Power Play

by Stein, Charlotte

  ‘Are you kidding with this? I think I’m going to die. I am literally going to die if you don’t stop. No no no – don’t fuck me like that. Don’t, don’t!’

  I’m fairly certain he’s referring to the slightly more vigorous fucking I’m giving him, but the truth is I can’t help it. It feels too good to stop, and especially when I just kind of rock myself against him. Every time I do it something very thick and very solid urges itself against that bundle of nerves inside me, and the resulting sensation is strong enough to make me take my hand away.

  Though I don’t do so because I’m close, and want to draw this out. I do it for a different reason, one that occurs to me when I roll my hips and hit it just right.

  I could actually come like this. I don’t need to rub my clit or have him do the honours. I think I could really get myself off on his cock, with just a little bit of help from the way he looks – all glossy with sweat and desperate to do it – and the hot little sounds he’s making, most of which go right through me every time they spill out of his mouth.

  Even the weird things he says excite me, though that isn’t anything unusual. Yesterday I got aroused when he told me about the copier being on the fritz, so him saying, ‘Oh God I can’t watch’ is something of a no-brainer.

  He just pushes the words out, then after them covers his eyes – as though he’s watching a horror movie, instead of what he’s actually doing. Namely, fucking up into me while pretending he’s not doing that at all. No, no, he’s just casually minding his own business, one hand gripping tightly to my hip, the other shielding his eyes from the sight of my bouncing breasts and my flushed throat and the rolling contortions I’m putting my body through, to get the best possible pressure on my G-spot.

  And if he just so happens to shove up into me while doing those things, well, I’m not going to criticise him for it. I wouldn’t criticise anything that helped along that heavy, pulsing sensation that seems to be developing in my lower belly – not even if it’s him bursting out with something even stranger, after a moment of prolonged and largely silent bliss.

  ‘You’re not doing it right!’ he says, and I swear, he’s so fierce about it that for a moment I almost stop to check. Did I accidentally start fucking his elbow when I wasn’t looking? It’s true that I’m barely paying attention to anything at this point. The sensation has gotten so intense that I’ve started fearing it, and instead of pushing towards it I’m sort of backing away. I’m almost covering my own eyes, and I’m definitely shaking all over.

  I don’t want to be, but it just can’t be helped. I might actually come from penetration alone, which had previously seemed like some mythical thing that only sexual gymnasts ever achieved.

  Whereas I, on the other hand, am not a sexual gymnast. Instead, I’m apparently someone who gets so worked up during sex that I fail at it hopelessly, and have to be told off by my almost-beside-himself boy toy.

  Seriously – he’s beside himself. There is another him next to the one I’m fucking, and this version is pissed.

  ‘No, no – here. Move back,’ he says, but I haven’t the faintest clue what he means. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him be so forceful, even if that’s not quite the right word for how he’s behaving. He’s more agitated than anything else – with maybe just a hint of pleading in his expression – and both make me want to do something very odd.

  I want to put my hands on his face, and just … I don’t know. Soothe him a little. Tell him that it’s all just a game really, and if he comes I won’t do as I promised. I won’t forbid him to ever be with me like this again, because in all honesty I don’t think I could stay away.

  How can I when he’s like this? When he looks at me with those lust-stoked eyes and takes a hold of my hips in his big, broad hands, and then just oh God then … I don’t know what he does because the short, sharp shock of pleasure is so fierce it briefly blocks out all rational thought.

  I think I cry a little. I didn’t even cry when a car ran over my childhood pet, but something in that general area comes out of me when he shoves me into a very particular sort of position. He just kind of tilts my hips, and angles my body, and then suddenly his cock isn’t just rubbing against that place inside me, in a slow, leisurely, polite sort of fashion.

  It’s jerking against me, hard, in a way that makes me do something mad like try to escape.

  ‘Little too much, huh?’ he murmurs, and I can’t fault him for that smug note in his voice. He should feel smug when he can apparently make me grab reflexively onto his shoulders and grunt like a man.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I say, but I’m lying. It’s not fine. I can’t bear it, and especially not when he’s got his hand over my mound and he’s just kind of pressing and pressing there, as though maybe he can mould that sensitive front wall around his cock from the outside in.

  Which he absolutely can. Ohhh Lord he can. He can so much that I have to dig my nails into the shoulders I’m definitely not gripping, just to stop myself from jumping seventeen feet in the air then running out the door.

  ‘Yeah, yeah like that,’ he says, but I swear to God I’m not doing anything. I’m simply kneeling here, dumbstruck, as he just kind of urges me into orgasm. As he just kisses my mouth, and tells me I’m beautiful – all of which he can now do because I’m pretty much past resistance. I’m shaking almost as much as he is and I’m moaning with an alarming frequency, and when he say, ‘You wanna make it even better?’ I utterly fail to say no. I should slap him really, or pull his hair. Do something to prove I’m this wonderful Dom he seems to think I am, rather than this trembling mass I appear to have become. But the most I can muster is an abrupt little ‘what?’ when he makes his next suggestion, followed by yet another frisson of pleasure.

  ‘Turn over,’ he says, and I think of a million delightful things. He’s going to fuck me while he fingers my ass. Or maybe he’s going to fuck me while he does incredible things to the bundle of nerves that barely existed before right now.

  Either way, I only hesitate long enough for him to tell me something delightful, like don’t worry, we can go right back to me being your fucktoy a second after you’ve come all over my cock before doing as he’s asked. I slide myself jerkily off his cock and clamber around clumsily until I’m on all fours on the bed.

  And then he just gets behind me and spreads my legs with his good, gentle hands. Tells me he’ll take it easy, because oh Lord he feels even bigger like this.

  The blunt head of his cock is like a fist trying to work its way in. And although he fondles me a little first – those long fingers sliding into my pussy, briefly, in a manner that’s definitely not all about easing the way for his big prick – I can feel myself clenching, when he tries for it.

  Then less so, after he’s whispered in my ear.

  ‘God, you’re so tight,’ he says, and then everything just sort of opens for him. As though today we’re in Oppositeworld and once he’s stated something, I have to go in the other direction. I have to let him slide inside, slow and easy and oh so good.

  Though not so good that I can make out why he’s done this. I mean, sure – he feels a little bigger like this. I’m a little more spread open, and I like having the headboard to put my hands on instead of his shoulders. It’s less intimate, more straightforward, and the clasp he gets on my hips is like that too.

  But it’s not all that different.

  He just wants to work me back on his cock, and I don’t see why he shouldn’t do it. He’s still as faintly awestruck as he was before, still my toy, when he draws that delicious cock nearly all the way out and then –

  And then –

  ‘Oh my God. No. No,’ I blurt out, in a voice that almost sounds panicked. I think I sort of twist and try to maybe push him away a little, because seriously, seriously. No. I can’t. I can’t do whatever this feeling is, and especially not when he sounds so gleeful about it.

  ‘Yeah, it’s there, right? You like that?’ he says, but I do not like it. It’s making
my body cave in on itself. I’m no longer holding onto the headboard, I’m hanging on to it, and then he does it again and oh Jesus Christ.

  ‘Ohhh Ben, yeah. Do it there,’ I tell him, but I swear it’s not me doing the honours. I’m somewhere outside my own body looking down on the sobbing mess I’ve become, disapprovingly.

  While said sobbing mess gets thoroughly fucked, hard. Oh God he does it so hard. He holds back for just a little while – just long enough to make me beg a little, for more – but once I’ve moaned his name and put my hand over his and made some stupid attempt to jerk myself back on his cock, he lets it all go.

  ‘Yeah, yeah you like that? Ohhh I can’t believe how wet you are. Oh seriously – you’re just creaming all over my cock, baby, just tell me. Are you gonna do it? Are you close?’

  He sounds desperate, I think. More so than before, because there’s a shaky edge to his voice where there wasn’t previously, and he’s getting very near to digging his fingers into my hips. He slows his thrusts, just a little, like maybe he needs to take some of the pressure off – but I can’t have that.

  I don’t tell him so, but I think I am actually close. Every time he fucks that thing into me a little burst of sensation radiates outward from the contact point, and it’s definitely building to something. I’m going to come, and I’m going to do so while he holds me and fucks me, and despite all of these things I don’t really give a shit.

  For the first time in my life, I don’t care. I just tell him to fuck me harder, come on, fuck my cunt, and when he finally, blissfully does I moan his name again.

  ‘Ben,’ I tell him, then even worse: ‘Oh you fuck me so good.’

  Because, well … it’s the truth. He is a good fuck. He’s so good that the second he does pick up the pace, that bursting sensation – that blooming sensation – coils tight, low down in my belly. It’s coils so tightly that I have to bite my lip and make some sort of wholly embarrassing keening sound, a moment before he tells me exactly what I’m doing.

  ‘Fuck, you’re coming, aren’t you? Are you really coming? Oh my God, oh Jesus your pussy’s gone all tight and no, no – you’re gonna make me go off. Easy … easy,’ he pants, but I can’t be easy. I’ve never had an orgasm like this, and it isn’t a simple thing to navigate. It’s like a fist, squeezing and relaxing somewhere inside my lower belly. And once that sensation’s done with, all of this warmth just spreads through my thighs and my pussy until I can hardly take it.

  It’s too lovely. I don’t deserve something this lovely. I have to tell him to stop because it’s going on for far too long and besides, I’m pretty sure my cunt is cutting off his blood supply. It feels like I’m trying to clench his cock to death, and once I’m calm and sort of limp, he confirms this suspicion.

  ‘Thought you were going to squeeze my orgasm right out of me then,’ he says, in that good good way he has. I don’t think he means to, exactly, but he so often offers me just the thing to put me at ease, once I’m all wrung out and so unsure about everything that just happened.

  Though of course once I’ve considered this, I also have to consider something else swiftly afterwards. Because I think … I think he just implied that he still hasn’t climaxed. In fact, I’m fairly certain he hasn’t, due to several pretty big clues.

  He’s shaking, for one. And when a little aftershock goes through me and my pussy flutters around his cock, it’s obvious he’s still incredibly hard. Plus, he makes this sound: ‘Ah-huh,’ the second I do it.

  Somehow, somehow, I’ve had two amazing orgasms, and he’s had zero. Not one, not two, zero. Nada. Nothing. I’ve had relationships where guys have gone over before we’ve even gotten to the bedroom, then fallen asleep. I’ve had relationships where I’ve asked for things, and still been denied.

  But I told him to do this, and he obeyed me to some kind of insane point of madness. It’s like he’s simultaneously ready to faint, and go nuts – or at least, that’s the way it looks when I finally manage to ease myself off his jerking cock and turn myself around.

  ‘Was that nice?’ he asks, as though he just took me for a pleasant walk in the park.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s really easy to make you come.’ He pauses, but when he’s trying to be perfectly calm and just consider things, he’s still vibrating like a maniac. His face is all flushed right down to his collarbone. His nipples are two tight little points, and his cock … Lord, have mercy.

  It hardly surprises me when I offer what I do. It should, really – and later I’ll probably feel strange about it. Like this whole thing was too flipped, and outside the parameters of where it’s supposed to be. But when I look at him like this, all trembly and half-crazed, it’s easy enough to do.

  ‘I want you to come on my face now,’ I tell him, and he hesitates – but he doesn’t do for so long. Not half as long as he probably would if I’d just flat out ordered him, in my office, three minutes after he’d entered.

  Currently he’s past the point of not-being-sure, and the second I spread myself out on the bed he just looms over me – so big, God, he’s so big. I think of all the things he could do to me in that moment. All of the things, in a strange, lurid succession – how he could manhandle me if he really wanted to, and force me to do all of the things he just kind of coaxed me into.

  Though that’s the thing about him, isn’t it? That he could do all of that stuff, but doesn’t. He seems conflicted about taking his now bare cock in his hand, right over my face. And after a few strokes over that swollen length, I know what he’s trying to do.

  He’s trying to aim it somewhere other than the rudest possible place someone could do it – like maybe over my tits instead, or possibly the bed sheets. And it’s not because he’s making an effort to be polite, or like a gentleman, either. It’s just the way he is. He’s just lovely like this. Considerate, in a way I’ve never known a man be before.

  Which of course makes it absolutely easy to tell him to do it, and oh so much more arousing, too, when he finally does. It’s like pushing someone over the edge; it’s like sticking my finger in him and twisting everything around. I’m corrupting him, I think, and then he groans for me, loud and long. He tells me he can’t help it a second before he jerks and groans and finally does it, all over my face.

  And when I say all over, I mean all over. He fills my mouth, coats my cheeks and my eyelids in long, thick ribbons of delicious come. By the time he’s done I know what I must look like – utterly debauched, utterly satisfied, and so filthy that for a second he doesn’t seem to know what to say.

  I’m pretty sure he’s about to apologise. He’s practically melting and his shaking thighs don’t seem to want to hold him, but yeah – he’s about to take a moment to be sorry.

  So I cut him off, as gleeful as he was, earlier on.

  ‘Now gimme a kiss,’ I tell him – but here’s the thing.

  He actually does.

  Chapter Eleven

  I think it’s around four-thirty, or maybe five. Reasonably it could be any time at all, because I’ve got my eyes closed and I’m promising myself that I won’t open them. Not even if he says something all soft and tender, I won’t open them. I’ll just lie here on the barest edge of the bed – as I’ve done all night, like his massive body somehow grew cooties when it hit someplace past midnight – and wait for him to retrieve the rest of his clothes.

  And though I want to say something to him, I won’t. It’s better this way, with him just leaving. I mean, let’s not pretend here. We’re not going to have breakfast together and chitchat over the morning paper, and then hold hands on the way to work.

  That’s not what this is.

  Instead, it’s him leaning over me while I brutalise myself into fake-sleep, to leave a barely-there kiss on my cheek. You know – the way that normal people do when they have those things called feelings, and want to express them.

  I think the one he’s trying for is called ‘affection’.

  I think the
one I’m trying for is called ‘denial’.

  Because although I tell him that we really need to establish some better boundaries once I get to work, it’s not exactly what I’m thinking as I look at him, stood there on his spot. I’m thinking of how sharp and sweet his come tasted on my tongue. How smouldering his gaze seems, when he levels it at me.

  And most of all I’m thinking about how cold I need to be to combat all of these things.

  ‘So I think we’ll try something a little different today,’ I say, but a calm, still tone seems to make no difference. His expression practically overflows with pleasure – eyes narrowing to slits, that smile as slow and sweet as syrup.

  ‘Whatever you want, Ms Harding,’ he says, in a voice that affects me almost as much as his position does. I didn’t have to ask him to put his hands behind his back, or stand with his shoulders nice and straight. He just did it all, for me. All for me.

  ‘I want to really … test the limits of your control.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the control that I don’t have?’

  My mind tromps on the button marked denial for me, over and over and over again. He does not make me so crazy that I just want to take him home with me again tonight, and probably listen to romantic music with him while taking a bath. He does not, he does not.

  ‘Yes, that’s the control I’m talking about. I mean, you did come all over my face last night, Ben. How on earth am I supposed to forgive something like that?’

  ‘But you told –’ he starts, in one big burst of righteous indignation.

  Before he realises, and reins himself back in. He doesn’t need to do something like protest his own innocence, of course, because all of this is just a lovely, lovely game without any real consequences at all. Things can shift within the parameters of it, and I can lie and he can lie and we can tease and protest and do whatever we want.