Authors: Charlotte Stein
He strokes a thumb over my forehead before he answers, like maybe he wants to soothe me first. He wants to rub out the worried wrinkles there, and he almost succeeds.
Then he speaks, and succeeds completely.
‘You already know why – you just refuse to hear it. I could say “because you’re different” a thousand times and in a thousand different ways, and I doubt you’d listen. To you, difference from some elegant ideal is wrong, and unappetising. But to me … to me your differences are a delight. They fill my life with the unexpected.’
‘In what way?’
‘In every way. You think of me as a mind-reader, but the truth is … I find you endlessly fascinating because I so often
can’t
read your mind. I rarely know for sure what you’re thinking, and cannot predict your every move – though I do enjoy trying.’
‘Maybe I’m just novelty, then.’
‘Is that what you really believe?’
‘No.’
‘But you still worry, though.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I don’t think the answer is maybe.’
‘Well, why not?’
‘Because you’re still making that little dent between your brows,’ he says, and then he presses his thumb there, just to emphasise. And it’s a good emphasis, too. It feels like I’ve got a great canyon of concern just above my nose, when he touches me like that.
‘OK, so I’m worried a little.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, but only because it’s a struggle to get the words out. In the end I have to frame my sentences as questions, just so I can say them aloud. ‘That I’m not enough? That I’ll never fit into your world?’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘I mean, is that so crazy to wonder? We don’t exactly move in the same circles.’
‘No, I suppose we don’t.’
‘But you don’t see it as a problem?’
‘Now who is the mind-reader?’
‘Well, it wasn’t that hard to guess. I can hear the laughter in your voice.’
‘Forgive me, love. It’s one of my many flaws.’
‘What is?’
‘The inability to hide my amusement when someone says something ridiculous.’
‘So I’m just being ridiculous.’
‘Not exactly. I understand why you might wonder, of course. But … you see … to me you fit in perfectly. Therefore, how can I find the idea anything other than absurd?’
I fall silent then. I have to. He’s just presented me with the Chinese puzzle box of human interactions, and I need all my resources to work my way around it.
‘You make a good point.’
‘And yet you still don’t believe me.’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Very well, then. What if I prove it to you? What if I prove that you can fit in wherever you choose to? Will you accept it?’
I go to answer automatically. ‘Yes’, I want to say, ‘yes’.
But then I remember all the times he’s spun a web and caught me right in its centre. He could do something really awful – so awful that I can’t seem to imagine it. He could do a thing with some other thing that ends up really thinging me, and for a moment this insane notion is so strong I almost give in to it. I almost tell him: there’s nothing you can do.
Before it occurs to me, in a hot rush:
What if it’s just that I
need
there to be nothing he can do? He might be good at designing traps for me, but apparently so am I. I make them for myself, intricately constructed and almost impossible to see – until it’s too late. Next thing I know I’m bored and alone, sure that it was he who pushed when really it was I who ran.
My God, I think I always run.
‘Do your best,’ I say.
And he does. Oh, he does. He takes my face in his hands the moment I’ve given him permission, thumbs stroking somewhere inexplicably sweet – like my temples, and the tips of my ears. Then just as I’m about to say something more – ‘I take it back,’ maybe, because, Lord, this is too intense for me – he lifts my mouth to his.
Like he needs a long, long drink. The sips he had earlier weren’t enough. He’s already thirsty again, and if I’m honest so am I. I’ve gone all strange and shivery from what felt like an hour of emotional overload, and now I just need something to take the edge off.
His lips do the job admirably. They’re hungry like mine, and hot like mine, but most of all they move against me in a slow, syrupy rhythm that reminds me of his promise. He’s going to prove it by working this kiss into me, so deeply I’ll never be able to get back out.
I don’t
want
to get back out. It’s better this way. It’s better just to give in, and I have no trouble doing that. I relax back into his arms, and for once in my life I simply let myself be held. No questions. No doubts. No wondering if it would be better if I were standing alone over there, the way I usually seem to.
Just this kiss. Just his mouth on mine and the flicker of his hot, wet tongue, and oh, now his hand is moving down …
He slides it over the line of buttons that currently lie between my breasts – promising so much but giving so little. A slight move either way would have meant he was cupping my already sensitive breasts, and if he had kept going when he got to the last button he’d be touching me between my legs.
But of course he doesn’t keep going. He stops just shy, before easing back up again. Then down again. Then up again – and on and on until it crosses the line between soothing and maddening.
Lord, he’s good at crossing that line. He always lets me think he might sway one way or the other, teetering on the edge of the chasm that lies in the middle, before pulling back. And then just when I’m close to begging or bursting, he starts on the first button.
Slowly, so slowly, but hey – at least it’s something. And it’s followed by the second and the third button, too, as though he’s not going to tease me at all. Tonight is about something else entirely, I think, and I’m right.
It only takes him a few short moments to unfasten everything, and then he simply spreads the whole thing open. No fussing, no games, no tease. He wants me bare and I can’t say I mind. It feels amazing to be laid like this over his legs – back almost arched, everything exposed. There’s something so lewd about it, in amongst the tenderness, and it makes me want to really strain up towards him.
So I do. I stretch like a satisfied cat, stiff nipples poking up, ass almost off the bed. And in response he does the best thing possible. He runs and rubs his hand all over my bare breasts and taut nipples – not quite softly enough to be a caress, but not roughly enough to count as anything else. His touch lands somewhere in-between, and oh, it’s making me moan. It’s making me roll my hips, and doubly so when he starts plucking at my nipples.
First one, then the other, shifting back and forth until both are tight, stiff peaks.
Before moving on.
Though perhaps moving on isn’t quite the right term. It implies something restless and maybe a little perfunctory, when this is anything but. It’s a smooth, purposeful glide down the centre of my body, and it ends with him cupping my sex in this possessive grip.
However, I don’t know if it’s the sense of being so ready for him – so spread open and eager, legs almost flat against the bed in an effort to encourage him there – or his willingness to do a thing like this that gets me. Either way, arousal just gushes through my body in this great hot wave, so strong I have to turn my face away from his. I have to bury myself in the side of his throat, and let out an agonised sound.
But doing so provides no relief. Now his lips are close to my ear, and he’s whispering and whispering. ‘Yes, yes, you want a hand between your legs, don’t you?’
he asks, as though there’s any question at all. I’m practically humping his palm, and I know he can feel my wetness. He hasn’t yet slid a finger into that plump seam, but he doesn’t have to. I’m so slippery it’s coating the sparse hair there – and it’s obvious he’s discovered it. After a moment of that holding and cupping, he starts to tease the slipperiness over my sensitive lips.
Which is exciting enough on its own. But he couples it with constant murmuring, and that’s more than I can take. He doesn’t limit himself to pointed questions, either – now he’s progressed to hoarse, aroused-sounding stuff like ‘Ahhh yes, so wet, so eager
.
’
And he doesn’t stop there.
‘Did I tell you how much I adore your eagerness?’ he says. ‘Because I do, I do. I have fantasies about you being like this – spread out for me, straining for my hand, your sex all slippery like this … oh. Look how easily you take my fingers …’
By the time he’s done I’m surprised I’m conscious. His tone is just so rough with lust, like he barely has control over it any more – and, even sweeter, I suspect he doesn’t want to. He opened a door earlier and now everything is spilling through, including stuff about his desires and his fantasies.
Apparently the latter feature me and my wet pussy – who knew?
Not me. But then, right now I know very little. I’m having to focus all my attention on him and his hand, and the thing he seems to be doing. The one he mentioned a moment ago, which seems to be burning a hole through my lower body. My stomach feels weird and tight and my thigh muscles are tensing like crazy, and all because he’s slowly sinking two thick fingers into my wet and wanting hole.
They just slide right in, as easily as he claimed.
Though that’s not the best part. No, no. I mean, it’s good, sure. And I love how it feels to be filled and slowly fucked like that. But fucking me is clearly not his intended purpose – and it’s
this
that makes it hot.
It’s the way he rubs until he’s gathered up my slickness – making sure his fingers are good and glossy – before gliding them back up through my slit, to stroke my stiff little bud. Oh, yeah,
that’s
the thing that makes my body sing.
The pads of his fingers are just so slick when he finally rubs them over my clit. And it’s such a rude thing to do. It’s so loose and lewd and not like him, and for a moment I can’t quite get over it. My head falls back on the bed, eyes rolling in disbelief or desire or both mashed together.
Followed by a sound that shouldn’t ever come out of any human being. I think it’s a groan crossed with something rattling inside a cement mixer – but I just can’t help it. I skirt close to an orgasm the second he does it, and it’s important I vocalise this. If I don’t I might burst. In fact, I think I’m going to burst either way. I’m straining against his hand and nearly biting at his neck, and still he keeps on.
Of
course
he keeps on. He’s got a particular goal in mind – one that he tells me about a second later. ‘No no no,’ he says. ‘Not yet, not yet.’ And just when I’m ripe with confusion, twisting and turning and wanting that yet to be right now, he lays out the rest of his diabolical plan:
‘I want you to come all over my cock,’ he says, and oh, the surge of sensation that follows,… It’s like before in the elevator – this heavy, hot pulse just thuds through me, so similar to an orgasm you could almost call it one.
Only this time he stops it before it can fully develop into bliss. He takes his hand away and moves back on the bed, while I mewl and complain and do things I wouldn’t have before. I reach for his cock – only not with my hands. I do it with my mouth, licking him wetly until he’s close to giving in. I feel his hand hover around the back of my head, and I know he just wants to pull me towards him.
But there’s something else he wants more than that, and after he’s rolled on a condom he does it. He gets me on my back, and puts himself between my legs – so ordinary, I think, and yet it’s completely not. All this position does is make me realise that we’ve never had sex like this before. We’ve only fucked with him behind me … never face to face.
And oh, God, it’s so … I don’t know. He’s absolutely massive between my thighs – to the point where my muscles feel a little strained in their efforts to accommodate him. And the hair on his chest is all rough against my stiff nipples, which only adds to the agony.
Though it’s his face I notice the most. Of course it is. He’s staring down at me and I’m staring up at him, and suddenly everything is just so insanely intimate. I can feel the tears sparking behind my eyes again. I can feel my body trembling under the pressure.
And that’s before he cups my face in his hands – just like he did earlier, with his thumbs rubbing and rubbing over my temples and his fingers in my hair. As though he knew how soothing I found that, and wants to replicate the feeling. He wants this sex to be soothing, which sounds strange until I realise there’s another name for such a thing. It starts with an M and ends with an E, and I think there are the letters AKING and LOV somewhere in-between.
Or at least that’s what my racing heart is telling me. I try to ignore it, naturally, but when you’re staring up into eyes like his it’s so hard. They’re filled with so much feeling that I have to look away. If I keep going with this eye contact I’m liable to blurt out some really stupid things, and I’m afraid this will end if I do.
I can’t let that happen. There’s just too much to enjoy and thrill over – like the feel of his cock pressing between my legs, steel-hard and so heavy against my spread sex. When he rocks his hips just a little, that thick, swollen head parts everything easily, sending sweet waves of pleasure rolling through me.
And just as I’m revelling in that, he glides his solid length right over my clit and I’m completely gone. I don’t care if this is sex with a capital M and a capital L, or that he’s looking and looking at me while holding my face in his two hands.
I only care about the feelings, physical and otherwise. I give myself over to them, rocking with him in a way that starts off small but ends with me clinging to him desperately – one hand sprawled over his broad back, the other in his hair.
Then we simply move like that, as though we’re fused together all the way down the length of our bodies. He pushes and I lean into it, and it’s so good, oh, it’s so good. I don’t even need him to do the rest, in all honesty.
But I’m glad when he gives it to me. I feel him shift and that solid, swollen head is suddenly against my entrance, lingering just long enough to give me shivers. There’s a hint of pressure and a sense of my own slipperiness sliding gloriously against the sensitive skin there, and then he starts to ease his way in.