The Things That Make Me Give In (29 page)

He has no idea what she means but having no idea only adds another layer of mindlessness to his thrusting and bucking against her, hands so tight on her hips he can feel the exact outline of the bone beneath. He drives at her harder, jolting her slight body and making her hands skid up the wall, but her legs just spread wider for him. Her ass ruts back against him.

He can feel sweat standing out on his upper lip. The exertion of fucking someone promises to make him pay later. And he is really fucking her, now. Really dirty fucking, jamming her up against the headboard and the wall and grunting like an animal, unable to stop himself, even when she gasps.

And when she does, he almost comes. He feels it clench once inside him, low down, but it only finds its truest, best moment when he covers her mouth with his hand. He covers it, and those little teeth of hers get their grip on his forefinger, and bite.

The bite makes his hips jerk spasmodically. His cock swells inside her, too much to take, hot come searing up from his balls and yes, Jesus, yes. The sound he seems to be making is a shocked ‘Oh’, but it hardly registers.

Her sounds register, instead. She writhes on him, keening high and sweet, and even after he’s so spent he could collapse he stays on his knees and lets her squirm and jerk against him.

Only when she collapses back into the broad expanse of his chest does he wriggle his finger free from her mouth.

That mark’s a keeper, he knows.

He’s still admiring it when she hops from the bed and starts pulling on the various parts of her outfit. At first he only watches in fascination, unable to comprehend a person with so little regard for the logical order of clothing – boots go on before trousers, and then she can’t seem to understand why the trousers won’t go on – until he notices her wicked smile.

The reason why she needs to fling on her clothes so quickly takes time to sink in. But it comes to him when his grandmother bursts into the bedroom, wielding her shotgun.

His immediate thoughts aren’t anything to do with the reason for the shotgun. Instead his entire body flashes red and he tries to cover his incredibly still bobbing cock with a pillow. But his grandmother is unconcerned about his state.

She’s focused on lovely crazy Wendy, who is still nude save for her boots. Wendy does not seem in the least bit surprised. She flashes teeth at dear old granny.

Granny says, ‘You, again! Dratted little thief!’

And then, to Toby’s utter astonishment, she fires the shotgun. Right at Wendy.

But, oh, Wendy’s too quick by half. Before he knows where he is or has even had a chance to jump to her defence, the window is open and she has leapt on to the windowsill.

She perches there like a knight in shining armour, come to rescue the damsel in her tower. He can almost hear her saying, ‘Come to me quickly, lady, and we’ll away into the night.’ He can almost hear her saying it but then she flashes him teeth instead.

‘Be seeing you, chief,’ she says and, in the same instant as the shotgun rings out again, she jumps. She jumps, and is gone.

Of course, he immediately wants to ask his grandmother what she stole. He wants to know where she’s been all this time – searching for a thief, out in the forest? But instead he runs to the window. He runs without even a care for his own nakedness.

Instead he thinks of hers. He stands at the window staring out into the darkness, and thinks of a girl with wild hair and tiny teeth, and nothing but boots on her perfect little body. Running and running through the wild forest, away from the hunter with his gun.

‘You OK there, boy?’ his grandmother asks from behind him, as his heart pounds, and pounds, and the taste of sweet-sour candy stings the insides of his mouth.

IT ALWAYS BEGINS
the same way, whenever they make me give in. They’ll start off with something innocuous, something slight, and everything in me will turn upside down from there.

With Z, it was a few things. Though all of them were things no one could refuse, not only because they were so tame, but because they were so delicious. They were delicious delectable things that led me down the path to destruction. Oh, the ruff of silky black hair at the nape of his neck! I wanted to stroke it as I’d stroke the fur of an animal, too rough and playful.

The hair at the nape of his neck made me be playful. I would just have to lick it and lick it until he told me, ‘Go further down, down, down,’ and, oh, I did.

Because of the alarming, electric, animal curve of his back, which is the other thing I liked. When he used to get up on all fours over me, that curve felt steep and strange. It excited me in inarticulate ways and once I was there I would have to follow its path.

And I did, right down to the dip in the middle. I would eat his little dip hungrily, too hungrily to keep him in that dozy sleep-satisfied state. The beast would awaken and I’d have to pay for giving in.

That was the good thing about Z. He liked it both ways. Sometimes he’d press me down on to the bed and make me pay, say crude and lewd things like ‘You want me to fill every hole, you little slut,’ but other times he’d be innocent and
tender and aching, hardly able to believe that I was sucking him into my mouth.

I liked what he said then, too: ‘Oh no, I can’t last, oh, God, you’re doing it, you’re doing it.’

Almost as though he was a girl.

A was like a girl too, but in a different way. A was as horny as a beast in heat, full up with it, laughing with it. He wasn’t serious like Z, and it led to some lovely games.

Even though A was gorgeous – more so than Z – it was that expansiveness, that playfulness, that made me give in with him. Everything was just a bit of a laugh. Everything was fun and laidback, no worries.

And then he’d poke his tongue into the corner of his mouth like a question mark, and spread out for me on the bed all thick and solid, and say, ‘Come on and fuck me with it, then, hot stuff.’

And I did.

He would always convince me that it was stuff I wanted to do, things I’ve always wanted to try. But when I got busy shafting his ass with a strap-on, tits jiggling, it was really all the panting and gasping and talking he did that made me excited.

The rest was kind of strange, like being outside my own body. As though I swapped with some anonymous dude at the door and now I’m looking down on my boyfriend as he gets fucked. I remember his cock vividly – like a thick red prong, cruelly untouched, balls drawn up tight enough to bounce things off. Stomach muscles flexing and clenching.

I had asked him what it felt like, and he had told me. He was never afraid to tell me anything, my A. He would just blurt it out: ‘Like being turned inside out. Hot and tense and good, so good, oh, Jesus,’ he would say to me. ‘I think I’m going to come without anything on my cock.’

And he had. He had striped his belly with come while I
shafted him, and I got to see a man be totally open and vulnerable, clutching at the sheets. Spread for me.

I loved A.

I loved C more.

With C, it was the effortless masculinity. The prowling, roaring thing inside him that he never felt the need to show. It was just there in the back of his gun-metal voice, behind his steely but pale eyes, in the sharp but crumpled way he dressed and his bristling charisma.

He made me ache for him, C did, and that’s how I came to give in. He worked me up into a frenzy before I even knew I was feeling that way about him, and then when it came to it I just crawled across the floor to him.

He would slouch back on the sofa, long and louche, and I would pretend to be a stripper for him. I liked being his whore. I liked it when he would tell me to do things like stand on the coffee table and bend double, to show him my ever-wet slit.

He told me I had an arse like a peach, and would lick it all over. I remember my shock when his tongue first found the crease between my cheeks, but that was the thing about C. He was never afraid to do the dirtiest things. In fact, the dirtier the better.

If we were standing on a crowded bus or train, he would shove my hand into his open fly. I still thrill, thinking of him coming thickly all over my hand and the insides of his trousers, face near expressionless, eyes as cool as ever.

I remember him doing the same to me – shoving his hand up my skirt on the 310 to Totting. His gun-metal voice in my ear, that slick city-trader sort of voice: ‘Come on, you know you want to.’

He had said the same thing the first time he circled my arsehole with something slick and sweet smelling, before promising me that it wouldn’t hurt. Physical things never hurt, with C. Sometimes he was filthy and shocking and unreadable, but all of this combined to make me thrill.

I used to masturbate, waiting for him to come over – that’s how thrilling I found him. Of course, he would always guess that I hadn’t been able to wait, and punish me accordingly. On the floor and handcuffed to a water pipe, naked and left for hours. A little tease – a lick of my clit, a soft slow massage with oils – and then another hour. His cock in my ass – exciting, yes. Enough to make me come, no.

I remember lying on my polished wooden floor, his spend slick between my cheeks, my own wetness making everything even more uncomfortable, and wanting to cry.

I wanted to cry because his inventiveness – his devilish ideas that he thought up all on his own, and just for me – made me so relieved. To know that a man like him could exist! One who could take charge without being an asshole, who left you in no doubt that he adored you but could be cruel when it was needed, who
actually knew what was needed
. . .

What more can I say about a man like that?

But, oh, what I loved best was that, after all was said and done, those steely but pale eyes would grow creases around the corners, and the laughter he dissolved into would be something I could share in, too. He was never too cruel, or too serious, or too anything, to not spend a day with me in bed, giggling like a schoolboy.

I still have a picture of us together, laughing. He’s holding me. We’re laughing.

With S, it was the dancing.

I mean, sure, he was cute. He was funny. But then he took off all his clothes while dancing, and I folded like a woman facing a straight flush.

What was so strange about him was this air of the loser. His sad drooping moustache. His car that never started, his five hundred jobs that usually ended with him punching someone. His temper that outweighed his actual ability to punch.

I can’t count the number of times I made him tilt his head
back to stop the bleeding, and held a cold compress to the bridge of his nose.

When he first danced for me, I laughed loud and long. I laughed with disbelief that someone I had just scraped off the floor of a bar after a fight with two men seven times his size now thought he was going to seduce me. I mean sure. He was cute. He was funny.

But no way.

Unfortunately I think he knew how well he could move, and the exact effect that would have. He did something that looked like the splits, but wasn’t. He bent his previously-seen-as-sad-sack body into shapes that told me tales about flexibility.

And he took all of his clothes off while he did it. He danced, and swaggered with that machismo he never earned, and I slid off the sofa.

He scooped me up, and twisted me into knots and worked me into new shapes and, once we were done with pages 5 to 50 in the
Kama Sutra,
he shaped himself around me. He told me, ‘I know you’re hurting. I’m not gonna make you hurt any more, OK, see, because we’re just gonna have some fun until all that hurting’s gone away.’

Maybe it wasn’t the dancing that made me give in. Maybe it was just the hurt hurt hurt of my steely but pale blue-eyed man.

It was hurt with R. I guess I just couldn’t let go of when we were kids, best buddies forever, until he suddenly got handsome and I remained a loser.

So it was sweet to see him again and fuck that loser right out of myself.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don’t just go around fucking people because I feel like a loser. It’s never about validation.

Except when I was with R. Oh, he was bad for me.

But I liked it. I liked it double that he was my first real foray into dominating a guy. The two things combined – the dirty,
dirty badness and me making him walk around naked with his cock tucked between his legs – to give me a lovely sexual high the likes of which I hadn’t seen since C.

I remembered the games C and I used to play, and applied them in a wholly different context – R tied to the bedpost, squirming for my pleasure. I was even crueller than C ever was, tickling him with feathers and just ghosting my tongue over his massively stiff cock.

How he sobbed and begged me! It’s much easier to tease a man, too, because you can clearly see the moment he starts to fade – and then it’s licking and sucking time until he’s excited all over again.

I’ve never seen anyone come the way he did, when I finally gave in and let him jerk himself to orgasm. Great thick stripes of spunk that shot as far as his chin, over and over until I was certain he must have drained every drop of fluid from his body.

But he stayed hard, as though it just wasn’t enough. I rode him with all of his stickiness between us, come sliding all over my tits and my stomach, while he twisted and tried to fuck up at me harder. I gave him just enough for myself and never enough for him, and came a number of times before I let him have it.

If he hadn’t kept coming back for more and more – after we were over, sometimes he would sob at my door – I would have felt worse about the whole thing. As it is I still feel ashamed sometimes, shortly before I masturbate thinking about him twisting on my bed.

With M, I should say that it was the muscles. But I think I’d be lying.

How could it have been the muscles? Go to any gym and throw a dart. You’re bound to hit some full-of-himself jackass who wants to flex for you.

But M did not flex. He didn’t even seem to care whether you
noticed he was massive. He just was: a monolith standing in my path. He used to hunch and cover himself up and be embarrassed about his arms like trucks. And when I asked him why he was embarrassed, why he didn’t just get himself a different sort of job where it didn’t matter how huge he was, he looked at me with the saddest softest eyes I think I’ve ever seen on a man.