‘Did you just smack my tit?’
Did he just say
tit
? And if he did, why is it making me cry with laughter? Honestly, tears are streaming down my face before he’s even made his next move, which is not the one I expect. I fully anticipate a spanking of some type – it is, after all, a big part of my novel.
In fact … I’m kind of bristling all over, just waiting for it … that big, hard hand on my backside or my thighs or ohhhh, yeah, maybe the side of my hips as he takes me from behind … oh,
God
. Oh, God, why did I say that thing about not having sex yet? I must have gone temporarily insane. I want sex so badly that I’m apparently prepared to butt my body up against his – because that’s what I’m doing now.
I’m butting up against him, like some bull in heat. And what does he do?
He
tickles
me.
‘You’re gonna get it now,’ he says, and he’s right. He’s not content with a dig in the ribs or a finger in my armpit. It’s an all-out assault on my poor body, from the bits behind my knees to that awful, awful place between my thigh and my groin. I didn’t even know anyone was aware of the ticklish qualities of this forbidden spot, but of course
he
is.
He’s read the book of me. He can tell I’m going to squirm before I do.
Though I have to wonder if he knows I’m going to wee before I do.
‘You have to stop,’ I tell him, between breaths. It takes an effort to get words out, but he has to be told. Otherwise, we’re going way into golden-shower territory before we’ve got to our personal chapter thirty-nine. ‘Please, please.’
‘Oh-ho, was that begging? I think that was begging!’
‘That’s not begging. That’s not begging. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not begging.’
‘Lost the ability to think of words, huh?’
‘Can you blame me – oh, my God, not there. No no no don’t tickle me there, seriously, I am going to wet the bed.’
‘And it’s not even chapter thirty-nine yet – Kit, you filthy little thing.’
How on earth does he know what I was thinking? I think our brains might be converging. And I definitely know that our brains are converging when he says:
‘Come on, baby, beg me.’
He doesn’t even put the words ‘to stop’ on the end. The sentence no longer needs it. He progressed from tickling to fondling about thirty seconds ago, and I’ve just realised that my butt is pressed right up against something very appealing. Something that’s pressing right back at me as he continues this playful charade.
Though it’s less playful, by this point, and more like we’re sort of …
wrestling
. He pushes his hand up my shirt and I think he’s going for my ribs, so I push it down. But then it sort of slides sideways and aims for something that can’t be a tickle-spot, and slowly the picture becomes a little clearer.
Slowly, slowly, like I’m crawling my way up a big hill to the sex that’s definitely at the top. We’re going to have sex, I think, with such a burst of excitement it’s ridiculous – especially in light of the struggling I’m keeping up. And the refusals I keep giving out.
‘Stop,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t.’
Which should probably put the kibosh on things. It’s not the kind of begging he’s after now, and I know it. So how come it’s suddenly so hot in here? How come his cock feels like an iron bar against the curve of my ass?
‘Don’t do what, huh?’ he asks. ‘Don’t take your panties down?’
‘Yeah, don’t do that,’ I answer, but we both know what I really mean. I really mean that scene where they play a little game … one where he’s very forceful, and she’s full of protests. And the only difference is that he’s a hundred times better than any hero I’ve ever thought of. He’s a hundred times clearer on how these things should go.
Because whereas the Master made no provisions, no get-out clauses, no safety nets …
Dillon
does. ‘Say “fire”, if you really don’t want to,’ he tells me, ‘you understand?’
It’s the only time I nod during the whole thing.
The rest of the time I’m just a mindless mess. I lie there shaking as he yanks my panties down, and shoves my skirt up. And then I shake harder, to feel him pawing my thighs apart. He’s like some other Dillon doing it – some rougher, more desperate man than the one I’m used to – but man, is it ever a turn-on. I can feel his rough breath against the back of my neck and his thick fingers, opening me up.
Nothing prepares me for how they feel sliding in, however. He rubs once over my slick entrance, moaning and muttering when he realises how wet I am, and then he just fills me with two fingers, as easy as anything. All the way to the webbing, so thick and intrusive that I clench, hard, around him.
But of course that just makes it feel even better. A big glut of sensation radiates from that one place, overwhelming me before we’ve even got to the next bit. Which is a shame, because I really need all of my faculties for this particular pop quiz.
‘You always so ready for me, huh? Or did sucking my cock get you all excited?’
Oh, God, I don’t know, I don’t know. On the one hand, yes – sucking him got me really excited. I practically came just feeling him do it in my mouth and all over my face. I’ll definitely be coming over it tomorrow, when I masturbate while thinking of him.
But on the other hand … I’m always ready for him. He doesn’t have to put his hand in my hair or rock his hips or moan, as I give him head. I get wet just looking at his face. I got wet watching him eat pizza. I’m wet all the time now, and that’s the truth – but I don’t say it.
Because the connection between my brain and my mouth has been disengaged. And it’s just lucky, really, that he doesn’t need that connection to be there. It’s lucky that he’s so instinctive. That he’s read all of the things he’s read and knows all of the things he knows. I’m not sure what would happen if he didn’t – probably the same thing that always happens, when I try to enjoy myself and do fun sex things.
Something bad, I think.
Just as he murmurs in my ear:
‘I’m going to make you come on that cock.’
And then I think it’s fair to say that I have a minor orgasm. Not a big one, mind. Just a tiny hint of one – the kind that happens sometimes when you’re asleep, and you’re dreaming about three guys going down on you and everything’s awesome and suddenly you half-wake up as pleasure jolts through your body.
It’s
that
kind of fuzzy, nearly-not-there climax.
Only it’s still somehow better than most of the actual climaxes I’ve ever had. Better because it feels good, and better because he goes a little still after it’s happened, before breaking out of this mean-guy persona, briefly, to ask an incredulous question.
‘Did you just have an orgasm, after hearing me talk about giving you an orgasm?’
All I can do is sob helplessly in answer.
‘I think you did. I think you just came ’cause I’m fingering your sweet pussy and talking dirty to you – you know why?’
I don’t, I don’t.
‘Because you’re so nuts for this. Aren’t you, huh? You’re so primed. I can feel that hot little pussy clenching around me every time I move a muscle or say a word – ohhhh, yeah. Yeah, arch your back so I can look at you going nice and tight around my fingers. Yeah. Yeah. You gonna do that around my cock?’
I think there’s a definite danger that I may cut his cock in two, when it finally happens. Though naturally I don’t say that. I’m still incapable of speech. It’s all I can do to keep breathing and being relatively still. My body totally wants me to buck against his teasing fingers, and he does nothing to dissuade this sort of behaviour. He actually puts a hand on my hip to help haul me into the position he wants – and that position is
lewd
. My ass kind of juts towards him like a piece of shelving, and now my face is half in the pillow.
Plus, I know what he can see. I know without even thinking about it, because I can hear it in his voice. I can feel it in his shaky actions.
‘Oh, man,’ he says, so hot and breathless. ‘Oh, man, I can’t wait to get in that pussy. Spread yourself open for me, OK? Here, here, like this.’
He gets hold of my hand and forces it over the left cheek of my bottom – roughly, too roughly. And then he just pushes against my wrist until I’m doing what he asked: spreading everything open for his viewing pleasure.
It’s easy to, when he makes me. Everything is easy when he makes me. It has a kind of freedom to it, just as I thought it would. I don’t have to think about how I look, or whether I’m reacting right, or where my hands should go. He simply manoeuvres me into position, just as the Master did for my heroine, and, after a moment of watching myself be this open and vulnerable for him, I hear the rip of foil and the snap of rubber.
He’s going to fuck me, now, I think, and even though I knew everything was leading to this, it still feels so fresh and sharp and vaguely frightening. The manhandling and my silence just make it that way – they strip the experience right down to its rawest components. No sweetness, no niceties …
I feel the blunt, thick head of his cock against my entrance, and then he’s angling my hips and working his way in. Slowly, at first, easing back and forth until I give … but by the time I do he’s impatient. ‘Come on, come on,’
he says, but I can’t blame him. I can’t think badly of him. Personally, I just want him to shove right in. I want him to go further into that persona and simply have me, take me, whether it hurts or not.
And when he gets close to that – when he finds the right angle, suddenly, and slips right into me in a shockingly thick rush – I know I was right to feel that way. The sensation is incredible – like I’m being parted, slowly. Like I’m enclosing him too, tightly. I try to clench around him, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s no room to test him out, and apparently he agrees.
‘Oh, man,’ he says. ‘Oh, man, oh, man, oh, man.’
As though he’s forgotten that other words exist. I wish he’d remember, however, because I know he’s looking down between my legs. I know he can see his erection spreading me like this, and I’ve only got my own idea of how it must look.
So slippery, I think. So rude – and even more so when he slowly eases back out again. I bet I seem speared by him. I bet I seem forced to take that big, thick shaft, which is an exciting enough idea on its own. He doesn’t have to figure out English again and explain it to me.
Though I’m glad he does.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Yeah, baby – you take that soooo good. That nice, huh? You like getting fucked by this big cock?’
I can’t even fault him for his arrogance. He
does
have a big one. It’s so big you could persuade druids to worship it on the solstice, so there’s really no getting around it. In truth, I don’t want him to get around it, because when he says ‘fucked’ and ‘big’ and ‘cock’, I moan into the pillow. I try to tell him, ‘Yes, yes, I love it,’ but it just comes out as muffled sound.
Which he appreciates.
‘Oh, yeah, you like it. That’s it, baby. Work yourself on it,’ he says, but my attempts are pathetic at best. I jerk my hips and that’s way too much – pleasure actually jabs me, right in the gut. And when I try to do it slow and easy, just sliding myself back and forth over that stiff, unyielding thing, it’s not quite enough.
I bunch the sheets in frustration, and make helpless noises.
Which he appreciates even more.
‘Not sure how to go about it, huh?’ he says, and then he just presses me down into the bed. He presses me right down on to my belly and lifts himself up over me, hands on my ass. And I think it’s going to hurt, I guess. I brace myself for the pressure of him, for the force of that too long and too thick and too brutal feel of his erection. I don’t believe it when he says ‘like this’, until he actually shows me what ‘like this’
means.
It means that he angles his hips down and just sort of rubs into me – barely leaving that tight, slick space with each thrust, but making sure that every single one is insistent. Really, really insistent, like the way he tickled me. Like two knuckles digging into my ribs, which I know sounds absolutely awful.
So it’s a shock that this is somehow the opposite. There’s nothing awful about it at all. It’s not even uncomfortable, the way I kind of expect it to be. He just strokes the thick head of his erection over that place he found so unerringly with his fingers, and I make a sound like a moose dying.
Not that he’s complaining. He’s not alarmed to find himself in bed with a large, hirsute four-legged animal. Far from it, in fact.
‘Right there, huh?’ he says, because he’s a smug fucker. But hey – he has every right to be. I’m a boneless, whimpering mess. Every time he hits that spot, pleasure pushes through me in a thick, almost oppressive bloom, rendering me essentially speechless.
But that’s OK – because he’s got plenty of talking to do now. He tells me how wet I look, how tight, how hot. He tells me how tempting my ass looks, and asks me if I’ve ever had anyone there – then strokes over that secretive place with two terrifying, slippery fingers, before I’ve had a chance to answer. Hell, he knows that I won’t answer. He knows that I can’t, and after a while I think that gives him a kind of carte blanche.
He could finger me there, if he wanted. He could slide out of me and push it into that virgin place, and I wouldn’t say a word. In fact, I kind of want him to just do it. I want him to go as bad as he can, without questions or prompts.
Because I can never give them. I understand that now. I can only get them like this, with someone who knows so perfectly how to do things and say things. He grabs hold of my hips before I’ve urged him, and speeds up his thrusts at just the right point. Then, just as I’m settling into the safety of it, the rhythm of it, he grunts:
‘Yeah, you like being taken, huh? You like being used like this, to get me off. Fuck, I’m gonna come so hard in that tight little pussy.’
And I lose my footing all over again. That one word ‘used’ just sends me to some place I barely want to go, head flooding with a thousand images of him working me over his cock, as his control dissolves. I can feel him shaking with it, and I know he’s excited. I know he must be close, because I can almost make it out in the swell of his erection and the sudden urgency of his thrusts.