He knew that he would be filling her up very soon.
He put the palms of his hands on the desk to take his weight and banged into her hard, forcing another squeal from her with each penetration.
When he came, he came big, and he shuddered as it exploded out of him.
Finally spent, he rested against her. Her eyes were still closed and she was still smiling. Eventually her eyes opened and she chewed her lower lip as if she was thinking about something.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘you just did a bad thing.’
‘You were a very bad girl,’ he told her. ‘As I recall you didn’t hand in the last piece of homework that I set you.’
She ignored the truth that he had spoken and told him, ‘But it was very good.’
‘And so were you.’
She stretched her neck until their lips connected. He rested his weight on his elbows and supported her weight with his hands under her arched back.
Then he kissed her back, hard.
He felt himself fall out of her as the angle he was leaning at changed.
They both took it as a sign that the moment was over.
He pushed himself upright and raised his boxer shorts over his soggy dick.
They dressed without sharing a word or a look. Oddly though, they were both thinking the same thing and that was that they had finally done something that they first dreamed of a decade earlier.
‘Thank you for coming to see me, Miss Patterson,’ he said as she stood with the open door in her hand.
‘Not a problem, Mr Watts,’ she said. ‘If I’d known this was what happened when you didn’t hand your homework in, I’d have done it more often.’
She closed the door behind her.
Knuckling Under
by Shanna Germain
Fingers. They do me in every time. Not eyes or a smile, not shoulders or calves, but fingers. I could be such a good girl, could keep my libido where it belongs, if it weren’t for those fingers, promising to work their magic.
That time, it was my bike mechanic’s fingers that I was lusting for. His fingers were big and long, muscular somehow. Each one was squared off at the tips with big, flat nails. Bits of bicycle grease filled the whirls of his knuckles and lined the edges of his fingernails.
The rest of him wasn’t bad either: big chocolate eyes that I noticed right off. And then that just-long-enough curly dark hair. He had the body of a cyclist, lean and muscular in his jeans and blue T-shirt.
But there are lots of men who look like that. I’d resisted them. I thought I could resist him. He could have been just a pleasant daydream as I stood in line, my bike leaning on my hip, waiting for the woman in front of me to finish. He didn’t raise his eyes much, and it gave me a chance to watch him, to imagine what it would be like to seduce him, to take him home. Just a dream, a way to pass the time.
I’d gotten pretty far in my daydream – to the point where he had hiked up my short work skirt and was running one finger up the inside of my thigh – by the time it was my turn. I stepped up to the counter with my bike in tow.
Nice smile, but shy. He didn’t say anything, which he could only pull off because he was so adorable. He didn’t even really take his eyes off my bike. You could tell he was more comfortable with bikes than people. But at least he didn’t notice that I was wheeling my bike in while dressed in heels and my office ensemble while everyone else was sporting their padded bike shorts and super-fabric shirts. I’d had a hell of a time getting it out of the car, trying not to ruin my stockings since I had to go back to work.
‘I have a flat,’ I said.
I was kind of embarrassed to admit that I’d brought my bike to the shop for a flat tyre, but the truth is I’m not a bike geek. I like to ride, but I don’t really understand how bikes work. I can’t change my own tyre. I’d been telling myself that I was going to take a class and learn the basics. He’d just shot my incentive all to hell.
He motioned toward one of the rails behind the counter. ‘Why don’t you bring it round back?’ he said.
I wheeled my bike around the edge of the counter. He took it from me and put it up on the rails. And that’s when I saw his fingers, really saw them, for the first time. All that grease. A certain strength in the knuckles that comes from working with your hands. But his skin wasn’t cut or chapped, and the grease was new. Like he went home every night and washed every bit of work from his hands, took care of them. It was that combination that got me. My light crush turned into a full-out throb that beat steady inside my underwear.
He caressed the curves of my bike with the pads of his fingers. My skin ached with longing. For once, I was jealous of my bike – I wanted those fingers on me, not on her.
‘Nice bike,’ he said.
She was a nice bike. Specialised, all white, unisex frame. A gift from my husband, who’d named her the White Goose. He called me Saraswathi, after the Hindu goddess of wisdom who rides a white goose, so it seemed appropriate. Only Saraswathi is supposed to represent purity itself. And here I was, doing – or dreaming of doing – just the opposite.
He ran those perfect fingers along the bike’s curves and let them linger in her hidden spots. He pressed his fingers in the gear spots where she always wanted more oil, tucked them into the corner of the stem that always collected dirt. I’d always wanted a man like that, who could discover my hidden places and know intuitively how I wanted, needed, to be touched. Not sex, but something else. A discovery maybe. Or the feeling that someone knows you better than yourself.
Watching his fingers made me dizzy. The smooth sound of his skin sliding over her frame, the way he tucked his fingertips beneath the lip of the seat – it was too much. Then he moved down to the flat tyre. While he spun the wheel with one hand, he kept two fingers pressed to the side of the wheel. The sound was a steady slide, like someone pulling a skirt up over stockinged thighs.
‘Aha,’ he said. ‘Here’s your problem.’
When he hit the blow-out spot, he dug in, pulling the cut bit of tyre open. I wanted his fingers on me like that, sliding across me, opening me up.
‘Looks like you hit a nice chunk of glass,’ he said. He held out a triangle-shaped piece of green glass as though he were offering it to me. Its sharp edges made his fingers look dangerous. ‘The tyre should be okay, but you’ll need a new tube.’
He dropped the glass on the counter and picked up a long black tool. The way his fingers moulded around the handle made the tool an extension of his hand. I wondered if you could learn a body like that, or if it was part of you. Every movement, every touch, more instinct than thought. He brought the tool toward my tyre, and then seemed to realise I was still standing there, watching.
‘It’ll only take me a couple of minutes. You can wait if you want to.’
I said something witty like, ‘Could you tell me where the restroom is?’ and then backed away, trying to pretend I wasn’t still looking at his fingers.
In the employee restroom, I talked to the mirror. ‘You will not do this,’ I told my reflection. My reflection listened and nodded. Always the good girl. But my reflection’s eyes were alive, shining in a way that she couldn’t hide. And that corner of her lip, tilted up. I knew that neither of us was listening to my little speech.
I kept going anyway. I listed all the ways my husband was a good man: sexy, kind, put up with all of my shit. I didn’t let myself think about his hands. He had long, thin fingers. Soft as kid gloves. When he touched me, it was with long, soft strokes, like I was made of marzipan. Even when he put his fingers inside me, it was never more than two, never enough to stretch my body open. His fingers soothed, aroused. But never pressed, never opened me as far as I wanted him to. Never bruised.
I could resist this man. I would. And besides, he hadn’t even noticed me. Didn’t notice anything except my bike. Wasn’t interested in me. At all.
It was this realisation that allowed me to grasp the doorknob to let myself out of the rest
room. If I couldn’t resist of my own accord, I would let his lack of interest do it for me. I would take my bike and go back to work. And tonight I would ride, pressing myself hard against the seat, thinking of his fingers.
I opened the door and stepped out, and there he was. Leaning against the hall wall, looking down at his shoes. His hands were tucked in his apron pockets. Without his fingers, he was avoidable. That’s what allowed me to smile. To say something sharp and witty like, ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were waiting.’
He took his hands from his apron pockets and used them to push back his dark curls. One snagged on the meat of his finger, refusing to let go. It gave me a glimpse of how it would be to look down and see his finger wrapping itself in my own dark curls.
I tried to swallow or look away, but my muscles refused to obey. Every part of my body wanted to lean toward him like a magnet. I had one hand still on the doorknob. I don’t know where my other hand was.
He looked up at me for the first time, those big brown eyes deep pools in his face.
‘It’s your calves,’ he said.
My hand on the doorknob was doing a weird twisty thing that I couldn’t seem to control. ‘I’m sorry?’ I said.
His fingers drifted back to his hair, pulling at a curl.
‘I have a girlfriend, so I tried not to look,’ he said. ‘Tried not to, but I couldn’t help it …’
His voice trailed away and he bit his lower lip with his two top teeth. Perfect squares against the pink flesh. When he looked back down, I realised he hadn’t been looking at the floor or my bike all this time. He’d been looking at my legs.
I knew then that I wasn’t the only one with a fetish, and that realisation allowed me to feel strong. I lifted my head – I would slip by him, let him into the bathroom and let myself out the front door. I would pay whoever needed to be paid and I’d find another bike mechanic, a fat, ugly one with stubby little fingers.
As I moved, he put one finger out, like he was going to press an elevator button. I don’t know if he meant to push the door open. Or maybe he meant to touch me on the shoulder. Either way, his finger ended up against my bottom lip. I tasted metal and grease and skin. I wanted to suck his finger into my mouth, to feel his calluses between my teeth. My tongue ran over the tip. The contrast between the smooth nail and the bits of rough skin at the edges took away the last of my resolve.
I sucked his finger into my mouth, held it there. He made a sound in the back of his throat, a low hum that made my belly contract. Keeping my lips tight around his finger, I led him backward into the restroom.
He let me lead him like that, and the door shut behind us, closing us into the small space. I let go of his finger, and he reached behind him to lock the door. His hands – fast and hard on my ass, on my thighs – and before I could even register it, he was lifting me up, setting me on the edge of the sink.
My skirt and his fingers made slippery sounds as he pushed the fabric up until my thighs were exposed. He put his hands between my legs, opened them until he could fit his body between.
I didn’t know how to tell him what I wanted. It wasn’t sex. It was those hands, those fingers.
Maybe he already knew. Maybe he’d realised my fetish when I’d sucked his finger into his mouth, because he put one hand up, smeared it roughly across my mouth like he was wiping away old lipstick. I caught one finger between my teeth on the way by, but he shook free, and closed his fingers around my chin. He tilted my head down, made me watch as he used his other hand to press into my thighs, to scratch at my stockings until small runs appeared.
He let go of my chin, but I could stand watching. His fingers made a small tear in the fabric, and then another, longer. Where he’d made the hole, his warm skin brushed mine. He burrowed his fingers beneath the fabric. I loved the way his hands looked, trapped under the see-through black, pressing hard into my skin.
His fingers grabbed the centre of my thong and pushed it aside. And then his fingers wrapped themselves in my curls, twisting and tugging. The contrast of my dark hair to his skin made it hard to breathe. Without waiting, he put his fingers inside me. Hard. Just like I’d hoped. I couldn’t tell how many – two at least, maybe three. I was already wet, but the feel of his calluses lightly scratching the inside of me made me wetter.
He thrust his fingers into me, using his whole body, shoving my hips back and forth across the porcelain. I wrapped my calves around his back, and he made that low hum again in the back of his throat.
I couldn’t watch any more. The feeling of it made me want to come, but watching his fingers fuck me was throwing me over the edge. I didn’t want to come yet, so I closed my eyes and leaned back against the mirror. My reflection had turned her back on me, but I didn’t care any more. I just wanted him to keep touching me the way he was doing.
‘Watch,’ he said, his voice low. It was a whisper, but it was also a command. I opened my eyes.
He took his fingers out of me and ran them, wet and glistening, down the inside of my thigh. Then he folded his hand, four fingers forming a point, and entered me once more. I watched as he pushed, slow but not gentle, inside me. He found my clit with his thumb, rubbed it hard enough to make me cry out, and then flicked at it with a fingernail. It was one second of pain and three of pleasure. And then it was all pleasure: watching his fingers move in and out of me, feeling the sharp edge of his thumb flicking in time to his strokes.
He reached back and wrapped his free hand around my calf muscle. His fingers dug in, and I tightened my legs around his back, made my calf muscles taut.
‘Put your legs up,’ he said, ducking down a little, his fingers never stopping their steady movement. I put my legs over his shoulders. The lip of the sink dug into my back, but I could barely feel it. All my nerve endings were working overtime around his fingers. There wasn’t room to feel anything else.
‘Tighter,’ he said. I flexed my calves against his neck muscles. I wanted to reach down and touch him, to help him get off, but he seemed as focused on my calves as I was on his fingers, and I thought maybe he didn’t want anything else.
He curled his fingers inside me – come hither – once, twice, against my G-spot, and I didn’t think any more. I just closed my eyes and focused on his touch. Thumb flicking my clit. Fingertips hitting that sponge spot that made my body feel all shivery, shimmery.
My orgasm was as fast and hard as his fingers, rushing through me and then gone. He kept his fingers in, let me spasm around him until my body was still.
When he removed his fingers I felt empty, split open. I took my legs off his shoulders, surprised at how heavy they felt, how tired I was. The whole room smelled like grease and salt. I realised he was still dressed, that I’d hardly touched him. That he hadn’t come.
I reached for his zipper, but he stopped my hands. His fingers were still wet from me.
‘It’s OK,’ he said. He put one finger on my ripped stocking and ran it down to my calf. It left a glistening trail on the black. ‘I got just what I wanted. Plus, I have to go back and finish your bike.’
I’d forgotten about the bike. Actually, for three or five or ten minutes, I’d forgotten about everything. Now, watching him reach for a paper towel to dry his fingers, it all came back. My promise to be a good girl. To keep my libido in check. To be true to my husband.
But you can’t help what you love. Or what you lust after. And those fingers, those strong, sexy fingers, they get me every time.
Posh Boy
by Lucy Felthouse
I’ve always been a sucker for posh accents. I think it’s because they tend to be associated with well-educated young men who are polite, gentlemanly … and just waiting to be corrupted. That’s where I come in.
One of my favourite fantasies has always been to fuck a posh boy, just to hear him say dirty words in his sexy accent. Unfortunately, living up north, there aren’t that many of them around. So it was a fantasy that lay dormant. That is, until Nathan came along.
I me
t him through a friend. Well, I say ‘met’, but it was all done over the telephone. It was my friend’s birthday and I’d called him up to wish him a happy birthday. He and his mates were already drunk and boys will be boys – they all started yelling down the phone, thinking I was Nick’s girlfriend. One voice in particular stood out. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them – “Who was that, Nick?”
“Who?” he shouted over the din, “There’s loads of us here.”
“The last one. With the posh accent.”
“Oh,” said Nick, obviously remembering my penchant, confessed during a drunken night in the flat we used to share, “that’s Nathan. Why, do you want to talk to him?”
“Is he single?”
“Find out for yourself.”
I heard shuffling and laughter in the background. Then suddenly, “Hello?”
My heart began to thud and I felt a warmth between my thighs. Wow, I’d forgotten how much those accents got to me.
“Hi, Nathan.”
“Nick said you wanted to talk to me.” It had gone quiet now. The other guys were either so intent on listening that they’d shut up, or he was now alone.
“Yes,” I wondered what to say, then decided that I’d probably never lay eyes on this guy, so it didn’t matter, “I just thought you had a nice voice, that was all. A sexy accent.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
I giggled. “Yeah, right.”
“No, really. It’s got a lovely lilt to it. In fact I reckon I could listen to you all day.”
And that’s where it began. Nathan and I exchanged phone numbers and started chatting regularly. We had lots in common with books, films and our love of the outdoors so we were always laughing and talking rubbish, and got to know each other really quickly. Soon, the talk turned dirty. We were both single and bemoaned the lack of sex. There’d been no talk of meeting up, so I felt free to let rip with my wildest thoughts and fantasies. It wasn’t doing anybody any harm, so I just enjoyed it.
Temptations--Three Book Bundle Page 8