Never Loved

by Charlotte Stein

  He just sounds like he’s really enjoying his shower.

  Really, really enjoying it in a way that makes me tingle. He lets out this one gruff ah and I actually feel my clit swell. My nipples stiffen and start to ache under that soft material, while my brain still refuses to catch up. My brain is a nun who spent her entire life in a bunker beneath a remote desert. It takes until he says something for it to catch up. “Yeah, stroke that sweet pussy,” he says.

  And then I have to just close my eyes for a second.

  Only for a second, though, so as not to miss too much of him masturbating because holy crap that is definitely what is going on here. He is in the shower stroking himself and talking about pussy. And not even just a stranger’s pussy, either. My pussy. He is absolutely talking about my pussy. I know he is, because a second after he says my name, he tells me to make myself come.

  He wants to watch me doing that, I think. Why else would he say it? Why else would he moan about it the way he is doing? In all my days I’ve never heard anyone sound the way he sounds now, all desperate and urgent and ohhhh, Lord, it makes me feel good. I did that stuff only a few hours ago, but the fever is suddenly on me again. Only this time when it happens, I don’t try to fight it. I get none of the nervousness with it—or at least less of it. I mean, right now I should probably be leaving. I should feel bad.

  And there is no way I should do what I then do.

  Yet somehow it just seems to happen. I hear a kind of permission in his words and just reach up to tease and toy with one of my spiky little nipples. Not in a big way, you understand. Not underneath my clothes, and there is no pulling or pinching of any kind. But I do actually do it. I stroke myself, softly, as I watch him and listen to him. Then when it all makes this good line of heat between that one point and my slowly swelling pussy, I go a little further.

  I kind of have to go a little further. My little bud is just aching and aching, and over the sound of the water I can hear him now. I can hear his hand on his cock, quick and slippery and completely alien to my ears. Touching myself is almost a necessity under that kind of duress—though once I have, I kind of want to take it back. Most of me is not really prepared for what happens. Most of me is still thinking of the pillow and the rubbing and not the reality of stroking myself there.

  Which is honestly just too much to take, despite how little I really do. I just lift the hem of the T-shirt a little and slip one finger over myself. Nothing really big.

  But then maybe the relative bigness has nothing to do with it. How can it, when I get excited just feeling my own wetness? The stuff is all over the outside of my pussy, practically coating me from stomach to midthigh. My sparse fur is slick with it, and when I shift just a little I can feel it between the cheeks of my bottom. Really, it’s no wonder I thrill over the whole thing—or do other stuff I don’t mean.

  Like taking a step forward. Suddenly the shadow play is not enough—or at least that is what my shivering, too-flushed body is telling me. Just take a peek, it whispers. He won’t mind. This is exactly what he’s fantasizing about. He probably wants you to peel the curtain back while sort of stroking yourself. He probably longs for you to come to him and do all kinds of dirty things.

  It only seems like it horrifies him.

  Though I will admit the illusion is pretty damned good. I just get the tiniest glimpse of the water-glossed curve of his ass, and then he jerks as though struck. He turns and yanks the curtain out of my hands—and not just because he is shocked by my presence. He uses it to cover himself. He wraps it around his body like a slippery makeshift skirt, before giving me a look to end all looks. If WTF was in the dictionary, this expression would be next to it. His eyes are a mile wide, and he’s breathing hard—so hard his chest is heaving—and I know, I absolutely know, I should be deeply bothered by it.

  Maybe I even am, in some small way.

  But it remains just that: a small way. The bigger, more scared part of myself is starting to crumble. I barely even balk when he demands to know what I’m doing. I just come right out with the obvious as though the obvious is small instead of enormous and rude.

  “Watching you masturbate. You were masturbating, weren’t you?”

  I think he does a double take, even though I was pretty sure they didn’t exist outside of cartoons about talking dogs. And when he answers, he comes close to a splutter.

  “That…whether I was or…you can’t just sneak up on me like that.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. It wasn’t really planned. It just sort of happened. I heard you and then saw you and I got all excited and thought that maybe I could…”

  “You could what?”

  “Get a closer look. After all, you’ve seen me. And the only reason I didn’t see you is because you said you were fine, even though you don’t really look like you are,” I say, and though I can see he wants to protest this, he stops just shy.

  Most probably because he is realizing how true it is. His chest is still heaving, and not in the startled-by-an-intruder way. If it were, I doubt he would be flushed all over his throat the way he is, or looking at me quite like that. His eyes seem very hungry, suddenly. And when he speaks, he seems a lot less sure than he did before.

  “I told you I want to go slow.”

  “So it’s not because you worry about getting turned on over the wrong thing.”

  “Yeah, all right, maybe it’s that, too.”

  “Well then, perhaps I should reassure you.”

  I don’t mean for the word reassure to come out like an innuendo, I swear.

  It just happens. Like me stepping forward. Like the hand I still have between my legs—the one that he keeps glancing back to as though I’m unknowingly performing some hypnotist’s trick. My fingers stir just beneath the hem of the T-shirt, and he keeps watch.

  “This isn’t reassuring, Bea. None of this is reassuring.”

  “What in particular is not reassuring?”

  “All of it. Everything.” He pauses, clearly considering something. He considers it for so long and so hard that I start to panic about what it might be. Some internal debate about whether or not it’s okay to tell me to go back to the bedroom, I think.

  Then thrill when he finally speaks.

  “Are you touching yourself?”

  He just sounds so…so…lusty. His voice is hoarse with it. Even the hint of incredulity in there is streaked through with desire—and that makes me bold.

  “Can’t seem to stop,” I say, and that much is true. I seem to be really rubbing over myself now, and not just on the outer edges of everything. A little more and I will definitely be between those slick, plump lips. Maybe even farther than that.

  Who knows?

  “Makes you horny, huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. Especially when I think about you showing me the rest.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” he says, and I know that he must see the disappointment on my face. I know because he rushes on, before it can take root. “But everything else is fine. Everything else is fucking amazing.”

  “You like watching me?” I ask, voice a little high and tight with way too much delight, yet strong all the same. And getting stronger.

  “I’d be lying if I said otherwise,” he says, and I see my chance.

  “So maybe you just like watching me enjoy myself. Maybe it has nothing to do with my innocence or naïveté. I just get all wet and horny like this and then you do, too.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Because I like looking at you enjoying yourself, so why wouldn’t you feel the same?” I say, and for just a second he seems startled. He glances down at himself, as though wondering where on earth I could have gotten this enjoyment from.

  But then he looks back at me and sees the way I am—all beside myself with desire and completely unable to stop masturbating—and I think it starts to sink in.

  Especially after I tug at one tight nipple, tongue curling up to lick my upper lip in a way I don’t
really intend as lascivious. I’m not even sure what I’m unconsciously thinking of when I do it, but I understand why he might make a few leaps. He probably thinks I’m remembering things he did with his tongue, and so responds accordingly.

  “Oh, Jesus,” he says, head going back against the tile, this delicious shudder suddenly rippling through him. After which, all I have to do is lean on him a little harder.

  “I liked hearing you moan.”

  “Fuck. Fuck.”

  “I like hearing you say fuck.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Your reaction to me talking like this. The way you shake and go all red around your throat. That hand you have on your cock. Show me your cock,” I say, almost thrilling myself as much as I clearly thrill him. His eyes roll back in his head in the exact way mine want to.

  And I can hear that hand speeding up, just as mine is.

  “I want to. I want to see your eyes on me as you come, but—”

  “Then let me. Just let me, please, I’m so close,” I moan, only partly telling the truth and only partly lying. The tingles are getting very insistent now. I have the urge to do a whole bunch of filthy things that I would never have done before—like licking my fingers and rubbing the wetness over my stiff nipples, or maybe baring my breasts in the hopes that he will get them all slick for me.

  Plus, standing is becoming a problem. My legs keep bending weirdly without my permission. At one point I almost make it to a squat—and he does nothing to help me avoid that. Oh, I bet he thinks he does. I bet he thinks he cools me down.

  But as always, he has everything backward.

  “All right, baby, all right, but just know first that I’m a big guy. You get that, right? You get that ain’t exactly a delicate flower between my legs?” he says, and of course that only makes it worse. It feels as if someone lights my vocal cords on fire. All of this stuff comes bursting out of me, and none of it is tame.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God, I get that. I do. I understand. Let me touch you. Let me suck you. I want you in my mouth. I want you to come in my mouth,” I tell him, after which everything happens kind of fast. I barely even get time to feel shocked at myself before his face goes all slack and open—like someone punctured a balloon somewhere inside him and now he can’t quite keep his muscles and skin and flesh together.

  And then suddenly the curtain is all the way back, and every bit of him is out in the open. I can see just about the whole of his body from his shins to the curves of his shoulders—and by God, it is a lot to take in. Too much to take in, most probably, because the second I get a glimpse of that impossibly thick shaft—far thicker than his cautious words had intimated, far longer than I thought was possible without shifting someone’s center of gravity and quite possibly causing the world to end—something starts to happen.

  Hot bursts of sensation ripple upward from my plump pussy, too big to check. Too big to take. That hanging-on-the-edge-of-orgasm feeling comes again—only this time it’s me that does it. This is all really me. I can do this to myself.

  I could have been doing this all along, minus the sight of him.

  Which I confess does help quite a lot. Just the way he strokes is enough to make me moan uncontrollably. He kind of rolls his hand along his length, luxuriating in it in a way that seems at odds with who he is. He is always so resistant and so stoic. He just had an argument with a masturbating girl about hiding away his gorgeous cock.

  He really shouldn’t be doing himself like that.

  He should be punishing himself. Squeezing and pumping hard and definitely never gathering soap in a big slick lather to work over the swollen head. Yeah, definitely not that because that is just, oh my God, that is…I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never seen anything like any of this. I watch him lean back against the tile, body turned out to me now and everything so aggressively on display—everything so thick and red and slippery-looking—and I just want to sprawl on the floor.

  I have to lean one knee against the rim of the tub just to keep me on my feet—though it proves to be an advantage when I do. I can touch myself better, for one thing.

  And he can touch me.

  Oh, God, when he touches me.

  He just reaches out a hand and cups my breast. Not out of a need to make me feel good or anything like it, but out of desire, just naked desire. He wants to fondle me while he strokes his cock, quite clearly. I can tell by the way he goes about it—feeling out the shape and the heaviness of it. Letting that stiff nipple slide against his palm.

  And then he says, “Take it off. Take the T-shirt off.”

  Have any words been so sweet?

  Have they ever been so arousing? I almost go over right there and then. It’s a race between my orgasm and my ability to take off clothes while under duress, and I only just make it. I get one glorious look at his expression as he sees my bare breasts and my busy fingers, all lust-fucked and greedy. And I get his damp hand on me there, one thumb idly flicking over one tight little point.

  Before I burst, I just burst.

  Barely anything, and I have to scream against the bar of my teeth.

  Only when I come down from it do I realize that he hasn’t. His hands are fists by his sides, cock still impossibly and achingly hard. The curve of it is so steep he could probably lean down a little and kiss the tip, and the head is deep red and very swollen-looking. The whole thing is very swollen-looking. It makes me think he might be in pain—though if he is, I think it might be of the overly aroused variety.

  He clearly needs to come.

  So why hasn’t he? Why isn’t he? Is this yet another thing I shouldn’t be allowed to see? It seems so—to the point where I get a slight sinking feeling. I thought I had gotten through to him, somewhat. I thought we were in a better place.

  But apparently we are still stuck in this one. It might even be that we will never leave it. Every time we do anything the least bit sexual, I am going to have to convince him to take almost anything for himself.

  Or so I think. I think it so hard and so bitterly that when he speaks, I barely register what he says. He has to repeat himself—which only makes it all the sweeter. Not only does he ask me once, he asks again without wondering what my silence is about or second-guessing himself or changing his mind.

  It might even be that he is unable to change his mind.

  He is way too gone for that. So far gone.

  “You still want to take me in your mouth?” he says, voice so tight and strained I can hardly stand to hear it. The sentence itself is exciting enough. But with the tone—and the look of those clenched fists and his falling-down expression—I sort of lose my ability to make a reasonable response. It all comes out as one big word.

  “GodyeahabsolutelyIdo,” I blurt, as though concerned that he might change his mind if I do it too slow or use actual English.

  Not that I really have to be.

  “Go ahead, then. Go on, then.”

  “Really? You want me to?”

  “I need you to,” he says.

  At which point I realize two things in a quick succession: that there is absolutely nothing as exciting as hearing him use the word need, and that I have somehow promised to fulfill said need without really knowing how to go about it. The closest I’ve ever come to giving someone a blow job was that banana I ate really fast after skipping breakfast last week.

  I’ve barely even seen one done. I caught a glimpse over Sam’s shoulder as she watched something called Fist Bashers IV, but that in no way helps me here. I don’t even know if that was the real title of the film, as opposed to just something I made up in a panic as I ran out of the room. I feel fairly certain that you do not bash anything with your fist when you go about this. It might be that you refrain from using your hands at all—though that seems a little impractical and kind of unattractive-looking. It makes me think of bobbing for apples, and bobbing for apples is really the last impression I want to give here.

  I want to be cool and sexy and confiden
t.

  I want him to writhe in ecstasy.

  Instead of leaning forward with my mouth slightly open and my hands hovering in the general area, every muscle in my body so tense with a combination of aching arousal and total nervousness. I mean, what if I use too much teeth? His cock looked big and angry when I was watching him stroke it, but now it seems much more like it might be prone to clumsy blunders. The shaft is almost velvet-smooth and very pale—far paler than the rest of his body.

  And the head is so red and glossy and sensitive-seeming. I get close enough to breathe on him there, and the whole thing jerks. A stream of liquid spills down from the little slit at the tip, and I know that has nothing to do with the shower. Precome, I think. The word is precome, then get a little shiver. Swiftly followed by a lot of shivers. Five seconds since my last orgasm, and I already need another.

  So God only knows how he feels.

  Or what it takes for him to say, “You can stop anytime you want to. You don’t have to.”

  I’m going to guess a lot, judging by his expression. I glance up and see his face nearly split in two—half of him desperate for this and half of him hating the idea of pushing me, and all of it making my explanation a necessity. No matter how humiliating this is, I have to say, “No, no, it’s just my mouth is quite small and your parts are quite large so…”

  “You think it might be a little too much. That I might hurt you.”

  “I was thinking more that I might hurt you. Kind of like when you try to shove a piece of Play-Doh through a too-small opening and end up with something half the size.”

  I think he wants to laugh after that.

  The only thing that gets in the way is extreme arousal.

  “That is quite the visual. Never going to happen, but interesting to have in my head.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. I want to be sexy, but somehow clumsiness keeps getting in the way.”