Indecent...Desires

by Jane O'Reilly

  ‘Yes,’ he says. And then he twists his hips, leaving another glossy smear on my trousers.

  Something inside me pulls tight and then snaps. I’d say it was the last of my resistance, if I felt like labelling it. ‘Turn around.’

  His eyes go wide and he gives me a flash of those dimples, then he does as I’ve asked. He turns slowly, then bends slightly forward. The jerk of his shoulder tells me that he’s stroking himself, and I can’t have that. ‘Did I say you could touch yourself?’ He shakes his head as I move in close enough to see where the hair lies softly on the nape of his neck. I blow on that sensitive skin, watch him shiver in response. ‘Both hands up where I can see them.’

  He stiffens, then slowly lifts both hands to the top of the chest of drawers and grips it, as if he’s preparing himself for what we both know I am going to do next. I lower my gaze to his exposed backside, which is tight and firm and peachy, just as I knew it would be. There’s a soft patch of hair at the base of his spine, and when I let my fingers linger there, it’s beautifully warm.

  I run my hand over the indents at either side of his buttocks, loving the way the hard swell of muscle feels under my hand. Then I slide my hand between his legs and grip the heavy weight of his balls. I’ve never handled a man this way before, and it sends a thrill surging through me, especially when I tighten my grip and Lucas makes a low, throaty sound. I can feel the hard rise of his cock against the tips of my fingers, and when I stroke back across his balls, letting my nails tease the skin, I discover an even more sensitive spot behind them. I take a moment to explore it, a moment in which he grips the chest of drawers even tighter and trembles.

  ‘Naughty boy,’ I whisper, pushing up onto my tiptoes so I can plant the words softly in his ear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I try so hard not to do bad things, but sometimes I can’t stop myself. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  I move my hand back round to his buttocks. I know what he wants. I think I’ve teased him enough, and I am desperate to explore this, to know what it will be like. I raise my hand and bring it back down against his arse. There is a sound like a sharp crack. Lucas jolts forward, and I stare in aroused horror at the bright pink flush that my hand has created.

  ‘Again,’ he whispers. ‘Do it again.’

  ‘Say please.’ There’s a thread of steel in my voice, a layer of bossiness that shocks even me.

  ‘Please, Ms French.’ He squares his shoulders, moves his feet a little further apart. I place one hand on his shoulder, feeling the hard curve of bone and muscle beneath my palm, and the other hand on the bare flesh of his backside, which is warm and trembling.

  I’m trembling too, with nerves and excitement. I bite down on my bottom lip, and then deliver three fast, sharp spanks to his exposed arse.

  ‘Fuck,’ he says hoarsely, his head tipping back.

  The way he says it excites me, and I spank him again, harder, faster, my fingers digging into his shoulder as I watch his skin grow pinker and hotter under my hand. I can feel the same hot rush of arousal between my legs. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life. I want to push him to the floor and ride him, but I can’t do that. I shouldn’t be doing this either, but I want to see him finish. I want to see it so much. He denied me last night. I won’t let him deny me this time.

  I rub my hand over the curve of his backside, then back between his legs again, lingering on that sensitive spot before travelling over his balls to find his cock. He groans when I touch it. I didn’t think it was possible for a man to get that hard. I pull him away from the drawers, turn him to face me. His eyes are half closed, and he’s watching me warily, as if he’s wondering what I’m going to do next. There’s no denying the flush of excitement in his cheeks, or the hoarse sound of his breathing.

  I did this to him, I think to myself. I made him this hot, this hard. I reach out, touch the tip of his cock. It jerks at the contact, an involuntary spasm. The tip is practically dripping with clear, glossy pre-come, and I don’t ever think I’ve made a man wet before either. I grab hold of him tightly, pump my fist along his slick length once, twice.

  ‘Please, Ms French,’ he says. ‘Please let me come.’

  Somehow I know exactly what he wants me to say in response. ‘No. You may not.’ I stroke him some more, each pump of my hand over his rapidly thickening cock exciting me even more. He shudders and moans, and I love the way he’s fighting simply because I told him to. I wonder what else he will do simply because I tell him to. Perhaps, just once, I will take the opportunity to find out. This can never go anywhere, never be anything, whatever this is between us, but just once, I want to know what it is like to bring a man to his knees.

  I set a hand to his shoulder, push him down to the floor. He obeys without question and looks up at me, waiting, wanting. A strange sense of calm steals over me. It is as if I can breathe, all of a sudden. As if I have never really breathed before. The air tastes cool and sweet, and I feel my body relax and soften.

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ he asks. ‘Would you like me to use my fingers? Or can I use my tongue?’

  Something about the way he says can I use my tongue, as if that’s what he most wants to do, makes my insides flip and spin. I crave that, I realise. I want it. The warm, soft slide of a hot tongue over my aching clit. It has been so long since the last time I experienced it, and to be honest I never experienced it all that often. My ex was never that keen. Oh, he would, if I nagged him enough. And then he’d say I was a nag, and I would hate myself for pushing it on him and wonder what was wrong with me. But Lucas doesn’t sound reluctant. The exact opposite, in fact.

  ‘Use your tongue,’ I say.

  I watch as he finds the fastening of my trousers and undoes them, then lowers them carefully to the floor, holding my hand as I step free. There’s something almost caring in the way he takes my fingers and holds me steady, as if he knows that I’m nervous. He smoothes his palms over my legs, then eases down my knickers.

  It is all so slow, so controlled, until he plants his face firmly between my legs and licks into me like a man who is starving for pussy. Like he wants this as much as I do, like he needs to taste my slick juices as much as I need to feel his tongue, which is hot and skilled. He finds my clit and sucks down on it, setting a pulsing rhythm that has my knees weakening in a heartbeat. I reach back, fumbling blindly until I find the hard curves of the drawer handles and cling to them. His hands meet the outside of my thighs and hold me steady, and that will never do.

  He is the one who should be unsteady. Not me. I dig my fingers into his hair, move his head away. He gazes up at me, his eyes almost black with desire, his breath coming in short fast pants. I can see the gloss of me on his mouth, the hard jut of his cock between his legs as he waits so patiently for his next instruction.

  ‘Get on the bed,’ I say. He scrambles to his feet and mounts the bed, then watches me with quiet intensity. I walk over to it, placing my feet carefully, never taking my gaze off him, totally in control, ruling this situation, owning it. ‘Do you want to touch yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to touch me?’

  He licks his lips, and I see his throat work as he swallows. ‘Yes.’

  Another question hesitates on the tip of my tongue and I am almost too afraid to ask it, but I want to know. I have to know. ‘Did you like the way my pussy tasted?’

  ‘Fuck, yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve never tasted one as sweet as yours. I nearly came just from having you on my tongue.’

  I have to close my eyes for a moment, just to find my balance. Then I move close enough for him to touch, and unbutton my cardigan. I pull it off slowly, and then I remove my blouse. His hungry gaze searches me, his hands digging into the sheets, but he makes no move to touch me, and I don’t encourage it.

  Neither of us speaks. It is as if one word would shatter what is between us, would make this real and not just a fantasy, and it is too precious to me. I can’t let
this be broken. I won’t. I move in, set my hands to his shoulders and push him back. He falls onto the bed, arms laid out above his head. The dark fur beneath his arms sends a jolt of arousal through me, reminding me of his masculinity, of the difference between us. I know as I kneel at either side of his hips and set the wet heat of my pussy to the hard length of his cock that he is only in this position because he is choosing to be. I know as I reach for the headboard and grasp it, then slowly move my hips forward until my bottom is resting on his chest and my knees on the pillow either side of his head, that he could stop me if he wanted to.

  I know, as he opens his mouth and laps at my aching slit, that I will never forget this. I lean forward, until his tongue is buried inside my pussy and I’m almost certain he can’t breathe, and then I let him have his way with me.

  I grip the headboard as he pleasures me, my fingers twisting round the curved metalwork, my knees digging into the bed as he takes my weight and takes it easily. I have never had a man in this position before, never demanded my own pleasure so shamelessly, and god, I like it.

  I feel the heat start to build inside me, the tingling becoming a hot, undeniable rush, and old guilt prickles at me, telling me that I shouldn’t do this, that I shouldn’t be so selfish, that I should be attending to Lucas’s needs and not my own.

  The guilt becomes so loud, so overwhelming that I try to pull back, try to move, but strong hands take my hips and hold me in place, forcing me to hold him down and take what I need from him. And then I am coming, coming, hard and loud, my back arching and my eyes going blind as Lucas Brady licks me through an orgasm the likes of which I have only dreamed of before, in hot, frustrating flashes that were gone almost as quickly as they appeared.

  But I am not imagining this. It is real. And as I slowly come down from my climax, I could swear I hear him whisper my name, Meredith, and Are youOK?

  I decide that I didn’t, though, because that is not the game we are playing. In this, I am in charge, and nothing happens unless I say it can, and I did not give him permission to use my name, or to make me feel these things that I should not be feeling. I push myself off him, make myself stand at the side of the bed. ‘On your knees,’ I order him. He does as I say, and I reach out and take him in hand. He’s breathing hard, fighting to keep himself together. I stroke him, wonder what he’s waiting for.

  And then I realise. He’s waiting for me. ‘You can come now,’ I say, as I grip the end of his cock and give a sharp twist. He stiffens, his hands flexing into fists by his sides. And then he spills himself all over the sheets.

  Chapter Six

  I leave him sprawled out on the bed and panting. I gather up my clothes, but I don’t put them on. I take the shirt from the hanger on the back of the door and put that on instead. It doesn’t fit me and I like that about it. It smells of him and I like that too.

  I go into the living room, explore the pile of books on the table, then I go into the kitchen and explore the contents of his fridge and cupboards. He is, it is quite clear to see, a twenty-four-year-old single man living on his own. He is also, I quickly begin to realise, full of surprises. The cupboards in his living room are full of wires and circuit boards and other unidentifiable objects, which I suppose makes sense given that he works in IT. I find football boots next to the kitchen bin and sports kit in the washing machine, and a stack of cook books on a shelf in the kitchen. No sign of fishing tackle or the girly calendars that my ex-husband insisted on hanging in his office.

  I know I’m intruding on his private space, but I can’t seem to stop myself looking. I want to know more about him. I want to know who Lucas is when he’s not sat naked in his window, pleasuring himself for my entertainment.

  ‘Find what you need?’

  The voice comes from the doorway. I turn quickly, find him watching me. I tuck a stray curl of hair behind my ear, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I shouldn’t be looking through your things,’ I acknowledge. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why?’ he asks. ‘I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  No, I think to myself. I am the one who hides, sitting in the darkness of my bedroom as he sits in the light and lets everyone see. He puts me to shame, he is so open, so free, so comfortable with himself. I think about those weeks I spent sending him anonymous notes, and questions rush into my mind.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ I ask, unable to stop myself. ‘Why did you follow my notes? You didn’t know it was me.’

  ‘I didn’t know who it was,’ he confesses. He’s pulled on a pair of white underpants, David Beckham-style briefs that emphasise the hair on his thighs and the beautiful shape of his penis and balls. ‘I knew you lived in that building, though. I hoped it was you. I imagined it was you, when I was touching myself.’ He looks a little shy, a little embarrassed as he says it, like he thinks he’s done something wrong. As if, after everything we’ve just done, that is the thing he’s ashamed of.

  ‘It could have been anyone watching you,’ I point out.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he says. He opens the fridge and peers inside, but I’m pretty sure it’s just a distraction technique. He closes the door, a carton of orange juice in his hand, then finds glasses and pours some out. He pushes a glass in my direction. I take it.

  ‘And didn’t that bother you?’

  He drinks some of his juice, passing the glass from hand to hand. ‘I, ah…I’ve always fantasised about being told what to do. When I was a kid, I had this really bossy maths teacher called Miss Wilkes. All the other boys thought she was evil. I used to get myself put in detention on purpose just so I could sit in a room with her while she shouted at me.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You probably think I’m crazy.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head, and think about all the notes I’ve sent him, all the things I’ve made him do. ‘I don’t think you’re crazy at all.’

  ‘The last proper girlfriend I had thought I was,’ he says. ‘She said…’ He pauses, as if it’s hard for him to get the words out. ‘I asked her if she wanted to try some stuff, you know, maybe handcuffs or a blindfold. She thought I wanted to put them on her. When I said no, I wanted her to tie me up, she said I was weird.’ He swirls the juice in his glass, slides me a wary glance. ‘We broke up soon after that.’

  ‘Mutual agreement?’

  ‘I guess technically speaking, she got in there first. But to be honest, my cock had already left the relationship.’

  ‘You couldn’t get it up for her?’

  ‘Could you? I mean, not that you have a dick, obviously. But could you perform for someone you knew thought you were weird?’

  My mind rushes back to those last few sexless months of my marriage. ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘My ex-husband…I…he said I was bossy. A nagging cow who didn’t know when to shut up. I couldn’t…’

  Lucas Brady is watching me with those dark, dark eyes, and something in the way he looks at me sends warmth cascading over my skin. ‘I don’t think you’re bossy,’ he says.

  ‘Liar,’ I retort. ‘I’m bossy as fuck.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he says. ‘But I like it. I like it when you boss me around.’

  ‘I like bossing you around.’

  And there, right there, is a confession that leaves both of us silent for a moment.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before,’ I say eventually, when the silence has expanded and filled me. ‘I didn’t know men like you existed.’

  ‘I knew bossy women existed,’ Lucas tells me. He folds his arms and crosses his legs at the ankle, leaning back against the work top. ‘The problem has been trying to find one.’

  I blink. ‘How could you possibly have had any problem? Have you seen you?’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ he says. ‘I met someone I thought might be into it, but it turned out that she had a thing for another guy. And she was too young for me, if I’m honest. Anyway, it’s hardly a topic you can bring up in the middle of a first date. “Oh, by the way, I really want t
o be bent over the end of the bed and spanked, would you be up for that?” It’s OKwhen women say it,’ he continues. ‘Then it’s kind of kinky, you know? Naughty. But when a man says it, women think it’s weird. And then they tell all their friends, and before you know it they’re posting it on Facebook and your mother has found out and is refusing to speak to you.’

  He sounds angry. Bitter, almost. ‘Stop whining,’ I say sharply. His head jerks up. For a moment he looks shocked, and then that small smile curves up the edges of his mouth, and just like that, we move smoothly into play.

  I dip my fingers into my glass and flick juice at him. It spatters his chest, his belly. ‘You’re dirty,’ I inform him. ‘You need to clean yourself up. I won’t tolerate poor personal hygiene, Lucas.’

  I’ve never used his first name before. Never said it out loud. It feels soft and delicious on my tongue.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he says hastily. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Do you have a bath? Or a shower?’

  ‘A shower,’ he says.

  ‘Show me.’

  He leads me through into a small bathroom, even smaller than my own. It’s reasonably clean, although not pristine. I picture him wearing nothing but a pair of Marigolds and think about making him scrub it out, but decide to leave that for another day. I check the assortment of shower gels and soaps, the aftershave that sits on the windowsill. Then I lean into the shower and turn it on. A blast of cold water thunders down into the tray.

  I look at Lucas and gesture to it. And like the true gentleman that he is, he climbs under the spray without a single complaint. I watch as he lathers himself from head to toe with soap that smells of mint. He rinses his hair as goose bumps rise on his perfect skin and his nipples tighten into dark little discs and his penis thickens and lengthens, standing proudly away from his body.