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The Murdered World 33
🕑 Added 2025-01-03 21:00:09 +0000 UTCThe next thing she knew, Christina was moving through the air. Not falling or flying. She was being carried. Rocked by steady footfalls.
Frank, of course. There was no strain in his Goliathan body. He held her up as easily as if she were a small child, carrying her through the confines of the bunker. He was naked—she heard it in the paddling of bare skin against the floor—and so was she. The cum she’d relished so much a few short minutes ago had cooled and congealed. It disgusted her now, or at least disquieted her. She’d really enjoyed being covered in the stuff that much…?
“Five more minutes,” Christina moaned, as though she expected him to carry her back to the bunk and set her down in his comfortable bed again.
“You’ve had five hours,” Frank told her.
“I did?” There wasn’t much difference between day and night in the bunker. She assumed from the lights being dim that it was nighttime, but recalled something about conserving energy… “You didn’t wake me?”
“You’d had a long day,” Frank answered.
She felt touched by his concern. It was absurd, but there it was. Or maybe nothing was absurd anymore, with no baseline, no sanity to return to. Absurdity was a human condition. She didn’t know if they were anything but animals now. That was what she’d felt like last night. Not a whore, not a proper lady—a wild animal.
He carried her into the shower room. The cement floor became ceramic tile. The room was built for scale. It was sixty feet long, with rows of shower stalls along either wall. Each fenced in by jade-green glass. Frank set Christina down outside one, hauled the door open, and turned on the water. Standing clear of it while he held a hand under the stream to check its temperature. He noted with approval that the space was quickly filling with billowing steam.
“Hope you take yours hot,” Frank told her, and gave her a smack on the ass. “In.”
Christina bit back a caustic remark at being ordered around now that he wasn’t inside her anymore. She couldn’t voice it; he might actually go ahead and stop. Men were stupid that way.
The water was blisteringly hot, which impressed Christina. It drove the tiredness out of her body so quickly she was convinced she had been well-rested; just comfortable too. The warm flow sent welcome tingles through her body, making her feel awake and sensuous.
Christina delighted in turning back to Frank, feeling the water lick at her naked skin, letting him enjoy the sight. She rolled her hands over her face, through her hair, down her body… feeling covered in a blanket of warmth and security, losing whatever tensions had managed to hold on through that invigorating fuck and deeply needed rest.
Her tired muscles began to feel supple and ready; she took a washcloth from a receptacle in the wall and scrubbed at her face, working out the dried cum.
Frank lingered outside the falling water, naked, muscular, a chiseled statue of a Greek god—with all the emotion that implied. He didn’t pretend not to look at her. His eyes drank her in like they might lick her clean of every drop of water on her skin.
Christina felt both flattered and intimidated by his interest. She remembered how thoroughly he’d fucked her last night. That now seemed like it was just the beginning of what he might do to her.
With a very clear rush of arousal, Christina remembered that he hadn’t yet touched more than her mouth. She was still just a cocksucker to him. As she turned her body, flaunting her curves, Christina felt like she was transmitting a radio signal. Telling Frank that she could be so much more.
“You could use a wash yourself, Frank,” she said—a very small fraction of what she wanted to say—but her sugar-sweet smile put more into that sentence than words could say.
Frank stepped into the stall with her, shutting the door behind him. Outwardly, he was all-business; plucking a bar of soap from the wall and stepping close, with his free hand on Christina’s shoulder to still her.
“Don’t waste water,” he told her with his customary gruffness, beginning to soap her back.
Christina’s body responded to his touch even quicker than it had to the hot water. Even when he was only washing her back, her nipples popped up hard and throbbing. As he moved down the curve of her spine, soaping the small of her back, she felt little drumbeats deep below his touch—between her legs.
Animal, she thought to herself. Animal in heat. Animal that’s found her mate.
His touch was almost polite, if that could ever be the word for such a brusque man. Frank skimmed the soap up to Christina’s shoulders—his off-hand at her chin, gripping it but not tightly, only enough to turn her head and he washed her neck, washed her face, then down her arms. Massaging a power into Christina’s loose muscles that she didn’t know what to do with.
“Please, Frank…” Christina moaned, her blind face turned up to the water, letting it wash her clean of the suds that made it impossible to open her eyes.
“Please, what?”
With Angel, that would’ve been a prompt: his way of telling Christina he wanted her to beg for his prick, to say exactly what savage thing she wanted from him before she could have it.
With Frank, though, it was hard to tell… he might be just as happy to simply wash her clean and towel her dry as he would be to fuck her.
Christina still couldn’t resist saying it—letting the words out was its own distinct thrill.
“Let me feel more of your hands on my body. Keep washing me until it’s like I’ve never been dirty, never ever, yyesss…”
“Nothing like a hot shower, is there?” Frank asked, reaching down to clean her labia, giving her friction with his strong fingers but only enough to cleanse her, not enough for the satisfaction she craved. “Do you just want my hands, Christina? Is that all?”
Christina allowed herself a smug grin. She’d tempted him, tamed him as much as he could be tamed. She might surrender to Frank, but she’d gotten him to make her surrender.
“Your cock,” she breathed, feeling a burst of passion when her lips formed the word. “I want your cock inside me. Not in my mouth. In my cunt.”
Blood pounded in her temples, a storm raging in her brain that dwarfed the tiny sprinkling of water coming down on her. She was thoughtless, mindless. The anticipation surging through her body had obliterated all restraint, all misgivings.
Who cared if she shared a shower with this man: bold and callous and even a little sadistic? She had no puritan objection to it and neither did he. The only other person who mattered, who might even be alive, was Emma. And if she cared what happened to Christina, now would be a funny time to start showing it.
