grabbed me by the hair with such violence that I was sure he'd ripped out the entire strand, slammed me to the floor and my knees screamed in pain, a sharp cut through my spine, the pain knocked all air from my lungs, and he said, "Now Daddy will teach little, dirty whore how to reward him properly!"

I didn't have time to think; rage and instinct worked at the speed of existential self-defence and overrode the pain. My hand grabbed his, weight redistribution, turn and the grip loosened with his yelp.

"Jesus! What the fuck!" he gasped, holding his wrist.

I wasn't aware of the moment I'd got up and taken a defensive stance, expecting an attack. Unlocked knees, as painful as they were from the collision with the parquet, ready for any direction, a gaze that calmly assessed what kind of attack he'd launch, cost-abdominal breathing to keep the adrenaline under control and relax the muscles around the most painful part of my spine. Breathe, breathe, Nina, breathe... breathe through the pain!

He stared at me, completely naked, in utter disbelief and shock, holding his wrist.

"Easy, hey, easy, Jesus! I'm not going to attack you, I just... I only thought I... Jesus!"

Complete control of breathing finally engaged the rational mind. My sensei wouldn't have been satisfied with the amount of force applied to his wrist; I was satisfied.

"I'm sorry, really sorry, please forgive me if I... Jesus! You acted like... I'm sorry, it was rough, it was too rough."

I still didn't take my eyes off him, completely prepared for any possible scenario regardless of how much larger and stronger he was than me.

"I think it would be best if you got dressed and left."

"Of course." He started getting dressed, evidently the pain in his wrist was still quite present. Good!

"Nina, I'm an idiot. Forgive me; I should have communicated with you... I don't know why I concluded... I'm not saying it's your fault..."

My sharply raised eyebrow made him think carefully about what he'd say next.

"Of course it's not your fault, it's my judgment, I mean all that male energy you bring to work, the whole suit thing, paying the bill... I thought it would be exciting for you to play a game of switching dominance."

"You think I was playing dominance games? Listen, mate, I don't need Daddy to fuck me, my Dad was enough to completely fuck me up mentally."

Arousal had, of course, disappeared for both of us. He stood in front of me completely dressed, with an expression on his face that nearly provoked empathy.

"Nina, you're a woman I respect enormously, both professionally and privately, and that will remain. I overstepped, damn cock thinking instead of me... I'm not excusing myself, I have no excuse, it overwhelmed me... it seems I'm not the kind of man who can handle a woman paying for dinner to which he'd invited her..."

Quick assessment of his posture, muscle tension, micro-expressions, breathing... I slowly lowered my guard.

"No, you're not. Come here." I went to the lounge and poured us a whisky. "Sit!"

God, he sat obediently like some well-trained pup. I stood in front of him with my shirt unbuttoned, knees throbbing painfully, spine wickedly approaching the point where I'd need a sedative. If nothing else, the nipples had stopped hurting. I handed him the glass.

"No ice because I can't be bothered to go to the kitchen for ice right now."

"I suppose that would take a while given the square footage."

A moment of silence, and then unexpectedly, we both burst out laughing. It was laughter of relief after a very stressful moment. I remained standing.

"Are you even aware what effort women put into surviving in a business world that's been built exclusively on male principles for the last fucking 4,000 years and what we have to give up? If we're decisive and focused like most men, we're bitches; if we're emotional and vulnerable, we're weak or incompetent or hysterical. And you know, worse than physical pain, although I hate, hate, hate pain, is that 'dirty whore,' mate, that's a special kind of pain. You activated transgenerational trauma--women who've been shamed for their sexuality for far too long, and at the moment we're about to fuck. Why the fuck do I need pain and shame in that moment?"

"Some women..."

"I know!" I cut him off sharply "And I don't judge, some women find that arousing. I'm not one of them. Whore, slut, degradation and pain, mate, those are my triggers for fight. That's why people agree in advance if they're already planning to play games."

"I'm an idiot!"

"You are, I won't sugarcoat it, but I won't let this turn into some victim-attacker narrative either."

"I suppose that means... between us... I mean, you don't seem like someone who offers second chances."

"No, I don't offer second chances, but I don't want to turn our heads away from each other when we meet somewhere either, and we will meet. This isn't that big a city."

"Jesus!" he buried his face in his palms "I'm a complete idiot! Fuck, you always seem so strong. I've never noticed how small and fragile you actually are... your energy..."

I came up to him and took his injured wrist. Right, not much damage done.

"It'll pass in a few days. And no, I'm not fragile, life didn't allow me that luxury."

He put his other hand on my red and painful knee.

"This won't pass so quickly, I suppose."

"It won't." The magic had disappeared; I was completely immune to his touch. A sharp pain was shooting from my spine. Breathe!

"Jesus, I'm sorry for hurting you."

"I've endured worse."

"Nina, if you would..."

"Don't! I can't be with a man who needs force to feel like a man. That's not my sex fuel."

He drank his drink, put the glass on the table, stood up, gently kissed me on the cheek and headed toward the exit.

"Once more, I'm sorry. Your invoice was received and paid this morning, thank you for your collaboration."

I heard the entrance door close.

I don't know how long I stood like that in the half-light with a full glass in my hand. This would be the ideal moment to let tears fall, only they just won't come. At some point, as if on autopilot, I went to the bedroom, calmly removed all my clothes and put them away in the wardrobe, took a sedative, opened my jewelry box with my favourite toys and did that disinterested orgasm just to get rid of the tension. It was a small orgasm, calm until the very end, without any gasp, with minimal muscle contraction. It will pass; the pain will pass, it always does in the end, you just have to endure.