Power Play

by Stein, Charlotte

  Usually I suffer through these strange, dry, lukewarm sorts of affairs, and then do something that’s expected of me. Like make a note in my diary of the equally tepid next date we’re going to have. I don’t call him and he doesn’t call me, and neither of us end up fucking each other’s faces in an elevator.

  Which is what Benjamin and I appear to be doing.

  Because when I really think about it, it’s not just me behaving this way. He’s not passively accepting my hungry kisses, or the hands I seem to have clenched around various parts of his body. He’s attacking me with just as much gusto as I’m attacking him – if not more so. After all, I can’t lift him off his feet.

  But he can lift me. And he doesn’t do it the sweet, polite, just a bit desperate sort of way either. He does it in the I’m going to put my hands on your ass sort of way. I can feel him actually squeezing me there, like he’s waited days and days and days to get just a taste of my body, and now that he’s allowed …

  God, I think he’s trying to get my skirt up.

  I mean, it seems as though he’s simply giving me a quick grope while the opportunity presents itself. But after a second I think I can make out the ulterior motive behind the roll and press of his hands on my ass.

  He’s trying to get underneath. He’s trying, and he’s got me shoved up against the elevator wall, and ohhhh no. I’ve completely misjudged his size and strength and even worse – the way that mouth of his makes me feel. His lips are just so soft and wet, which tends to make everything at least thirty per cent lewder than it actually is. And though he isn’t overly generous with his tongue, I can still make it out when he darts it over mine.

  It’s just that I make it out someplace way, way lower than my mouth. Sensation blooms between my legs for every little slippery caress he gives me, and the feeling gets stronger the moment his fingertips actually slide underneath my skirt.

  He’s going to touch me there, I think. He’s going to do it, and then I’m going to die of pleasure. I have to stop this thing – for just a little while – so that any dying occurs in a more dignified sort of place.

  Like my apartment.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, the second I urge him away from me. And then he has the temerity to say it again! ‘Sorry – was that too much? I didn’t mean to go under your skirt, it’s just … you feel so … so …’

  I’m glad he leaves it hanging there, all breathless and heavy with want. It makes it easier to drag myself back under control, and frame what I want in clear, precise, well-thought-out-seeming terms.

  Even if I’m the exact opposite of all of those things on every level.

  ‘We’ll take my car,’ I say, and though I force myself not to look at him as I do, I can practically make out his expression anyway. It’s pressing so hard against the side of my face that it’d be almost impossible for me to miss it.

  It’s shock, I think. Shock and a kind of thrilled disbelief.

  Followed by him, following me to my car.

  He doesn’t say anything when we get there – but then, he doesn’t really need to. He’s far too busy running his fingers over all the things he previously wasn’t allowed to touch, in a manner that suggests he isn’t sure if I’m real or not. He touches my shoulders, and the neat crease at the hemline of my jacket. He finds the wisps of hair that have come loose from the knot at the back of my head, and just feathers over them.

  All of which is somehow worse than if he’d suddenly shoved a hand between my legs and squeezed my cunt in one big fist. It’s just so slow, that’s the thing. So slow and deliberate, every move he makes too easy to experience in full. I can make out the prickle of each little hair as he strokes over it, and I know he’s getting extremely close to kissing the side of my face.

  I know he is, because some sort of odd tension crackles in all the places he’s not. It like there’s a thin, electricity-filled barrier between our bodies, and as long as I continue doing something innocuous – like opening the car door, with extreme difficulty – the barrier remains.

  Or at least, it does until I just turn my head and lick over his parted lips. After that, it’s kind of hard to maintain. He doesn’t seem to want to maintain it. He actually makes a noise when I touch him, and then again when he fully processes what I just did.

  I lapped at his mouth, as though his mouth has suddenly become a stand-in for something else – and I don’t stop there, either. I wait until he’s flushed and leaning towards me, so desperate for more that he can’t keep that greedy, abandoned look off his face.

  And then I do it again, only with far more force this time. I think I actually lick inside his mouth – as though my tongue is a cock and I just want to feel all that lovely warm wetness inside that pretty mouth of his – and for my troubles he grabs a fistful of my jacket. He actually grabs it, before he realises how insane he’s being and straightens his trembling self out.

  ‘You are going to control yourself, aren’t you, Benjamin?’ I say, one eyebrow raised. Hand on the now open car door, like a suggestion – I might not let you in if you keep misbehaving. And then the kicker: ‘Because if not, I don’t think we’re going to get through half the things I’m wanting to.’

  He makes an expression I can best describe as biting his fist, without actually biting it. His mouth opens and near closes, that gaze of his so desperate suddenly it’s near unbearable. I want to kiss him again for that look alone, but of course I resist.

  ‘I can – I will. I … whatever you want. Whatever you want, sir.’

  Lord in heaven. Please help me get through this with my sanity intact.

  ‘Get in the car, Benjamin,’ I say, and I swear you’d never know that those things about the Lord and my sanity had just made their way through my mind. It’s literally like he makes me a different person, and said person continues in this manner all the way through the car journey to my place.

  I find myself gazing mindlessly out at the traffic as it streams by. Everything exactly as it always is – near darkness streaked with lights I barely pay attention to. The hum of the city fading down to an endless grey, while I think of nothing but ready meals and television shows I hate, greedily anticipating mundanity in a way most people probably anticipate wild nights on the town.

  And then in the middle of all of said mundanity, I just reach to one side of myself and put my hand between his legs.

  ‘Oh, baby,’ he tells me, but the use of such an epithet doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Instead I find myself fixated on his bodily reactions, like the way he seems to sit up straighter in the seat the second I stroke over that long, thick length. And when I do a little more than stroke … when I sort of actually start masturbating him through his trousers … he can’t seem to help rocking into my touch.

  I have to look. I wait until we’re at a light and then just glance across at him – but the moment I do I wish I hadn’t. It had seemed as if he’d made himself stiff in his seat, but that isn’t the case. He’s slumped in it instead, head right back against something that isn’t the headrest, body making one long, eager bow down from that point until it gets to the hard jut of his cock.

  Which I have to look away from quickly. I have to, because he isn’t just obviously stiff and kind of rolling his hips into my hand. He’s also done something that makes a thick surge of arousal go through me in a way that the obvious things don’t. Hard cocks and narrowed eyes and those ever-parted lips of his are fine, they’re good, they make me wet.

  But the sight of his sluttishly spread legs … that just sends me. It sends me.

  ‘Is that what you call controlling yourself?’ I ask, but he’s long past that point now. He can’t keep a handle on himself when we’re in the hallway outside my door, because the second I turn to put the key in the lock he goes one better than he did by my car.

  He kisses the back of my neck, all hot and wet and utterly electric. And then he slides a hand around my body, and cups one of my breasts through my shirt.

  That’s right. H
e doesn’t do it through something safe like my jacket. He actually pushes his way underneath that particular barrier and goes for something that’s so close to skin-to-skin contact that I have to clench my teeth, hard. My toes curl inside shoes that weren’t designed for curling, and oh God the throb that goes through my clit …

  I’m not prepared for it – though I understand why. I’ve spent too long building it up to this, and now a little light boob touching feels like someone sticking their tongue in my ass. Most of me wants to shove that hand away immediately, but once we’re in the entranceway of my apartment and I’m twisting around to kiss his pliant mouth and he’s rubbing over my nipple … I can’t.

  It’s too much like all of my wildest imaginings, about actual desire and lust, for another person. Like in the movies when the heroine finally gets together with her hunk, and they’re so desperate for each other they just have to start ripping off all of their clothes before they’ve hit the dining room.

  Though granted, the latter happens for other reasons besides because the contrived script said it must. It happens because after a second of that same sloppy, filthy, frantic sort of … kiss-fucking, I just ever so slowly lever him away from me. And once he’s there, mouth still gratifyingly reaching for mine … all of his focus on my lips, my tits, the way I’m staring at him like he’s fucking irresistible … I say to him soft and low: ‘Take off your clothes.’

  And then I watch as he obeys me. His eyes don’t once leave mine as he fumbles with the buttons on his cardigan, and does his best to shuck himself out of it. Wrists catching in the cuffs, shoulders standing out as round and smooth as some fruit I don’t yet know the name of beneath the crisp white shirt he then reveals.

  I almost don’t want him to take the thing off – there’s something incredibly clean-cut and boyish about it, all buttoned up like that to his throat. Only then he starts yanking on the material to get it out of the trap of his trousers, and suddenly I have to glance down. It’s a necessity, because every time he pulls I can make out flashes of things I’ve not so far seen.

  His belly, all covered in completely unexpected hair and solid in a way I didn’t think it would be. I thought he’d be kind of smooth and planed somehow, like a model on the cover of Gym Bunny magazine. Buffed into oblivion, and perhaps just a touch bland for my tastes.

  Instead he’s this … this … man beneath his clothes. He’s … burly. There’s hair just about all over him – as toffee-coloured as the hair on his head, but still impressive somehow – and bits I don’t quite understand. Like his shoulders, which don’t go straight across in the way I’d probably expected them to. They’ve got these slopes of muscle instead that slide upward into his massive man’s neck. His collarbone is like something archaeologists unearthed at the nearest dinosaur’s graveyard, and his chest … oh dear Lord his chest.

  I can’t help wondering about the sound it would make if you were to punch him somewhere on that vast expanse of flesh. Would it thwack in that dense, meaty way a fist does, once it’s connected with something incredibly heavy and solid?

  I imagine so, but that doesn’t make the reason for my imagining any clearer. Even he looks perturbed when I finally manage to drag my eyes back up to his face, and he’s the one who let me fuck his arse with my fingers. I doubt much truly unnerves him – particularly with a body like the one he’s got.

  He could wrestle for a living. Maybe in a damp basement somewhere, with many other sweaty, possibly horny men. And then once they’re done fighting, they could …

  ‘Am I … not what you were expecting?’

  Of course, my immediate instinct is to say no. No, you’re not what I was expecting. You’re so heavy and solid and masculine that I just want to climb you like a tree, and maybe live on your face for a couple of decades.

  But I refrain. In some respects.

  ‘Get the rest off,’ I tell him, just as cool as you please, while inside great waves of heat roll their way down between my legs to settle in my swollen, maddening little clit. I have to clench my nails into the palms of my hands just to keep myself from doing some of the things my brain had threatened, when he finally strips out of his trousers.

  I mean, I’ve seen his long, strong thighs before. And I can recall the shape and size of his cock almost exactly. But once everything has been put together in a single glorious tableau, it’s extraordinarily hard to help myself.

  In fact, it’s so hard that I don’t really bother at all. I just step forward and start running my hands all over his solid body, until he says something half-amused like ‘are you actually groping me, Ms Harding?’

  I am. I’m actually groping him. And I’m not ashamed of that fact either because he feels amazing. His nipples are taut little points beneath the stroke of my fingertips; all of his flesh so warm and firm. When I run my hand over his belly I can feel every muscle there, jumping, and the more I go on, the worse it gets.

  By the time I’ve gotten a handful of his ass, his mouth is back on mine – or at least it’s trying to be. Mostly he’s just missing due to his simultaneous efforts to get me somewhere other than the entrance to my apartment.

  ‘Where’s your bedroom?’ he blurts out against the side of my face. Then realises he should probably modify a comment like that. ‘I mean – if you’re wanting to.’

  He’d have to be mad to imagine otherwise. I practically writhe against him when he finally lifts me off my feet again and starts in the direction of the nearest dark room. It’s lucky, really, that we don’t end up in the bathroom or a random cupboard, because I’m not paying the slightest attention to anything other than his meaty shoulders, and how easily they give beneath the press of my teeth.

  And he’s not paying attention to anything other than how that feels, to have someone biting down hard.

  ‘Fuck, that’s so …’ he tells me, then gets no further, probably because of the contact his cock is suddenly getting with someplace strange like the underside of my ass. The second he stumbles onto the bed with me still tangled around him, I can feel him rutting himself against me. He doesn’t try to hide it, until I manage to get some words out.

  ‘Is that what you’re going to do, huh?’ I ask him, between mouthfuls of his body, his face, good God he smells incredible. Like that American-boy-perfume but like something else too, something heated. Something ready to fuck. ‘You’re just going to rub yourself off on me like that?’

  ‘No, no,’ he says, but he doesn’t stop exactly. He just keeps on rocking against me as he kisses and fondles his way down my body, mouth always seeking the sweetest thing he can find – like the smooth curves of my breasts beneath my shirt.

  Of course it’s obvious that he wants my clothes off. And I feel for him on that score, I really do, because he’s all vulnerable and I’m all covered … but I can’t let him do it. For a moment I’m so overwhelmed by him – by his size and his heaviness and most of all his eager, greedy need to get at just about every part of me – that I can hardly do anything at all. I just kind of twist beneath him, awkwardly, as though maybe I’m trying to reach for a drink on the nightstand.

  While he buries me beneath his body. He doesn’t wait for me to say yes or no or possibly, he just kisses wetly down over me, lingering on parts I don’t want him to – like my embarrassing stiff nipples. They’re sticking out through two layers of material – a thin lacy bra I shouldn’t have worn, and this wretched blouse I seem to be trapped in – and he just homes right in on them, licking and licking until I’m only half-heartedly trying to wrestle back control.

  In truth I’m far more interested in the sensation it produces, which is somehow worse than if I’d been completely naked. Every time he just sort of … tugs at one stiff peak with those soft, clingy lips of his, I get a double burst of pleasure. First from the pressure and heat of him, and then from the feel of the material sliding just ever so wetly against those sensitive points.

  By the time he’s moved onto less intense areas of my body, I’m barely con
scious. The heat blooming between my legs is an inferno, and it’s wiped me out. My arms and legs are like syrup. My face feels like it might burn someone if they were to touch it, and the longer this goes on, the worse it gets. It’s not like I’m going to get a last-minute reprieve. I can’t really get myself a glass of water.

  And in all honesty I’ve done this to myself, with seven hundred kinky games and an equal amount of nights in when I gallantly refused to masturbate. I am an idiot, and he takes full advantage – even if I can’t really call it that. When normal people take advantage of another person’s paralysed-with-lust state, they don’t seem half as grateful and wildly horny as he does, I know.

  His cock’s so hard it’s almost hurting me whenever it shoves into someplace soft, like my inner thigh. And I can feel how slick it is at the tip too. When he eases his way down my body and actually does something crazy – like poking his tongue into my belly button through my shirt – I can make out the slick trail his cock is making over my skin.

  But he isn’t trying to rut against me any more. Oh no. No, no – I think he’s got something a lot more selfless in mind. And I can tell I’m going to like it because the second he starts trying to shove my skirt up, I almost help him.

  That’s how desperate I’ve become. I’m a woman who helps some guy push her skirt up so that he can get at her slippery, too-swollen pussy. I’m breathing as hard as he is, and I’m twisting around on the bed in a way that’s not like escaping at all, and when he finally exposes my cunt to his waiting gaze I’m the one who needs to rut.

  I actually rub my ass against the sheets, like an animal in heat – but he doesn’t make me feel bad about it. He’s too busy staring and staring at my spread pussy, eyes all heavy-lidded and lost.

  ‘You’re all bare,’ he tells me, and it takes a second to understand what he means. Probably because I’m lost too, in the thick sensation between my legs. He hasn’t even done anything yet, and I can feel my clit pulsing. I can make out my own wetness trickling down between the cheeks of my arse.