Authors: Charlotte Stein
And I don’t care. I’d sacrifice a lot to see him like this – as lost as I am. I’d give up my dignity if it meant he let go of his at the same time, and suddenly … suddenly I know what I have to do. I know how to get what I want, without endless hours of relentless agony. He’s going to put me through it, I can tell.
But I can stop him. I can make him.
I might actually have some power over him. In fact, I’m sure I do. I think back to the first time we were together, when he’d seemed to reach a certain point before falling into absolute chaos. He hadn’t meant to pounce on me like that.
I pushed him over the edge.
And I can push him over the edge now, too. All I have to do is watch for what he likes, the way he watches me. It can’t be that hard, when he’s already halfway there. He’s actually a little red around the cheeks, even though he’s the sort of man who scorns things like blushing. And his hands are definitely trembling a little as he reaches for me again.
It should be a cinch.
But oh, it isn’t, it isn’t.
How can it be, when he doesn’t like the things other men like? I lick my lips at him and get nothing but a sardonic smile for my trouble, and when I give him my heaviest, most sultry stare he goes one better. He takes a step back, like he knows what I’m trying to do and is intent on heading me off at the pass.
Either that or he thinks my efforts are pathetic.
Oh, Lord, I bet he thinks my efforts are pathetic. I have the seductive capabilities of a peanut, and now all of my shortcomings are on show. I can’t be sexy, and I can’t seduce, and I don’t know how to persuade. All I can do is blush and shrug around inside my own embarrassed skin.
But apparently that’s all it takes.
He doesn’t even wait for me to try my next move. He just steps forward again, so close this time I can feel his suit purring against the backs of my thighs. No fussing around with the scarf beneath my body, either. Now it’s his hand on the small of my back, and the material trailing down from that one point of connection.
Like a tail, I think.
But I’m only doing it so I don’t have to consider what that tail is touching. I can’t bear to think about what that tail is touching. I need to create a separate body for all the feelings that spread out from that one soft, wet place, and when the laws of physics refuse me I’m forced to choose some drastic measures.
I have to try to escape, for a start. I can’t stick around for this. I thought I wanted it, but wanting and getting are two different things. Wanting is something far away, abstract, based on seduction techniques I don’t know how to do. Getting is the almost unbearable sensation of that silk dragging over my swollen sex.
And it’s not just the sizzling feel of something touching me there, either. It’s his hand on my back, slowly sliding upwards. His fingers are all spread out so I get the most benefit from each and every one, and oh, that benefit is
glorious
. My spine is on fire. It keeps sending flaming messages to my brain, like
He Is Touching Us With His Bare Hand
and even better:
He did this because you blushed.
It’s obvious, I think. But its obviousness doesn’t make it any less exciting and strange and unfathomable. He should prefer a sophisticated woman who knows exactly what she’s doing, but it always seems to be the opposite. He likes it when I’m clumsy and awkward and all over the place, fumbling towards feelings I’ve no name for.
When I do the silliest thing possible – rocking back and forth to get a little more contact – his hand tightens on my back. It makes a near fist and, when he speaks, his words suddenly seem to mean something else.
‘Stay still,’ he says, just like he did before.
But now the sentiment is brand new and really wide open. He’s not saying it for me, I realise. He’s saying it for himself. It’s what he needs, to negotiate his way through the tangled tension between us – my calm, my composure, my resistance to this onslaught.
And when I am none of those things, he isn’t either.
I squirm with abandon, and that hand gets tighter – before leaving altogether. Only now it’s not a punishment for my disobedience. It’s a challenge. He’s thrown down the gauntlet and I have to come back with something new.
And I do.
I keep wriggling, full of self-consciousness at first but gradually growing more and more uncaring. What does it matter if I look silly? He
likes
silly. He likes it enough to let out a soft sigh when I get bolder, even though a soft sigh from him is practically a shout from anyone else. It strikes a spark inside me, bright enough to let me ignore him when he says those unbreakable words: ‘Palms flat on the bed.’ He even repeats it, with my name on the end.
But still I don’t obey. I’m right down on the duvet now, the aching tips of my tits finally finding relief against something. If I rub just so, I’m almost sure I could orgasm, though I don’t think I’m ready for that quite yet.
I think something better is coming.
In fact, I can almost feel it building behind me. ‘I’m warning you, Alissa,’ he says, in a voice like breaking glass. He’s splitting down the middle and his insides are almost all over the floor – I just have to push a little harder. I just have to get him into that state of
not giving a fuck
, and if his panting breath is anything to go by he’s close.
Though now I’m wondering:
Close to what?
Close to burying his face between my legs, again? Close to touching me with his hands? I don’t think I could take it if he did. I’m so sensitive I can’t even rub my pussy against the bed the way I want to. The tiniest brush of the covers against that smooth glossy swell is enough to make me jerk and stutter like a broken puppet.
Yet still I keep squirming. I must look absolutely shameless by this point. I feel absolutely shameless. I’ve never been so willing to be so bare in front of someone, and certainly not at my own behest. He doesn’t tell me to turn over.
I do it. I sprawl out on my back, legs spread for him. Hands all over everything I can bear to touch – which is mostly my elbows and some space I didn’t know I had behind my right ear. However, he doesn’t seem to care what kind of innocuous places I’m touching. His expression is still a flame, and it burns more fiercely by the second. It licks over my hips and my tits, devouring greedily as it goes.
I should really know what’s going to happen next.
Only somehow I don’t. I don’t expect him to grab me. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments and suddenly his hand is around my ankle – though that’s not really the startling part. He’s grabbed me before, after all. And this
is
what I was aiming for.
It’s just that I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten what it’s like to see him being so intense. I’ve started to form a standard image of him in my mind, great and grey and immovable. And when he shifts right in front of my eyes, it’s always unsettling. It’s like watching a wolf shedding its sheep’s clothing.
Only much more exciting than that sounds.
Oh,
so much
more exciting.
His hand is almost a cuff around my ankle. And he doesn’t just use it to restrain me. Restraining me would be bad enough on its own, but he goes one further. He actually yanks me down the bed, hard enough to make me gasp, smooth enough to make the gasp a delighted one. In fact, I think it might qualify as a squeal.
Though he’s kind enough not to comment on it. Instead he simply plunges on into this feverish chaos, hands running and running all over my spread legs in a way that nearly makes me weep. I was starting to forget what ordinary human contact was like, and now I’m getting some my body doesn’t know how to process it.
Does skin usually prickle like that when someone strokes it?
I didn’t think so, but apparently it’s true. Every nerve-ending is firing, and that’s before he starts in on something I can’t quite believe. I see his hand go to his belt, and am sure I’m hallucinating – but then I hear it too. I hear that familiar clatter of metal and leather, so dull at every other point in my lacklustre life.
And so electric here.
Is he really going to fuck me? I think he is, though I’ve no clue why the idea makes my eyes go wide and my heart pound hard enough to break out of my chest. It’s just sex, I remind myself, but reminding does no good. I still moan excitedly at the sight of his greedy gaze and his frantic, fumbling hands.
Then louder, for his gorgeous cock.
It’s just like the rest of him: too big and too solid and too everything. He could probably beat me to death with it, if he was so inclined – and, judging by the look of him, he might well be. He’s still breathing too hard and moving in that jerky, frantic, unfamiliar manner, but none of it scares me.
I’m too excited to be scared, and I know exactly why.
It’s because of the grip he gets on me, close to a kind of manhandling but without the brute force. He hauls me over onto my stomach, sure enough. And the move is firm and quick, riddled through with his new eagerness.
And yet it doesn’t hurt. He strokes me through it, hands roaming and spreading out over various parts of my body. He has to cup my hip to make the move possible, and I feel his hand easing up into position. I feel it smoothing over me, exploring every dip and curve.
Before he arranges me on the bed.
Because that’s what he’s doing, isn’t it? He’s arranging me. He’s preparing me for that thick, swollen-looking cock, so quickly I can barely catch my breath. So slowly I want to scream at him for it.
Hurry hurry hurry
, I want to tell him, even though I know we’re already going at the speed of light. The turn took two seconds, and he isn’t lingering on anything else.
I can hear the snap of rubber. I can feel the need in his grasping hands, and his panting breath, and oh, God, is that his cock stroking over my spread sex? I think it is, but it’s hard to be sure when you’ve been on the edge of pleasure for a thousand years and suddenly something thick and hot is rubbing through your slippery folds.
It’s like asking me to do algebra while upside down in a jug of spaghetti. I just can’t do it. I’m completely focused on the slow, sweet pull of his cock, as it teases and explores my pussy – always hinting at something more but never quite giving it. He gets to the very outer edges of my stiff clit, before backing away.
Then just as I think he’s sliding down to meet my wet and wanting hole, he glides right over it. He ignores it completely, like it’s not even there.
He just can’t help himself, it seems. He has to play this game to the end – this endless game of teasing insanity. Just when I think he’s breaking he rallies again, and I don’t have it in me to keep pressing for more. All I can do is lie there and take it, moaning occasionally under the onslaught.
But, thankfully, the moaning is enough.
I think it’s because I’m saying his name, over and over. Or it is the way I move, every time I feel him sliding back and forth? I’m undulating into the sensation, hips rocking but just barely. Back arching for each sweet spread of pleasure.
And after a while of it, he just snaps again. He grabs at my hip, and I think: this is it. This has to be it. In fact, I’m so sure that I make a sound of relief, ready for that last little gift that never actually comes.
Instead, I hear the snap of rubber again. I feel his hand pressing down on my back, like a command – stay where you are. I’m not even sure if I’m allowed to look, though I don’t really have to. I know what he’s doing. I can feel what he’s doing. He’s breathing harshly and the back and forth of his hand on his cock is as clear as day – almost violent, and oh, so slippery sounding.
It’s that slipperiness that excites me, I know. I can almost see it in my mind’s eye: that glimpse I got of the glistening tip of his cock. It’s probably all over his hand as he works himself, though I doubt it helps. He’s going at it so hard it probably hurts – like he’s punishing himself for something.
I can’t say what, however. For almost fucking me? For nearly making me come with a strip of silk pressed against my breasts? Neither of these seem judgement-worthy. If anything, I want to judge him for not following through. I’m still standing on this ledge, waiting for an orgasm that’s just out of reach. I’m still half-mad with desire, and all I’m getting is the unbearably hot sound of him masturbating over my bare back and ass.
Or at least that’s what I get at first. He pushes it right until the last moment, still apt to tease even in the middle of whatever emotional disaster this whole thing is. I’m pretty sure he lets his knuckles graze my skin on purpose – and I know the hint of that slick cock is entirely intentional. He just dips his hand a little and suddenly I can feel it on the upturned curve of my backside: smooth and silky with pre-come, and so urgent against me.
Then, just when I’m about to protest, he does it.
He touches me, between my legs. He cups his free hand over my sex, in that good good way that tells me he would like to remain aloof but can’t quite help it. And once he’s there, he can’t help other things, either. He wants to search through my slick folds and find things that desperately need touching – like my over-sensitised and far too swollen clit.
I swear, one stroke across its taut surface is enough.
Or is it the sound of his grating, throttled groan? He sounds like he’s trying to choke the noise down, but I’m glad he’s unsuccessful. For one long glorious moment I get every bit of him, unfettered and free. His body jerks against the backs of my thighs and that thick cock skids over my skin one final time.
Then finally, finally, I get the all too familiar slipperiness, pattering against my skin.
I think it’s this that actually does me in. Not his stroking finger or the sound of his voice. Just that visceral sense of him giving it up like that, spurting thickly all over my back and ass. I feel it and my whole body seizes, as though it’s resisting the jolt of orgasm as much as it’s welcoming it.
I’m not ready, I think wildly.
But it’s too late to back out now. The sensation gets me in its grip and shakes me right out of my skin. My clit seems to swell unbearably, and just when I’m sure it can’t take any more the pleasure surges up, and out, and all the way through me – great breaking waves of unbelievable bliss, on and on endlessly until I’m wrecked. I’m wasted. I’ve been made to wait far too long and am never going to recover from this.