What She Needs

by Anne Calhoun

  According to him, this means I’ve earned…something. Whatever he decides to give me. A savvier woman would have negotiated on her way down, but I’m not savvy. I’m a stained-glass artist, among other things. Besides, I know Jack won’t disappoint me. That would be cutting his nose off to spite his face. Jack’s here for the satisfaction of an orgasm, yes, but also for the darker pleasure of watching me shudder, helpless under him.

  His warm hand grips my shoulder and rolls me to my back, then he shifts to lie beside me, a heavy thigh over mine to keep me where he wants me. For a long moment he stares into my eyes, and his orgasm has softened his features only slightly. Need roils under his skin. I know this, but it doesn’t show in his face. He has a great poker face. Trial lawyers often do.

  I, however, am unable to hide even the slightest emotion, especially when I’m alone with him, so I imagine that what I feel is what he can see in my expression. Desire. A hint of embarrassment, perhaps, in the heated flush on my cheeks and neck. Anticipation and uncertainty, those, too, flash through me and therefore across my face. But slowly the heat of his body against mine, the promise in his semierect cock, the weight of his leg pinning me to the bed, work their magic. Without thinking about it I wet my lower lip with my tongue. He watches, then looks down at my lace covered breasts. My nipples harden under his scrutiny. Only then does he lift his hand from my lower belly, trail the tips of his fingers up over one breast and along the sensitive underside of my arm to lift and press my palm into the headboard.

  He repeats the movement with my other arm, then kisses me. “Leave them there,” he whispers. “They move, I stop.”

  In the moments between rising from the floor and now, the colors had begun to muddy again as reality retook my mind. It was a slow invasion, just a mental note to add an appointment to my to-do list, a brief moment when I tried to remember if I’d locked my car before entering the hotel. His words slammed the door on the mundane again, and I notice the yellow tint of the cream wallpaper, the burgundy glow of the drapes backlit by the sun.

  I arch my back, testing my body in this position. My elbows are slightly bent, giving me leverage to push against his thigh, but then he straddles me, his weight braced on his elbows on either side of my shoulders, his thighs to the outside of mine. I moan at the demonic move. In this position, trapped under him, I can squeeze my thighs together and shimmy a little, but he knows that’s not what I want. I want to spread my legs and rub against him like a cat in heat.

  I’m not going to get that. What I do get is the weight of his body on mine as he kisses me, staking his claim on my mouth the way he will on my body, when he decides to. He draws my lower lip into his mouth, nibbles on the fullest part, kisses and licks his way over to the sensitive corner before detouring over my cheekbone to my ear. I am panting, mouth open, tongue flickering out to taste him on my lips. He comes back for another teasing bout, this time lapping at the edge of my lower lip, then the fullness of my upper lip, dodging my tongue.

  When I lift my head and slant my mouth across his in an effort to get the full tongue kiss I am now desperate for, he laughs.

  “No, baby.” Shocking that his voice and words should be so intimate when he’s denying me. Controlling me. “Not until I’m inside you.”

  “Anytime,” I gasp.

  “You’re not ready,” he whispers as he licks a trail down my throat to the pulse throbbing at the base of my neck.

  I have soaked the crotch of my red lace panties and my clit is buzzing for contact: finger, tongue, pubic bone, his thigh, I don’t care.

  “I’m ready!”

  “Baby, you’re lukewarm right now. When you hit a rolling boil, I’ll fuck you.”

  His words make me groan and lift against him, but he just laughs the way he never does outside this hotel room, hard and short, and lifts himself up on one hand to flick open the front clasp of my bra. Beginning at my breastbone, he presses open-mouthed kisses, full-tongue, the bastard, to every inch of my breast until he reaches the scalloped edge of my bra, drawn back almost to my nipple. He nudges the fabric back and I feel cool air, his heated gaze, then his teeth scrape over the tight bud. He laps at the underside of my nipple, then nips the swollen tip. I let out a high-pitched, shuddering gasp and he stiffens.

  I open my eyes, ready to tell him he hasn’t hurt me, but his concentration is elsewhere. A moment later conversation registers in my consciousness, the tone slightly shocked as it moves down the hallway.

  They heard me. They heard that sound escape my throat, one that could only be construed as wanton, lascivious, and a part of me is horrified. My eyes meet Jack’s heavy-lidded gaze, all masculine amusement.

  “Don’t make me gag you,” he says, and suddenly silence becomes not a polite necessity, but a dark demand. His words crawl like molten lava through my brain and down my body. I might not be savvy, but I am strong and capable, and a bit ashamed by how well this works.

  He returns his attentions to the eager peak. He is slow, methodical and relentless, without a care in the world as I clamp my lips together in submission. As he turns to my other breast, the first nipple swells and throbs in the cool air. I keep my hands pressed against the headboard, trying to breathe through my nose when I want to part my lips and gasp for air. Part my legs and beg for mercy.

  He spreads his knees and rubs his now erect cock over my mound, the pressure tantalizingly seductive and maddeningly ineffectual. The rhythmic rasp of lace against skin and hair becomes a slow counterpoint to his infuriatingly even breathing and my own stifled whimpers.

  I want to roll him and ride him, part my thighs so he can pound me into the mattress. I want to push his face between my legs and fist my hands in his hair to hold him in place. I want to come. And the wanting, the burning ache, grows without check as he pushes my breasts together and licks, then blows on, the superheated nipples. Back and forth, back and forth, coupled with a soul-destroying slide of erect cock and tight balls against my clenched thighs as he lengthens his thrusts over my mound. Need expands inside me, like the flutter of hundreds of hummingbird wings under my skin, with no release. I can’t squirm. I can’t touch him. I can’t spread my legs or writhe, can’t do anything except lie under him and take it. In silence.

  Just when I think I’m going to lose my mind and scream for him to do anything, please, fuck me now, he sits back on his heels and works my panties down my thighs and off. He parts my legs and settles between them as if he has all the time in the world, while I hover on a plateau, the razor’s edge of my orgasm just out of my reach. I’m unable to stop the low moan that wafts out of me as he spreads my legs wide. He strokes my inner thighs, lays a big palm on my trembling belly, and says, “Shhhhh. Shhhhhhh,” over and over again until some of the tension eases from my muscles.

  Nothing happens for several vibrating moments, and I lift my head to see him studying my pussy.

  He looks up at me, his eyes somehow both feral and knowing. “Beautiful. So pink and wet.”

  His breath wafts against my folds, which feel hot and wet, and also swollen. So very swollen. My clit feels three times its normal size. I drop my head back on the pillow and arch toward him, careful to keep my hands on the headboard.

  He, of course, ignores my mute pleading. “You like this,” he says, and I wonder if I can come from the pressure of his breath on my clit.

  “Yes, Jack. I really, really like this.” An incontrovertible truth, given the state of my cunt.

  The reward for my admission is his tongue. He traces the outline of my folds, circles my clit once, then backs off again to lap and lick. The breadth of his shoulders holds me open for him, his hands deviously stroking my belly, my mound, occasionally dipping into the top of my sex, but never where I’m desperate for him to touch. My clit. My nipples. I have no idea how I can feel such brutal need when he’s barely touching me.

  He slides first one index finger, then the other, through my slick heat, and sucks my clit into his mouth at the same moment his fingers,
coated in my juices, reach up to pinch my nipples. He rolls the diamond-hard tips between his fingers and I draw tighter and tighter as pleasure streams between my nipples and pussy. I am there, I am so there, I can feel the chasm opening underneath me and I reach for his head because I love nothing more than to push against his mouth while the waves crest. But I can’t find purchase in the sweat-dampened layers of his hair. My grasping fingers graze his stubbled cheek as he pulls away and the orgasm retreats.

  “Oh, please, Jack…I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I babble, and I slap my hands back to the headboard. I’m ready to promise him anything, another blow job, sex bent over his desk at work, the elaborate chocolate soufflé he loves, whatever he wants, if he will just…

  Oh, yes. Yes.

  His tongue hardened to a point, he draws circles around my clit, the pressure better than nothing, but not enough, not quite enough. One hand leaves my breasts, and at least two fingers, maybe three, glide in and out of my pussy. Oh God, oh God—pinching my nipple and licking my clit and finger-fucking me and I cannot take another second of this, but I do, then another, then another because he demands it.

  When he stops again I know it is possible to die from desire.

  In one fluid motion he rises between my legs and claps his hand over my mouth to stifle my needy wail. I stiffen in shock at the rough treatment, but in the same movement his cock slides into my cunt. I am wet, but tight, and the measured thrust rasps along tortured nerve endings. I suck in what air there is behind his cupped fingers, then he moves his hand to grind his mouth against mine. When his pubic bone hits my clit, hard, I go rigid in anguished ecstasy. In that long, terrible moment when I am strung out so tightly I don’t know if I can come but know I’ll die if I don’t, I feel every excruciating detail of the head of his cock tugging against my swollen channel as he withdraws, then rams home. His tongue sweeps into my mouth.

  I implode. My vision goes black, and the heavy weight of him, the pressure and possession of his cock, focuses every molecule in my being into a whirling vortex between my thighs. In the next moment white-hot, eradicating sensation pulses out from the dark, secret place where we are joined. I shudder, and shudder again, draw breath and scream into his mouth as he strokes through the convulsions.

  When I go limp, he is still hard within me. I am nothing but nerves and skin, swollen breasts and throbbing pussy, and the only thing keeping me from dissolving through the sheet, into the mattress, is the rigid length of his cock and the purely feminine urge to cling to his hard body.

  Jack finds a gentlemanly impulse somewhere and lets me rest for a minute, but the scrape of his teeth along the sensitive tendon in my neck lets me know we are not done.

  “I can’t,” I whisper in protest, my voice a raspy husk in the cool room. Sunlight streams through the window, a weak imitation of the light and heat radiating from our bodies.

  “Feel that?” he asks, and thrusts again.

  My legs found their way around the small of his back when he entered me. I let them down, the muscles trembling sporadically. I have no answer. I’m open and under him, completely at his command. Of course I can feel it.

  He slides his palm along the back of my thigh and lifts it to press into his hip. Another slow stroke as he growls, “You’re gonna take care of that.”

  In a move that looks like denial but is simply another stage in the surrender he demands, I turn my head to the side. He responds by blowing gently into the shell of my ear, nuzzling my neck, then licking and nibbling at the sensitive, delicate juncture of neck and shoulder. He doesn’t move, doesn’t use my body, which is thoroughly his right now, simply takes his weight onto his elbows, and makes love to my collarbone.

  I breathe in slow, deep inhales redolent of sweat, Jack’s own unique scent, the musky tang of sex, my delicate perfume, a faint hint of Heineken. The smells are seduction in their own right, even without his deft ability to find and exploit every nerve. He could be banging away; God knows he’s hard and thick, ready to drive nails. Instead, he acts with the self-control of a man with a purpose.

  There is another session coming. I can feel that in the air as surely as I feel the soreness in my thighs, so I take the respite he’s giving me. I breathe deeply, soften a little from the heat and weight of his body, stroke my hands over his curve of his ass. I rest in the colors flowing in discrete streams through my empty mind.

  Moments pass, minutes or an hour, I cannot tell. But eventually he has marked the skin over my shoulders and the base of my neck with nips, soothed it with licks, and the weight of his pelvis against mine rekindles the heat in my pussy. His mouth settles over mine for long, languid open-mouthed kisses, the ones I wanted so intensely before he went down on me. I arch into him, feel our damp skin sliding as we shift. In this room, kissing like that means a lengthy fucking; when this is over, I will feel the ache in my thighs for days. Jack doesn’t hesitate to use me hard.

  He slides one arm under the small of my back, lifts me with him as he sits upright and swings his legs over the foot of the bed to place his feet flat on the floor. I straddle him, my hair hanging in sweaty strands in my face, and grip his forearms as I orient myself.

  “I like this,” he says. “You do all the work, and I watch.” He looks over my shoulder as he says this, cupping my bottom in his hands and moving me up and down on his cock. I risk a quick glance over my shoulder and see we’re visible in the mirror above the low dresser. His hands are dark, curved around the pale cheeks of my ass marked by my bikini tan line just below the twin dimples at the base of my spine. He moves me again, and his cock, flushed a deep red and slick with my juices, appears as I rise on my knees, and disappears as I take him inside me, deeper than before. The sensitive skin of my lower cheeks brushes his balls.

  The sight makes me moan. I turn back to face him, mightily embarrassed. Experience has taught me Jack can last a good long time in this position, without the primitive thrill of pounding into me. His hips still under my movements mean I’ll get the penetration I crave, the repeated action of his cock spreading open my pussy to seat itself deep inside me, without him losing control. And he’ll talk to me, that wicked, wicked voice ordering me to move to please him. He’ll watch my breasts bounce, my cleft spread wide to take him again and again and again.

  I smooth my hands up his arms, feel a surprising quiver in his biceps before coming to rest on his shoulders, for balance. I’m entirely open to him, my breasts, belly, clit, and ass available. Vulnerable. The same slashing excuse for a smile flashes in his face as he cups my breasts, then slides his hands down over my hips.

  My eyes flutter closed as I focus on how he wants me to move. The rhythm is slow, a little pause at the top so I can feel the head of his cock caress my pussy lips, then back down to seat him fully inside me. His hard abdomen grinds against my clit on each down stroke. As I catch on, his hands lose their proprietary grip on my hips and begin to roam. I look down to see his tanned fingers, the hair dusting the backs of his knuckles bleached a pale blonde, stroke over my breasts, along my ribs, over the swell of my hips and ass, then reverse course and move back. He loves the softness of my body, and when I am with him like this, I feel truly beautiful.

  I’m watching him, but his eyes are focused on the mirror. The image of my pale skin against his darker body, the sheer eroticism of what I’m doing, is burned into my memory so I don’t need to look over my shoulder again. I do anyway, catch his eyes in the mirror, my darker hair falling in tousled waves over my face. A hot red flush stains his cheekbones. His hands clench on my bottom, and I feel him throb inside me.

  “Fuck. The look in your eyes.”

  I don’t recognize myself. The body is mine. I see my hair, the shape of my shoulders, the nip of my waist, but the woman I usually see when I look in the mirror is gone. In her place is a succubus, her eyes incandescent with lust. When our eyes meet Jack shifts a little under me, groans and clenches his fingers into my ass, lifts his hips to get a little closer, a little deeper. My
breasts chafe against his chest and the tug of my nipples against his skin makes me ripple around him.

  Each slow thrust is now torture for both of us.

  With every prolonged withdrawal and penetration the burn heightens, grows, pushes everything else aside. Jack is thick, so thick, inside me. I rest my forehead on his, my breath easing from me in soft little pants. His tongue flickers over mine, retreats, then returns. All worries about appearing needy or clingy disappear and I slant my open mouth across his.

  He groans again and tightens one arm around my hips. Because I love the restraint I resist this, fighting to rise to the top of his cock. As I rise he struggles to force me back down onto his cock, but I have his number now. When he would keep me snugged up against his pelvis, I force myself back up, rising despite the iron strength of his arm, merely clasping the tip of his cock when he would have me hot and slick around his aching shaft. His legs spread wider and he pushes off with his powerful thighs. His tongue is dancing in my mouth, harsh grunts ripping from his throat as I tease him. I have brought him to the point of orgasm, and the heady power makes me laugh.

  His hands grip my hips to pull me down hard against him, so deep inside his balls press against my ass. I expect to feel his release pulse into me, marking me. I’m hovering on the edge of my own orgasm and I twitch in anticipation of the moment his hands relax, intending to sneak a couple of thrusts, heighten his release and send myself over the edge. But his fingers remain firmly clamped around my hips, and I let out a soft groan as I swivel on him, trying to rub my clit against him. When I find I cannot move, I open my eyes.