The Things That Make Me Give In (21 page)

But then he tells me, ‘Eyes forward,’ and the show’s over. I obey, just as he touches the tip of that gorgeous cock to my hole.

He groans his appreciation when he pushes into me, but I can’t answer him. I’m made speechless by the size of him; it’s almost painful. I squirm and he gets hold of my thighs, the hollows of my hips, and pulls me on to him. He must think I’m the squirmiest chick he’s ever had, but it’s impossible to help, even when he’s gentle.

And he is, in most ways. He urges himself against me, slow, slow, until I stop squeezing him tight enough to cut off the blood supply. His hands run up over my back, around and then inside my T-shirt. He caresses my breasts, teasing the peaks, which are of course diamond-hard, and now I’m squirming with impatience.

The pace is maddeningly slow.

Which is how I end up fucking him. There’s no other word for what I do. I just thrust back on to him as hard and fast as I need it to be, and when I do he pants out, ‘Oh, you fucking slut.’

I think that’s why he went so slow – to make me fuck back on him. To drive me crazy until I bucked like a wild animal.

He teases my clit and I jerk myself over his cock, grunting and sighing. I tell him how big and hard he is, how much I love to feel something so fucking thick inside me, and he responds with crude endearments about my slippery cunt, how he can see all my juices on his cock when I pull away from him, how I look split on his fat prick, how good I am for taking all of him.

I don’t care. In fact, I like it. The cruder he is, the better it is.

‘Fuck me harder,’ he grunts. ‘Fuck me hard, you little bitch.’

And I do. I fuck him as hard as I can just to make him talk like this, and make those dirty gruff noises he does, until I’m all shaky and even less able to control myself.

‘Don’t stop,’ he groans, and it’s delicious. I’ve never heard him so much as ask someone to pass him a wrench, in the garage, never mind begging someone not to stop. It’s even better than hearing him calling me ‘slut’, and I draw out a long moan for him.

‘You want me to fuck you, baby?’ he asks, and I reply, ‘Yeah. Yeah.’

He doesn’t make me beg. He pushes me down so that my face is in the seat, grabs my hips and holds me still so that he can fuck me good and hard. Now he’s hitting some lovely place, over and over, and we’re making slick wet sounds together, and he tells me
uh uh uh
.

When I come, it curls around and inside me, squeezing me tight and then releasing, and I shudder and jitter and give him an
ooooohh yeeeaah, now
.

I want to tell him directly afterwards that no one has ever made me come like this before, with just a straightforward fucking. That I’ve never had this type of orgasm before, and he’s too good, too big, too fucking fantastic, but all I can do is say his name and that’s too much.

He asks me to say it again, which is probably the closest he’s going to get to a sweet endearment, and when I do he fucks into me hard, grabbing my hips again and pulling my lax body back on to his dick.

‘Ohhh, fuck, baby, here it comes,’ he says, and I feel him swell inside me.

There are other signs he’s going to come. He grabs my tits, and I can feel him shaking. At the last second, he fucks in as deep as he can go, and then he unloads in my pussy. I think I feel him spurting. I certainly feel it when he withdraws for the last few spasms, and then I lazily turn my head and watch him milk his cock, striping my ass cheeks with his come.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘Clean my cock.’

And then he tugs me around and aims at my mouth, and I greedily suck him in. He tastes sweet and salty, like me and him.

He doesn’t let me play for long, though. He pushes me away when it gets too much, and then I sag against the seat, face almost in his lap. Some time must pass, I guess. I don’t know. Next thing he’s buttoning up his jeans and telling me to get up.

I slide bonelessly into a half-hearted sitting position, probably getting our combined junk all over the seat. I have no idea where my panties are. He’ll probably be mad tomorrow, when he sees what I’ve done to his precious truck.

I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. As he starts the truck I lay my head back against the seat and close my eyes.

He’s not exactly the cuddling type. Every time I imagine him kissing me and putting his arms around my shoulders, it descends into screwing fantasies again. I used to sit on those plastic seats and imagine the lewdest things. That cutie tootie chickie that used to come in and get his attention – maybe I’d lick her cunt for him, put on a show. Maybe he and that other mechanic, Dirk, could take turns fucking me over the hood of a Camaro, greasing me up with engine oil, one of them in my pussy, one of them in my ass.

He would find the vibrator in my purse and make me suck it like a cock. Make me put on a show for the men in the garage, skirt up and pink plastic buried deep in my streaming cunt. Buzzing it against my clit. Creaming for them, moaning for them, oh, those fantasies, while sitting on the plastic seats.

But I’m even having the fantasies now. This is something new – I’ve just had sex, and I want more. I never want more. I’m lucky if I want it the first time.

Even so, I expect him just to drive me back to town. Kick me out of the truck. I don’t expect him to pull up outside his house, and come around to my door, and fish me out of there. Maybe I seem really out of it – though not so out of it that he’s against pulling me down into his arms and sticking his tongue in my mouth.

He pushes me up against the truck and I think he’s going to fuck me again right there, in the street, but he obviously has other ideas. We make it as far as his kitchen, and then he fucks me over the table. Facing away from him again, obviously, but I don’t care because my body is still going nuts. Apparently that last little thing just revved me up like an engine, and I writhe
around with my tits pressed into the kitchen table, saying filthy things to urge him on.

He doesn’t need urging on. This time he’s even dirtier, too, as if I’ve given him permission, and of course it goes on forever because he’s already had one release of tension.

I think about how old he must be. Thirty-five? Maybe he’s younger but just looks older – which twice in the space of twenty minutes would seem to bear out. Or maybe he’s just really, really horny, which all of this dirty fucking would seem to bear out.

I come twice. Once because I don’t know why, because he’s almost constantly groaning and telling me how tight and hot my sweet little pussy is, how much he likes it creaming for him, how once he’s done filling me with his jizz he’s going to lick me out, he’s going to make me taste it all, and it’s just too good.

The second time I come really loudly and obviously, and because he’s frigging my clit as he fucks me. He says, ‘Do you like that, baby, huh, you like that?’ and I grunt and claw at him and go completely rigid. My feet leave the floor. He presses me hard into the kitchen table.

‘Yeah, you liked that, didn’t you?’ he says, in almost a soothing sort of voice.

But I can’t answer him, because he’s an asshole. He’s a dirty rednecked grease-monkey asshole. However, he then says, ‘Oh, fuck, baby, fuck, I can’t get enough of your sweet pussy,’ so I partly forgive him for being such an arrogant awful jerk.

And then he comes hard against me and inside me, and when he pulls out it feels like I’ve got an ocean between my thighs. I’ve never had a guy come inside me before, and now I can feel it all warm and slippery just about everywhere. I stand up and it’s even worse.

I feel as if he can hear all of that wetness, though he’d be lucky to hear anything over all that heavy breathing he’s doing. I hardly dare look at him, or at least at his eyes. I can look all
I like at his gorgeous arms, which are ropey and shiny with sweat, as if he’s been working. Because of course he has. He’s been working in me.

I can’t say anything. I just walk to wherever his bathroom might be on trembling legs with the back of my skirt all wet, wondering how ashamed I should be. Very, oh, very. What a dirty little whore I am.

I can’t be sorry, though. I’m not sorry in the slightest about the things I want. And maybe, yeah, maybe sometimes I want sweet. But sometimes nasty is just as nice. Even if it is so exhausting that I come out of the bathroom and collapse on the bed.

It used to just be a mattress on the floor. Lawn furniture in his living room. No TV, no home comforts, nothing but existing and the garage, existing and the garage. But I guess things are different now. I don’t know why things are different. Every time we screw, things seem to get a little more different, and it’s the same thing this time.

While I’m on his bed, fading in and out of sleep, I feel him lean over me. He does it as though he knows he has to be careful, so as not to wake me up. And then he kisses me on the forehead, soft and sweet.

It’s not the first time. Though I really think it’s getting to be one time too many. Kissing my neck, taking me back to his place – I keep falling asleep on his new nice furniture, and then he kisses me and touches me as if I’m his sweetheart. Next thing you know we’ll be boyfriend and girlfriend, and all of the filthy, dirty nastiness will drift away on a sea of dinner dates and suburbia and romantic comedies.

I can’t have that. I’ll really have to talk to him about it, sometime soon.

SHE’S SURPRISED THAT
everyone suddenly decides on some mad version of hide and seek. Usually it’s Scrabble. Usually it’s worse than Scrabble: stilted dinner-party conversation about who’s been promoted and who should be promoted and whether the economy will rise/fall/start World War III.

It’s time to be older and wiser and dull. You get to thirty, and this is who you’re supposed to be. Well put together and pleasant board-game playing. Able to cook something slightly fancy, like beef Wellington. In possession of a pension and a portfolio and life insurance.

Soon, she knows, it will be time to start a family. They’re all talking about little Jonathan – whom they left with the nanny – and putting names down for good schools and all sorts of things that are appropriate. They just want her to find someone too, and settle down, and then they’ll all have so much in common and be able to arrange play dates and all sorts of lovely, lovely things.

Even if
some
people aren’t so sure about the validity of things like that.

She’s pretty sure that Gabe rolled his eyes when Lucinda chirruped on about such things in the car on the way here. She saw him on the periphery of her vision, sloping against the passenger-side door, pushing himself further and further outside the confines of the group.

But then as Lucinda had said even earlier than that, ‘Why did he even want to come? I just don’t understand why Marcus
would even invite him! There’s a pity invite if ever there was one. Have you seen his shoes?’

Una has seen his shoes. They’re not really shoes at all. They’re slippers that have disguised themselves as shoes and she cannot for the life of her imagine where he got them. What sort of shop sells slippers with grips on them like a shoe? What sort of shop can’t make its mind up about whether something is a shoe or a slipper?

But then she was paralysed, briefly, by the imagined scene in the shoe shop. His flashing, bizarre delight at finally finding footwear that is neither one nor the other! She can even hear him saying, ‘By God, that’s genius!’

And then he caught her looking at him as if he was some other brand of human. Maybe not even human at all – maybe an alien. Who can say, really, when he turned away smiling his stupid, secretive smile? He’s still smiling it now, as they get ready to do something ‘exciting’.

He clearly didn’t think that she caught those air quotes he put around the word Lucinda used to describe her version of hide and seek, but, oh, in that he is wrong wrong wrong. She caught him, and tried her best to say with her glare that, if he didn’t like it, he could just stay in and be weird.

But then Marcus slapped him on the back and was his usual blustery, friends-with-everybody self, and her glare slid off to the side somewhere. She wonders, not for the first time, if Marcus invited Gabe because they have designs on each other.

The thought is accompanied by odd little shivers and inexplicable anger, so she shakes it off quickly and tries to think of the game. The game, in which the object is to find someone and take their little paper tag. Whoever comes back with the most paper tags wins.

She’s pretty sure the game doesn’t work, but it’s certainly the perfect place to play a variation on hide and seek. Lots of trees to hide behind, a cabin of many rustic-by-MFI rooms, a woodshed, an honest-to-goodness barn. Though Hayley has her
allergies and Alan abhors animals, so it’s unlikely they’re going to hide anywhere but in the sauna, with a bottle of red and more conversation about Marks and Spencer.

They’re all very giggly about it, however, so Una has to wonder just how daring this is going to get. Will someone strip down to their underwear and go swimming in the lake? Will Lucinda break a heel off one of her secretly-from-Oasis shoes? Who can say? Who can say how she ever became friends with these people?

Especially Gabe. Poor, weird Gabe from the IT department, who was only brought here as part of Marcus’s outreach programme: Help The Nerd.

Even if he isn’t exactly a nerd. Really he’s just dark all over – inside and out, she suspects – and oddly reserved in a way she can’t peg, always seeming to say something with his eyes that his quirking mouth doesn’t want to own up to. He only ever smiles with the very edges of his upper lip, which suggests something . . . interesting. Which is astonishing, really, when she considers that they all work for an insurance company.

She wonders what he does down there, in the IT department. Probably very boring things, really. Probably things like setting up systems and inputting data. He probably gets mad the way Stuart does, when people don’t know how to set their emails to what-have-you.

She has never seen him mad, though. Mostly he just looks as if he knows a massive secret that you’re going to guess any second.