OUR ACCIDENTAL BABY

by Paula Cox

  I hear my moans fill the office, stifled because of the kiss but there, and getting louder. I tell myself to stop moaning lest somebody hears, but I don’t. I can’t. Rust leans forward, pushing the chair with his hand at the same time, so that our bodies are pressed together. I move my hand from the front of his leather to his neck, gripping onto him hard. He opens his mouth and I open mine. Our tongues brush against each other. My face is warm, heat spreading outward over my cheeks, right up to my forehead. And then—oh god, yes—and then he slides his hand down my belly toward my pussy, which is like an alarm now: ringing throughout my body and flashing for attention.

  His hand smooths over the curve of my belly, and then down to my skirt. He slides it down my skirt and grabs my thigh. He grabs it hard, and signals of urgent pleasure move up my thigh to my pussy, which is the power source of the alarm, the part of me which is begging most to be touched. Up and up he moves his hand, and now any thought of pushing him aware exists only in memory. His fingers spread out near my pussy, less than an inch now, and then—

  He presses his middle and forefinger down, hard, on my clit, pushing so hard I feel my tights and my panties and my clit squash together. I can’t keep the kiss going; I’ll bite off his tongue from the pleasure. I throw my head back, eyelids fluttering, and bite down, clenching my teeth to stop the moans from escaping me. I know they’re going to be loud. He rubs my clit from side to side, hard, so hard I’m surprised there is no pain. It’s as though all his muscular power is concentrated in those two fingers, though I know that can’t be true. I’d be dead. I think about my romance novels, the orgasms those heroines experience, and how I have never understood them. The pleasure intensifies as the thought strikes that I may now be able to.

  Rust groans as he rubs my clit. I can feel his eyes on me, taking in the way I twist and gyrate, and I find myself twisting and gyrating more and more the faster he rubs me. The passage of time is difficult to tell. I am so focused on stopping my moans whilst riding this pleasure. It’s like one second he finds my clit and the next the pleasure is mounting, the pleasure expanding like a bellows, engulfing heat touching every part of my clit. I reach down and grab his wrist, pushing his hand with more force against my clit, capturing the pleasure.

  “Oh, fuck, fuck.”

  Is that me? Is that really me, who sounds like a romance heroine, completely absorbed in pleasure? There is a half-second of disbelief, and then I cannot feel anything but his hand, the heat, the euphoria. He lifts me up, one hand shoved hard against my clit, the other propping my back. I sit down on his hand, riding it, so much pressure applied to my clit now I think it will burst. Fuck, fuck, fuck—and the orgasm hits me like a truck.

  I am thrown backward, arching and twisting, but somehow I manage not to let out a scream. The orgasm explodes from his two fingers, two detonations which trigger my clit, and then one ginormous detonation in my clit itself. I wriggle on his hand, shifting my hips, feeling like I’m floating as he holds me up. The pleasure does not spread through me now; it surges through me. My belly, my breasts, my neck, my legs, my toes, my face—everything is red-hot with pleasure. My pussy gets tight, expands, gets tight, as the waves of the orgasm spend themselves upon me. I lean forward, gripping his shoulders, bouncing on his fingers. Each bounce provokes another searing jolt of pleasure. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper fiercely into his neck.

  Slowly, the orgasm passes, and I am left panting and in shock, but I don’t have much time to recover before Rust is taking off my clothes, pulling my shirt over my head. I should tell him to stop; that was enough. But the second he starts to paw at my clothes, the residual lust left over from the orgasm starts to burn, and my mind turns not to caution but to danger—steamy, lustful danger. I help him with my shirt, and then wriggle out of my skirt and my tights, leaving me in my panties, which Rust takes off by leaning down and biting, and then snapping in his teeth. I stand up, naked before him, and watch as his eyes go wide at the sight of me.

  Then we go to work on his clothes, stripping his leather off, and then his checkered shirt. I grab his belt and slide it loose; grip his pants and yank them down. He kicks off his boots and then both of us are naked, standing before each other, sweat and desire thick in the air. His body seems even bigger naked, somehow; perhaps it is because I can now see each individual muscle. His pectorals are heaving, bulbous and round. His biceps are tight and well-defined. Veins curl around his forearms. His shoulders bulge. And then his cock, Jesus Christ, his cock is massive, thick and rock-hard, pointing almost up. I swallow, wondering if I’m going to be able to take it, but then I don’t have time to wonder anything.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” Rust groans, leaning forward and lifting me up by the armpits. He places me on my desk. I reach my hands under my bum and brush aside my keyboard. My computer screen is knocked backward, but I don’t care, not right now.

  I lie back, legs wide, bent at the knee, toes pointed, staring up at this muscle-bound giant.

  He leans over me with all his impressive power, staring hard at my breasts, and then reaches down with one hand and guides the tip of his cock to my pussy. The helmet of his cock pushes into my hole, opening it slowly, and I feel my pussy screaming out in a moment of panic: I’ve has never taken a cock of this size, or even a cock close to this size. But then the swollen head of him pushes past and the shaft enters me, and I begin to feel the pain pushed aside for incredible pleasure. Pleasure like I have never felt before. Every part of my pussy is touched by his cock, my sweet spot most of all. He thrusts and thrusts, and I am amazed that there is more of him, a whole polearm of him pushing inside of me. Then he holds it, his cock suspended, and we stare into each other’s eyes for a moment.

  I reach up and grab his shoulders, feeling the bare flesh, and then I pull on him, so that he slides out of me. I feel flickers, embers, spitting fire as he slides out, and then in, and then out, and in a matter of seconds we have learnt each other’s bodies and found a perfect rhythm. I am shocked by how quickly we find this rhythm; usually it takes a while, with other men. But not with Rust. I grip his shoulders so hard that the nails which did not break on his jacket pierce his skin, beads of blood rising to the surface of his skin. I thrust to meet him, and feel the desk friction-rubbing my back, but I don’t care. All I care about is the sweet heat of his cock inside me. I hear the sounds of the library, I know that the door is not locked, but the pleasure brushes these concerns aside.

  I lean up and kiss him on the lips as we writhe together, but soon our teeth are just knocking into each other, clicking, adding to the sound of the slapping of our flesh. But more than any of this I feel the orb of my hot spot deep inside of me, an orb which grows hotter and more intense each time the head of his thick cock slams into me. He starts quite slow, but then both of us are swept up in the moment and he drills into me so fucking hard I barely know where I am, who I am; all thought leaves me but for this incredible moment. I try and kiss him again, but that fails because of our shifting and so instead I bite down on his shoulder, loving the way the muscle has no give. It’s like biting solid marble.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, this pleasure is becoming too intense. This past week has led to this one moment. No—this one sensation, the sensation of being on my back, utterly powerless beneath this ripped biker, as he fucks me so hard the desk rocks back and forth, making far, far too much noise but neither of us caring. Any moment Marjorie could walk in, any minute my career could end, and yet, the pleasure is strong that I do not care. And then Rust really starts to fuck me, so hard that the desk almost falls over. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and he lifts me up, holding me above the ground and throwing me up and down so that I slam into his abs, his cock burying deep inside of me.

  Again and again he slams into me, and I slam onto him, until the rhythm swiftly heading toward a crescendo: a crescendo which I urge on, which causes me to ride him quicker, more desperately, until the sensitive spot deep inside of me is now so sensitive, so hot, so sweet that I
can barely comprehend anything but the ecstasy it sends humming through my body.

  “I’m going to—” But I can’t speak, not any longer.

  “Do it,” Rust grunts, fucking me harder.

  At his words, as though at some command, the orgasm pounds into me. It feels like the head of his cock is carrying the orgasm and as he fucks me, it is delivered to my hot spot. Heat erupts, about to spread throughout me, and then at once implodes and is concentrated into my pussy, a cauldron of pleasure over-boiling in that one spot. I feel my pussy go tight around his cock like a hand gripping, so tight that he has to grunt and push with more force. My pussy responds by getting even tighter, loving the way he has to fuck me all the more viciously. I focus every ounce of my attention on the boiling cauldron, as, slowly, the over-boiling pleasure reaches other parts of my body. The spot inside of me stays the hottest, but then trickles of heat move down my legs, my knees, my toes, making them curl. I feel heat flush up my neck, to my cheeks. My fingers can’t do anything other than flutter burningly against Rust’s skin. I bounce up and down so hard that I know there will be pain—but that will come later. Right now, the orgasm is all that exists. And—oh, fuck, it hits me hard, again and again, wave after wave, explosion and implosions cascading as the crescendo yawns out for at least thirty seconds. And then, panting, I lay my face against Rust’s chest as the orgasm leaves me.

  Seconds later, Rust begins to grunt. I bounce again, and as he comes inside of me I grab his face and kiss him on the lips, tasting him, tasting his spent pleasure and his exhaustion.

  It is only when he lays me on the desk that I realize what we’ve just done.

  I sit up at once, his come spilling down my thighs and onto my desk, and look around the office as though somebody has walked in whilst we were fucking and I didn’t hear them. I wouldn’t even be surprised; the pleasure was so intense. Then I jump to my feet and start to get dressed quickly, ignoring the way his come slides down my inner thighs, and purposefully not looking at him because I know that even now, after the ache of the pleasure has set in, his naked body will make me want a second taste. My tights are ruined, as are my panties; I’m going to have to go commando under my skirt and pray that nothing shows off my state. I pull on my skirt, my bra and my shirt quickly, and then I go to the door and lay my ear against it. Just the normal sounds of the library, typing and reading, talking, laughing. Nothing more.

  I turn to Rust, who is getting dressed, and ask myself what the hell we just did. Already, incredulity is setting in. I fucked a man in my office. I fucked a man in my office. Twice, and yet I can hardly believe it.

  Perhaps third time’s the charm: I fucked a man in my office.

  Nope, even as I feel his semen drying on my thighs, I cannot believe it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rust

  Damn, that was good sex. I don’t even know if good can cover it. Fuckin’ great sex. Most likely the best sex I’ve had in my life. Nah, screw that, definitely the best sex I’ve had in my life. I think on that as I get dressed and Allison goes to the door, listening for intruders. The best sex I’ve ever had, and why? It wasn’t the dirtiest, or even the longest-lasting. So why? I pull on my shirt and my underwear, my jeans and my jacket, and I’m still no closer to an answer. Just the way her pert tits were bouncing, her hair spread out over the desk, the way she rode up and down on my balls like she was trying to break ’em. And man, when she came…I’ve never been one to take pleasure from a woman coming, more interested in my own pleasure, but watching her come was something special. Her green eyes got wide, bright, startled, and then closed as her body vibrated like she was about to burst into flames; she felt hot enough for it.

  I feel sleepy as I return to my chair, ready for a cigarette and a whisky. Allison, when I’m dressed, returns to her seat. She offers me a small smile, and then looks down at the desk. She picks up her computer screen and rearranges her keyboard, brushes down the desk, and then looks at me. I can tell she’s struggling to keep her gaze on me by the way she constantly looks over my head, toward the door.

  Just looking at her, hair messy and curling around her face, cheeks flushed red, eyes wide with the aftermaths of pleasure, makes me want to leap across the desk and take her again. But somehow I get the sense that something has changed.

  Without even thinking about it, I say: “Let me give you my number, Allison. We should definitely do that again.”

  I immediately regret it, as well as not understanding it. Why did I say that? Why am I even still here? I don’t know what’s come over me. It ain’t me to offer women my phone number. Usually I want nothing more than to get out of the situation before they ask for my number, and yet here I am offering up like an eager teenager. And worse still, I can tell by the way her face changes when I ask my question that she doesn’t want to do this again. The fuck? She clearly liked it: more than liked it. She clearly had the time of her fuckin’ life.

  “I think…” She pauses, hesitates, and then hardens and says, “I think it’ll be for the best if this is a one-time thing. I just…well, ah…”

  “Just say what you wanna say,” I mutter, getting tired of this. Tired and angry. Not that I give a damn. No, not me, not Rust, not the man who learnt all about rejection before he became a man. No goddamn way. And yet…No, I swallow, swallow down the anger and the rejection, the budding resentment. “Just say what you wanna say,” I repeat, when she just stares at me.

  She swallows, and then nods. “I just think this will be better as a one-time thing. I feel like I’ve—this is going to sound cruel, but I really don’t mean it that way—I feel like I’ve scratched my romance alpha itch, you know?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, sure, fine. Sure, sure.”

  Then, before she can say anything else, I climb to my feet and leave the office. I go out into the parking lot, into the sun which I hardly feel, past people who I hardly see, and to the club’s pick-up truck I used to drive me and Joseph over here. I get behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine, not straightaway. For a while I just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel, cock sore from pounding Allison, and wonderin’ what the fuck happened back there. The best sex ever, and then—the door shut in my face. And then I get even angrier, grip the steering wheel even harder: pissed at myself for even wonderin’ about why any woman did anything. That isn’t my concern. That isn’t who I am. I shouldn’t give a shit about that.

  I start the engine and head down to the club-owned gym, a boxing, free-weights place called Fighting Dukes and owned, oddly, by a Scotsman. I go in, past the faded picture of a four-leaf clover above the door, up the creaky, grimy stairs, and into the gym area. The Scotsman sits against the wall, watching one of his students work a punching bag. He makes to stand when he sees me—sees the patch—but I gesture with my hand for him to stay sitting. I go to the free weights, take off my jacket, and just start lifting like mad. Dumbbell press, bench press, bicep curl, tricep extension, pushups, diamond pushups, sit ups, on and on, trying to work hard enough so that Allison and that perfect body are no longer in my mind, trying to work hard enough so that I stop making the cruel connection between the way Allison rejected me just now and the way Mom rejected me all those years ago.

  When I’m done, I sit on the edge of the bench and look at myself in the mirror, wondering what’s happening to me. One woman, a good fuck, sure—maybe the best fuck—but still, one woman. We fucked; I got what I wanted. One woman…I shouldn’t be thinking this much about one woman, especially after we’ve already fucked. And I offered my phone number. I’ve never done that. I massage my temples, thinking that something strange must be going on inside of me—but then I kill that thought. Nothing strange is going on. I just need a distraction. A fight, a drink, a cigarette. Something to take my mind off those perfect bouncing tits, that tight ass, that pale skin, those wide green deer-eyes, that wavy messy chestnut hair.

  I stand up from the bench, pull on my jacket, walk down the creaky, grimy stairs, and out onto t
he street. I breathe in the fresh air, but that does little to clear my head. Instead of heading for the car I walk down the streets, hands in my pocket, gaze down, thinking. I try not to do that too much: think. All thinking does, as far as I can tell, is remind you just how far up shit creek you are. There’s no point thinking about any bad shit that’s happened to you, ’cause all that’s going to do is make you feel like dog shit. Doing something…that’s more like it. But what can I do about Allison? What can I do about Mom, living a new life somewhere with a kid who’s probably around nine or ten right now, a half-brother or half-sister I’ve never met? What can I do if Allison says she’s done with me?

  “I don’t give a fuck,” I mutter as I get to the end of the street.

  There’s some homeless guy sitting in the doorway of an abandoned takeout place, the tall long windows obscured with cardboard, the gutter pipe twisted in the wrong direction. The homeless man is black, with bright eyes whose color are difficult to determine.

  I walk up to him, reaching into my pocket. “Tough day, eh?” I say, handing him a few notes.

  He reaches up and takes the money, nodding shortly. “Always is,” he says, tucking it into the folds of his ragged sleeping bag. “Just gotta get on, you know?”