‘No,’ he says. ‘No, that’s perfect.’
The line, she thinks. The line.
But more than that is the need to do what he didn’t want her to do the night before. Now, with his hands tied and the pain obviously buzzing through him, he doesn’t stop her. He lets her crouch down and shove his jeans down to his knees – of course he does, he has no choice! – and free his already stiff cock, and, when she hesitates, he pushes his hips forward. The tip of him kisses her lips.
Sometimes you’re tied, only not. She’s betting that he likes being put under guard, but likes the ‘only not’, too. Any time he can just thrust forward and fuck her waiting, greedy mouth. He could probably get his hands free, too, but she doubts he’d be as aroused if he thought about that much.
She rakes her fingernails down his thick thighs and he gasps. His cock leaps and stutters, so she takes him in hand. Squeezes, not quite hard enough to hurt.
‘Oh, yes, go on,’ he says, but he says it in a tone she’s never heard before. A shaking, disturbed sort of tone, rippling with arousal. It swells her cunt to think of him so turned on.
‘Do you want me to suck you off?’ she asks and he bucks in her unmoving, teasing hand. He’s looking down at her, but she has never seen his expression so open, so full of waiting and longing.
‘Go on. Go on.’
She licks him first. It had almost come to this when they were young, and she remembers lying in bed at home, imagining the taste of him as she stroked herself. It’s not at all bitter, though, but sweet.
And she isn’t a girl any more, so it’s not difficult to get things right. When she lets her teeth graze over the length of him, ending on a soft conciliatory suck, he arches against her. A word comes out from between his gritted teeth, but then the door of the outer bathroom bangs and he has to keep his thoughts to himself.
They both pause and listen for the intruder – the door to the stall isn’t bolted. But then there’s the zip of a fly and a cough, and it’s OK to carry on.
He bites his lip when she does, and jolts his hip at her, but all that does is force his cock further into her hot, waiting mouth. She watches him look heavenward for inspiration, but nothing up there is as inspiring as her hand working him as she sucks hard enough to hollow her cheeks.
The belt buckle clinks against the door as he jerks, unable now to stop himself fucking her mouth. She thinks about what he said – about being dangerous – and imagines him over her, crushing her with his hips and his weight and his too-big cock pressing uncaring past her lips.
The thought is enough to make her push her hand past the waistbands of her skirt and her knickers and search out her aching clit. Her left hand is sloppier on his cock, but he doesn’t seem to mind. She sees him look down at her and then he looks away just as fast and tries to bite down on a brief, hoarse ‘Oh, fuck.’
He does the same as he did before – the shocked open mouth, the sudden rigidness of his body. Something like a sob. And then he comes richly, thickly, in her mouth.
The first sudden spurt wrenches an orgasm from her, too. The grimy tiles beneath her knees, the unseen person beyond the door, his swelling pumping cock and the sweet taste of him.
When she sinks against his thigh, cheek to the rough hair and firm flesh, she hears the man beyond the door call out, ‘Are you all right in there, mate?’
Maybe it’s some sort of downward spiral, but it doesn’t feel like it. His kisses are warm and wet in the back seat of her father’s old car. Parked where they used to go and almost laughing about it. Mostly he just wants to kiss, and pull her jumper over her head.
She lights a cigarette while he unbuttons his jeans, eyes on her now bare breasts, head going back once his hand is on his jutting prick. She whispers in his ear for him to do it, go on, let go, and at the last second the cigarette burns close enough to the tender skin of his throat that he comes, while not meeting her increasingly more worried gaze.
There are two things he wants more of: pain and a lack of eye contact. He says he isn’t embarrassed about it, but she knows he is. It’s why he wants her to blindfold him, before she does more of what he likes best: biting.
He likes to be bound, and he likes to be bitten, and he likes his eyes covered. At first it had only been his hands pressing hers over his eyes, but now it’s progressed to scarves and ties.
She can’t say it isn’t exciting. It’s all very exciting, even as they’re getting close to the line.
When she wraps the scarf around his eyes, winding it like a maid dressing her lady, he shivers all over. He had said to her after the first time he pressed her hands over his eyes, ‘When one sense is covered, the rest are alive.’
And she imagines going down that path, and melts. She almost says to him, as he sits before her, completely naked, that it’s her turn, now. She wants him to do it to her.
Even though she knows he won’t want to. Any hint of inflicting pain on her, any tiny restraint imposed on her body, and he squirms. He doesn’t even seem to like his weight upon her.
But she likes it. It’s almost like the allure of the forbidden, now. Now, as she bites at the curve of his shoulder lightly.
‘Harder,’ he says, and she obeys.
She bites him all over, up and down, leaving marks like red bracelets. He squirms, but she has learnt well what that means. Not stop, but go. Harder, more, be cruel. When she pushes him back on to the bed and nips him at that tender place between throat and shoulder, his slick-dipped cock bobs up against her belly.
She’s fairly sure he could come just from all this punishment.
But she doesn’t let him, not yet. First she wants his blind hands all over her, to find her places without knowing what he’s finding. He dips an exploring finger into her belly button and ghosts just under the curve of her left breast. His touch is so gentle, as gentle as anyone could ever want it, but it’s not enough.
She wants to feel his nails the way he feels hers. And his mouth on her, biting and biting. She tests him out – just a press of his hands harder against her – but he backs off immediately.
He doesn’t back off quite so hard when she drags his nails down her thigh, and at the same time kisses the tip of his cock. And then licks, and presses his hand firm against her ass.
‘Squeeze,’ she says, but he doesn’t obey until she promises more with her mouth. When she licks and then backs away for the fourth time, he sits up and flexes his fingers around great handfuls of her ass.
It feels firm and delicious, that grip. It feels like the cold mystery she had always imagined lying at the heart of him.
‘Bite me,’ she whispers. ‘Bite me, and I’ll lick you until you come.’
But it seems that a demand like that is one step too far, and he rips off the blindfold quite suddenly. Stops holding her so firmly. He looks irritated, she thinks, but something else lies beneath the irritation. Something vulnerable and unsure.
But it’s OK, she thinks, because she is sure.
‘Fuck me, Packs,’ she says. ‘Hold me down and fuck me, and I’ll do whatever you like.’
‘I’m not going to –’ he starts to say, but then she takes the blindfold from him and covers her own eyes, and nothing else comes out. She hears him hiss and tut, and for a moment wonders if he’s about to storm off.
But then his hands clasp her wrists too tight for comfort, and things draw back from the line or cross the line or something, something that makes the line what it was not before.
‘Fine,’ he snaps. ‘Fine, if this is what you want.’
He turns and tosses her as easily as if she were made of nothing, and then her face is in the pillow and he’s between her thighs. It isn’t exactly what she had wanted, but it comes close to what she thinks he might need. He needs to know that something doesn’t go away just because you stick close to its opposite.
‘Isn’t this what all women want?’ he asks, as he crosses her wrists, one over the other. She thinks he’s going to bind her, but he doesn
’t. He just presses and pushes down on her, and sounds disgusted and distraught about what all women might want.
The urge to tell him no is so strong in her that it cuts her in two, but she stays silent. He doesn’t need to know that she loves biting him and tying him up and seeing him blindfolded so hard that she could marry all of it. That it’s so new and strange that it eats at her, day and night.
But it isn’t out of fear that she wants this new strange thing. And though it may not be fear, exactly, that’s making him only want to fuck her when bound and gagged and made to pay for it, it’s not exactly something else, either.
She knows what that feels like. That dread of turning into something you’re not. Of being an animal, of being weak, of never having that old mysterious cold love return to you, and having to go on living into nothing and beyond without it.
‘Yes, I want it. Go on, fucker, fuck me,’ she says, and it’s true. She aches in every part of herself to have him wild and relentless over her, because she isn’t afraid of whatever way she wants it.
And she wants him to not be afraid, too.
When he clasps her wrists one-handed in a bruising grip, relief threads through arousal. Both hum together and then get louder when his cock shoves roughly between her legs, sliding through her slit and kissing her clit, briefly, before rutting into her hard enough to make her buck.
But she can’t do anything more than buck, because he is restraining her. She twists against his grip but he holds her fast, nothing but his harsh unsteady breathing and the slap of his hips breaking the silence.
So she breaks it further, for him. She tells him how every little bit of this feels, how wet he’s making her, how much she loves it when he fucks her with his big thick cock. It isn’t hard to do it for him at all, and even less so when his thrusts grow unsteady and he whines for her.
‘Oh, go on, more, more – I want it. Don’t you want to give me what I want? Don’t you want to come in my juicy pussy? Or do you want to do it in my mouth, or on my face, or my tits? Whichever way you want it, Packs, whichever way you want it.’
He breaks, she thinks, when she talks about her mouth and her face and her tits. But it could be a combination of a number of things. At any rate he jolts against her hard enough to make the bed crack against the wall, and her nipples rub roughly against the scratchy sheets, and her pussy creams and contracts around his swelling cock.
His hand leaves her wrists and latches on tight to her ass cheek, the tenseness of the grip singing through her and joining every other sensation. She can barely hold on to all the feelings in her, they stutter through at such a speed. Relief and joy and the shivering pulse of her orgasm.
The sound he makes, like someone giving themselves up.
And then all is quiet, and still.
He lets her go but doesn’t move completely away. No, he only moves away when she turns and finds that her arms are stiff. She thinks he sees the look on her face – a look of something like pain, though really it’s just bone-deep satisfaction.
And then he pulls away. She tugs the blindfold all the way off, and sees that he has covered his eyes. His jaw is tight and he presses back up against the wall when she reaches for him.
Too far, she thinks, oh no, too far.
Just before she reaches for him again, and this time he gives in. She knows he fights it, but he gives in anyway – at first to barely anything, but then a quick and brutal hug. He clasps her to him, almost making her ache in that same way as the hands on her wrists, the punishing fuck.
But it’s a good ache.
‘It’s all right, Packs,’ she says, when he pushes his face into her hair. He sobs once – he was never much of a crier. Not even when Davey Waites trapped his hand in the lunchroom door.
She strokes his hair.
‘It’s all right. No matter what you do, you’ll never hurt me. You know that, right?’
He clutches her tighter to him, tighter.
‘And I know, I know I can never make it go away. But I can try. I want to try. I want to keep trying, always.’
And then he whispers against the soft and still unbitten skin of her throat, ‘Don’t ever stop.’
Toby Hood Tastes Candy
HE’S WITHIN A mile of his grandmother’s home when the engine cuts out. And, of course, no amount of cursing it and putting pressure on the key in the ignition helps. So he has to walk, with a cooler the size of a barge in his arms, darkness falling swiftly, and nothing but trees for miles around.
Someone will no doubt come across his seven-hundred-year-old Jeep and strip it for everything it’s got. He’ll be accosted by hillbillies. He gets to the halfway point before he realises that he could have just called the auto club and waited in comfort.
But then, thinking was never his strong point.
Not that he’s stupid. He knows he isn’t. No one gets to make partner at the tender age of twenty-eight without having something about them. It’s just that often his somethings get in the way of other things, and other things make him seem kind of . . . gauche. His head is in the clouds and the clouds read naive. He understands that he’s the kind of guy who often falls for ridiculous pranks.
He knows it even before the woman from the woods joins him on the path, and smiles, and says, ‘It’s getting awful dark. What’s a sweet, soft-looking guy like you doing walking this way alone, at night?’
He supposes she’s right. It is getting dark. And also about the sweet, soft-looking stuff. Oh, he’d like to pretend that he’s big and macho, but in truth he’s big and macho enough to admit that he looks like a huge puppy dog.
This weird chick is looking at him as if he’s a huge puppy dog. She smiles again and this time bares her little rounded teeth. They gleam in the lowering light.
‘So, fella. What’s your name? Can’t travel together on this lonely little path without knowing each other’s name.’
He considers laughing at her. Why does she have her hands in her pockets like that? All weird and jaunty, sort of. And what kind of clothes does she think she’s wearing? She looks . . . she looks sort of like a dude from the eighteenth century – with the long, long blue coat and those odd, tight legging things. And boots, too. Boots right up to her knees, as shiny as new pennies.
But the laugh turns into a half-snort, and he glances back over his shoulder. The only other sound he makes is to say, ‘Where did you come from?’
The amusement in his voice is satisfactory. It makes this little meeting comfortable. He is comfortable. Can’t she see he’s comfortable?
She shrugs. ‘Oh, you know. Here and there and roundabouts. Say, chief – how about you tell me where you came from? And maybe where you’re going to.’
Her smile looks genuine, but he could swear that her eyes narrow. They flit over the now too heavy cooler in his arms. And then just over his arms. A little pink tongue pokes up, and slides briefly over her upper teeth.
‘My car broke down,’ he finds himself replying. It’s not that he wants to. It just happens. Her gleaming great eyes brook no disobedience.
‘I see, I see,’ she says, and the musical tone of her voice brooks no disobedience. It’s weird and hypnotic and it makes him want to laugh.
Maybe in a bad way.
He glances at her again and feels little prickles run all over him, to see that she hasn’t stopped looking at him. One of her eyebrows – far too thick for the kind of women he’s usually into – seems permanently raised, and her eyes are at first one colour and then another. And her hair – it just never fricking ends. It’s like a giant wild bush. It sprawls down her back and kisses her pale cheeks.
‘By the by, I’m Wendy,’ she says.
She does not look like a Wendy. But he can’t imagine why she’d lie.
‘Tobe,’ he tells her, and then wishes he had lied. Or at least wishes he had gone with something less familiar. He thinks, bizarrely, of all those warning videos played in school when he was a kid. Beware of Strangers. Don’t Stop To Take Ca
ndy From Women In Shiny Boots.
And so on.
You shouldn’t tell women who don’t actually have candy, like her, your nickname. He knows without a fleck of doubt that he should have been more formal. Tobias Hood, he should have said. Attorney-at-law.
But instead he’s just an ungainly idiot with a cooler, taking candy from Miss Gleaming Teeth.
He wishes he could stop imagining her with candy. It doesn’t help when she actually produces some. Or that she proffers the little paper parcel, and names the sticky green mass inside – apple sherbets, she calls them.
Though he doesn’t think they are.
And none of these facts stops him wanting one. Just looking at the glistening mess of sweets inside makes his gums ache and his mouth fill with juice.
Instead of the sweets, he tries to think of the pies he’s going to pretend he made, in the cooler. The half of a watermelon he so neatly wrapped. Everything in there is neatly wrapped, in fact, because, although he’s a terrible cook, everyone says he’s really neat, for a guy.
And this weirdo Wendy is making him feel more so. She looks as if she wants to ruffle his hair. She is jaunty and in control, playing some game he doesn’t know the name of. Her sly smile looks like something that should be painted in red, and it suggests queasy things. Things cut into flesh.
‘So where are you headed, chief?’ she asks, and he feels all those little hungry places in his stomach kind of smoosh into each other. If he could just have a slice of pie, then maybe he could stop thinking about the candy. And her gleaming teeth, and her colour-changing eyes.
‘To my grandmother’s house,’ he says, but his vocal cords really want to try out one of two things: ‘Give me the candy’ or ‘I need to go back to my car’. And maybe eat a lot of pie and watermelon.
But when he glances over his shoulder to where he’s just come from, and then glances back again, he finds that she has gone.
It’s thickly dark and cold enough to make him want to hug the cooler for warmth by the time he gets to his grandmother’s cabin. The moon did nothing to brighten his way though it’s high in the sky – it shines stark and silvery on the overgrown jumble that is his grandmother’s garden. The shadows are deep between the matted layers of roses and weeds, and the path is entirely hidden.
The Things That Make Me Give In Page 21