by Grace, K D
I mean, it’s not like I’m going to pound him.
Or that the idea of pounding him gets me even more excited.
‘OK, link your legs around me.’
He can’t be serious with this stuff.
‘Why do I need my legs linked around you?’
‘Because I get off on feeling your vagina pressing into my lower back … Come on, Jude. So I can dive without you falling off.’
‘You’re going to dive with me on your back?’ I actually let out a little incredulous laugh, in spite of my current stupefied state of arousal. ‘I don’t think that’s going to work out.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘You holding on?’
‘Well, yeah, but –’
‘Take a deep breath.’
‘What? Steven –’
‘Deep breath!’
Of course I do it, but even as I’m gulping down air I don’t really expect him to succeed. I’m pretty sure I’ll get my face splashed and maybe thrash around in the water with him for a second, before he realises it’s impossible – though I’m not exactly averse to this scenario. He can thrash me any time, and especially after actually mentioning my unmentionables.
I mean, he did say vagina, didn’t he? And if he did, then how come it sounded so exciting? Vagina is pretty much the least exciting word in the world. It’s something your doctor says to you shortly before he invades it with what looks like a weapon from our robotic future.
It’s not sexy.
I’ve just gone insane. And I go more insane when he strikes into the water like a seal, towing me with him. He just does it as though it’s nothing, while I marvel over everything like a moron. I can feel his muscles working against my body, and see his arms making these great, muscular arcs through the water. I’m not even paying attention to the things I’m supposed to – such as fish, and other aquatic wonders – because watching him is almost hypnotic. To be honest, I’m not sure if I’d notice a fish, if it floated by.
The lesser spotted Steve Stark has my undivided attention.
And though I know I should feel weird about that, for the first time I actually don’t. The cement seal over my crush has cracked and given way, a little, but I don’t mind. He’s the one letting me put my arms around him. He’s the one diving with me like this. I’m allowed to show a crumb of affection towards him, when that’s the case.
Aren’t I?
At the very least, he doesn’t seem bothered by my excitement. In fact, he’s the opposite of bothered. When we break the surface and I let out a little giddy yelp, he briefly puts his hands behind himself, so he can give me a squeeze. And he laughs too. He laughs and tells me “ready to go again”, in a way that reminds me keenly of the fun we used to have. A pang goes through my body to hear it, a second before he plunges us into the water again.
But it’s a good pang. And it gets easier as we wile away this time, talking in the same way we used to – like friends, I think, like good friends. We’ll never be anything more – I know that now – but I’m happy with nothing at all if nothing at all is this. For a good few hours it’s akin to being in a movie, swimming through water as blue as Steven’s eyes, with him as my own personal merman.
He dives down deeper when I ask him to, to the point where his fingers almost graze the rolling hills of sand below. And when I pat him he surges back up again, through streams of suddenly startled fish and onward, to the surface. Then once we’ve broken through, the first thing he always does is ask me, ‘You OK? You still breathing?’
Like it matters to him.
‘Just let me know when you want to stop,’ he says, and I answer him in my head:
Never. Never never never. Just let me stay in the movie Splash, for ever.
Chapter Three
I can’t deny that, from this point on, the holiday is awesome. It was already going that way around the time he touched my hair, but after the gender-switched version of a Tom Hanks film, I’m practically stuffed full of happiness. I feel as light as he made me seem, while diving through the Mediterranean waters. A weight I wasn’t aware of has been lifted.
We’re friends again, I think. I have my buddy back. I don’t have to worry that he’s going to say something cruel, because now he’s aware that I have feelings. And I’m not in any danger of touching him in a way that screams something other than friendship, because he keeps touching me like that first.
He can hardly make fun of me for having a crush on him, when he’s busy grabbing my hand and giving me piggyback rides. By this point, I’d pretty much have to climb on his dick to meet the criteria for unusually affectionate behaviour. I’m safe, I think. I’m totally safe. I get to hang out with him without fear of reprisals, secure in our friendship.
It’s wonderful.
If somewhat confusing, on occasion. Like now, when he comes up behind me as I’m stood making drinks. Kimberley wants a Screwdriver and Jason is after some whisky on the rocks, and I’m thinking I’ll have something chockfull of fruit with 17 umbrellas, and right in the middle of all of this normality Steven is suddenly really, really close to me in a darkened room.
Because now he’s here, it does seem very darkened. There’s only a bit of sunset light coming in through the porthole over my bed, and everything else is practically pitch black. I’m not even sure why I was attempting to make drinks in this gloom – though I accept that his presence is making everything a bit more shadowy and fraught.
Why is he just stood there? Why hasn’t he said anything? He usually says something to announce himself, like “hey, look at me being all massive and funny!” But right now he’s very quiet, and even closer than I initially imagined. It’s just that he’s behind me so I couldn’t quite see, but now that I’m paying attention I can feel the material of his T-shirt brushing my bare shoulder blades.
I wish I hadn’t allowed my shoulder blades to go bare. I went with this little light sundress due to no longer being afraid of what he might say – but it seems like a hideous mistake, at the moment. It’s putting me on high alert, even though he probably means nothing by this sudden closeness. He just came down to help me with the drinks, I think.
And then he puts his hands on my waist.
He puts his hands on my waist.
Suddenly, that rational voice in my head is speaking in a panicked squeak. He’s just being super friendly, it cries. Don’t read anything into this. You’re friends, now, best friends for ever no take backs oh God please no take backs.
But I think it might be wrong.
I mean, granted. The sundress is very thin, and is probably making his touch far ruder than it should feel. The fine, near-slippery material rubs against my over-heated skin with very little movement from him, at all. Plus his hands are really massive, so when he touches you in one place, it kind of feels like he’s touching you everywhere.
It could just be my sex-starved imagination, working overtime.
And yet somehow, I know it isn’t.
Something is weird and different here, in a way I shouldn’t be able to recognise. I’ve never had someone just spontaneously make a pass at me like this, and I’m not used to the feeling. There’s all of this strange tension, to the point where my hair is actually bristling on the back of my neck. I’m excited before I’m sure I should be excited.
But that’s OK. Because a second later he makes it really, really clear. He simply slides one of those big hands right up to cup one of my breasts, and just when I’m able to process that little move, he tugs at the material until the buttons pop open, and pushes his hand inside.
Then by way of explanation, he tells me this:
‘Why did you have to wear a dress like this, huh?’
Which should be sort of aggressive, and rude, and not arousing at all.
So how come it is? How come a burst of arousal goes through me to hear it – so thick and intense I actually stop breathing, momentarily. I mean, I think I pretty much gave up on nor
mal bodily activity back when he put his hands on my waist.
But now it’s really getting bad. I’m afraid that I might pass out due to oxygen deprivation, at any moment. I keep trying to force my lungs and throat to operate properly, only they’re not obeying. They just hitch and stick and refuse to be calm – though I can’t really fault them.
They’re just following suit. The rest of me is doing the exact same thing. I’m all fizzy and electric, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair, and I suspect it’s only going to get worse as this thing continues. I don’t even know what this thing is, so at the very least I can predict some apprehension.
However … I don’t predict the moan I make, when he finds and pinches one stiff nipple. Of course I don’t. How could I ever? I was unprepared for him standing this close to me, so suddenly slipping his hand beneath my bra to fondle my bare breasts has to be right out. It’s completely off the charts of anything I’ve ever expected.
As is everything he keeps saying. Oh God, I never imagined him saying stuff like this – not even during actual fantasies about having sex with him.
‘Oh yeah, you like that,’ he says, only it’s not a question. Naturally it’s not a question. I just told him I like it with my absolutely ridiculous moan. I’ve confessed to enjoying my nipples being teased without really meaning to, and now he’s got some kind of green light. He’s going to do more, I think, loads more, and worse …
I don’t mind at all.
I’ve no idea why he’s doing this, or where he got the idea that this is the next logical step, but my body couldn’t give a flying fuck. My body is screaming in delight even as my mind says hey, hang on a second, let’s just see if you accidentally spiked his drink with a sex drug that’s made him crazy, and I know it’s my body I’m going to listen to.
I don’t really have much of a choice. He puts his hot mouth against my throat, and all other considerations are rescinded. I even arch back into it, because God it feels amazing – oh man, just the pressure of those soft lips, and then oh then the shocking slipperiness of his tongue …
He’s actually touching me with his tongue. Steven Stark, childhood friend and long-held crush, is squirming and rubbing his slick tongue against the already crazily sensitive skin of my throat.
I think I might have died. This definitely feels like heaven, at any rate. He keeps making this rough, impatient sort of sound as he mouths his way over to my shoulder, and the tension rolling off him is just incredible. It’s as though he’s holding himself back, despite how little he seems to be holding himself back.
I mean, we’re quite a bit past chaste friendship, here. It wouldn’t be that shocking if he let go of all restraints and ripped my clothes off – the way he seems to want to. Oh, I’m pretty sure he wants to. He’s pulling at the middle of my dress without popping any more of the buttons, but when I glance down I can see how much he’d like to do just that.
His hand has made a big red fist, and it’s sort of shaking.
I can sympathise, however. I’m shaking too. I started right around the time he put his hands on his waist, and I don’t think I’m about to stop any time soon. He’d have to go back about a thousand paces to make me stop, and I know he’s not going to do that.
I can tell, for several reasons:
a) That’s not a misplaced melon he’s touching.
b) He can never pretend he didn’t pull open my dress, because I’m now missing a button. Of course he could probably sew the button back on and act like nothing happened, but I don’t think he’s much of an arts and crafts sort of person. Plus, that whole scenario is insane.
c) There is something pressing into the small of my back, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t a tube of Rolos. And if it is, he really needs to tell me where he bought such an enormous packet.
I love Rolos.
Though I confess, I also love knowing it’s his penis. Just the feel of something so heavy and hot and insistent pressing into me … It’s enough to make me clutch at that hand he’s fondling me with. But of course, once I’ve clutched him, the green light explodes in a shower of glory. All of my barriers drop, like hot rocks.
So it’s a shame, really, that he chooses this moment to stop touching. And it’s not just a shame either. It’s a great yawning chasm of disappointed, so large I’m almost afraid to find it inside me. What sort of person likes being silently manhandled for vague, inexplicable reasons? I should at least be asking for his motivations behind this.
And yet, somehow, it’s just better without. It’s almost a relief without. I don’t have to wonder and worry and get into a big internal debate about this.
Or at least I didn’t, until those hands dropped. Now I’m going to have to deal with him coming to his senses, in the worst possible way. He probably felt my love handles and suddenly remembered he’s allergic to fat. In a second he’ll start sneezing, and swelling up, and when the ambulance men sadly stretcher him away he’ll say the words that every girl dreads:
‘How come you murdered me with your flab?’
And worse, I won’t have an answer for him.
Because the question is the stupidest thing I’ve ever let my neuroses imagine. It’s so stupid, in fact, that I’m almost laughing and shaking my head at myself, when those hands suddenly find their way to my thighs. And then I wish I hadn’t almost laughed at all. It’s quite a leap to go from rueful amusement to oh God OK this is still happening.
Only somehow, it’s even more intense and confusing than it was before. I can sort of feel him ruffling my dress on the outsides of my thighs, but my brain won’t process why. It has to wait until he’s managed to get the material all the way up to my hips, before I get it.
He’s lifting my dress. He’s lifting it, while I remain stalled five steps behind. By the time I catch up, his fingers are hooked around the waistband of my panties, and naturally I know what happens next. It’s just that I can hardly believe what’s going to happen next.
So much so that I actually gasp when he slowly starts working them down my legs.
Is he going to fuck me? Is he going to just fuck me here, like this, with the unmade drinks still in front of me and Jason and Kimberly barely 30 steps away? They could probably look through the porthole and see this happening, though oddly the thought doesn’t scare me.
Probably because I’m already terrified of the strange, heavy silence, and Steven’s rough breathing, and my own body – so thick, suddenly, with sensation. My blood feels as though it’s turned to glue in my veins, hot and sticky. It clings to everything as it passes through, including nerve endings I didn’t know existed.
And of course my heart has to pound really hard, to make sure this adhesive blood keeps flowing. It has to pound so hard I can hear it in my fingernails, and my elbows, and definitely, definitely in all the places that Steven is currently touching.
He’s made it to my knees with those panties. My knees are alarmed to suddenly hear my heartbeat. They want to buckle, but I swear to God I will never let them - not even when he brushes the insides of them with that material and a lightning bolt of pleasure shoots through me.
In fact, the lightning bolt just strengthens my resolve. It’s all new and mysterious, and I desperately want to feel another one – just to see if the first was a fluke. I’m itching to say to him “go on, go on then”, but the truth is I don’t know where he’s planning on going on to. What if it’s Up-the-Butt City?
He’s definitely the kind of man who’d be into that. In truth, I’m almost bracing myself for it – for sudden rough sex I’m not quite ready for – when he urges me to part my legs. Only he does it in this really gentle, easy sort of way, smoothing over my thighs as he goes. And his voice, when he speaks, is soft and persuasive.
‘Come on, baby,’ he says. ‘Open up.’
Not that he needs to be soft and persuasive. While I’m busy shuddering with shock and another sudden gush of excitement, my legs simply obey him. They spread without a second thought. My bra
in is jealous of their ability to not over-think things – though not for long.
My brain stops thinking too, a moment later. It just shuts down the second I feel his hands on my backside, stroking and stroking and finally … Oh Lord, finally he sort of spreads everything, so he can see. He’s definitely doing it so he can see. He’s looking up at my completely bare and very exposed sex, and once he’s done stunning me with that, he caps it off by letting me feel something even more brutally exciting.
His hot breath, ghosting over the slippery place between my legs.
Because I’m definitely slippery, by this point. I’ve never been so aroused in my life, so really it’s a given – but even if it wasn’t I’d know. I can make out the slow, agonising slide of it against my flesh, every time I move. And after a while of this torture – of his mouth just inches from the most sensitive part of my body, each whisper of air so soft and heated – I know my wetness is starting to trickle over the insides of my thighs.
I know this, because he tells me.
‘Oh man, you’re like a river,’ he says. ‘How come you’re so excited, huh?’
How come he expects me to answer that? Is he mad? I forgot how to make words 17 hours ago, even though we haven’t been doing this for 17 hours. It’s so intense that time has folded in on itself, causing an eternal loop of him almost kissing me between my legs.
Then he actually does it, and the time loop bursts into flames.
I burst into flames. I thought I was shocked by everything before, but it turns out I didn’t know what shocked was. This is in an entirely different dimension, where I have to actually say his name out loud in a voice that isn’t mine. ‘Steven,’ I say, as though I’m some old lady at a WI meeting and he’s a flasher who’s just run into the room.
And I go up on tiptoes too. I don’t want to, because going up on tiptoe means I’m moving further away from him. But sadly, I don’t have much of choice. My hands even grab at the bar in front of me, to help me get as high as possible. I’d probably be over it and halfway to China, if he wasn’t so strong and massive.