He sounds relieved, but not enough for my liking.
‘I loved being filled like that.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And just when I thought I couldn’t endure any more, he made me take two fingers in my pussy.’
‘He made you?’
‘Yeah. He always makes me. He gets me so wet I just can’t say no. And even if I want to, even if I struggle, he forces me to enjoy it.’
‘It sounds like you need to get away from this sinner immediately.’
‘Are you sure, Father? Because I think you like hearing me talking about him. Do you want me to tell you what he did next?’
‘No,’ he says, but I know it’s
no
meaning
yes
. We’ve changed places, somehow, and now I’m the one in charge. He’s the one who has to sit there and listen – while stroking himself, I suspect. I can hear some deliciously slick sounds coming from the other side of the partition, as the fake him falls to half-mast.
All I have to do is turn it around a little more, and I’ll get what I’ve been hankering after.
‘He came inside me, until it ran down the insides of my thighs.’
I don’t know what makes me say it. It isn’t true. We’ve never done it without a condom, and even if everything was perfectly safe I’ve no special predilection for the idea. It’s just something dirty to say, I guess.
So his reaction is … his reaction is
delightful.
‘You’d do that?’ he says, in a voice that sounds both high and tight. And that slick noise is now extremely pronounced. In fact – I don’t even have to rely on that alone to know what he’s doing. Through the grate, I see him lick his palm before he returns it to his cock.
‘I would.’
‘You’d let me come in your ass?’
‘I’d let you come anywhere you’d like. Is that what you want, baby?’
Suddenly I know why he uses that little term of endearment so often, during sex. It somehow makes the dirty talk so much easier … so much sharper and clearer. I’m not afraid to do it, when I’m him and he’s me. When he’s my baby, my honey, my sweetheart … so ready to do my every bidding.
I don’t even balk at saying the rest.
‘You want to fill me there?’ I tell him, and I’m proud of myself for doing it. No prompting, no nudging – the words just fall right out of my mouth.
So it’s a shame that he responds with this:
‘Only if you want me to.’
God, I never thought I’d find selflessness so frustrating.
‘No,’ I say, sharper than I intend. ‘No. Tell me that you want to. I know you want to – is that a fantasy of yours? To fuck a girl skin to skin and then cream inside her?’
‘I don’t know, oh, God, I don’t know.’
I think that’s a yes, but admittedly it’s hard to be sure. Just the idea of the thing I’m suggesting is enough to make him moan inside a church confessional. I’m not even certain if he cares whether anyone hears him, because a second later he actually says my name.
‘Kit,’ he moans, like I’m everything he so desperately needs. And if that’s true … if I’m right … then God knows I’m not going to leave him hanging on that score. I don’t know why he finds it hard to share his fantasies, when he’s so free about fulfilling mine. But I’ve got no problems trying to rectify that – even in a church.
In fact, I don’t even think about being inside a church, as I slip out of the confessional. I barely notice whether there’s anyone sitting in those dusty, sunlight-dappled pews. I just go to where he is. I have to go to where he is.
And oh, boy, I don’t regret it once I have. There’s something doubly salacious about seeing him like this, seated on that well-worn wooden bench with his hand inside his shorts. He hasn’t even taken them down, or taken himself out. He’s being so secretive about this, so furtive, that only his hand on himself under cover of clothes and darkness will do.
Which is enough on its own to turn me on. I don’t need the other stuff – though I take it anyway. His brief look of panic. The way he closes his eyes when I step close. The harsh rattle of his breathing …
Yeah, seeing Dillon Holt this excited, and yet this inhibited at the same time …
It’s very compelling. It makes me wonder if he’s at all religious, underneath his brash exterior. Or did he have other reasons for appreciating the game we’ve just played? I rarely use dirty talk, but it seems he enjoys it – a fact that drives me on even harder than any of his other persuasions.
Lord, if only he’d known. He could have gotten me to bum sex way before last night. I’d have probably given up my ass three weeks before I met him, with just a bat of those pretty eyelashes and an uncomfortable clearing of his throat.
‘We can’t do anything in here,’ he says, but he’s totally lying. He’s
lying
. He’s playing coy on purpose, because apparently that just excites him more. He practically arches up off his seat when I suddenly fall to my knees, and his ‘no’ is quite something to hear.
It has seventeen extra syllables. It’s as elaborate as a game of Mousetrap, and it shows me clearly why
I
seem to like it so much. The word ‘no’ makes it forbidden, I think. ‘No’ makes it wrong, so wrong.
And it does it whether you’re Kit Connor or Dillon Holt.
‘Just say “fire”, if you really want me to stop,’ I tell him, with the wryest smile I’ve ever felt on my own face. Seriously, this is the most fun I’ve had in my life – and it’s so easy, too. His eyes actually fly open at that sound of that one little word, and he remains speechless throughout the rest of my little explanation.
Then less speechless once I’ve done.
‘I’ve created a monster,’ he says, with just a flicker of amusement in his eyes. The rest is all red-faced flusteredness, to the point where I get that vertigo-inducing sense again. That sense that we’ve swapped places, just for a little while.
Just long enough for me to be even more daring than I was the day I told him what I was going to do to him, whether he wanted it or not. Maybe because now I don’t care if it’s
not
. I just slide his zipper down – so loud, in this closed little space – and then when he’s at his most rigid, when his back’s right up against the wooden wall and his Converse-covered feet are rubbing holes into the stone floor, I lick him in places he least expects.
Like over that strip of skin he loved me pressing my fingers into. Like the tops of his thighs, where he tickled me; like up and underneath his shirt to the sharp points of his nipples. I do all the things I’ve only guessed at or extrapolated from bits and pieces of information.
But apparently I’m getting good at doing so.
Because he definitely reacts, to almost everything. He moans at the flicker of my tongue in those secretive places, and rolls his hips to help me work his shorts down – even as he says no. He says no and no and no until I’m sure what each one really means.
It means the same as it does when I say it to him.
‘You want me to suck this big thick cock?’ I ask him, and when he shakes his head and peers through the little grating, I take the head in my mouth. I swirl my tongue around the tip, and then I say what I’m sure he wants to hear: ‘I’m sorry, but I just can’t help myself. You make me so horny, Father,’ I say.
And he responds with:
‘Oh my God oh my God oh my God we’re going to burn in hell.’
‘We are?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Well, I guess you’d better come in my mouth before that happens.’
‘No.’
‘Or maybe you’d like to do it all over my face.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Or between my tits.’
‘There isn’t enough “no” in the world for that – you’d better not take that shirt off. You’d better keep your clothes on. Do not take your clothes off in here.’
And I think we have a winner. He wants me to get half-naked in a confessional and rub my breasts all over him – something I would never have considered a month ago. But apparently I can be persuaded to do just about anything, with the help of two seemingly opposing techniques:
Either he makes me.
Or I make him.
Oh, God, I think I like making him. I think I like the way he looks at me as I undo the buttons, all wild-eyed and half-disbelieving. Suddenly I can see the appeal of myself, and how I’ve behaved for him – even though I rarely if ever understand why anyone might like me. I’ve spent my life feeling singularly unattractive and unspectacular, and it’s there, on the stone floor of a church at 7 a.m. on a Saturday, that I finally and truly feel like something more than that. I feel voluptuous, and daring, and sexy.
He makes me feel all of those things, just by looking this shocked. By shaking, when I bring his hands to my bare breasts. By acting the part of an innocent so perfectly that I’m not even sure if he’s acting right now. I think it really does stun him to be fondling someone’s naked body in a church, despite his lurid past and his cocky swagger.
And that’s so exciting that I’m pretty much shaking too, by the time I manage to get his mouth onto mine, and his slick cock between my breasts. ‘Give me a pearl necklace,’ I whisper in his ear – probably because it’s the dirtiest thing I can think of to say.
Though I don’t know how dirty it is until he presses me back onto the floor and rubs himself right there. He ruts, like he’s suddenly out of control, hands squeezing and squeezing at my flesh. It’s really the rudest, most ridiculous thing, when you think about it: his thighs straddling my body, one of them almost at my ear. Erection sliding and slipping between my breasts, mouth open, head back … and me sprawled out like this with my head against the door.
So it’s rather disturbing that those treacherous words enter my head at that exact moment. Just as he’s about to give in and offer me that gift I’ve suggested, and then after it too. He lets out the most desperate groan of pleasure I’ve ever heard him make, and I feel the hot spill of his come all over my throat as I think it, stupidly, crazily, insanely:
I love you.
There’s not really any getting around it now. He came on me in a confessional, and I thought the words
I love you
. That’s probably a marriage ceremony, in some cultures. We’ve done the sacred ritual – which means, at the very least, that we have to have some kind of chat about this. About him, and his weird communication issues.
And I suspect he knows this.
In fact, I’m absolutely certain that he knows this. Because when I turn up at his place with deep discussions about his innermost self on my mind, he heads me off at the pass. He performs a pre-emptive strike against my efforts. I’m about to burst in the door and just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind – something about religion, maybe, or his fantasies, or, hell … his job would do. I’m constantly wondering if he gets to manhandle the penguins or poke the seals, and by this point I really shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t have to wonder. We’re not just fucking any more, and people who aren’t just fucking need to understand these kinds of things about each other.
Though I know as soon as I’m inside that he thinks otherwise. In fact, I think he might be actively avoiding divulging any information, in case me knowing him too well accidentally leads to a relationship. Somehow he’s going to stumble into it, I think, unless he takes drastic measures.
And he has.
He’s really taken some drastic measures.
He’s laid out seven strips of red ribbon on the bed. Like the first chapter that’s also the second-to-last chapter of my book. And because of that – because they’re there at the beginning, but also at the end – they seem ominous. Exciting, true, and certainly as distracting as he’s probably intended. But there’s something else about them.
They’re like a message. Keep going, and I’ll completely shut down the way your hero does,
I think; though the idea is more shocking than I expect. It’s more blistering, like a wound I didn’t anticipate, healing before I’ve got used to the pain. I thought he was fun, and silly, and full of light … but when I think of it this way …
He’s not so different to the hero of my story. He’s just as cold, in his own way. He’s just as impervious. He doesn’t say anything about his own wants and needs, exactly as the Master didn’t. He won’t share his life with me, and that’s true of my cologne-soaked businessman too.
And yet somehow that’s not half as sexy as it was in the story. It’s not cool to be with someone so shut off. It’s not full of thrills. I’m not going to ride off into the sunset with him, happy with a word or two about his feelings, for ever.
That’s reality, I think.
That’s what my story lacked: the sting of love. This sharp pain just under my ribcage, when he wraps the first ribbon around my eyes. Because it’s blissful, of course it’s blissful. It’s almost unbearably arousing and so utterly lovely to have someone be this willing to make your fantasies come true. It fills me with a shaking sort of gratitude, and persuades me to do as he’s suggesting even as all my intentions turn to dust and blow away.
But it’s not enough. It’s not enough to live your life with a cipher. He said it to me the first day we met: ‘I’m empty.’ And that’s what weighs heavy in my heart as he leads me to the bed. As he undresses me, piece by piece, until I’m just standing there, naked and sightless.
While he remains aloof and detached. He could be anyone, I think – and in truth he sort of feels like it, as he smoothes his palms over my breasts and my ass. I’m used to the slight roughness of his touch, and the startling sense of the size of his hands. But here and now his touch is almost elegant, as though he wasn’t content with simply distracting me with the sharpest fantasy he could find in the book. He also has to be that man, utterly. He has to smell like something other than himself – not of fabric softener and sometimes of salt, but of thick, rich perfume.
And of course I can’t tell him that I prefer the former.
Because I’m aroused, in spite of myself. I’m very aroused now. There’s just something about a touch that’s this impersonal … like seven different men are doing the stroking. One of them dips his fingers into the V of my sex, testing my wetness. Another probes me, somewhere really rude. Something ghosts over my stiff nipples and I forget that I’m supposed to stand still.