Behind His Back

by Stranges, Sadie

  He keeps this pattern up, slowly and patiently guiding me to an edge that few men have helped me reach. Eventually, he homes in on his target, and I feel his palm switch to the pads of his wet fingers, which move gently in tight circles around my clit. The sensation is unbelievable, and I spread my hands against the coarse bricks of the wall and push my ass backward, giving his mouth full access to my sopping pussy.

  Reading my rising pleasure, he speeds up his circling motions, and he pushes harder into me so that I’m caught between his mouth and his hand. My breathing quickens, and I feel a series of convulsions that wobble my knees. Then I let out a sustained, high-pitched yelp as I plunge into the most intense orgasm I’ve ever had. The sensation is different this time—not just more pleasurable, but somehow deeper. It’s almost as though I lose consciousness for a few seconds, and as feeling returns, starting from my now hypersensitive clit and radiating outward to my extremities, I can tell from my wet thighs that for the first time in my life, a man made me squirt.

  Since the switch flipped a year ago, I’ve learned how to get myself off. I know what kind of porn gets me going, I know how to touch myself, and I even have a few toys that I keep sandwiched between some of my fancy Fräulein undergarments. But sadly, I can count on one hand the number of times a man has made me cum. And each of those times, it was some cosmic accident that pushed me over the precipice. The stars aligned with the right positioning or vibrations or hormonal conditions, and I got off, but I never felt as though whoever was fucking me really had a hand in it.

  But this time there’s no question. Hunter made me cum, and I’m certain I could cum again right now if he so much as commanded me to.

  As I catch my breath and my moaning settles, he returns his stiff palm to my clit, applying pressure but not moving. He knows what he just did to me, and he knows that for the next few minutes any further stimulation will be too much to bear. I realize that I just came directly into his mouth, and I find it unexpectedly hot. I twist to look behind me, where he’s kneeling and devilishly smiling back up at me. Oh God, I’m dripping off of his chin and onto his tanned chest. Should I have warned him? But how could I? I didn’t even know I could do that.

  I’m starting to worry that he’s grossed out, but he allays my fears by licking my juices off of his lips. He wipes his mouth with two fingers and then further soaks them by reaching through my spread legs and gently rubbing them against my pussy. Then he stands up, still behind me, and holds his fingers in front of my mouth. Without hesitation, I suck on them and savor the sweetness I just shared with him. The taste reminds me of the packets of strawberry Kool-Aid powder I’d mix with water and copious amounts of sugar during the innocent summers of my youth.

  “Good girl,” he whispers in my ear, and I’m pulled back into the present, which is anything but innocent. His cock rubs against my ass, and I want him inside me more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

  “You’re good and wet for me now,” he says.

  I try to respond, but all I can do is whimper.

  Then his cock is gone, and I glance over to see him retrieving a golden foil packet from the front pocket of his crumpled jeans. He tears it in half as he returns, glaring like he’s about to do mean things to me with his heavy, hard cock, which is bouncing menacingly up and down with each step. He resumes his position behind me, and I hear him roll the condom along his shaft. Then his hands are on me again, tugging my hips toward him so that my head drops and nearly collides with the bricks. I reposition my hands against the wall for support, and I silently beg him to fuck me hard enough that I’ll need it.

  He doesn’t ask me if I’m ready. He doesn’t even tell me what’s about to happen. I feel his cock slide against the wetness between my legs, and then he’s inside, filling me and fucking me slowly and strongly. I let out a gasp and then flex my firm, round ass as his pelvis presses into it. He takes one hand off of my hip to caress and knead it, bringing his thumb precariously and excitingly close to my asshole.

  He picks up speed, our bodies colliding with ferocious intensity, and his hands move from my hips to my tits, which he gropes and fondles and spanks. I arch my back to raise them while still giving him my ass, and his hands move from my tits to my neck, gripping the loop of leather that’s still around it. He tightens his grip—not enough to choke me or make me feel like I’m in any danger, but enough to make me feel like he’s in utter control of my body as he fucks me. In response, I involuntarily cry out with each thunderous thrust.

  I start to feel like I’m close to cumming again when he pulls out and flips me around so that I’m facing him. He guides me a few steps to my left, where the wall changes to a recessed enclosure above built-in drawers. Above the ledge is a massive painted mural of red flowers against the black background of the wall. He reaches around me and grabs my thighs beneath my ass, and he lifts me and sits me spread-legged on the ledge. The opposite wall is a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and I watch his muscular back as he positions me, pulling my ass toward him so that I’m sitting on the edge with my pussy fully accessible to his cock. He leans in to kiss me deeply, reminding me of my own sweet taste, and he reaches his right hand down to rub my wet pussy, which is now quivering for more of his cock.

  Without removing his hand, he thrusts inside of me, and I lean back against the painted wall as he rubs my clit and fucks me with deep, quickening thrusts. My tits bounce with each collision of his body against mine, and I’m reminded of my early attempts at running on a treadmill before I had the proper attire. Never in my life have I been fucked so hard that I needed a sports bra. But the pain becomes part of the pleasure, and I cry out with each thrust so loudly that I start worrying what his neighbors might think.

  As Hunter continues to pummel me with his cock and stroke me with his nimble, knowledgeable fingers, I feel a familiar sensation spreading outward from my clit. My lungs suck rapid, shallow gulps of air and my eyes roll upward, and Hunter dips slightly at his knees so that his cock presses against the front of my pussy with each thrust. It feels as though my clit is being stimulated from both sides, and it drives me wild. My legs become jelly, and I make a twisted face that I hope he can’t see. It’s the face of a roller-coaster rookie caught on camera at the most precipitous part of the track. I shut my eyes as I let loose and cum so intensely that I squeeze his cock right out of me.

  Returning to my senses, I look down and see that I’ve gushed again, this time all over Hunter’s thighs. The wood beneath me is wet, and I’m trickling down the drawers and dripping onto the floor.

  Hunter kisses me again, gripping my head with his soaked hands, and it hits me that he hasn’t finished yet. Good God, this isn’t over. I’m excited and horrified as I wait for the next onslaught of this strange, ferocious man and his perfect cock.

  He kisses me and massages my tits as he waits for the feeling to return to my legs, and then he lifts me off of the wooden ledge and sets me on my bare feet. The floor beneath me is so wet that I worry I’ll slip, but he takes my hand and holds my leash and guides me deeper into his loft. It’s a little scary to think that I’ve just had the best fucking of my life, and I haven’t even seen his bed yet.

  Beyond the entryway, his space opens up into the kind of rustic, luxurious loft that most people only experience on Pinterest. It’s precisely the kind of dwelling I’d expect a successful photographer to live in, especially since there are lighting rigs set up around a small stage with a white backdrop in one of the loft’s distant corners. All around me are giant old widows, and dim light floods in from the city’s street lamps and storefront signs and passing traffic. Between the windows are more ancient bricks and occasional swaths of reclaimed timber, which create spaces for photographs—presumably his—and other gorgeous works of art. An open-concept kitchen with shiny steel appliances and sleek mahogany cabinetry sits cordoned off by a dark granite island, and across from it is a living area with leather couches and plush chairs around a massive flatscreen. Between us and the enviably h
igh ceiling are thick wooden beams with weathered patinas.

  Right now, in my disheveled, aroused, fucked-senseless state, the beautiful surroundings are too much to process, and I’m thankful when Hunter tugs on my leash to rein in my focus. He guides me toward a sliding barn door—presumably the entrance to his bedroom—in the back corner of the loft. But as we pass the kitchen, he changes his mind. He leads me to the island, and he bends me over it, facing the fridge. Then he walks around me, still holding my leash, to open the fridge and retrieve a clear plastic container of watermelon cubes. I recognize the Whole Foods label as he peels it off and proceeds to feed me a pre-cut piece of melon between his thumb and forefinger. I take it, along with his fingers, into my mouth. I’ve had Whole Foods watermelon a hundred times, but it’s never tasted like this. It’s as though my mind is primed to experience pleasure.

  Hunter takes a piece for himself and smiles at me as he bites into it. I watch the juices drip down his fingers, and I want him back in my mouth. I’m certain he’s going to fuck me against the smooth granite of the island, but he glances over at the window and then back at me with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

  Oh God, what’s he planning?

  He feeds me another succulent cube of watermelon and then guides me around the island and toward the window. I’m completely naked, so I’m hesitant to approach it, but he pulls sternly on the leash, leaving me no choice. The window’s sheer size doesn’t sink in until I’m up close—it starts just above my knees and rises well above our heads, and every part of me is exposed to the bustling night beyond the glass.

  “You like the view?” he asks.

  I nod my head yes.

  “So do they,” he says. He looks down at the unaware pedestrians and smiles.

  The view of the busy street below and the halo of the city’s skyline in the distance is lovely, but I’m more interested in what people can see of me. The lights are bright inside his loft, and even though the fourth floor is at the top of the building, it feels close enough to street level for passersby to see how hard my nipples are.

  It should freak me out, but it doesn’t. As I look out over the street at the drunk college kids and lusty couples stumbling around, I’m surprised to discover that I don’t want to hide from them. I want them to see me. I want them to watch my tits bounce as this beautiful man fucks my brains out.

  “Put your hands on the window,” he says.

  I’m hesitant at first—it’s an old building and I don’t know how strong the glass is—but I trust him, and I place my palms against the aging steel muntins that divide the panes into small rectangles. Their dark green paint—likely the original coat—is peeling and flaking off.

  From behind me, Hunter spreads my legs and then pulls my ass back toward him. I whimper when I feel his cock against me, and he expertly slides it into my still-dripping pussy while pulling my head back with his belt. There’s no warmup, no tender kissing, no warning. He grips my hips and fucks me with relentless, deep thrusts as my body bounces and bangs against the glass. I can’t help fearing that he’s going to fuck me right through the window.

  In the building across the street, most of the windows are dark, the residents asleep and unable to hear me moan. Other windows flicker with the pale blue glow of television screens. They’re probably watching late-night infomercials. Or maybe porn. But any porn those insomniacs are watching can’t match the show they’re missing in the fourth-floor window of the Garment Factory.

  I’m almost disappointed to see that no one’s watching us from across the street, but then I catch a glint of light from one of the dark apartments. A few seconds later I see it again. Twin glimmers, side by side. Could it be from a pair of glasses? I squint as Hunter thrusts himself into me.

  Nope. Not glasses. Binoculars.

  The thought of another strange man—someone even more unknown to me than the Australian photographer who’s currently fucking the consciousness out of me—watching me get fucked, maybe jerking off while he’s peeping, is dangerously hot.

  With racing breath, I moan and cry out as Hunter pounds me, and he begins to moan too. His pace quickens, and he fucks me faster, forcing his thick cock deeper with each collision. For a third time—a third time!—I feel my legs begin to quake, and the thought of him releasing inside of me causes the radiating waves of pleasure to spread quickly throughout my body. Just as his pace slows to a series of deep, concentrated thrusts accompanied by low, bestial growls, I reach the edge. My wobbly knees give out completely as I cry out, and he holds me up by my hips as I fold helplessly against the glass.

  I struggle to stay on my feet, and I’m utterly spent, completely exhausted, and fucked raw at the hands of a man who’s now holding me and stroking my hair while my breathing slows to a normal pace. I’m covered in sweat—only some of it mine—and full of a confusing mix of guilt and gratitude. Guilt because I fucked a man who wasn’t my husband, and gratitude because a man who wasn’t my husband fucked me. And he fucked me good.

  I tell myself there will be time tomorrow to mull over these details. Right now, I need to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  I wake up naked, half wrapped in a weightless white duvet, with sunlight on my face. Immediately I know that I’m not at home in my heavily blinded bedroom. I’m in a smaller room formed by two pristine white walls that meet two brick walls, and the bricks remind me I’m in Hunter’s loft. The bedroom is a cordoned-off corner of his gorgeous loft, and the white drywall stops a few feet short of the same beams that towered over us last night. The windows set into the bricks are the same too, and just like the window Hunter fucked me against, they have no curtains.

  I survey the rest of the sparse bedroom. There’s not much to pick at—not much of anything at all, actually. It’s a man’s bedroom, but not in the sense of the dorm rooms that I occasionally woke up in during college. And not in the sense of Jason’s sophomore apartment. There are no half-finished bowls of crusty Ramen lying about, no dank piles of fungal laundry, no dog-eared issues of Maxim. Because those were never really men. No, this is a man’s bedroom in the sense of its sheer economy. Four walls and a bed that might be the only soft thing Hunter possesses. This is a place for sleeping. Sleeping and fucking. Lots of fucking, given how honed his skills were last night.

  The floor is the same hardwood, and the white walls hold a few scattered black-and-white prints of female curves. In the corner is an old wooden door that’s open, revealing a white-tiled floor that I assume belongs to a no-nonsense bathroom. The bed itself is a masculine work of art—the mattress is low and recessed into a flat frame of deep, rich wood that wraps around it like a smooth verandah. It has none of the trappings of female influence. There are no scattered throw pillows, and the duvet doesn’t even have a cover on it. Good God, he doesn’t use a top sheet! I wonder how many other women’s fluids have found their way between those duvet fibers. I quickly scan it for stains, and I’m relieved to find no glaring evidence of his special abilities. I think back to the gushing I did last night, and I still can’t believe it. I expect to feel ragged and raw, like I’ve been tenderized by an abusive chef on a restaurant reality show, but I don’t. I feel weirdly good—more relaxed than I can remember feeling since I woke up sore and satisfied the morning after my first training session at Rev.

  At Simply Living we once did a feature on a hypnotist who put people under to cure them of procrastination. He referred to his service as organizational hypnosis, and he said that spending an hour under hypnosis is like spending eight hours in deep REM sleep. Maybe that’s what Hunter did to me. Maybe that’s how I ended up here last night, and maybe that’s why I’m waking up, naked and relaxed, beside him in his sparse white artist’s abode.

  I quietly unwrap my leg from Hunter’s duvet and sit on the edge of the bed. I have to pee, but there’s no robe or extra sheet to drape myself in. I tiptoe naked across the wooden floor to the bathroom, and like his bedroom, it’s stark white and void of unnecessary comforts. Just a t
oilet, a glass-walled shower, and a large claw-foot tub that have all been fastidiously scrubbed. There’s a sparse vanity with two sinks, and a large wooden-framed mirror looms over them. The only color in the room comes from the exposed copper pipes beneath the sinks.

  I settle myself on the toilet and do my best to pee quietly, but last night’s drinks are desperate to rush out of me. The stream is so strong that I’m worried I’ll wake Hunter.

  I creep back to bed and crawl under the duvet beside the one thing in this room I’ve been too afraid to look at. I glance over and assess him like he’s a piece of designer furniture in this strange, beautiful space. I’m a little disappointed to find that he still looks as perfect as he did last night when I was drunk and dying to rip his jeans off. He’s not snoring, and there’s no drool on his pillow. Good God, his mouth isn’t even open—I must have looked like a slumbering wildebeest next to him.

  He’s sleeping on his side and facing me, and the sunlight streaming through the uncovered windows is illuminating the masculine lines of his exposed torso. I try to categorize his body according to the gym bro lingo I’ve picked up from training at Rev. I wouldn’t call him swole, and he’s probably not even all that jacked. In the parlance of women who guiltily comb through the pages of Us Weekly, he’d be considered buff. But then again, they think every actor with less than twenty percent bodyfat who jogs with his shirt off is buff, and Hunter’s way more muscular than some flimsy charmer like Matthew McConaughey. I decide that, while most non-lifters would think he’s jacked, he’s really just cut—extremely cut, to be fair. Even while he’s lying in his bed, I can see the deep striations along his obliques and the bricks of his abs. And those forearms—God, those tight-skinned, twitching forearms. I think back to last night when he had his rock-climber hands wrapped around my neck, and I’m suddenly hungry for more.