He’s also stroking his cock, as he fucks himself with those two slick fingers.
I could do the first part, right? I could stroke my clit, as he does this frantic and extremely lewd thing on his bed. It’s getting almost impossible to resist, because I’ll be perfectly frank: I’ve never seen a man behave the way he’s doing.
And it’s electric. It’s like watching someone shape-shift into a different creature, right before your eyes. He’s groaning far louder than he did before, rocking against those pumping fingers in his completely stretched open hole. His hips are jerking up to meet the hand he’s got around his cock, all rough and jerky; it’s like nothing I’ve ever imagined, even in my most lurid fantasies.
But it’s also far more compelling than any of that stuff. My hand has crept to my own breast, without my permission. I’m almost pressed to the slats, so greedy for more suddenly, so desperate to see what it looks like when a man fucks himself like this. When he comes from the feel of a finger stroking over his prostate and a hand rubbing roughly over the head of his cock.
Though, when it happens, it’s something of a disappointment. Not because it isn’t glorious – because it is. He grunts so loudly and so forcibly it’s like he’s trying to expel a demon out of his own body, and the long slick ribbons of come spurt out hard enough to touch the underside of his chin. And it’s not as though I’m short-changed in the length department, either, because the whole thing seems to go on forever. He works and works and works those fingers inside himself, eking out every last drop of pleasure from his orgasm.
It’s amazing. Only, once it’s done, it’s done. That’s it. My weekly moment of something wicked is over, and I have to do the furtive, silly thing now. I have to sneak out while he’s in the bathroom, and bury myself under the covers on my bed.
I have to pretend that I don’t like this, that it doesn’t mean anything, that I’m not a bad, bad person for intruding on someone’s most private moment. And, though all of those things have their own little frissons of illicit pleasure, they don’t have anything on actually being a part of something.
Even if I’m not really a part of it at all.
* * *
The third time isn’t just on purpose any more. It’s practically a pattern, a routine that we’ve struck up without his knowing it. I wait inside his closet at a certain time. He comes in and peels off all his clothes.
And then I hold my breath, in anticipation of what he’ll do next.
Of course, I’m expecting something big this time. Last time he fucked his own ass until he came all over himself, so it’s going to have to be something spectacular. Though, I have to say, when he finally does something …
It goes beyond even my most insane and perverted imaginings. So far beyond that I cover my face with my hands the moment he does it, as though this is the thing I can’t bear to see. I can’t watch this, I can’t. Even if he clearly thinks I can.
‘You can come out of there now, Susie,’ he says, as loud as a gong. As loud as my world ending. He’s naked and he’s poised on the verge of doing his usual thing, but suddenly I am a part of it – real and whole.
And I don’t know if I want to be. I’m not sure I can be. I’m just not built that way, I’m not prepared for something like this. I thought he hadn’t known at all, but clearly he had.
He knew, and yet he did those things all the same.
‘Susie,’ he says again – so much more forceful than he is usually. Of course it’s shameful that this excites me, but I guess I can no more help that than I can help all of the things I did.
I watched. I intruded. I stole. And now it’s time to pay the piper.
‘You’re really not fooling anyone,’ he says, at which my face flames red. I mean, I know I’m not fooling anyone. That wasn’t my intention – to fool. And yet somehow I’m not leaving the closet.
As though I could just melt into the walls, if I stayed here long enough.
‘Come out, and we can talk,’ he says.
But I’ll be honest. I think he’s lying. I don’t think he wants to talk at all, and, even if I tried to pretend as much, his nakedness is an awfully big clue.
One that gets bigger, when I finally step out of his closet.
He’s hard. Of course he is. If I’m excited, then he’s got to be, though I’m not sure why I come to this conclusion. Apart from his thick stiff cock sticking up between his legs, he’s as implacable as ever. He watches me with those cool still eyes for what seems like an age, before finally breaking the tense silence.
And, oh, God, he doesn’t go with what I think he’s going to. No accusations, nothing about what I’ve done. Just that crisp voice, and a number of words I don’t want to hear.
‘It’s my turn now,’ he says.
Of course, I think he means I’m going to fuck you. But then he just sort of takes hold of my sides and steers me in front of the television, before sitting back on the bed. Eyes on me at all times, as I stand helpless before him.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he asks, and I suppose I know then. It’s fairly obvious, I think, though I can’t quite bring myself to do it without some final say-so from him. He’s been dictating this thing all along, so why should it be different now?
Even though it is, it is.
‘Take off your skirt. Then I want you to put your hand inside your panties,’ he says.
I try not to moan in despair. I know he’s serious, but still some part of me hopes it’s all just pretend. I dreamed this, I never did any of this, I’m not guilty, your honour.
Though, for someone innocent of all charges, I seem to take to my punishment pretty quickly. Too quickly, I think, as I slide out of the second-to-last barrier between us. And then of course my face heats past red and all the way into some unbearable level. My legs don’t want to hold me up; my clit thrums wildly between my legs.
And when I just barely stroke over it – hand struggling within the confines of my underwear – I almost lose every part of myself in the pleasure. I gasp, I shake, I think about saying his name. I think about giving myself over to something for once, and almost do. Almost.
‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘Touch your wet little pussy.’
And then almost becomes definitely.
I’ve never heard him speak like this. In truth, I’ve hardly heard him speak at all. Once, we had a conversation about a book we both happened to be reading. We’ve exchanged pleasantries, and shared mundane details about our day.
But never like this. Nothing like this.
‘Stroke your clit,’ he says, and I almost faint right there on his carpeted floor. It seems like a miracle that I not only manage to take in his words and understand them, but that I also obey him without question.
I slide my finger through my embarrassingly – and loudly – slick folds, searching out that little swollen bud again. And when I really and properly find it, God, when I find it … it doesn’t feel like a part of me any more. It feels like some other, secret thing I’ve uncovered, some new centre of pleasure that shouldn’t actually exist.
A burst of thick sensation goes through me, as good as an orgasm but not quite all the way there yet. Despite its intensity, I know there’s more to come, but, Lord, I don’t know if I can take it.
The sense of which gets worse when he tells me to do other things.
‘Do you know what I want you to do now, Susie?’ he asks.
No, I think, in reply. No no no. Though, in all honesty, I’m not sure I’m actually answering the question. I’m just shoving a refusal out there, with the mind powers I don’t have. No no no, please don’t do this. Please, I can’t.
But he isn’t listening.
‘I want you to take your panties down, turn around and bend over.’
How is it possible that I’m still standing? I don’t even know. And I definitely don’t know how I manage to obey him. It seems like an almost monumental effort, one that gets bigger as I wriggle the material clumsily down over my shaking legs.
I turn around and face the television that remains resolutely off, with thoughts of what this means flooding my mind. If I bend over for him, I can never go back. I’ll always be this girl who spied, and then took her humiliation. We won’t be casual acquaintances any more. We won’t share little breakfast anecdotes between mouthfuls of cereal.
We’ll just look at each other and know.
But I do it anyway. I bend right over, past the point of what he asked for. I don’t even crook my knees or do it to the halfway point – I just make a neat fold in the middle of my body, and clasp my ankles, for good measure.
Of course, he can see everything. I think I can see everything, and I’m back to front. I’m blind, down here, with just the cool air against every single part of my sex, to tell me what this looks like.
Wet, I think. And so, so exposed. I must seem like some split fruit, all open and juicy and rude, but he doesn’t say anything like that. He doesn’t make a disapproving sound, and get out his morning newspaper.
He stands up instead, and strokes me ri-i-ight there.
It’s not unexpected, but I jerk forward anyway. I stumble, almost, clumsy in this position with my fingers wrapped around my ankles. But that’s OK because, even though this is my punishment, he steadies me with those two big hands I promise I never noticed before. He holds me quite still, in the middle of his bedroom, and then just as I’m sinking into a kind of calm he slides the wetness he’s gathered up over something he shouldn’t.
This time, I don’t jerk forward. I sob instead. I think about telling him not to – because I’m sure he would if I did – but the thing is it’s tit for tat. I can’t say no now, after watching him do what he did.
I have to just stand there and let him stroke over my clenching asshole, with that one unbearably, mortifyingly wet finger.
Though, naturally, he doesn’t stop there. He waits until I’m poised on some trembling brink, sure I want to say no but unable to actually express that simple idea, and then he just kind of presses against me.
He pushes, he works, he is so diligent in his terrible little task. Oddly, it makes me think of him fixing one of the kitchen drawers – everything about his actions so neat and precise. Dusting things off carefully when he’d done, with just one smoothly running-over-the-wood finger.
And this is the same, in some way, because he isn’t rough. It doesn’t hurt. He just patiently maps it all out for me, stroking and urging and going about his task so carefully, until that one long finger eases all the way into my wound-up and too tight body.
I don’t mind admitting that it’s blissful. I really don’t. Somehow he’s made me do the rudest thing ever, but, as he slides that finger back and forth, I know one thing very clearly. I see it, the way I saw him not so long ago.
This is better than watching. Doing is better than watching. Why steal, when you can have?
‘Fuck me,’ I tell him, just like that.
And he does, he does. He covers that gorgeous cock of his with rubber, and then he simply slides all the way into the now slick and strangely tingling hole he’s only just vacated.
The one I’ve never actually had penetrated by anything, for reasons I can no longer understand. I can’t understand anything, in fact – least of all the person I was, who stood in the closet and didn’t do anything about anything. But it’s OK, now, because he’s filling me up. He’s saying things – words he would never have dared to before, like God I need it, I need this.
I need you.
Before he wouldn’t have said I’m in need of some salt, on my mashed potatoes. Could you possibly pass it over? He would have just sat there, waiting for something he didn’t think he could just take if he wanted to.
But he can, oh, he can. It feels like nothing I’ve ever imagined, to have him sinking so slickly into that tight little place. To know how excited it’s making him, how jagged it’s turning his thrusts, until finally he’s panting and jerking at me just like he did to himself. One hand scrabbling desperately for my clit, my cunt – anything to make me feel the way he obviously does.
I don’t need it, however. I’m already there, buzzing with every new and strange sensation. The sense of being filled past the point of bearing, the rudeness of it, the stroke of his thick cock over every last nerve-ending around that spread opening … it’s enough on its own.
I’m coming before his fingers have made a full circle around my clit. I’m coming just from hearing him gasp my name as though he really knows it, so breathless and exciting and, ohhhh, God, I can feel him doing it in my ass.
I don’t even know what to say about that. Or about any of this, if I’m honest.
Though I suspect we’ll think of something, over breakfast and his daily paper, in the morning.
Oppositeland
Charlotte Stein
I purposefully pick out the most mundane and unneeded items I can think of, as I stroll around the supermarket with a basket over my arm. Of course, no one pays me the slightest bit of attention because they’re all picking out their own mundane and probably unneeded items. Things like the mop they saw on some infomercial or a jar of capers that’s on offer they don’t want. They’ll never use them – the capers, I mean – though really what can I say about that?
I’ll never use them either.
Me and Artie, we don’t eat capers. We don’t eat macaroons either, but they’re in my basket too. They’re just the most perfect thing to buy to keep my mind on that drifting, unthinking edge, that I’m completely bored state of nothingness I don’t usually feel when Artie and I walk around the supermarket together. When we do it together, we plan meals and giggle over funny-shaped aubergines, and maybe at some point I’ll slip a hand up the back of his jersey because he’s just so gorgeous I can’t resist him.
Though I suppose you could say I’m resisting him now. This is the ultimate in resisting, really – like a test, I suppose – but it doesn’t feel like it, somehow. It feels like something else, instead, though I don’t let myself think about it too hard. Just that little glancing edge of it, I tell myself, then let my mind wander back to mundane considerations like capers and macaroons and super-mops. I pay for my items and stroll back home, forcing my gaze and my attention over shop-window signs and people I see on the streets, and once there I deliberately put each item away in various newly made spaces.
Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t aware of Artie’s presence.
I am, but it’s a peripheral kind of thing. I bustle through the bedroom, collecting things I want to wear after my shower, and I can feel him just burning on the edges of my vision. I’m aware of him twitching and stirring towards the sound and smell of me, and after a moment he allows himself a little faint sigh. I can’t tell if it’s a discomfited sound or something else, but I don’t stop to find out.
I have my shower instead, taking time to remove any scrap of hair on my body and smoothing everything nicely as I go. Once I’m out, I dry myself and rub lotion on my various parts and then after a moment, I slide into the little silky slip thing Artie bought me for my thirtieth birthday.
Of course, it’s this action that almost gets me. I think about him running it all over me, bunched in his too-tense fist, telling me how he wanted to buy me something that would make me feel as sexy as he always thinks I am. Something that would feel glorious against my skin and make me near buzz for sex.
And it always does. My nipples stiffen as it flows over them, so cool and buttery soft. All I have to do to know how aroused I am is look down, and see them sticking through the material, dusky-pink and spiky-hard. I’m turned on because of shopping. I’m turned on because Artie’s in the bedroom and he’s still waiting, waiting, waiting.
When I walk back in there he turns his head blindly, searching me out from beneath the confines of the scarf around his eyes. His breathing is slightly unsteady, but I can’t tell if that’s because of the promise of things to come, or because he’s starting to really feel the effects of th
e state he’s in.
The muscles in his thighs are trembling – I can see them from here. And every now and then he cycles his shoulders backwards and forwards, as though the strain of having his hands tied behind his back then bound to the headboard is getting a bit too much. It’s putting pressure on his joints. The leather around his wrists is starting to rub against the tender skin there.
Though I’m not too worried, I have to say, because he’s still impossibly hard. Even after all this time – all the shopping and the shower and me getting myself ready – his cock is still sticking right out and almost up, all swollen and slippery at the tip. As I watch, a thin stream of pre-come slides down the length of his stiff shaft and I feel my cunt clench in sympathy.
I don’t let him know it, however. I don’t say or do anything to him at all. I just walk into the room and stand close enough to let him scent out the lotion on my body, the tang of my shampoo. Of course he doesn’t say anything – he just leans forward, slightly, as though he can get at me through sheer force of will. That leather leash straining against the bulk of his big body, the smooth solid rounds of his shoulders standing out starkly through the gloss of his skin as he works against them.
But it’s his mouth I like the best. He has a beautiful mouth at the most typical of times – soft and full in his otherwise perfectly masculine face – but now, here, it’s even sweeter. His lips are parted and moist, as though he’s been constantly licking them just to feel how good and dirty and slick his tongue feels, working over the only point of his body he can reach. And whenever he makes a little sound – a little strained sigh or a pulled-in groan – he ends it with his teeth pressed into that soft flesh.
I’m so wet by this point I can hardly stand it. Even the shower hasn’t taken the evidence of my arousal away – the arousal I built up without really thinking about it directly, as I walked around the supermarket and made my way back home – and now it’s starting to trickle down my thigh.
You Already Know Page 12
