So this is the one bargaining chip I’ve got left: no insane voyeurism.
But apparently it’s not really needed.
‘Ohhhh, honey,’ he says, as he takes my face in one hand, and kisses me long and slow on the mouth. ‘You really think that’s how it’s going to work? That I’m the one who has to let things happen?’
I go blank, momentarily. Then think of all the guys in every story I’ve ever written. They’re always giving permission and making things happen, and I guess I’d kind of thought the same of him. He certainly seems like a steam train, barrelling through all of my barriers.
But now I’m not so sure.
I’m not sure about anything.
‘It’s just you,’ he says. ‘And whether you’d be OK with chapter two.’
Chapter Seven
There’s something worse about that one than all the others. Not because it’s ruder, because it really isn’t. Chapter two is just the introduction of my heroine to her Master – it goes back to when they first met, and she was too embarrassed to admit anything about herself. So he makes her lie on the bed, with most of her clothes still on, and then …
And then she does the thing I’m suddenly petrified of.
I almost say to Dillon: no, let’s go back to the first thing you suggested. If I’m really in charge and I’m truly the one with the power of permission, then maybe I can just say. I even form the words in my head: I’d like you just to stroke me, if that’s OK?
So it’s weird that I don’t let them out.
Instead I unzip the side of my skirt, and let it fall. If I’m remembering correctly she does the whole thing in her underwear – but that’s still so very bare to be. That’s still much more naked than I’ve been in front of him before, and now there’s an extra layer of exposure on top, too. There’s his growing knowledge of me, so much more extensive than anything I’ve got on him. I don’t even know if he likes seeing me this way.
Though I think I can guess.
He seems excited just watching me unlace my shoes – so excited that I’m surprised he can stay where he is. That heat is crackling out of him again, and he’s breathing really hard, but he doesn’t come any closer. He stays sitting in one of those little loveseats, as I strip off in front of his bed. He’s swept the curtain aside and drawn the chair very near to me – just like in the story – but that’s the limit.
That’s all he does, as I start unbuttoning my shirt.
‘You want me to talk?’ he asks, after a second – probably because I’m shaking and fumbling with this last real barrier. He’s not seen my love handles, yet, or my ridiculously big boobs, and the thought of him doing so is making me shake.
So I say yes, even though the hero of my book rarely said a word. He was all moody looks and angry sneers, steely in his silence like some Clint Eastwood character. But when I wrote that, I didn’t fully realise what words could do. I’m used to quiet myself, during sex, and have never really had the benefit of anything else.
But now I’m starting to understand.
I’m starting to understand how it feels to have someone say words like this, when you’re stumbling around in the dark, unsure.
‘Ohhhh, man, those tits of yours. Oh, baby, it’s a crime that you hide that body under so many clothes. Come on. Come on, take that shirt off.’
They’d probably sound crude, to most people. They’re gruff and half-grunted, and he uses words like ‘tits’ and ‘fuck’. But somehow they’re a thousand times sweeter than the poetry Bobby Tate tried to write for me, or the halting ‘I like you very much’ I got from David Lerner. They make my heart thump in my chest, and a flush spread over my body.
And then he puts a hand between his own legs and squeezes the thick shape he finds there, and the effect is magnified. The effect thumps me in the face and knocks me unconsciousness. I barely even think about the shirt I’m sliding off my shoulders – because he gives me so many other things to consider.
By the time I’m standing there in my mismatched underwear, all of my focus is on his jeans-clad cock, and what he’s doing with it as he watches me.
He’s stroking himself, I think. He’s stroking himself over the breasts that barely fit into this ridiculous bra, and my silly cotton knickers that could put anyone off. The fact that the top bit is black and the bottom bit is white is just the icing on the cake, really, but apparently he doesn’t care.
‘Ohhh, yeah,’ he says, as though I’m some peephole stripper, lithe and lovely, ready to dance for his delectation. The idea doesn’t even make me feel tawdry, though I know it should. Whenever I’m writing a scenario like this, those are always the words I want to put into it. They’re the ones that Lori thought was missing – the real ones – that tend to hover on the periphery of my fantasies. Cheap, silly, slutty, wrong … they stand in a ring around my heroine.
Only they don’t stand around me now. I’m fluttering with nerves and they’re showing in my shaking body and my flushed face, but that’s about it. The rest is excitement, real excitement, of the kind that gets stronger when he says, ‘Get on the bed, then.’
By the time I’ve fumbled my way there I’m breathing jaggedly, and my pussy feels so hot, so swollen, I can hardly move around it. I can’t put my legs together, because putting my legs together feels like it might send me over the edge. And I can’t keep them really open, either, because once I’m lying down I’m very aware of the view.
He’ll be able to make out the plump swell of my sex, straining against the material, and the curving shape of my bottom, below – all of which he’s already seen, I know. He’s seen it all bare, in fact, so I should be absolutely fine about this.
And yet somehow I’m not. I’m more nervous, in some strange way, with my underwear still on, and him over there, just watching me. He’s not standing over my body, making everything happen with his hands. I have to do it myself, and doing it yourself is hard. It’s … more real. I reach down between my legs and find the material soaked through, and immediately want to hide the fact.
Even though he’s seen that before, too. He knows how I get. I know how I get. I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised to feel all that wetness, making my knickers thin and clingy and really, really rude.
But I am, all the same. I make a little startled sound and a thick surge of arousal goes through me, followed by that desire to close my legs. Thankfully, however, arousal wins, and I just manage to hold them open, as I force myself to keep stroking over that slippery shape beneath the material.
And then after a while I’m no longer forcing things at all. I’m fondling myself, I realise, just like he wanted. I’m doing what feels good – like a long slow rub over my plump outer lips; that soaked material making everything more sensitive and alive to sensation. Just like his mouth did on my nipples, I think, and then I touch myself there, too, without thinking. I slip a hand inside the cup of my bra, and run the tips of my fingers over that one stiff point.
While my other hand gets bolder.
My other hand isn’t content with teasing any more. I don’t think it was content five minutes ago, to be honest, but I held it back. I kept it captive with nerves, and now they’re falling away – along with my awareness of the story that sits behind all of this. The heroine had to be made to, if I remember correctly. He had to force her to touch herself, when she simply wouldn’t go the whole way.
But I guess I’m not really like that. I’m more the sort of person who gets so turned on that they can no longer think straight – who gets over-excited, just like he said, and can’t be shy about things any more. I want to come, I think, I really want to come, so I just slide my hand inside the material and ease my fingers through my own sex.
Much to his amusement.
‘Couldn’t wait, huh?’ he asks, and I wonder what he’s thinking of. Is he picturing that shy girl in the story, so much sweeter than me? I’m doing the exact same thing she did: masturbating under the cover of her pretty cotton underwear. But it’s diff
erent, and I know it. It’s different because he tells me so, a second later: ‘Oh, you love it,’ he says.
And I do. I love those first teasing strokes over my little bud, and the feel of my own wetness in-between. I love how hot I feel, how hard I clench around my finger when I briefly sink inside … But most of all, I love knowing that he’s watching.
I never thought I would. I’ve never so much as stroked my own inner thigh in front of someone else without feeling self-conscious … but, God, I do. I do.
And I love hearing him, too.
‘Are you rubbing your clit?’ he asks, and I nod. I can’t answer him. The sensation is so intense that I’m pinching my lips together, in case some of it leaks out and takes down a small city. I can’t even touch myself directly, there, because it’s far, far too much. I just have to circle around and around that one place, until I can feel it starting up inside me. I can feel that long, low stutter, that little hook that gets a hold of me and draws my orgasm out.
But I don’t want it to happen just yet, because he’s still talking.
‘Tell me what it feels like,’ he says, then hardly waits for the answer. ‘Does it feel good, baby, huh? It looks like it feels good. It looks like you’re gonna come all over your hand – oh, yeah, that’s fucking sexy when you arch your back like that. That’s it, that’s it, rock your hips …’
He’s still talking, and I’m still going crazy over it.
‘Moan for me, baby,’ he says. And you know what? I do. I make this frantic, desperate, ridiculous sort of sound, all drawn out and far too loud. Then once I’m done with it, I do it again. I moan again – this time higher and more protracted – because, by God, it’s a great thing to do. It’s so freeing, in a way I’d never really considered before, and when I hear my own voice I don’t want to curl away from it.
It spurs me on instead. It makes me stroke myself harder, faster, and after a while I actually prop myself up so I can watch whatever he’s watching. I want to see what’s making him gasp and say such filthy things, and when I do I kind of understand. The material has slid to one side and you can see little glimpses of me. And the way I’m working myself is just so … out of control. It’s like I can’t get enough, like I’m completely lost to this pleasuring of myself.
And I can’t deny how good that looks.
Or how good he looks, standing over me.
I don’t know when he got up, but he’s there when I open my eyes. And he’s watching me with such intensity that it’s hard to bear at first. I almost squirm away, before a million things drag me back: the sight of his erection, straining so impossibly against his jeans. His parted lips, his foggy gaze … the words he’s still spilling all over me.
‘That’s it, keep going. Keep doing it – you gonna make that pussy come, huh? You close? Come on, tell me, tell me,’ he says, and this time I can. I’m at that point where words are possible, and they just shove out of me in a rush.
‘Yeah, yeah, oh, God, yeah, that feels so good.’
‘How good?’
‘Ohhhhh, so good I’m gonna come all over my hand, oh God, I’m gonna come so hard, oh God oh God,’ I babble. In fact, I babble so hard and so insensibly that I do something else, without even meaning to.
I put his name on the end.
‘Oh Dillon,’ I say, and am just conscious enough to get a glimpse of the pleasure on his face, before my orgasm overwhelms me. Before it grabs hold of my whole body and wrings it out – from my swelling, pulsing sex, all the way up through my belly and my chest and right the way out of my mouth.
‘Dillon,’ I say again, but I don’t even care. He can be victorious about that, if he wants to be, because in all honesty I’ve never known anyone who was good enough to want to be. Who actually wants the small claim of his name, said by me as I shudder through pleasure that he brought about.
Because he did, oh, he did. I might have done the work, but this feeling I’m currently shaking through – this surging, bone-rattling, muscle-stiffening sensation – is courtesy of him. It’s him looking at me and wanting me to feel it, like some insane cheerleader on the sidelines of my orgasm. He makes me not want to be that shy shadow girl from my stories – the one who’s never sure and always ashamed; the way I’m ashamed, about almost everything.
Which is probably why I laugh, when I’m done.
Instead of shying away, I laugh with every inch of my body.
* * *
Of course, now that I’m my new confident and carefree self, I’m able to do things I previously wasn’t. I’m a strong and sure woman, and it’s totally, totally OK for me to go for his cock. It absolutely is. I even do it with a sly smile on my face, as though to say, ‘Hey there, stud, I know what you want.’
So it’s perhaps the most mood-dampening moment of my entire life when he kind of laughs, and manoeuvres my hands back down. I think something actually sinks inside me – but then, isn’t that the thing about sudden surges of confidence? They leave you with such a long way to fall, when they prove misplaced. I think I might actually be crestfallen, even though I didn’t know crestfallen was a real thing. I thought it was just a term people used to describe disappointed girls from the nineteenth century, who maybe didn’t get their lollipop.
And then I think of the other connotation of lollipop, and feel just as silly as I’ve ever done. Have I completely misread this whole situation? Maybe I looked utterly ridiculous, frigging myself into oblivion, and now he’s all put off.
He just doesn’t seem put off.
He says:
‘Really, it’s cool.’
But his face is the colour of … well … mine, and his cock has made a small military compound under his pants. He can’t even casually walk to the kitchen, because apparently it’s parade day at Fort Dillon’s Underwear.
I think he actually hobbles, so obviously he wants it. His lips might be saying no, but his body is definitely saying yes.
And then I realise I’m invoking the defence of sex pests everywhere, and have to pull myself up short before I get eight to ten in the sex-pestery wing of the nearest prison.
Good God, he makes me nuts. He makes me so nuts that I seem to have lost the brain power necessary for figuring all of this out – though, in fairness to me, he doesn’t exactly make it easy. After I’ve laid there for a while in my underwear, absolutely mystified and unsure how to proceed, he calls to me from the kitchen:
‘Hey, what do you want on your pizza?’
And I just don’t know how to answer that at all. I’m too unaware of the rules and parameters. Is getting a pizza proper post-orgasm etiquette, in the world of normal sexual behaviour? I just don’t know, because last time I did this with him I skied down his bed and then fled. And all the sex I had beforehand occurred when I was already living with the person, so once sexual contact had taken place we usually just went to sleep.
But I can’t go to sleep now, because he randomly wants to eat a pizza.
Unless he wants the pizza for reasons other than eating, in which case I really am in trouble. I’ve never had to use a stuffed crust to get a guy off before, and am pretty sure I’d be really bad at it. I’m not even good at the ordinary stuff, like persuading a guy to let me take his pants off. I’m sort of secretly hoping he’ll have already done it when he finally emerges from the kitchen – but he hasn’t.
He’s still completely covered in clothes.
Which only makes me feel more naked. It’s like I turned up for a date in just my underwear, even though that seems really unfair. He didn’t tell me that we were going to suddenly switch from sex to whatever this is, and now I’m totally unprepared. I’m caught midway between a million things – standing and sitting, pulling my shirt on and leaving it off – while he continues being all casual and blasé.
He even hands me a Coke, while I’m still standing there with my hand in one sleeve. And then he takes a seat, and puts his feet up on the coffee table that wasn’t there the day before. He’s had a hard evening’s wo
rk, I guess, and now it’s time to … relax?
I don’t know, I don’t know.
But, dear God, I wish he’d say.
‘You gonna sit down? Pizza won’t be long.’
That probably counts as saying, right? At the very least, he doesn’t want me to leave immediately. It’s not as if he’s done his business with me and now it’s time for me to go. I’m supposed to sit – maybe in the chair opposite in him – and that’s a good foundation for me to work with.
But it still lacks one crucial point.
Am I supposed to be dressed or not? It feels kind of weird for me to not be, at this point, but at the same time I can’t shake the sense that it would send a signal. Putting my clothes back on means that I’m all set, and couldn’t care less what happens with him. I’m ready to walk right out of the door, and he still hasn’t had a single thing from me.
And that just seems crazy. It’s completely backwards. Right now, I should be the one unsatisfied, and yet somehow I’m not. Or maybe I am, but it’s really different from the usual sort of vague disappointment.
I’m not sad for myself.
I’m enraged for him. I’m full of five thousand things I could do to him, right now – all of them tumbling through my mind one after the other in a great orgiastic burst of tangled limbs and wet mouths and, ohhhh, God, I bet he’d like that. Would he like that? I bet he’d love it. I bet he’d like it so much that he’d –
‘So, Kit. You work in a library, right?’
What is happening? I can’t even answer without putting an ellipsis in the middle, because I’m so unsure. Is he really wanting me to talk, or is this some kind of test? It feels like a test, but if it is I’ve no clue about the answers. This is what I go with:
‘I … guess.’
Like some timid pupil, who wishes they hadn’t raised their hand.
‘That’s pretty cool.’
‘… thanks?’
I don’t know how a question mark gets on the end of that word. It just creeps in, without my permission – and of course it says so much, once it’s there. It’s says that I find my job so dull I can’t even accept a compliment about it without asking someone if they’re sure. Are you certain you meant cool?
Addicted (Mischief Books) Page 10
