by Paula Cox
But then his mouth reaches my soaked, tingling pussy. Rust brings his tongue to my hole, trailing it up one lip toward my clit, and then quickly moving it back down before he reaches my clit. He’s playing with me, the bastard! He does this over and over, licking up and down my lips but stopping before my clit. I hear myself moaning in frustration; and it is really like I hear myself, rather than moan, because surely I would never do something like this in the back of a car, in a side street, behind a takeout place.
“Lick me,” I whisper. “Lick me, Rust.”
When Rust laughs, his breath whispers over my pussy, up my belly. “What was that?”
“Lick me,” I repeat, voice hoarse from the lust, voice hungry. “Lick me.”
“I am licking you—”
“You know what I mean!” I gasp. My body is screaming at me for him to complete what he started: my pussy is loudest of all; and my clit the loudest part of my pussy.
Rust chuckles again. “Beg for it…and I’ll think about it.”
Beg for it…I’m not that sort of girl. I can’t beg for it. But then, if I don’t beg for it…will he stop? I almost let out a roar of frustration at this conundrum, a conundrum which only exists because of my lust. If it were not for my lust, I would not care. But my lust is powerful; Rust has shown me just how powerful lust can be. I bite down on my lip, wince at the pain of the fresh cut, and then let out a long breath. My clit is not tingling any less. The sense of anti-climax will be ultimate if I stop now.
“You’re a son of a bitch,” I mutter.
“I see you’ve met my mother,” Rust replies, before he goes back to work on my pussy.
I open my mouth, moisten my lips with my tongue, and then start moaning. At first, the words come slow, almost as though I am dragging them out, but soon I find I enjoy begging him. I enjoy this aspect of our lust. Squeezing my legs around his head, I moan: “Lick my clit, Rust. Please, please, please, oh, fuck, lick my clit. Please, I’m begging you. I’m begging you.” I let my voice get louder, despite knowing that perhaps someone in the takeout place might hear. But I don’t care, not now. “Please, please!” I cry, my clit sending urgent pulses of lust through my body. “Lick my clit, Rust! Lick my—”
Rust lurches forward and squashes his tongue against my clit, pressing it so hard that everything else is blotted out: thought, concern, hesitation. All I know is the feeling of his tongue, rough and wet, pressed against my clit. He maintains the pressure for a few moments, then flicks his tongue fast and hard against my engorged clit. It has become a red, swollen spot of pleasure and my pussy a furnace which somehow keeps getting hotter.
I reach down and place my hands on Rust’s head, sliding my fingers through his hair and gripping down on his scalp, tearing my nails down his skin. He winces, but he does not stop licking, his tongue moving so fast I don’t feel any of his movements, not alone: just a jumble of pleasure, concentrated into one spot. I gasp, over and over, and he moans, his breath hot against my tortured clit.
“Keep going—” I try to moan, but I cannot talk. I bite down, not caring when my bitten lip throbs with pain.
Someone is watching us, I tell myself. Someone is watching this hard-as-nails biker going down between my legs. Someone is watching as he eats me out: yes, yes, not licks me like other tender men might do, but eats me the fuck out. Someone is staring at us. I know this is not true, and yet the thought of it is suddenly appealing. The thought that someone might see how much of a whore I am letting myself be: the thought that somebody might see how much I am letting myself go. Yes, I go on, closing my legs so tight around Rust’s head now that I hear him gasping for breath, his gasps tickling my pussy, yes, someone is watching how I have let myself descend into the pleasure. Someone is witnessing this. Yes, yes, yes…
Rust grips my thighs with his hands, digging his fingers into my flesh, and then does something I thought impossible: he licks with more force, more speed. The furnace explodes, the flames in my pussy no longer controlled. They hiss into my belly, up into my cheeks, each stoke of his rough tongue down my clit sending another flash of flame into me. I close my eyes. I can’t see anything but red, red, Rust: Rust, the biker, Rust, the pleasure-giver, Rust, the fucking bad boy who doesn’t care; Rust, the alpha, my alpha. After so long reading romances, I finally have an alpha of my own. Yes, yes, yes. And somebody is watching us: two eyes, staring directly at me. Two eyes, which reflect the down-and-dirty wrongness of what I’m doing, but a wrongness which feels so goddamn right.
I squeeze my legs tighter, tighter, until I imagine Rust cannot breathe, until I can feel nothing but the roughness of his tongue and the roughness of his beard, his hands imprinting red marks into my skin. And then he rushes toward the end, fans the flames with the tip of his tongue encircling my clit, and I feel myself—
No, I do not feel myself. I feel nothing but my clit, afire, spitting licking hissing flames singing out through my body, all the whilst those two observing eyes reflecting how good it feels to be bad. I open my mouth to moan, but I cannot moan. The orgasm hits me and all I can do is gasp almost silently, hollowly. Everything is given over to the orgasm. My clit is consumed with fire, and then it implodes and pulses move through me, making my body gyrate. I feel myself squirting onto Rust’s face, but he does not stop and I am too deep into the euphoria to feel embarrassed. I throw my head back, arch my back, and drive my hips down, driving my pussy down into his mouth. His teeth catch me, but I hardly feel it. Just his lips, and his tongue, stroking, licking, urging the orgasm on. Time stretches and I grate my hips quicker, riding his face as he eats me, riding the fanned flames of ecstasy. I keep telling myself we are in public, anybody could see, I am acting like a whore. But if being the biker’s whore feels this good, who the hell cares? I twist my hips, dragging his tongue across my clit, as the orgasm enters its final stages. Then, as it bursts out of me in one final explosion, I dig my fingernails into his scalp so hard, and I squirt, emptying myself completely, my pussy going so tight for a moment I feel as though my hole disappears—and then opening and releasing in the last pulse of pleasure.
Afterward, I lay back, chest heaving, arms and legs limp. I hear Rust stand up, wiping his mouth, and then go around to the driver’s seat.
“What are you doing?” I mutter, when he climbs into the car and starts the engine.
He laughs. “Close the door,” he says. “Don’t you think we ought to talk about this whole pregnancy thing?”
“Don’t you want to …” But I can hardly finish the sentence; I am so tired.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Rust replies, as I lean up and close the car doors, “I’ll get my payback from you sooner or later, but I reckon you’re a bit worn out now.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “That’s one way to put it.” I gesture to the GPS. “Select ‘apartment’. We can talk at my place.”
Chapter Seventeen
Rust
This girl is full of surprises, I reflect as I drive her car toward her apartment building. I wanted to fuck her; I had every intention of fucking her. With any other woman, I would’ve just fucked her. But there was something about the way she was moaning when I was eating her out: something irresistible about it. The way she tilted her hips, the way she begged, the way she closed her legs around my head…Goddamn, man, but that was enough for me. For me: Rust, serial lady-killer, if Zeke’s descriptions are anything to go by. I shake my head, smile ruefully. There’s something else, too. I’m smiling. This girl has taken me from rage, to lust, to stunned contentment in less than an hour. Then I think about her revelation, the pregnancy, and the smile falters. I’ve never been much good with family talks, and I reckon that’s what’s awaiting me up in her apartment.
During the car ride, Allison takes a pocket mirror from her handbag and freshens herself up, and then as we come to a stop she steps from the car with the aspect of a professional, reserved lady. I almost laugh at the sight, when less than half an hour ago she was on her back in a side street moaning to t
he skies. I climb from the car. Allison tilts her head at me. “Something funny?” she asks, as we walk to the apartment building.
“Nothing,” I reply. “Just—you.”
She blushes, and opens the door. We walk up the stairs of the building and into her apartment. The first thing I notice is the coffee table, wooden and set low to the ground and covered with paperback books and notes. I scan the books and see that all of them are about hunky men: romances, then. On one of the covers a barbarian holds an axe in two hands, growling; I wonder if that’s how Allison sees me, her barbarian. The second thing I notice is how in-between messy this place is, with everything not in complete disarray, but a few things scattered here and there: a few articles of clothing strewn across the floor, a coffee mug on its side on the floor, an open book balanced precariously face down on the arm of a chair. Allison goes about the apartment, clearing things away, and then waves at the armchair. “Take a seat.”
“Alright.”
I sit down. It’s one of those stylish armchairs, which means it’s small and with little padding. I feel like a giant sitting at a kid’s playset as I wedge myself into it. Allison calls through from the kitchen: “Do you want a drink?”
“Whiskey,” I reply.
She giggles. “I don’t have whiskey. What about a smoothie?”
“A smoothie? The fuck would I want a smoothie for?”
“It’s healthy,” she says. “I can make us an apple and banana one. I had one when I was feeing sick. It helped.”
“Well, I ain’t feeling sick. Just give me whatever you’ve got that isn’t a smoothie.”
She laughs this time, then brings through two glasses of orange juice. She sits on the couch near the armchair. We both sip our orange juice in silence for a few moments, the only noise the muffled sound of somebody playing heavy metal music a few apartments over. I look at Allison almost in awe. Less than an hour ago, she was on her back, gasping, moaning, and now she looks like all respectable. The contrast between the moaning woman who begged me to call her my whore and this prim little social worker is so striking it makes my dick ache. I try to be subtle as I adjust myself.
Alright, I need to stop this scatterbrained shit. I’m trying to take myself away from the issue; we both are. We don’t meet each other’s gaze. After the closeness of what we just did, the atmosphere is awkward.
I clear my throat, and then say, “So, we need to talk about this.”
Allison nods. “We need to talk about this,” she agrees. She clasps her hands together and fidgets with her fingers.
I think about the anger I felt at her when she first confronted me outside the Englishman. I think about how I snapped at her, how blinded with rage I was. I can hardly believe it. She’s so deer-like, so fragile-looking, her hair mussy around her shoulders, her eyes huge and green; and yet there’s a strength to her to which goes against all of this. A confusing lady.
She turns to me, smiling tiredly. “Well, let’s talk, then.”
I think on it as she watches me. I haven’t really given it any thought since she told me; there hasn’t been any time. So now, as she watches me and a few minutes pass by, as the heavy metal music plays dim through the walls, as a few horns honk outside and a car backfires somewhere in the city, I think on it for real. A child—a father. I think about my own father. He was a quiet, reserved man, but he was a good man, too. He worked in a factory, twelve hour shifts, and sometimes when he came home he would give me twenty dollars to go down the store and get him some beers, telling me I could keep the change. And then the heart attack, and the revelation that Mom had been cheating on him for years…there’s the thing, isn’t it? If I agree to this family shit, will the same happen to me?
No, I tell myself. Fuck no, ’cause my father wasn’t an outlaw, an enforcer. My father didn’t have the grit to live on the perimeters of the law. And maybe, just maybe, if Allison had a kid, I could do better with them than my parents did with me. Just maybe …
And then I think about how I offered Allison my phone number and she turned me down, just point-blank told me no, and I wonder if I offer myself up now, will she do the same? I can’t be sure. I’m starting to realize that in this closeness and relationship shit, you can never be sure. It’s like waking blindly through a maze looking for the exit—at least for a man like me. How can I know if this turning is the right one, or if that turning is the right one? How can I ever know?
I can see that she’s waiting for me to talk, so I decide to play it safe, at least for now: “I think the choice is yours. Obviously the choice is yours. It’s your body; if you decide to keep it…if you decide to keep the baby, you’re the one whose body will change, all that stuff. You know—you’re the one who will have to go through the pain and the stress of it all.”
She nods understandingly and I can’t help but feel I’m not in her apartment but at her office in the library and she is interviewing me. There is something disarming about that nod, that open face, which makes a man think about unburdening his soul. I can see why she’s so effective at her job.
“So you think it’s my choice?”
“It is your choice,” I correct. “I don’t just think it. Of course it’s your choice. What sort of man would force you one way or the other?”
“Okay.” She nods. “But—what do you think? What do you want? If you had control of the situation, what would you decide?”
What would I decide? I almost laugh at the thought, because telling her what I would decide will once again leave me open to attack. Attack, because that is how I am thinking of it. If I tell her what I want, she will be ready to once again push me away…But I can’t just sit here silently. This is important; it needs to get sorted. I’ve never been one to ignore somethin’ that needs seeing to. So much for playing it safe.
“If I could decide, I’d only say that I’ve always wanted to be a father. Ever since my own father—” I cut myself off. “I’ve always wanted to be a father ’cause I’d like to see if I have what you need to take care of a kid, to make a kid feel safe, to tell a kid that he doesn’t have to be scared, to encourage him in whatever he wants to do. Yeah, I’ve always wanted to be a father, and you’re pregnant, so if I had my way I’d ask you to keep him.”
“Him.” Allison smiles. It’s a faraway smile, captivating. “How do you know he’s a boy?”
I shrug. “I guess I’m biased.”
A silence stretches between us, the heavy metal music no longer playing, the apartment building almost eerie in its sudden lack of noise.
I plunge into the silence, unable to stop myself. I might as well get it all out there. I might as well play my hand. What do I have to lose, after all, except feeling?
“If you wanted to keep that kid,” I go on, looking at the ground instead of into her face ’cause I’m feeling pretty damn self-conscious right now, “I’d like to try and make a family with you. I like you—” That’s a weak word for the confusing mass of feelings I have for her, but I never claimed to be a wordsmith. “And I like the work you do in the community, and I think we could at least have a go at playing house. Maybe we’d live half here, half at my place; I have an apartment near the clubhouse, in the same building as my friend Zeke, actually. Maybe we could give it a try. I don’t know…I think it’s worth the effort, when there’s a kid involved.”
“Maybe it is.” She nods, again that understanding nod, but when I glance up from the floor I can see in her face that she is unsure. She is always unsure, it seems, always guessing and second-guessing her decisions and her feelings. She’s always fighting a war within herself, a war between what she wants to do and what she should do. I don’t know—maybe it’s got something to do with how she was raised. “But I don’t know, Rust…” She sighs, leans back, massages her temples.
I just sit there, hands folded, waiting.
After a minute or so, she says: “I need to give it some thought. Fantasizing about living with a tough biker is one thing; taking the plunge is quite an
other.”
“I’m not one of the characters in your books,” I say. “I’m a man; there are more sides to a man than what those books’ll tell you.”
“Maybe so.” She shrugs again, unsure. “Maybe there are. But—I just need some time to think. Can you give me that?”
I’m a fuckin’ pinball, and she’s the player, knocking me around endlessly, smacking me off the walls, bringing me close just to send me flying to the other end of the machine again. I swallow, and then nod shortly, and then rise to my feet. “Alright,” I say. “I’ll see you around, then.”