Yet how can I, when it feels so damned good? The second he spreads the bed sheet over me I start shaking. Partly, I think, because of the cool contact on my overheated skin. But possibly because of other, stranger reasons – like the fact that it immediately obscures most of my senses. He swathes me in material from head to foot, and my hearing is muffled. My sense of taste and smell is blocked off by cotton-fresh fabric conditioner.
And most importantly:
I can’t see a thing. I have no clue where he is or what he might be doing, and oh, my good God in heaven, that idea is electric to me. It jumps and sizzles in my veins, in a way that makes me breathe far too hard. Within seconds my makeshift cocoon is much too hot and much too close, and the dip of the mattress does not make that any better. I’m probably going to suffocate under here, because he has decided to straddle me.
I can tell he has. I can feel his thighs on either side of mine, so close I want to scream. I want to spread my legs to increase that contact, just press and press until it starts to hurt. I want bruises from his body, as evidence that all this happened.
Even though I know I’m never going to need anything so tangible. His every move is already burned into my brain. My hair damn near stands on end when he shifts a little like someone trying to get comfortable, and again when I sense that he’s straightening the sheet. In a second he’s probably going to touch me, and when he does it’s going to be bad.
It’s just that I don’t realise how bad.
I expect him to do something tiny, like giving me a brief, chaste kiss through the sheet. I’ll get the sense of something slightly hot and slightly wet and slightly soft, and that will be pretty much it. The thing is, though: I simply don’t get it. Again, I understand all of him so well, until it comes to sex. I subtract too much of his desire from things, so convinced that he could never really want me that I overlook the obvious signs.
Like him going for all the rudest parts first, before he even considers anything else. He doesn’t touch me or kiss me the way a monk would. He does it like the man he is, beneath seventeen layers of awfulness and repression and people fucking him up. And the man he is wants more than tiny caresses on my left elbow or my right knee. He doesn’t want to touch my cheek.
He wants to find my nipple – which is probably poking through the sheet in the most obscene manner possible – and then he wants to pinch it. He wants to pinch it and pinch it, so softly I want to sob. At the very least I squirm the second he does it, and not just because of the way he goes about it. Somehow the sensation is magnified by the sheet. It slides around between his fingers and that sensitive little point, all cool and ever so slightly rough. It rubs me a second time, and I think my whole body vibrates.
I can hardly help arching my back, despite knowing how lewd that must look. Like I’m saying, Go on, go on do it more. Do it harder or softer or faster, until I come over something so slight. Because the thing is – I think I really could. Him doing this feels better than most masturbation I attempt, and it only gets more intense from there. Once he’s managed to pluck and play with one nipple he seems to grow in confidence, and attends to the other at the same time. Two fingers on the right, lightly tugging until I go insane.
And then his mouth on the left.
Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, did he just put his mouth on the left? I think he might have done, but as my mind is currently taking a vacation somewhere just south of reality it’s rather hard to tell. I have to take several calming breaths and get some control of myself, in order to be sure. Then, once I have, I wish I had stayed in the dark. Not thought anything or worked out what he’s really doing.
If I had I probably wouldn’t have made a fool of myself. But I do, so I just have to deal with it. He puts his mouth on my nipple, and sucks hard enough for me to really feel it. And in response I ramble like some incoherent sex maniac. ‘Ohhhh God yeah do that to me do it to me lick my stiff little nipples,’ I tell him. And though it’s no worse than the things I said when he took a belt to me, it somehow feels it in every way. The sheet makes it so, as though it really is a shroud and I’m supposed to respect the dead.
At any rate I shouldn’t be groaning orders – an idea that he seems to agree with. He pulls away almost immediately, as though the belt incident was Nam and now he’s having flashbacks. All of this is just getting way, way too horrifying for him, and now it all has to stop. That was enough, that was everything I’m allowed to have, and I should just make do.
And I can, too. I lie there quietly, awaiting my probable doom. Not saying a word or asking for anything, every inch of me just waiting for him to rip away the sheet. In fact, I wait for it so hard and so confidently, that when he tells me to spread my legs I at first think he’s said something else. Or maybe he did say that, but means it like he did in the study. He just needs to correct my supine posture, and once he has we can go about our business.
But I swear to God, I had no idea our business is going to be him with his face between my thighs. If I had, I probably would have prepared myself more. I would have put myself into some bracing position, as though he was a plane and in real danger of dive-bombing into the side of a mountain. It certainly feels like he might be, and not just because he’s put his goddam head between my legs.
There’s also all the stuff he does when he gets there.
Good God in heaven, the stuff. I can’t even call it by its real name. I just have to give it vague labels, like ‘thing’ and ‘this’ and ‘that’. He uses his thing to this my that, my mind garbles, and oh, God, when he does, when I get that first hint of contact, obviously too slick to be anything but his mouth…I think I call him ‘baby’. It mortifies me beyond belief and I automatically want to take it back.
But I’m also glad I don’t get to. He deserves a ‘baby’ for this. He deserves it just for pushing himself to these lengths – lengths that definitely affect him in uncomfortable ways – and then again for how he goes about it. Dear God, the way he goes about it. I think somewhere inside I really thought he would have no idea, when it came to putting his extensive knowledge into practice. Even knowing that he made up that stuff he supposedly read aloud to me doesn’t quite make it real.
Until he spreads my puffy, plump lips with two insistent fingers, to get at everything between. He practically makes my clit stand out, like a sign saying please God do not touch directly. Though I suppose he’s not going to touch directly. He’s doing it through a layer of ever so slightly damp material, and, by God, he knows it. He knows what to do with my body, he understands the medium he’s working in, and he just applies both to devastating effect.
I cry, really I do, when I feel his tongue work over me there. When he just presses the tip to that over-sensitised bud, then rubs and rubs until I absolutely cannot take it. Real tears leak out of my eyes as raw sensation rips through me, too intense for me to keep still for a second round. I think I mean to get away or at least close my legs – which feels like a stupid mistake until I try.
And then I get his response.
Oh, my God, his response. ‘No,’ he says, only the ‘no’ has twenty-seven syllables and sounds like a song. Plus it finishes on something so brilliant I can scarcely believe it. He gets a great handful of me, and I still struggle to fathom it. I find myself actually asking him if he just grabbed my arse, and to my great delight he tells me yes. He tells me more than that.
‘I did, and if you keep refusing to be still I might have to squeeze,’ he says, and, man alive, I understand him. It isn’t just the idea of him doing that that’s almost killing me. It’s the idea of him doing it in a place that he recently branded. Those marks still burn, and if I am a bad girl he will make them burn brighter. He will make them sting so much I might cry.
While coming so hard that I want to die.
I’m not far off that now. And I get so much further when he returns to the task at hand. He shows me almost no mercy, both in the things he does and in the things he doesn’t do. He pauses when I want him to ma
ke circles, and makes circles when I want him to stop, and when he really starts going for me I don’t feel any better about it. Mostly because I realise in a great wrenching glut of excitement:
That sudden sense of him pressing against me, mouth working more urgently against my aching cunt…that is not me needing it. That is him wanting to do it. That is him grasping at something, so greedy he can’t even come up for air. I hear him gasping and understand it all for sure, the knowledge like a lightning bolt directly into my veins. It lays me to waste just thinking of him desperately kissing and licking and lapping at me, everything so lewd and close it’s unbearable. The contact is too intense, my orgasm like a waiting fist just south of my stomach. In a second I’m going to go so hard.
I think he likes the idea of me going hard.
And I don’t let him down. As soon as I fully see how much he wants this, my body tries to burst its banks. I scream into my teeth, grateful for the barrier because it stops me making a blurting fool of myself, but hating it just the same because, Lord, I need to let something out. There’s too much sensation inside me. It bursts from my aching clit, too thick to stand. I think I actually soak through the sheets – and a second later I know for sure. I know, because, holy hell, he tells me so.
‘I had no idea a woman would taste so divine,’ he blurts out, so full of strange wonder that I could never doubt his sincerity for a second. He really means it, he really means that he enjoyed something he should probably hate more than anything in the world, and the second I know he does I cannot hold it back.
‘Fuck me,’ I say to him – which I suppose is bad enough on its own.
But the real problem is: I do not stop there.
‘I know you want to fuck me. I know you liked doing that and I promise it would be no different at all. I’m so hot and wet you could just sink right in without any trouble, just rut and rut until you fill me up,’ I say, and I do not regret a word of it.
Why would I, when his response is so fucking fantastic?
‘God, you greedy little slut,’ he says, those words alone enough to get me. However, it’s the admiration in his voice that really finishes the job. I hear it and I just respond without even thinking about it.
‘Oh, fuck, yes, say that again,’ I tell him.
But I’m glad I do. He apparently feels the same way too.
‘I should get you by the hair,’ he says.
‘Yes, yes, yes, you should, yes, please.’
‘Fill your mouth so you can never say such filthy things.’
‘Mmmmm, yeah, just do it, just come in my mouth,’ I say, so delirious over the fact that he suggested it that I hardly think about what I’m doing when he does. My excitement seems to have reached some kind of apoplectic level where I’m no longer sensible of things like moving parts of my body over other parts – or at least I’m not until he speaks again.
‘Are you masturbating? Not two seconds and you’re already frigging yourself like some beast in heat,’ he says, and I honestly don’t know what I like best. The fact that he uses the word ‘frigging’, or the sound of him being so affronted by my gall.
In all my days I never thought I’d be so lucky, to affront someone with my gall.
‘I can’t help it, I can’t help it, you make me this way, you do this to me,’ I tell him, but what I really mean is: I think a spring wedding would be smashing. And, judging by his just slightly too amused response, he feels the same.
‘I make you fuck your own cunt, do I?’
‘Ahhhhh, yeah, yeah – just the idea of you doing it makes me go out of my mind.’
‘So you’re thinking of my cock while you slide those fingers in?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say, so close to incoherence I’m not even sure if those ‘yeah’s count as words. They fumble out of me minus much-needed letters, and I can see that the situation is only going to get worse. My pussy is so sensitive that any real stroking makes me wild, and all the while he just keeps on talking.
Good God, his talking is the best.
‘Shame they’re nowhere near as thick,’ he tells me, so casual about it I could just kill him. He knows what he’s doing, saying something like that. He always knows, even when he pretends otherwise. He makes it seem like some boring detail that he just felt like bringing up, and I have to deal with the fallout.
And in this case the fallout is the full understanding that he is telling me he has a big cock. A big thick cock, of the kind I now have to think about constantly.
‘Oh, don’t say that.’
‘You’d need to use double what you appear to be using now.’
‘Fuck, fuck.’
‘You’d need to stroke in so much more deeply.’
‘This is torture, this is torture,’ I say, but I have no idea what torture really is. I think him telling me about previously mysterious parts of his body is bad; I think hearing just how much he would fill me up is worse. But, as he then points out, there is something that trumps all of this, in at least a dozen different ways.
‘You think this is torture for you?’ he asks.
And then I’m not quite sure what to do. On the one hand, I want to be sympathetic. I want to soothe and be kind and apologise for my complaining. But on the other, there is my body and the way it chooses to deal with this news. I will be honest: it does not do it well. I think I might actually have a little orgasm, just at the idea he presents there:
That he not only wants something more than this.
He’s tortured by his desire for it.
He looks at me writhing and moaning and making myself wet, and he craves it more deeply than he does that iron-clad restraint. I know he does, because, even if I set what he just said aside, his silence afterwards speaks volumes. It almost vibrates with a waiting, as though he expects me to do the rest.
And to my great surprise and delight, I do not disappoint.
‘Tell me what you need,’ I say, and, by God, I mean it. I think I’m pretty much prepared to do anything, up to and including things I would never have entertained before. If he asks me for my arse, I will give it to him. If he wants to fill every hole I have, I am happy to let him. In fact, when he finally tells me what he needs it’s almost a disappointment, after gearing myself up to so much.
‘Just keep talking. Keep saying every filthy little thing you can think of.’
Though to be fair, almost disappointing with him is pretty much explosive excitement in any other context. It makes me giddy just to think about doing it, and especially after I try.
‘I’m so wet for you,’ I say, with more moaning abandonment than I ever used before. I alternated before now – making sure the dirtier words were spoken as calmly as possible and the calmer ones got the dose of lusty breathlessness. But that is not the case here. I sound like the horniest whore on the face of the earth, to the point where I feel confident I hit the mark.
But man, am I wrong about that.
‘More than that,’ he says, so I go one step further.
‘I want you to fill me with your hot, slippery come,’ I say, now certain that this must have done the trick. It burns me to get that idea out, considering how much it refers to him. It suggests that he can get hard and have orgasms and spill his jizz just like every other man, and that thought is roasting hot.
Yet still it falls short.
‘More,’ he says, like someone unsatisfied with a knife in the gut.
He needs it to be twisted, to really do the job. He needs to make it bleed.
So I make it bleed. Oh, man, do I ever make it bleed.
‘I want you to fill every hole I have – fuck my arse, fuck my mouth, fuck my pussy. I want you to cover me in come, just make me a mess, it doesn’t matter. I know that you’ve never and you know I’ve never so just do it all over my face, do it on my tits, cover my clit in great ribbons of it, cream in my cunt until I’m overflowing and still ravenous for more,’ I gasp, every word so filthy and shameful that at first I think I must have gone too far. I over
shot what he was asking for and hit gross, and when I finally pull the sheet away he will have left the room. And maybe also the house, and the country, and possibly this planet.
The next time I hear of him will be on the news: First Man To Start Living On Mars.
Or maybe: Man Murders Woman With Sex By Tearing Off A Sheet.
Because that is what he then does. He rips it off so suddenly and shockingly I give a little squeak, as though I am the one who needed it there. For a second it’s as if our roles are reversed, and, I have to say, I love it in a way I feel sure he must never. It makes my heart pound in my pussy and my breath come all ragged and weird, and the feeling only grows stronger.
I see him staring down at my totally bare body, and the pounding seems to triple. In a second my heart is going to bust right out of there, and when it does I feel sure there is going to be a mess. There is already a mess down there. I can barely keep touching myself without skating off to less interesting parts of my body. I aim for my clit every time, and end up somewhere just south of my left knee.
Not that I really mind all that much. I think if I actually hit the target here, while lying in the sudden liquid darkness of his heavy-lidded eyes, I would most probably never stop coming. Chances are he’d have to take me to the hospital, to get some kind of anti-orgasm medication. Either that, or constant climaxes would end up being my lot in life. Medical science might want to study me – and all because I accidentally rubbed my clit in the middle of whatever this might be.
Though I say ‘whatever’, when really I know.
This is him losing control.
Of course, on anyone else it would probably look like nothing – and especially in light of what he has done to date. He has read dirty stuff to me and spanked me and made me stand in rude ways, stroked me with a paintbrush and licked me between my legs. He really should be exploding by this point. Most people would most likely want to kill me with their cocks, way before we ever got to here.
Sweet Agony Page 12