by Paula Cox
Something about the way he asks this question triggers another outburst of anger. He asks it, and he looks at me, like he truly believes I would make this up. He asks it in a tone of voice which tells me everything I need to know about how his opinion of me has changed. I have become something else in his eyes: something disgusting. Before, we had fun; we joked. And now he stands here ready to believe that I would lie about something this serious. The anger bursts out from deep in my belly, rising vomit-like up my throat, and then explodes from my mouth.
I launch myself at him without thinking, punching him in the chest. “Do you really think I would fucking lie about this?” I snap, hitting him over and over in the chest. “Do you really think I’d come here just to make this up, you fucking asshole? Do you really think I’d be here telling you this if it wasn’t true? What sort of person do you take me for? Do you really see me as that sort of girl, Rust? Really?” With each word, I punch him in the chest. Even in my anger, I’m aware that he doesn’t move an inch under the force of my blows. He just stands there, taking them with ease. This makes me even angrier…I’m unloading my rage and he doesn’t even have the decency to flinch under my blows!
“Prick!” I hiss. “Asshole! Jerk!”
And then he begins to laugh, deep, throaty laughs, and this drives me ever crazier.
“Fucking prick! Fucking asshole!”
I make to punch him again in the chest, but he catches my wrists, darting his hand out viper-like and catching them with ease. I stare up into his face; he is gazing down at me, his old cocky smile on his face. “Let go of me,” I say, breathing heavily. “You’re a prick.”
He shrugs, and then steps forward, pushing me firmly into my car. “Maybe I am,” he says. “Yeah, maybe so. But I gotta admit, seein’ you so full of rage was definitely worth pissing you off.”
I try and take my hands away from him, but I can’t. He’s too strong…and there’s something about how strong he is, about how easily he can hold me back, that sets my body going. I tell my body to stop it; I tell myself to retain my rage; I remind myself of the way he snapped at me. But I can’t. My heart is still beating fast, my palms still sweating, but now it’s for different reasons. He presses his body against me and I feel his cock, rock-hard.
“Let go of me,” I say. No—not say. Moan. I moan it. “Let go of me,” I repeat, trying to make my voice firm, but I can’t.
At the end of the side street, it is daytime, not a busy street, but not a completely dead one, either. Anybody could walk by. Anybody could see us.
“If you really want me to let go of you,” Rust says, that infuriating, hot-as-hell smirk on his lips, “just ask me one more time. But I warn you, I’ll do it this time.”
God, I hate that expression on his face. He hasn’t said sorry for shouting at me, I note. I shouldn’t put up with that. I shouldn’t let him shout at me and then give myself over to lust. But my lust is so strong, overpowering me, my pussy already aching desperately for his touch. No, I try and tell myself. No, look to the end of the side street. Anybody could walk past. Somebody might see. No, stop it.
But then I am lifting my hand and placing it on his face, feeling the roughness of his five o’clock shadow, looking into those dark, dark eyes.
Rust laughs shortly. “Thought so,” he says.
I am wearing a summer dress, my legs bare, and all at once Rust has slid his hand up my thigh and is pressing his fingers down on my clit. I think: “someone might see. Stop it. Stop it now.” But I don’t say that; I only think it, and then just briefly. I grip on his face with one hand and his shoulder with the other, squeezing down. Rust watches me as he plays with my pussy, pushing down on my clit through my panties.
I feel as though I have been waiting past month for the feeling of Rust’s callused fingers on my clit: waiting without even realizing that I’ve been waiting; waiting for the animal pleasure of it. I bite down, my vision going blurry as my eyelids flit open and closed. There’s something so dirty, so down and dirty, so fucking filthy about having his hand on me right here in this side street. I am reminded of the first time he touched me, in an alleyway close by here, and somehow I managed to stop him. I don’t think I’m going to be able to manage to stop him this time. My lust is too great: swelling inside of me, hot, almost too hot for me to comprehend.
“Give me your car keys,” Rust groans. “I want to fuck you.”
“Have you got a condom?” I hear myself ask, my voice far away and distant.
Rust grunts out a laugh. “The damage is already done,” he says. “Give me your car keys so I can fuck you until you come all over my hard cock.”
“Oh, god—”
He leans in close to me, his beard tickling my cheek. “You like it when I talk like that to you, you horny bitch?” he says, breath caressing my skin, middle finger pressing firmly down on my clit. I feel my panties becoming wet, soaked, as my pussy responds to his words, to his touch.
“I like it,” I admit, voice strained.
“You like being told what a whore you are, a biker’s fuckin’ whore?” He rubs my clit faster, his breath warmer on my skin. “I’m going to shove you into the back of the car like a dirty bitch, Allison. I’m going to shove you in there and then slide my thick cock deep into your pussy; I’m going to pound you like a whore right here where someone might see us. I’m going to fucking make you come again and again.”
“I can’t—”
Oh fuck, his hand is so firm on my clit, so fast. So hot, too, as though small flames dance at the end of each of his fingers. He pushes aside my underwear and then slides his middle and ring finger deep inside of me. I cramp up, leaning forward, propping my hands on his shoulders. It’s too much; it’s too hot; it’s too dirty and naughty. We’re right here in a side street, right here where someone from the takeout place might come out for a cigarette break and catch us, right here where someone walking by the street might glance down and see us. Oh, fuck, this isn’t me. This isn’t me. I’m a professional social worker. I’m a professional working lady…no, no, I’m his whore, right now I’m his whore, and it feels so good to let go and be this tough biker’s little whore.
“Car keys,” he grunts, as though we really are animals and he is growling a short command at me. As he says it, he takes his hand away from my pussy and steps back, leaving a distance between us. Now that his hand is not on me, I should be able to let go of the lust. I should be able to tell him to stop. Or, at the very least, I should be able to tell him that we can’t do it here; we need to go to my apartment, or a hotel room. Yes, that is what a responsible girl would do—and it is clear I have tricked myself into believing I am a responsible girl—but as I stare at him, chest heaving, blood-flecked hands at his sides, I know I cannot stop myself. I need it, and I need it now.
I reach into the front pocket of my dress and take out my keys, not caring about the staring gaze of the mouth of the street, the possibility of being caught at any moment, the sounds of frying and shouting coming from the takeout place; all I care about in this instance is the tingling which moves over my clit, tempting me.
Rust takes the keys, opens the back door of the car, and then grabs me by the shoulders and lays me down on the seat. I sit back, panting. My breath is suddenly going out of control. My head is light, lighter with lust than it ever was with rage, and hotter, too. Everything is aching in anticipation. I want him so badly my toes are preemptively curling, I realize. I expect Rust to lean up and over me, but he doesn’t. He stays down near my legs. Then I feel his hands on my panties and I bite my lip; when he yanks my panties away, snapping them, the fabric cutting into my hips, I bite my lip so hard that I wince at the pain. I let out a squeal, and then Rust begins to bite my inner thigh, hard bites, bites which will leave a mark. Up and up, he bites, and all the while I am telling myself to stop, it is too public, I can’t, I can’t…
But then his mouth reaches my soaked, tingling pussy. Rust brings his tongue to my hole, trailing it up one lip towa
rd 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 the skies. I climb from the car. Allison tilts her head at me. “Something funny?” she asks, as we walk to the apartment building.
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“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.