He kisses me like this is the last time he’s ever going to kiss me. He kisses me like he’s been starving in the desert, and I’m a drink of ice cold water – complete with these breathless sort of groans that make all my hair stand on end. I must look like Billy Idol by the time he’s done, but if I do he doesn’t make a note of it.
He just keeps on kissing me in other places. Like in that sensitive spot just below my ear, and that even more sensitive spot where my throat slides into the curve of my shoulder. It’s almost unbearable to feel something so soft and wet just easing over the skin there, but obviously he knows how to make things worse.
Because then he bites that said same skin, and I think I kind of go nuts. At the very least, my two hands turn into reflexive claws. I dig my nails into places I do not mean to dig my nails into, like the meat of his upper arm, and some other innocent parts of him, and … OK, OK, maybe my other hand is somewhere around his arse. I do not know how it got there and after I’ve punctured it with my talons I’m somewhat regretful.
But what does he expect? He just bit me in a place I apparently really like to be bitten. Of course I’m going to squeeze him all over with angry, angry hands, when that happens. The fact that he seems to like it is just a bonus, really, on the end of my lustful need to explore him all over.
This is my only chance, I think, and then I squeeze that glorious arse all the harder. I actually slide my hand inside his shorts, just so I can feel how smooth his skin is – oh so very smooth – and how exciting it is to experience him all bare like this. Newsflash: it’s very exciting. It’s so exciting that I don’t even register his response, until it comes to me that he’s been very silent, for a good long while.
Maybe I crossed a line? Erections in the face are fine, as is random biting. But bare arse squeezing is right out? It’s possible, I suppose.
Though his expression doesn’t exactly read that way. It reads more like a really filthy book that’s missing pages four to 50. Suddenly, everything jumps from “oh hello, how are you?” to threeway anal – and he just wasn’t prepared, I don’t think. I’m pretty sure he thought things would be like they were last time, with me passively accepting his gracious bounty.
And now that they’re not, well …
‘Ohhhh yeah, baby, do what you want with me.’
Now that they’re not, everything is really awesome.
He lets me pull his T-shirt over his head. And it’s not like when we were in the water, and I had to be all careful in case I accidentally gave away a sexual feeling or a sense of delight at the feel of his bumpy parts. He seems to be actively encouraging my delight, in this instance. I squeeze his left pec and he makes a noise like a wounded animal, even though I don’t do it in any sort of normal, sensuous way.
I just fucking go for it, because he feels amazing.
And then, quite shockingly, he goes for me in the same manner. As though I feel amazing too. Of course, I know it can’t be true. I know I’m a massive flesh avalanche, according to him. But I can’t shake the feeling that him getting a handful of my right boob is a positive sign.
Especially when he follows it with, ‘Oh my God, your breasts are insane.’
I mean, call me crazy. But I don’t think that’s an insult. The word “insane” almost tilts things in that direction, but the throaty, groaning way he says it pulls it back. As do his absolutely frantic efforts to see more of them. He actually tears the material of my vest when it decides it doesn’t want to bend to his will, and suddenly I’m trapped with half of it around my right arm and the rest of it around my neck.
While he buries his face in my bosom.
And just when I’m wondering if he simply likes giant breasts, he does the same thing to the curve of my hip and the soft swell of my belly. He swamps himself in me until I’m afraid for his life. Any more of this and he could suffocate, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Neither do I. It feels so much more exciting than it probably sounds. I get the glancing edge of his teeth on every inch of my flesh, followed by long licks that turn me boneless. By the time he’s worked away around to the dimples just above my arse, I’m near beside myself. I’m not even ashamed of the sound I’m making.
Or of the things I’m doing to him, in return.
He’s completely naked, now. He’s not even wearing half his T-shirt or most of his shorts. I got the latter off around the time he made those long, slow circles around and around the dip of my belly button with his tongue, and his underpants went the same way. I just ruffled them down with my feet, until I could feel what I wanted to most:
His stiff cock, against the inside of my thigh. And then against the palm of my hand. And then in my mouth, before my brain or his vocal chords can summon a single protest. He jerks a little, like he’s stunned that I’m doing it, and he kind of makes a grunting noise that could be a word, if you squint hard enough.
But mostly he just does what my brain is currently doing:
He gives in to it, utterly. He revels in it, in a way I never thought he’d revel in anything I ever did. His back actually arches off the bed, and when I manage to glance up in between long, greedy licks, I can only make out the curve of his throat. He’s pushing the rest of his general head-area into the pillow, as though it’s all just a little too much.
And he’s right. It is. He tastes like heat, if heat can actually have a flavour, and he’s so thick it’s hard to take him all at once. I have to sort of work up to it, licking and kissing around the swollen head until I think I can do it, and then, just as I’m ready for him, his hips jerk up. His cock fucks into my mouth, too rough and too much, briefly.
Or at least, my head says it should be too much. My body is busy going nuts over the idea that Steven Stark is so excited he just accidentally shoved his big, swollen dick past my lips. And even better – he apologises, once he realises he’s done it. He says sorry!
I don’t know what turns me on more. The fact that he did it, or the fact that he strokes a hand through my hair and expresses regret, afterwards. Plus, his regret is really awesome.
It ends on this:
‘You just feel so fucking good, baby. Seriously, that hot little mouth of yours is getting me real close, embarrassingly fast.’
Which is perhaps the dirtiest, most excellent thing anyone has ever said to me during sex. I’ve never heard a man talk so frankly about getting close, or what might cause him to be close – though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that Steven does it. He has a big mouth about everything else.
Why not this?
At least in the bedroom, it’s an utter and unmitigated delight. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Just take me, nice and easy.’ And I think I momentarily lose consciousness. A great swell of arousal destroys most of my lower body, and a good deal of the rest of me. The way he goes about urging me into sucking him simply finishes the job.
He keeps that hand in my hair, and just sort of rubs me into doing it. Then when I let him have a little lick, quick and sharp, he angles his cock with his free hand, to make it easier. He eases himself into my mouth, and, even better, he strokes himself while I do it.
Though I’m not sure if that’s out of necessity, or because it feels so good and looks so sexy I could die of it. I’m not even sure why, really – but it’s there just the same. This heated pulse of pleasure, every time he works his hand over his swollen shaft.
And another one, when I see how he’s looking at me as this goes on. Or more: how he’s looking at himself, as he masturbates and I suck him. After all, that’s kind of what he’s doing. He’s watching my mouth on him through slitted lids, and when he’s not watching that he’s watching his hand and his tensing thighs, and yes, I know I should find this vain or weird.
But somehow it’s not either of those things. It’s utterly hot and kind of like he can’t believe this is going on – which is probably why it’s hot. Apparently, I really like men who get so into sex they can’t stop looking at everything and touching everything, lik
e it’s the first time they’ve done this.
Even though it can’t possibly be the first time he’s done this. I’ve actually seen him doing it with other people – but I’ll admit, it didn’t really look as intense as this does. For a start, he’s not eating a sandwich while it happens. And then there are also his words, his glorious, magical words.
‘Jesus, you’re sexy,’ he says.
And then he adds, ‘You make me fucking crazy.’
Which I might frame after this is over. I don’t have time right now, though, because apparently he’s tired of blowjobs, and wants to fling me around like a football. Or, more accurately, he pulls me up for a kiss that makes me think of a thousand things, like how sweet he might taste in his own mouth, and how satisfying it is to be so wanted that someone actually does impatient things that say they want you.
And then he pushes me back on the bed, and drags me tight to him with one big hand.
I wonder if I can frame that too. I particularly enjoy the way his palm slaps into the meat of my thigh – like he fucking loves the sound it makes, the feel of it, the way I gasp in a far too excited sort of way. And I love the way he yanks me.
So much so that I blurt out, rather embarrassingly, ‘Yes please.’
And of course he takes full advantage.
‘Please? What are you saying please for, huh?’ he asks, which is pretty much standard Steven practice. Once, I accidentally said hello when I meant goodbye, and he made fun of me for hours. He’s definitely going to make fun of me for this.
Thankfully, however, it comes in a much more exciting form.
‘Please, Steven, could you run your hands all over my body?’ he guesses, but he doesn’t wait for me to confirm or deny. He just tries it out, in one long, slow slide all the way from my collarbone, down to the underwear I’m still somehow wearing.
My favourite bit is the slalom around my breasts, which lingers long enough to cup both of them in a rough, can’t-help-himself sort of manner.
‘Or maybe it’s please, Steven, fondle my pussy. How about that?’
‘That’s … I like that.’
‘Uh-huh. Take those little shorts off for me, then.’
Oh God. Oh God. He’s too good at this game. This is supposed to be what I’m saying please for, but I’m pretty sure it’s exactly what he wants. And then I jolt beneath the weight of this theory – this revelation – because in truth I’ve never been sure of anything he wanted, before. Not when it comes to me, anyway.
But for once, I really know.
He wants to touch me there. He wants to see me. He can’t even wait for me to do as he’s asked – he just rips the shorts right off, when they’re at the halfway mark. And then once I’m completely naked – once I’m spread open for him – he sits back on his heels and takes everything in, in a way that should make me feel acutely self-conscious.
It doesn’t.
I’ve no idea why.
‘Ohhhh yeah. Look at that beautiful cunt.’
OK, maybe I have some small idea why.
‘You usually get this wet when you fuck someone?’ He pauses, closes his eyes. ‘Don’t answer, don’t answer. Lemme just think it’s all for me.’
It is all for him, but sadly I can’t say, now. Mainly because he’s told me not to answer, but also because he’s currently sliding one thick thumb through my slippery folds, stroking and exploring and just generally making me utterly mute.
When he sinks one finger into me, I move my lips around a sound that won’t come.
But that’s about it, in terms of vocalisation.
‘Ah, man. That’s so, so good. You like it, huh? You like me fucking into you, like this?’
I nod in reply, though I can see it’s not going to be enough for him.
And I’m right too – if in a really scary way.
‘Tell me you like it. Tell me you want me.’
For a second, I feel like the room has revolved. Like he is me and I am him. How many years have I spent aiming those same words at him, in my head? Too many to count. Too many to ever admit to, consciously or otherwise.
And now he’s saying them to me, as though they were on the tip of his tongue, all along. It almost makes me angry – like I should pay him back, for all the times I’ve longed to hear it and never have. But then, when I think about it, what am I paying him back for?
He never knew.
He still doesn’t know.
He’s just holding his breath, waiting for a no I’m never going to give. But it’s that possibility in his mind – that I might not, that I don’t, that I’m uninterested – that makes it easy to answer.
I’m not some fat chick he’s taking for granted. I’m something else. Something I’ve never even contemplated before.
Something worthy.
‘I want you so much,’ I tell him, and the look of insane relief on his face opens up a whole world for me. A great big worthy world where I’m beautiful and desirable and not the one who has to wait, or pretend I don’t have feelings.
It might just be for now, but I don’t care.
I’m taking it with both hands.
‘Do you want me?’ I ask, without the slightest doubt that he’ll answer me in a way that doesn’t hurt. It’s a startling sensation – this lack of fear, this ability to say whatever’s on my mind – but it’s a welcome one. It rubs against all the excitement and the arousal, until I’m a dirty-mouthed ball of flaming fire.
When he nods in this deliciously desperate, near mute-way, I counter with this:
‘Do you want my hot little cunt around your cock?’
Even though I’ve never used the word “cunt” before. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken it aloud, and it sounds alien and near-brutal in my mouth.
But brilliant, at the same time. It makes his eyebrows jump almost into his hair, and his body does this little weird jerking thing. As though the word came out of me and punched right into him. And once he’s processed what I’ve just said, he shoves out his own words.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Fuck yeah.’
Though that doesn’t quite cover how he sounds, when he says it. He sounds like he would punch a bear, if a bear got in the way of this happening. He sounds so fierce I’d be frightened, if I wasn’t so turned on.
As it is, all I can manage is more lusty rambling.
‘Come on then, baby,’ I say. ‘Come on and have me.’
Though I’m not sure I expect him to actually do it. It feels like a dare, I think – until he produces 700 condoms from the back pocket of the shorts I recently yanked off him. And then it feels more like something that’s really going to happen. He’s going to fuck me, I realise.
I’m going to fuck Steven Stark.
But first, I get to watch Steven Stark put a condom on – which is actually much sexier than it sounds. Usually I get one in the eye before the whole thing’s done, or maybe the guy’s too anxious, and three hours of wrestling with latex sort of puts him off a bit.
This isn’t the case with Steven. Of course it isn’t. He’s some sort of condom expert, obviously. He’s put on so many of the things in his long, lurid sex life that he could do it blindfolded during a doomsday countdown. I think he actually does it one-handed, and so quick I’m not sure it’s happened.
I have to hold him off with one foot on his chest, just to double check.
Though doing this has some unintended consequences. Let’s put it this way: he isn’t pleased that I stop him in his tracks. His lips part and those eyelids of his get even heavier, until he’s looking at me like I’m a gazelle trying to leap away from him, on the plains. And then he says, ‘Oh, so you want to play it like that.’
Which isn’t all that good for my libido.
I think my libido swoons, and slides right off the bed.
‘What do you want me to do? Beg you?’
Oh God, wake up, libido, wake up! He’s saying things you’re gonna want to hear!
‘Maybe.’
‘Please, baby
,’ he says, but oh, that’s not the best part. The best part is when he turns his head on the word baby, and bites at the ankle that’s far too close to his mouth. He bites at it, and then he works his way further down and licks.
The inside of my knee goes absolutely insane.
‘Just let me touch you …,’ he says, and as he does he runs a hand across my hip, and down over my leg. ‘Let me kiss you …’ For that one he presses his mouth to the inside of my thigh, though I confess I have no idea how he got there. Aren’t I supposed to be holding him at bay? I think I am, but I’ve completely forgotten why.
‘Let me make love to you …’
It’s hard to remember, when he says things like that. I mean, I know he probably says it to all the girls. He’s likely got business cards, with make and love written all over them. But for right now, I can easily pretend that he means it. The kiss I eventually let him have says he means it. And the way he holds me in his arms … That says it too.
He holds me so tight I can feel his heart, thudding through his chest and into mine – like in the water. His hands seem to span every part of my body, all at once … But that’s not the best part. The best part is that he does these things right the way through this long, slow slide into my body, and well into the sex, which isn’t like any other kind of sex I’ve had before.
It’s so easy, for a start. So soft and syrupy and easy. I’m used to fighting for every bit of pleasure and comfort I can find, but the only thing he makes me fight are the various parts of his body that pin me in place. I strain against the heavy weight of his chest, and the push of his amazing thighs.
And when it’s so good I can’t quite take it, he makes me take it with arms like iron bars. ‘No, no,’ he says. ‘Stay with me, stay with me.’
He can’t possibly know that staying with him is all I want to do. I might squirm and gasp and be unable to believe that something can feel this good, but the sane part of me knows I don’t really want to escape.
I’ll never have it better than this. He doesn’t plough into me. He rocks, in this insistent, deliberate sort of way. Like he knows just where all of my sensitive parts are. He knows how to fuck harder when I don’t want him to and grind to a halt just when I’m desperate for him to give me more, until I’m such a fucking mess I’m incoherent.
Curve Ball Page 6
