Read Three and a Half Weeks for Free Online Page A

did he have?
    “For what it’s worth, I will admit to one little concession: you are special. I’ve never had to pursue a woman as I’ve pursued you, but I think you’re very much worth it.” He rubbed the end of my nose with his and kissed me again.
    Those few sweet words of his proved stowaways on my eventual flight to the UK, staying with me for weeks afterward as I tried to muddle through the motivations and feelings of this most frustrating man.

    On the second visit to his dungeon, we had more fun. At least he thought it was fun. That time, he used toys: a vibrator he called a butterfly—I was rather fond of that one and I wouldn’t mind getting one for my very own—a type of fluffy feather, a vibrating thing that looked like a massager, and tiny metal balls that are strung together and are inserted into various orifices and pulled out slowly during climax. He also used a flogger on me. Over our last two encounters, he gifted me with multiple orgasms. This time he denied me even one.
    I was so frustrated , I was whimpering. Ian just watched me closely, occasionally offering me a wicked grin. I couldn’t believe he was being so mean. Sexual frustration is cruel and it had been going on for what seemed like hours. I was about to really lose it when he finally gave in.
    My wrists were restrained to a chain that dangled from the headboard on the dungeon bed. He flipped me over onto my stomach so suddenly that I screamed out loud but the loss of balance caused my face to smush (that’s smash and mush) into the pillow, muffling it. He didn’t stop there: he slid both of my knees up the bed until my backside was up in the air and then he slapped me so hard, once, twice, and then a third time, pinching my nip before slamming himself into me. I came so hard and so instantly (and so amazingly) that I managed to scrounge up enough humanity to forgive him the previous torment. But he kept pounding into me, right through my orgasm, and, exhausted, I realized he wanted me to come again.
    “I can’t,” I whined.
    “You can,” he snarled, “and you will, Ariel. I want you to give me more…now!” He leaned over, pulled my head back by my hair, and bit my neck as he hammered at me and his fingers did a reach around.
    So I did. Come. Bombarded by sensations everywhere at once, I caved to his dominance and fell before the altar of his alpha-maleness. My body was in control, relegating my mind to the backseat—my body was proving to be such a slut. The idea unsettled me but I tried not to dwell on it.
    After he hit his orgasm, he stilled, remaining on his knees, and looked down at me, while I peered up at him from the corner of my eye.
    “How was that, baby?” His eyes were shining with triumph.
    I sighed heavily. If I had to die young, this was as good a way to go as any I could think of.

    Then there was the third visit. On my third and last trip into that room, he whipped me.
    He . Whipped . Me.
    He used what he called a single tail and it left hot-pink stripes up and down my thighs, and rear end. He’d promised me he’d only do as much as he thought I could take, that he wouldn’t exceed my so-called limits, but he breached that boundary and then some. Under the haze of shocking pain, I finally remembered to use my safe word, shouting it at the top of my lungs. When I said the word, he stopped instantly and cast the whip on the floor. Yet I still have nightmares where I scream out the safe word but it falls on deaf ears and the forceful blows keep raining down on me.
    Afterward, he was apologetic and so very solicitous—and out of breath. We were both panting but for very different reasons. But no matter how deep or heartfelt his apology, the line was most definitely crossed and I was done. Why did I ever even entertain the thought that I was up for it? When I got home that night, I swallowed some ibuprofen and went straight to bed, sore, shocked, and mourning the loss of what never would be—my fabulous