But he pulls his hand away. “Could you take off your bra?” This time it is a question, but I cannot and will not answer no, though I hesitate with the hooks.
I realize that I will have to take off my shirt to take off my bra and I look outside but there is no one to see. This isn’t how normal people do it, is it? Is this how people get seduced? I pull off my shirt, turning to pull the tail out from the waistband, and my naked breast brushes the cold window. I inhale sharply and I can hear Edward smile behind me. I have done this when I masturbate, held a breast against the coolness of a mirror, nipple kissing its own reflection. I love cold and ice against my skin, wanting more more more before the welcoming heat of a mouth, teeth, lips, tongue.
He pulls over to the kerb and parks the car. I am breathing heavily. He reaches over and again he trails the back of his hand over my breast, his knuckles teasing my nipples. My mouth parts. He undoes my seatbelt and then his, and then he moves towards me. He kisses me softly once, and then lowers his head to my breasts, kissing around, across my collarbone, over the flesh, and finally catching the nipples in his mouth, suckling. I throw my head back, amazed, moaning, and my hand travels automatically to plunge into my cunt, my fingers at the ready. He does not look up, he just grips my hand and pulls it behind my back as he bites my nipple gently, his teeth electric against my skin. I cry out.
“Please . . .” I beg, but he simply lowers his head to the other breast, still pinning my arm behind my back, and he sucks and nibbles and chews until I am writhing beneath him. “Edward,” I breathe, and I hope I sound like a romance novel when I do. He lifts his head and releases my arm, nearly asleep. He reaches for my breasts and tugs at my nipples, pinching them between his thumb and forefinger, testing for something. I jerk again, like a rag doll, and he nods, as though I have pleased him somehow.
He comes around to my side of the car and opens the door for me, chivalrous to the last, and I fumble to button my blouse before I step onto the street. The light at the end of the block turns green and two cars drive by. He shakes his head at me and pulls me to my feet, my blouse hanging open, my nipples pouting against the night air, colder, wetter, than any mirror. I start to object.
He pulls me to him and kisses me, hard, his tongue crushing against mine, tasting my teeth, my desperation. He is hard, I can feel his cock against my stomach, and that pleases me somehow, that it is me who has done that. He pulls away suddenly and then a car passes, and I am standing there, drugged with heat, and the headlights shine on my bare breasts, stained with bruises from his mouth, his hands, exposed for anyone to see, to touch.
My cunt is so wet, so wide, so ready, that I can hardly walk, and I know, at this moment in time, I would do anything.
The elevator creaks its way up the shaft, slatted light falling across my breasts, interrupted intermittently by the floors. I look at Edward, sliding a glance through my stumpy lashes, cheap mascara long since faded. He is considering my breasts, but he looks neither pleased nor displeased. I wonder if he is thinking he has made a mistake, now that he has seen the way the waistband of my skirt folds to accommodate the swell of my stomach. It’s too late for a diet now. Ashamed, I reach to pull the sides of my shirt together, and without looking away from my tits, he reaches out and slaps my hands back to my sides.
“Sorry,” I say, for what seems like the fifteenth time that night.
Edward shakes his head. “Don’t cover yourself unless I tell you to.”
The elevator jerks to a stop and he gestures me out into the hallway. I step uncertainly, my shoes clicking against the floor. A few doors down the hall there is a man fumbling with his keys at his door. He is tall, thin, looks foreign. An orange-brown leather jacket and a newspaper folded under his arm. Spiky blond hair, small black-rimmed glasses. German, maybe. He looks up at us, and I want to move to cover myself, but I can feel Edward behind me and I don’t dare. I feel very small, suddenly, between these two men. I half-expect Edward to reward me for leaving my shirt open but, of course, he does not.
The man at the door simply smiles at us as if he sees half-naked women in the hallway all the time, and then opens the door to his apartment and steps in. Edward steers me down the corridor, the floor Alice in Wonderland – black diamonds, white diamonds, checker board, chess board, checkmate, Kate. He slips the key in the lock and ushers me into a dark hallway.
Light ahead, dim yellow glow cast by an old shade, I walk towards it, drawn, moth-like. It leads me into the living room, where the only thing I notice is the books. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Floor to ceiling bookshelves, and then stacked along the exposed brick walls when there is no longer enough room. I run my fingers along the shelves, tasting them with my fingers, so overwhelmed with quantity that I do not even read the titles.
He walks up behind me and I turn so my back is against the shelves, spine to spine with these books. He stands in front of me, though this time I do not want to run away so badly, I just want him to take away this ache, want him to suck on my nipples until they stop pulling at my skin, want him to swallow me whole.
He pulls off his shirt and I bite my lip at his chest. Broad, firm. Muscular in that taut, quiet way that is the most masculine of all. Curls and whorls of hair threaded with grey, and I can imagine the taste of the salt on my skin. My tongue flicks out, serpentlike. I look up at his face and see the same grey lining his temples, scattered through his hair, his goatee, which has a certain sincerity about it. I catch myself wondering whether there will be grey hair, you know, everywhere, and the image of his hard cock rising up from his thighs makes me swallow hard.
I watch as he fingers the collar of my shirt and then slips it over my shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. No different than what I would have done, undressing myself. He reaches for my hands, which I am holding obediently by my sides, fighting the urge to scrape my nails down his chest to the trail of hair that disappears into his waistband, and brings them to his mouth, nuzzling the knuckles, breathing against my palms.
And then he lifts them higher, interlocks our fingers, presses the backs of my hands against the bookshelves, cool painted wood. I have to stretch to keep my hands up as high as he is holding them, pinning me against the hardcovers, and only when I am immobilized just so, he leans down to kiss me.
His kiss is soft, he tests before he attacks, tasting my teeth, my tongue with his own. It makes me start to shiver all over again, makes me forget about the ache in my arms and think about the ache in my cunt again.
Pushing my arms out, he makes me trace a snow angel in the air. He slides both our hands under my breasts and leaves mine cupping them, proffering them, a harem girl with a tray of silver fruit. He steps back and I lean to follow him, drawn by his simple existence, by the fishing line of tension he has drawn to my cunt. “You can put your hands down,” he tells me, when my biceps are burning by my sides. He lets my hands drop and my fingers flicker, instinct telling me to reach for what I want, new found knowledge telling me that if I reach I will not capture it. “Would you come with me?”
“Yes,” I answer, too quickly, and he turns and walks down another hallway, by the chrome kitchen, closed doors. In his bedroom, again, he has one lamp burning, this one so quiet I can see little more than outline and shadows. He leaves the door open and I stand awkwardly by the bed.
“Would you undress for me?” he asks, and I wonder why he asks me yes or no questions when I would not dare to say no. I nod, and fumble for the fastening at the back of my skirt. I hesitate, consciously nervous again. Do I take it all off at once, the skirt, the pantyhose, the panties? I cannot bear to have him see me standing in my pantyhose, my faded underwear, so I hook my thumbs inside all three and begin to pull, stumbling and sitting down heavily as I pull them off the rest of the way, glowing humiliation. It does not look like this on TV.
“So we’ll work on that one,” he says. He is leaning against the wall, a casual observer, his shoulder blades pressing against the doorframe, stomach and h
ips jutting out, he makes a taut bow with the wall.
“I’m sorry.” I apologize again. He shakes his head and lifts himself from the wall.
“You’ll learn,” he says simply, and I wonder what he means by that. He walks towards me. “Turn around.” I stand and turn, and he slips his palms under my bent elbows, cupping them in a familiar intimacy. His breath is hot on my hair and, though I cannot see him, electricity tells me exactly where he is.
I raise my hands to touch my own breasts. “No,” he says sharply and grips my hand. “Not unless I tell you to.”
He slips his hands up to my shoulders, his skin tough and slightly rough, sighing against my own. He rubs my shoulders for a moment, relaxing them from their tight clenching, and then he pushes down ever so slightly. I kneel on the bed in acquiescence. “Quiet Kate,” he says, and breathes into my hair again as his hands move. One slides under my breast, cupping it, thumb strumming the nipple, the other along my stomach, pressing when I inhale to escape the touch, fingers lacing through my pubic hair.
“Ahhh,” I moan, and at the sound of pleasure, he pulls away. His hands skim back up to my hair, thread through so they are curled around my head, and he pushes down. I let my hands support me on all fours. He pushes again. I lower again, until I am kissing the bedding, my ass in the air, careful that my hands are balled into fists, barely touching my own skin. He lets me go and steps back.
I spin away for a moment, letting myself see what he sees, a spill of brown hair over the sheets, sun-deprived white skin glowing in the darkness, the lips of my cunt pouting and glistening, my ass spread wide. Open to him, for him. His hand traces the bones of my spine, jarring over each one, and then he trails one finger between the cheeks of my ass, down into my cunt, over it so slightly, a slight dip to avoid my clit. He pulls away.
“Don’t. Move,” he says. I don’t. Move. I hear him, the rustle of his pants, his feet on the floor. The door clicks closed.
The silence, after a while, does become deafening. Sweat pools where my stomach meets my thighs, and the exposure of my cunt to the air does nothing to dry it. I want to touch myself, release it. If I were home, I would surely be shaking in the throes of a self-delivered orgasm, my back arching, hand pressing harder against myself to feel the throbbing, one, two, three, so hard, four, five, softer, disappearing into shame. Is this better? I move my hand, but the sound of my betrayal is so enormous I stop myself.
I lick my lips and shift, then stop myself again. Don’t. Move. I cannot hear any trace of his footsteps. I picture him in my mind again, surprised at the clarity with which I remember his details. My memory has a way of slipping, so that I cannot recall the faces of even my family in their absence. Edward comes easily to me.
My tongue slips out over my lips again – a bad habit my ballet teacher tried to cure me of long ago – when I think of his chest and his arms, and I wonder at the taste of him. Salt or sweet? Hot or merely warm? I want so much to touch him. I see myself kneeling before him, his hands on my head, using my teeth to undo his pants, seeking out his cock with my tongue. I see him binding my hands and asking me to please him, and I want to. I want him to come back in here and tell me what he wants.
My cunt is still throbbing – how long has he kept me like this now – but I no longer care about me. I want to see him again, want him to lift my head and let me memorize him. Sharp eyebrows painted over dark eyes, that delicious mouth, the husky expanse of his shoulders, the strength in his arms. I fight my hands, which are desperate to pull at the eraser pearls of my nipples. I send him mental images, begging him to come inside and without ceremony, thrust his cock inside my cunt, slam into me until he comes, and take me with him, nothing but slick velvet heat. Does he know how much I want this?
My breathing is ragged, though I am motionless, I can feel the air rattle through my lungs and I moan softly, please.
But it is even later that I hear the door open, my senses heightened to his arrival. Three steps, the quiet sound of the door shutting, locking. I squeeze my eyes shut, my fists, I hear the sound of his belt zipping through the loops, and my cunt squeezes open, shut, in a tiny spasm at the noise. I cry out quietly at the sensation, frustrated that I cannot run to him.
“Quiet Kate,” he says, and I do not know if it is an order or a caress. I hold my breath, waiting to hear the sound of buttons, zipper, fabric hitting the floor. It does not come. “Kate,” he says quietly, firmly, the sound tickling up my spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“Yes,” I say, no more than a breath.
Edward moves until he is standing behind me, laces his fingers through my hair; the electricity of his touch makes me shiver, makes me nearly cry out again. I anticipate his move to pull me up, but he pauses instead, letting my hair fall from his fingers, pressing his palm against my back, tracing my shoulder blades, his fingers across my ass, and then only two fingers, in a v, across the outside of my cunt, not touching the lips, just lying there. “Don’t,” he says again. “Move.”
When he removes his fingers, I jump, and then his hands are in my hair again and he pulls me up to look at him, my back, my muscles shrieking in pleasure from the stretch. He is smiling, and I smile back, reflexive, agreeable. “What do you want, Kate?” he asks.
What does he mean, what do I want? I want everything, I want it so badly I cannot vocalize it, I want it all, I want my tongue and my teeth and my hands all over him, I want to make him want me as much as I want him and I want to make him come harder than any other woman has made him come, watch his cock throb, let him shoot his semen wherever he wants, my face, my tits, my mouth, my cunt, I don’t care as long as he lets me bring him there and as long as he makes me come and not my old weary vibrator.
“It’s all right,” he says, still smiling. “I know what you want.” He lets my hair fall again, strokes it softly. “Turn around.” I move awkwardly on the bed until I am kneeling, facing him as he stands before me. He cups my face in his hands and pulls me forwards until I am touching his chest, and he lets me explore. I spread my hands wide, touching his arms, burying my nose in his hair, letting my tongue dart out, hungrily flicking at his nipples, kissing my way down his flat stomach. When I have made a tactile map of his torso, I pull my hands back around and reach for the button on his pants. With that feline speed I have already come to know so well, he grabs my wrists in one hand, pinning them together, and with the other hand, pinches my nipple sharply. “No,” he says firmly. I convulse at his touch. Still holding my hands, he reaches behind him and deftly opens a drawer, pulling out small strips of fabric. Before I can examine them, he wraps the lengths of midnight velvet around my wrists and then releases them. I pull at them experimentally, but my hands are locked together as if in prayer, in supplication.
“Now,” he says, and he moves his own hands to his pants, unbuttons, unzips, lowers. My mouth parts involuntarily when I see his cock, proudly swollen, throbbing, pre-come at the tip and I am so hungry for it, it makes me moan, makes my nipples ache, makes my cunt start the drumming again. I reach for him, and he grabs the restraints. “I said no,” he says, and unties me. “Put your hands behind your back,” he orders, and I do, my lips moving as if to object, but no sound appearing. He steps up against me, his cock is throbbing angrily against my tits, but he has me immobilized as he reties the restraints so I cannot touch him.
“Please, Edward,” I say again, when he has stepped away, and I am fixated on his cock, his balls, the muscles in his thighs, I want to lick him until he comes, let him use me, fuck my face, I don’t care, but I want it so badly.
“Do you like my cock?” he asks, and reaches down and strokes it once. It throbs in response; my cunt matches it.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Do you want to suck it?” he asks politely.
“Please,” I say.
“Do you want to beg me for it?”
“Please, let me suck your cock,” I say, and my cunt is really thrumming now, my nipples vibrating with electricity.<
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“Please, Master, let me suck your cock,” he says, mocking.
“Please, Master, let me suck your cock,” I repeat, not caring if he makes fun of me. He strokes his cock again, catches the bead of moisture on the tip of his index finger. It hangs there, sparkling like ambrosia in the dim light, and he reaches for me. I open my mouth for it, and he lets me taste it. I suck hungrily, desperate to show him how I would suck his cock if he would only let me, working my tongue on the underside, pulling my teeth back, looking up at him.
“You want it in your mouth?” he asks, and I nod, childishly enthusiastic. He smiles at me, bemused adult. I open my mouth expectantly, baby bird. “No, no, no. Not yet,” he says, taking pleasure in denying me. I sulk, and he pushes me back onto the bed so I am lying there, open for him. He moves up, spreads his legs to climb over me until he is straddling my chest. His cock throbs impatiently, and a thrill chases through me as I realize that it is for me. “Look into my eyes,” he says, and I tear myself from the worship of his cock. He touches my face. “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”
He leans forwards, I keep my eyes locked with his, swirls of heated chocolate. His cock touches my chin, my cheek. I part my lips again, anticipating. “Don’t you dare,” he says, wagging his finger at me. I close them, he brushes the swollen head over my mouth, and I am stunned by the heat of it, hot poker, feverish, and the heat between my thighs seems just as unbearable. Over my cheekbones, my jaw, up to my hairline so I can really smell him, hot, sweat, the unmistakable new smell of a man, and I love it. The hair on his thighs is tickling my breasts and it makes me squirm. He moves back down, relaxes, his thighs rub my nipples, he leans forwards and his cock rests against my neck. “Very good,” he coos. “Now what do you want?”
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