Mindfuck - A Bad Boy Romance With A Twist (Mind Games Book 1)

by Gabi Moore

  “Unless you’re feeling too sore…”

  I kissed him back, hard, and pulled him closer to me. I guided his hands over my body, letting his fingers rest on the spot where only a few hours ago he had pounded me relentlessly.

  One look from me told him what he wanted to know, and he pulled off my shirt, kissing each of my breasts, saying “I love you” as though he only wanted them to hear and not me.

  “I love you, too,” I responded and slipped my fingers through his hair.

  People really do go around this world closed off from each other, I thought. He was my one in a billion, but I was convinced now that with an open heart, anything was possible.

  Anything at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’m standing calmly, and I take a slow, disinterested sip of champagne. My hair is longer now, and has grown down to my lower back, where it grazes the top of my black suspenders. I’m wearing my favorite leather thigh highs, the ones with spike heels and tiny red chains around the ankle, plus a long, long string of real pearls that falls down between my bare breasts and to my belly button.

  I’m tipsy, but not overly so.

  For a moment, I have stepped back from the fray, standing apart from the mass of bodies in front of me, some dancing, some breaking off into slower moving groups of two or three, some already heavily twisted into each other… patches of light catch on their naked bodies.

  He is at the center, and as he makes eye contact with me, a deep, knowing glance erupts on his face. He smiles a small, private smile. I return one of my own. The music is good tonight, very good, and I let my head fall back a little as I enjoy it, enjoying also the summer air on my half-naked body, and the cold, wet crystal glass against my fingertips, of the near-bursting perfection of this moment, seemingly held in suspension all around me. The yacht is far from the shore now, floating in inky blackness, only the lapping of water reminding us that we’re still technically on planet earth. A familiar cry breaks me out of my daydreaming.

  The woman in front of me is being fucked to within an inch of her life.

  Her entire face is flushed red, the color extending far down onto her chest and to her two swollen nipples. She’s writhing like something possessed, as though she’s about to combust into flames at any second.

  “She won’t come until I tell her she can,” says her tormentor to me. He flicks a sweat-damp fringe from his face and pummels into her with more urgency.

  “What do you think – should we let her come?” he says through strained breath, flashing deep, laughing brown eyes in my direction.

  I smile.

  A year ago, I had only seen this man in pixelated images. He had been nothing more than ink on a newspaper for me and now …now he was sweaty and deep in a yelping woman who seemed to be melting before our very eyes.

  “Well…?” he asks again.

  Kai looks beseechingly into my eyes, her hair damp and disheveled and her lovely face contorting with pleasure.

  “No, fuck her a little more” I say, and smile.

  I lock my eyes with hers, savoring that sweet moment, and blow her a little kiss. It’s a bit mean, sure, but I’ll make it up to her later.

  - THE END -

  Surrender - A Bad Boy Romance

  Exhibit A: Blue and White Cotton

  On the day I lost my virginity, I also lost my first pair of knickers.

  A tired baby blue and white number I had had since High School, it wasn’t exactly a vision of sexiness, but I mourned it all the same. It had an obnoxious Snoopy print on the crotch from the days I thought that kind of thing was cute. But I was sadder to see it go, somehow, than I was to be rid of my virginity. My friends spoke about theirs as though virginity was a tangible thing, a precious, squidgy, lace-and-cotton thing that they were holding onto and waiting for that special day to fling it at a guy on a stage, or wrap up in white lace and deliver to some man wearing an obedient smile and a rented tux.

  But me? I just wanted to be done with it already. I wanted to be fucked. I sat in my first year law lectures and zoned out, practicing the words in my mind, trying them on for size. Fuck me I said in my imagination, to an imaginary boyfriend who conveniently had no opinions. I want you to fuck me I would say, which seemed so scandalous on its own that I seldom bothered to flesh out the rest of the fantasy. My idea of sex had been badly pieced together from Cosmo sex articles and my own embellishments on stories I had heard from a handful of friends. In these classroom daydreams, I was a vixen wearing leather, or a Hot Babe in Victoria’s Secret with beach ball boobs and a drum-tight belly.

  But on the day I actually lost my virginity …I was neither of these women. I was wearing my blue and white Snoopy knickers, and a cotton dress, and my hair twirled up in a messy bun. Looking back, I can see how this might not have been the crime I thought it was, but at the time I felt myself to be an awkward mix of hormones and inexperience, and that it must be more or less obvious to every male within a 5-mile radius.

  “Christy, stop all that studying would you? You’re making me look bad.” My friend Tara had blustered into our dorm room, and was furiously putting on mascara and changing her shoes at the same time, getting ready to go out. I grumbled something back but she stared at me. “I’ve got it! You should come with me. There will be boys there, but I think we can manage without adult supervision, can’t we?” she said, laughing and wiggling her eyebrows at me.

  Twenty minutes later we were in a pretty suburban house crammed full with every flavor of teenage rebellion – somehow I had already finished one beer and mysteriously had another in my hand. Perhaps adults were no less awkward than teenagers, but just tipsy more often? I was enjoying myself, I realized, someway through the second (or third?) beer. I wanted to show Tara that I could have fun, too. I wasn’t some predictable nerd who studied too much. In fact I--

  “Your life line is like, really long.”

  A scruffy boy sat opposite me on the couch, my hand in his hand, examining the lines on it almost as hard as I did my law text books. He was cute, in a scruffy kind of way. Had I seen him around campus? It was hard to tell. There were probably a million scruffy boys just like him enrolled in classes in any one year.

  “That means you’re going to have, like, a long life, you know?” he said.

  It was getting later, the music was getting louder, our friends were getting drunker. I had read somewhere that pretending to read a girl’s palm was a great excuse to touch her …and hit on her. My head buzzed a little. Why not now? Why not him?

  “You also have a really deep love line, which means…”

  Here he locked his soft brown eyes with mine, smiling shyly at me. He flicked his eyes back to my palm, smiled and stroked my fingertips with his. I watched a small vein pulse in his neck. I had rehearsed tons of imaginary conversations with imaginary boys in imaginary situations just like these. In my own mind, I was like a female James Bond, unflappable, never more than a few seconds away from a devastatingly witty comeback. It was clear to me all at once, though, that James Bond probably wasn’t ever as drunk as I currently was. Ok, Christy. It was now or never.

  I took a deep breath. “I want you to fuck me,” I said. The room buzzed.

  Well, there it was. I said it recklessly, easily, but once the words were out there, hanging in the air between us, I realized that I kind of, maybe, might actually mean it. He immediately stopped stroking my hand. My cheeks burned. Oh shit oh shit what have I just said? What if he thinks I’m an idiot? Oh shit. We locked eyes again. It was something even more terrifying: he was grinning.

  “Well, that was awkward!” he said, leaning back into his chair and laughing. I felt like I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. I flushed a deep red. He tossed a shaggy brown fringe out of his eyes and stood up tall.

  “But yeah, nice and blunt. I uh, I like it.” He extended his hand and helped me up. “Come with me” he said, leading me out of the room and through a tangled clump of people who were standing around, drinking,
laughing, being completely oblivious to the fact that I was about to…

  There they were, being all civilized, fully clothed and polite, meanwhile all this time there was a secret world underneath everything, and I had accessed it easily with the simple, naughty words: I want you to fuck me. It was like abracadabra, but for sex. Turns out, you didn’t need witty comebacks at all!

  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.

  Had I always been this close to it all along, nothing but these words between me and …”it”? I followed him up some dimly lit stairs, realizing with half-panic that there seemed to be something hot and warm moving down my inner thigh.

  In an instant we were in a quiet, dark room, the thumping music of the party below seeming to become more indistinct and fuzzy. He leant against the now closed door, and pulled me closer to him. I was tipsy and fell into the pillow of his scent, nestling into his scruffy brown hair. He was so soft and yielding in some places, so taut and firm in others. Drunk, my mouth easily found his, and without really noticing, he had transformed from a shy, nervous boy into someone more forceful, each of his big hands firmly around waist. I relaxed into him, overcome by the distant memory of soap on his skin and the warmth my hands found underneath his shirt. His body felt so lean and tight under my hands; he seemed strong and animal, like the kind of thing you’d find on an ancient Grecian urn in a museum titled “youth.”

  “You remind me of a horse,” I said. He burst out laughing.

  Oh God, oh shit, I’m such an idiot, do I have to be such an idiot all the time?

  “Um, ok? Christy, you’re a fucking weirdo. But I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, smiling cheekily, pulling me firm against his crotch. The ache between my legs was so strong I couldn’t help but instinctively move my hips forward to answer his.

  “Say it again” he said.

  “You’re a horse?”

  He giggled. “No, stupid. What you said before.”

  He said this pleadingly, and so quietly it was though he only wanted the nape of my neck to hear. This time it was easier. I rolled my body against the growing bulge in his jeans, pressing my waist against his chest.

  “I want you to fuck me,” I said again. I seemed to mean it more every time I said it.

  And the words were magic. The instant I uttered them his entire demeanor shifted. With a surprising urgency, he unzipped and dropped his trousers. His cock sprung out at me, hot, silkier to touch than I had imagined. His mouth was again on mine, swallowing any chance of me saying something else idiotic. He was kissing me deeper now, cradling the base of my neck in hands that started to seem so much bigger, so much manlier than they had a moment before, on the couch.

  He stroked his hand down, under my dress and into the cotton of my soon-to-be-gone-forever knickers.

  A single finger hesitated there.

  “You’re so wet,” he said, and before I could respond his fingers were inside me.

  I wanted to scream. The entire room faded away, leaving nothing in the universe besides us standing there, his hot breath against my neck and the feeling of my wet body responding to his fingers. My head was spinning. He stroked gently in, gently out again. His breath was growing more urgent. His cock pressed warmly against my belly, waiting; were all of them that big? How on earth was all of that going to fit in?

  “Say it again” he said, thrusting his fingers deeper still, pinning me hard against his body.

  Something delicious was radiating out from his fingertips, sending shuddering ripples through me. I felt incredibly, almost painfully hot. I leaned further into it, into him.

  “Fuck me” I said, and this time it was me that sounded desperate. Pleading even. I wanted it. In my hazy mind, one thing was clear: I needed his dick, all of it, in me. Now. I squirmed closer to him, asking with my body.

  “What’s that?” he said playfully.

  “Fuck me” I said again, adding, “please” realizing for the first time how truly hungry my body could be for something.

  And he did. Slowly, the head of his cock pressed me open, and as the length of him slid in, I threw my head back with a gasp, overcome with the sheer weight of it, with how limp and yielding my entire body became around him. He plunged slowly in, till the skin of our bellies met. He held me firmly like this for a moment, still, and I swear I could feel his heart beating through his cock, through me. The dull thudding of the music went on below us, my own heartbeat was pounding in my ears, and I felt my whole world swell and grow with each inhale of his, each exhale of mine. He moved slightly inside me, and I felt my pussy respond.

  He was big.

  It stung, but with a pain that grew and fanned gently out into my body, becoming a delicious, syrupy thick sensation of heat and pleasure. He moved again inside me, like something beckoning me to play. I moaned and grasped him tightly, rolling my hips and pulling him even deeper in. It was a revelation. I loved this. I wanted more. I wanted to worship this cock. I wanted to go the rest of my life with this glorious thing wedged deep inside me, I wanted this blissful haze to never--

  “Christy? Christy, where the fuck are you?”

  Tara. A sharp, cold voice coming from downstairs, breaking the spell. I dimly saw the outline of a smile curl across his lips. My skin prickled. Laughing, he gripped my hips hard and began thrusting swiftly into me. I was completely overcome by this change in pace, still unbelieving that my body could accommodate him at all. I cried out, my heart threatening to burst free of my chest. What if Tara found us? Something hot and wet was gathering right in the core of me; he was moving rhythmically now, unrelenting, and a giant quivering bubble was swelling and growing deep inside me, threatening to burst all over him any second.

  “I’m …I’m coming,” I squeaked and heard him growl in response; he rammed once more into me, nearly lifting me off the floor, and shooting a hot stream inside me. His entire body seemed to curl around mine, enveloping me. I felt his every shudder and twitch as he sent spurt after spurt of warm cum into me. A hot wash of goosebumps flashed across my skin, and I followed by coming myself, hard, scarcely maintaining my balance, gasping against his chest, now slick with sweat.

  “Christy? Christy! We’re leaving now with or without you.”

  I heard Tara’s voice coming closer. She sounded belligerent. His cock flopped smoothly out of me, and he tucked it back into his jeans, still wet. I had never been so petrified in my life, yet he looked at me with laughing eyes. “Looks like you’d better get a move on!” he whispered, hurriedly pulling my cotton dress back down around my hips.

  “I’m coming, Tara, just a second!” I yelled through the door and kissed him again, fully and deliciously, my body still pulsing from my orgasm.

  He jokingly waved me goodbye as I clambered down the stairs, my bun even messier than before. I hitched a ride back to the dorms with Tara and a few others, hoping nobody noticed my flushed cheeks. I sat in the back seat, quiet, my body still aching with a new and exquisite throb between my legs. Like a horse indeed.

  Tara was ranting about something or other, and she turned back to me. “Why are you so quiet? You know, there were so many hot guys at that party and I bet you were just hiding off somewhere reading their Reader’s Digests or something!”

  I felt the slow trickle of still-warm cum ooze out of me. Oops. I had left my blue and white Snoopy knickers somewhere. In the room? Did he have them? Had I left them on the stairs like some kind of skanky Cinderella, only to be found again when my prince came looking for me, crumpled panties in hand? I smiled secretly. Oh well.

  Tara shook her head. “Christy, I swear, what you really need is to get laid.”

  Exhibit B: Black and Lacy

  Quite some time passed before I lost my next pair of knickers, but boy did I lose them.

  Despite my raucous introduction to it, sex seemed to fizzle out for me for the next year or so. Tara was still desperately trying to claw me away from my books, and I still clung to them desperately. Some days I would indulge
in a little quiet rebellion - not a single soul knew that I had started wearing elaborate, sexy lingerie under my comic book t-shirts and jeans. Tramp-red basques with suspender clips. Thongs with expensive French lace ruffles on the bum. These silky, frilly pieces were pushed far to the back of my drawer, and I guess I thought that I would get around to wearing them more seriously one day …just not yet. I fancied myself packed tightly into a chrysalis made of law school and dumpy clothes, but inside, a devastatingly frilly butterfly was busy brewing. They’d all see, just wait.

  It was the summer of my second year when a friend invited me out on a four-day camping trip through the Welsh countryside. At the time, I had been dating a guy who was more or less the male version of me. Translation: it was a disaster of a relationship. Andrew was sweet, and conscientious, and worked hard. But he was also the kind of guy who made me wistful for some passion, even if it was just the kind that made people smash plates on the floor during arguments and have make-up sex afterwards. I didn’t know how we’d make it through four whole days of being in each other’s faces, but I agreed and so me, him, my friend and her boyfriend started making plans for the trip.

  Sometimes, I imagine myself in a courtroom, trying to explain (defend?) my actions to a jury of my peers. Was I guilty? When did I go from innocent bystander to pre-meditated instigator? Was it when I willingly packed four of my sluttiest sets of knickers into my backpack? Was it when I sort of decided to pick a fight with Andrew on the morning we left for the hike? It’s hard to say.

  But I packed them. And then, in that strange way that life sometimes unfolds, events gradually led to me losing more and more things, until the final evening of our camping trip, when I lost my favourite pair of black and lacy knickers. But I’ll get to that in a moment.

  First, I lost Andrew.

  “Lost” is stretching it a bit. By now I can’t really remember how, but we got into an argument while packing our bags. One thing led to another, he said, “you think you’re better than me, don’t you?” and I didn’t say yes …but the truth is, I didn’t say no either, and by then things were sour enough that I told him to take a hike, although not literally, because I wanted to do that on my own now. Fine.