Driftwood Deeds

by Blake, Laila

  I think I lost control over my noises again, and before I could even properly enjoy it, he withdrew and turned his attention to my cunt. He was far less intrusive there. He used the sponge again, prickly and harsh as he rubbed it over my sticky thighs and folds.

  “You got so nice and wet...” he told me after a while. “But I want to fuck you later and I want to feel it.”

  As he said this, he pressed the showerhead against my entrance and immediately warm water gushed inside of me. I yelled out loud, bumping my head against the wall, but before the pressure became too much, he pulled the stream away and watched it all flow back out of me, down the side of my leg and splashing onto the ceramic bathtub floor. I cringed. It was hot and wet and felt almost like I was peeing right there in front of him.

  He repeated the procedure several more times, pushing a finger inside of me from time to time as though to test how slippery I remained and when I could feel every callous and every wrinkle around his knuckles, he turned off the water.

  I stood back up straight and immediately regretted it when an overwhelming sense of dizziness took hold of my head. For a second I thought I might faint but then I found myself pressed against his chest and he lifted me out of the tub and sat me down on the toilet.

  I don’t remember when he’d taken off his shirt—I assumed while I was bent over facing away from him, but when I leaned forward, my face came to lie against his naked stomach. I rested there, breathing him in with each lungful of air. My arse felt sore against the toilet seat, my asshole stretched and my cunt raw and dry and clean for him, and when he patted my hair, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment or a place where I’d have felt more safe and taken care of.

  A comfortable exhaustion was taking hold of my body. Like a long Sunday morning in bed, or that perfect time late at night after a glass of wine that makes the bed so much softer and makes your head spin when you close your eyes. That’s what that toilet seat felt like; it was my bed and his stomach was my pillow.

  Only when the immediate spell of exhaustion faded did I notice his scent again, and the softness of his skin. His fingers were in my hair, combing through it gently.

  My lips found his skin like a ship finds a harbor. It didn’t even occur to me that he might stop me when I kissed his stomach, when I felt those little hairs tickle my chin. He wasn’t twenty-five and it showed; he also didn’t have the stomach of a man who did sit-ups every day. It was a comfortable straight torso with some give under his skin, slightly softened by age and time. I could suck a fold of it into my mouth and bite it before I released it again. He grunted at this, and his fingers hardened against my scalp.

  “I see you are rested,” he said from what felt like far above me, smiling down. I whimpered. I think I pleaded unintelligibly, too, as I kissed and licked at his stomach. The waistline of his jeans rubbed against my chin and I wanted it gone, but when my fingers found the button, he closed his hand around mine.

  I looked up, all puffy eyes and bee-stung lips.

  “Please?”

  “You have such beautiful instincts,” he whispered, hands cupping my face. His voice gathered force when he continued. “Ask again, be polite and specific.”

  I blushed. Maybe it really had been instinct, or something terribly suggestive in his hands or his smell, but I had never pleaded for sex before, much less the chance to pleasure a man. But here I was, sitting on a toilet seat in front of Paul Archer, a man I had only just met and his words caused a painful stirring behind my clit.

  “Please...” I started, the words were there, all lined up and I was too deep into the game to pretend I had any modesty left. “May I please touch you? Touch your cock? I just want to touch you...”

  “Just touch?” His reply brought me up short and my mouth fell open.

  “Anything you’ll let me do,” I spluttered and when I didn’t know what else to say, he pushed his thumb into my mouth. It was large and the skin was far more hardened than his stomach. Before I could wrap my mouth around it, he gently pulled down my jaw while his eyes locked on mine. My breath washed against his hands like waves against the shore.

  “I suppose little puppy deserves a treat, something familiar after all that adventure.”

  As always, his voice did not contain a trace of cruelty or unkindness. He hardly even sounded condescending, which always seemed to stand in contrast with the words he uttered. With his thumb still keeping my mouth open, I just nodded and my eyes clouded over a little when he nodded down to his stomach.

  “Take my cock out.”

  I felt a shiver run down my spine; I was still looking up at Paul. There was no rush in his eyes but there was in mine and I brought my shaking fingers to the waistline of his jeans. Finding the button, I tore at it for a moment or so until I took a deep breath, forced my fingers to move as I commanded them to. It was easier then and I leaned my forehead back against his stomach while I pulled down the zip and reached into the elastic of his underwear. The painful pulling between my legs intensified at that first touch—the heat, the soft skin around the hard tumescence. I couldn’t wait and quickly brushed down the fabric until it sprung to light.

  He gave me a moment to appreciate it, to look at its size and shape. It was average, I suppose—not surprisingly long but beautifully thick, so much so that I couldn’t meet my fingertips as I wrapped my hand around it. He was circumcised, like most American men his age as he told me later, and he had one of the most beautiful mushroom heads I had ever seen. I found myself licking my bottom lip in anticipation and immediately, he clicked his tongue and pushed my jaw back down. Without another word, he breached my lips and pushed his cock inside my mouth.

  I hadn’t done this in a while. I had been concentrating on my career and done little dating and my eyes bulged at the strain of my lips stretching around him. In a flash, I thought of my cunt and my ass, both still feeling quite intruded upon, and they had only felt two of his fingers. I whimpered a moan around his hard flesh at the thought and wondered how soon he’d fuck me or whether he’d wash my cunt out again because I could feel it growing more slippery with every passing moment.

  With one hand around the base of his cock and the other hooked behind my ear, he controlled speed and depth completely. It was a new experience for me, the swift push deep into my mouth whether I was ready for it or not. He hit against my gag reflex with the very first stroke and my body cringed in response. He did it three more times, fucking my mouth in rapid succession until he pulled out all the way. A thick strand of saliva spanned between his cock and my lips. My stomach churning and new tears pooling in my eyes, I was still catching my breath when he angled my head up.

  “There’s something for you to work on,” he said with a gentle smile and patted my cheek. And just like that my cunt started to contract hard around itself, grasping at nothing. It wasn’t quite an orgasm but it made me moan and I showered his cock in kisses, licked all my sticky saliva off the beautifully defined head before he violated my mouth again. This time he pushed slowly, deeper and deeper until I couldn’t breathe and my throat contracted hard around him, trying to fight the intruder. It was the first time I heard him groan in pleasure.

  My eyes were leaking by the time he pulled out and I keeled forward against him, gasping for air while he patted my head tenderly, whispering compliments that soothed my soul. I can’t say that I was crying even though tears ran down my cheeks unchecked. I wasn’t in pain or discomfort, I wasn’t afraid or shocked. I just wanted more and the tears seemed like a purely physical reaction, much like my cunt couldn’t stop getting wetter and wetter for him either. He gently brushed my tears away and told me how beautiful I looked like that. Again, I licked him clean and this time, he made me ask him to fuck my mouth again. And again.

  Each time, he seemed to cut off my air supply a second or so longer, seemed to enjoy my spasming throat just a little more. After the third time he kissed my sweaty forehead.

  “Well, done little puppy. Hands between your le
gs,” he said. “You can rub yourself until I come.”

  I did as he asked and almost fainted with joy when my fingers touched a clit all but screaming for release. When he started to fuck my mouth again, though, hard and fast this time, I could hardly keep a rhythm and all my concentration went into my mouth, into keeping it open, into breathing and controlling my gag reflex.

  I didn’t come, but it strangely felt like I did when he sprayed his seed against the roof of my mouth and I swallowed it down like a precious gift. It tasted bitter, salty and harsh like the sea. He pulled out and then lifted me to my feet before he enveloped me in his arms. My limbs were numb and hardly there and I was still panting, exhausted as though a truck load of new emotions, sensations, pain and desire had run me over. It was the most at peace I had ever felt.

  He kissed my hair, wiped my face again with a wet towel and then helped me into his shirt, closing just one button across my breasts. Then he took my hand and led me out of the bathroom.

  “My poor, beautiful girl. I think you need a little rest.”

  IX

  “Are you hungry?”

  I looked up at Paul, uncomprehending for a moment. My mouth still tasted like him and at first, I could only understand it as a reference to more semen. Something had changed in his face, though, as he led me into his kitchen. It felt far more spacious now than it had upon my first visit here—I attributed that to the cramped quarters of the bathroom. It was hard to accept that the room hadn’t changed at all, when everything else, down to the very molecular composition of my cells, seemed to have been fundamentally altered in the last two hours. But there was the kettle he’d used to boil water for our tea, there the spines of the books I’d spied earlier, there the fresh herbs on the windowsill: rosemary, thyme, coriander, basil. I could smell them from where I stood with senses that still felt preternaturally heightened by the experience.

  “I like sitting here while I cook,” he explained with a shrug. I followed his gaze to a leather armchair, squashed into a corner I hadn’t noticed before. It looked slightly greasy but comfortable, with a buttery sheen that came from long years of use.

  “Why don’t you sit and I make you something? I wouldn’t want to deplete your reserves completely.”

  He grinned knowingly—Paul and his mind reading. I did feel like I had run out of gasoline or battery power during our time in the bathroom. Although, I suppose a simple look at my face and the lack of tension in my muscles would have given him all the information he needed without looking into my soul at all.

  When I sat down, the cushion was cold against my bruised behind but just that day, I didn’t care that I was sitting bare-assed on leather. It was still hard to speak and he didn’t push me. Instead, I leaned back and watched him. He looked taller from my lower vantage point, even more luminous and stunning. He had pulled up his zipper but not found another shirt. There was an intriguing symmetry to that: me naked from the waist down, he from the waist up. I could see his muscles flex under his skin when he reached into the overhead compartment to pull down a glass, then soften and realign in their original position.

  “Juice?” he asked and I nodded. When he handed it to me, he added. “Good for your blood sugar.”

  I managed a smile and picked it up. My hands were shaking and I wondered if he’d seen it, whether this was what had made him think of my blood sugar at all.

  As I gulped down the apple juice, my body started to settle back into itself. The only sensation I can compare it to is that time of rest after a long session in a sauna or doing yoga, when your body feels soft and pliable, like a perfectly peeled egg, fresh out of its shell and for once, you feel like you know every muscle, every nerve ending intimately, utterly connected with every single atom in your body.

  “It’s quite normal, you know, the silence.” He was leaning against the sink, watching me and I realized that it had been quite some time since I had finished the juice. I couldn’t have said how long exactly—it didn’t seem to matter either way. But I can’t remember ever having drifted off into introspection in company quite like that and his reassurance, given even before I could feel embarrassed, made me smile up at him. It was so easy to trust a man who was so in tune with my body, my feelings and concerns.

  “During the last two hours, your consciousness moved to a different level. Some say a deeper one, where talk seems unnecessary, thought too. It’s beautiful on you. It makes you display your feelings on your face without anything to guard them. Some people call it sub-space.”

  I nodded, smiled again and stared into the empty glass. When I looked back up at him, he was squatting in front of the fridge and produced something in a bowl.

  “I marinated some prawns. I thought we’d go simple and a little rustic.”

  He talked to me while he prepared dinner, again managing to make me feel comfortable despite the fact that I contributed very little to the conversation. He simply talked about food, that he liked cooking and intricate preparations. It was nice to watch, too, the way he carefully diced some onions and threw them into the cast iron pan with the prawns. They started to smell like coriander and curry when the oil started to sizzle around them.

  He spoke about his dreams of self-sufficiency and of trying to go as far as he could, making his own jams, fishing sometimes, buying as little prepared items as possible. He set the table with fragrant home baked bread, butter, some cheeses and grapes. I wanted to help but he forbade me and for the first time since I’d lain down across his lap, we laughed together.

  I was beginning to feel like myself again, just a calmer version as though something about our time together had effected a cathartic experience upon my mind and body. Already, I only remembered it somewhat vaguely as though it had happened in a different time or space and I was almost surprised when I rose from the sofa and winced as my sore bottom peeled itself off the leather.

  “Let me see,” he demanded and gently bent me over the chair. My hands braced themselves against the warm leather while his brushed over my arse. I could hear myself sigh; wanted to sink into his arms again—it was so easy. But there was seafood in the pan and Paul smiled at the expression on my face.

  “Let me get some lotion for you before we eat.” It didn’t take him long to fetch it.

  “Good girl,” he whispered more teasingly than before when he saw that I had remained in the position he’d put me in. The effect was the same, need and lust and a pulsing sensation between my legs. It didn’t matter that in this moment I was more his guest than the submissive girl in his lap.

  I wasn’t quite as tired anymore and part of me was praying he’d forget all about the beautiful meal he’d prepared and would pull down his zipper again but those flashes of skin on skin, of his cock deep inside of me stayed in my head and nowhere else. And it was there, bent over the chair, inhaling that typical leather smell, that I realized how vast the chasm was between my mindset before we entered the kitchen and the one then. Before, I didn’t think of anything past his touch, past the present. I didn’t worry or hope nor did I try to conceive of any expectations. I just existed in the moment, just like he’d told me to. I hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but now I could feel the difference, the heat and the longing, the half-subconscious flashes of how I could get him to fuck me right here, right now. I looked at him in a new way when he pulled his shirt back down over my ass and drew a chair out for me. I don’t know if he noticed, but he smiled and kissed the top of my head before he washed his hands and joined me.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, not for the first time as he held a bowl of bright greens out to me—I recognized baby spinach, arugula and romaine hearts. He’d sprinkled diced onions and freshly cut basil over the mixture and served it with a simple olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. I ladled some on my plate and chose two prawns and a piece of bread. Not consciously buying time, it did take me a few seconds to turn my contemplative state of mind into a sharing one.

  “Good,” I said, quietly against t
he raw quality of my throat and voice. “Really good. Like I have a new body.” And not just a new body, a new mind as well: a reboot that cleared all the junk in my temporary files. There was peace in the way I regarded the moment, a lack of immediate judgment and instead an ability to stay open and vulnerable to the world around me.

  The satisfaction in his face was obvious. He reached for some food himself, piling it on his plate without sharing my compunctions of appearing too greedy before looking back up at me.

  “Is it supposed to be so... meditative?” I asked, but wrinkled my brow. “I don’t know how else to say it, that doesn’t seem like the right word.”

  Paul chuckled. He tilted his head to the side.

  “Because most meditation techniques don’t include either sex or pain?” There was no need for an answer but I nodded anyway. “They do exist—there’s nothing pure that religions haven’t tried to co-opt for their purposes. Pain, submission, utter surrender of the self is part of many religions.”

  I thought about this while tasting his prawns and bread. He was a good cook, but clearly my state of mind was doing its part to add to the sensory experience of taste and texture. To speak and eat at the same time seemed like sacrilege, but with that thought I was back at our conversation.

  “So you think it’s... like a religious experience, this kind of... you know?”