“That was very good, Brad,” I say and he smiles – not quite that sly smile, but one that says he knows. He knows he’s good at worshipping pussy. He even replies in a delightful sort of confirmation, plain and as sincere as he had seemed before: “I love pussy.”
I stand astride his near-spread thighs, and look down into his upturned face.
“Tell me how you love it,” I say, and when he speaks it’s in tumbling, never halting, barely sentences.
“I love licking it and tasting it and smothering my face in all that hot wetness – your clit, too, I love your clit when it jumps against my tongue and when you squirm, I love it when you squirm, Ms Layton, I love it that you’re at my mercy at the same time that you’re not.”
“I hear that’s why girls like giving guys blow-jobs, Brad,” I say, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look embarrassed.
“Is that why you like giving blow-jobs, Ms Layton?” he asks, but I don’t think he really expects an answer. I think he’s amused, but his amusement doesn’t anger me. It angers me even less when he tells me: “I don’t care about what I am or what you think of me. This is what I like, and I don’t care if you think it’s the wrong way around.”
I wonder how many people have told him before now that he’s the wrong way around. I wonder if they told him so because of how terrifying he is. His power over me is terrifying. I’ve locked the door and spanked him and made him write lines and had him lick my pussy, and all without him telling me to – not even a little bit.
I wonder if he’s made other girls do things like this, hypnotized them into dominating him with just the power of his good looks and his boyish appeal and his teasing.
I sink to my knees astride him, his bobbing cock occasionally patting between my legs when he stirs or it jerks. He lets me push his jumper up over his head, and then his shirt too, but I leave the loop of his tie around his neck.
It makes a handy leash, to wrap around my fist and use to pull his mouth up to mine.
The groan he pushes into me echoes through my body, tying me up in knots once more and making me thrust my tongue into his mouth. He responds eagerly – I’m sure eagerness is all he knows – stirring his own tongue wetly against mine, letting his mouth fall slack as I force myself over him.
He tastes like me. I’ve never tasted me before. Not like this, anyway. I taste sweet, so sweet, as sweet as sweat on the back of the strapping young man you hired to mow the lawn.
One of his hands leaves the carpet and grasps me at the small of my back, urging me forwards, urging me harder down on him. His cock finds its way underneath my ruffled up skirt, and the more he pulls at me the more flesh it makes contact with, until finally I feel the soft-hard slick head of it split my slit, and rub up roughly against my over-sensitized clit.
I don’t stop it happening. Instead I reach between our bodies and press his cock right into the seam of my sex, feeling the lips there close around it almost as my wet hole would. When I lean forwards and rise up just a little, the fit is almost perfect, and I rock my clit against the sensitive underside of him.
He bucks up against me, now shamelessly moaning into my mouth. I rub him against my flesh, striking just the right amount of pressure to eventually bring myself off – not that he’s going to last that long. He’s trembling, and when I reach down with my free hand and cup and massage his drawn-up tight balls and the soft moist place just behind, he lunges up hard against me and draws his mouth away from mine.
“Oh God make me come, Ms Layton,” he pants against my jaw, my cheek, everywhere leaving wet trails and hot breath. “Ah yes, rub me there.”
I do. I have to prove, after all, that I’m as good as he is.
“Wait,” I tell him. “Wait. I want you to come in my mouth.”
He likes that. He likes that, oh yes, he does. He lets his head fall back and the column of his throat presents itself to me, stark and strong, ready to be bitten. I had a boyfriend once who loved nothing better than to bite me, to mark me, to leave little circles all over my body. And I liked it too. I have always liked the sensation of teeth sinking in.
But this is the first time I’ve wanted to sink my teeth into someone else. Not just wanted to, but craved it. I want to mark all that perfect pale flesh, to scatter myself all over him in nips and bites, and see what I used to look like, reflected in his midnight eyes. Shuddering, shivering, beneath another person. Pulled taut against nearly pain.
I want to teach him more about what nearly pain is. Of course I’m sure he knows already. I’m sure he knows a lot of things already, horny and gorgeous as he is. But he’s also delightful enough to pretend for me, I know.
I bite him just at that place where his throat meets his shoulder. That little cup made for my teeth. And then he gasps and hisses and that meaty pressure satisfies my teeth – that lovely tensing and releasing feeling that I’ve only ever felt with my own hand pressed to my mouth, something buzzing between my thighs.
“Please,” he begs me, with his hand in my hair. “Please.”
But I know he doesn’t mean please stop biting. In fact, he presses my face harder into his throat, and sighs when I’m done leaving my little mark.
He rubs his fingers through the wetness I leave there, an expression much like wonder on his face. Wonder that’s mostly a show, just for me.
But a little red pattern can’t hold his attention – faux or otherwise – for long. He cocks an eyebrow at me, head still turned to one side, fingers still on the bite mark. Now, I suppose, should be the time when the tables will be turned, if he wasn’t the wrong way around. Instead he goes with: “What do I have to do to have you?”
He really shouldn’t give me such possibilities. I don’t think I’m a very nice person when I get possibilities. Maybe that’s why all my other boyfriends liked to tie me up. Maybe that’s why I liked to be tied up.
Maybe that’s why I’m suddenly not as sated as I was before. My teeth and gums hum with the memory of his flesh. My clit swells against his trying-to-rock prick.
“Tell me a story,” I say. “Tell me the hottest story you can think of, and don’t come all the way through it.”
A shadow of bashfulness falls over his face. He looks rueful, humble. I want to eat a slice of him.
“I was never a very good storyteller.”
“Try. And while you’re trying, you can dress for the occasion. If, of course, I allow the occasion to come about.”
I stand, leaving his cock wet and bereft of the enclosing warmth of my pussy. He groans, but in no other way protests. He takes the condom I retrieve from my purse without a word. Sticks his tongue into the corner of his mouth as though concentrating hard – whether on rolling the latex down or inventing a story, I have no idea.
But I want to eat a slice of that, too.
“Hottest story …” he says, and it sounds almost as though he’s toying with me. Except for the up and down quaver in his voice, of course. “Hottest story …”
I retrieve my knickers from the floor.
“You know, I’m completely satisfied, Brad,” I say, even though that’s now a complete lie. He looks absolutely incredible stood there, mostly naked. Tie around his neck, pants still kind of around his ankles, condom-clad cock trembling. I’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me more, and more than just once, too.
I’m unlikely to be giving him up any time soon. I do so hope he’s prepared.
“No – no, wait. No, give me a chance. I’ve got one.” He actually looks panicked. I don’t think he’s prepared at all.
“Okay, okay. So there’s this woman, right?”
“I see,” I sigh, and hop back up on to the desk. I cross my legs, knickers still dangling from one finger. Bored bored bored – only, you know, wet enough to ruin my mouse pad at the same time.
“And she’s a real tease. She’s the biggest horniest tease there is. And she has all these little minions at her beck and call, and they just have to watch as she stalks around in her tiny tight skirt
s and her blouses that show off all her cleavage.”
“Does she have nice cleavage, Brad?”
“Gorgeous cleavage. Her tits are like … They’re like … moons.”
I’d laugh, if it were not for the enthusiasm he packs into this … “story”. He’s practically spluttering with it. And it’s obvious that he’s getting off on it in some way, too, because his stiff prick is now almost touching his belly.
“And there’s this one guy … this one guy she loves to torment more than the others. She loves to stand real close to him so he can smell her perfume right down to his cock. She likes to bend over him and show him everything she’s got. She likes to lick her lips and get his mind stuffed full with how it’d look sucking on him. He can hardly think straight and keeps doing things wrong because everywhere she’s there, begging for him to just … fill her mouth and her pussy and her …”
“Yes, Brad?”
“… her ass.”
There are so many things that I don’t mind about Brad, this story included, but I think I like the little swallow he does after “ass”, the best.
“I bet you’d like to do one after the other, wouldn’t you, Brad?”
He swallows again, harder this time. Takes a calming breath. “If I say the wrong thing, am I gonna get cut off?” he asks, so plaintively that I actually can’t stop myself laughing, this time.
“I tell you what, Brad. Why don’t you start with my mouth, and we’ll see how far you get.”
“I think about right here,” he says, half-amused with himself, half-tremulous.
I laugh again, and reach for him. He does not come to me easily. Now that his finger’s on the trigger and there’s so much on offer, he’s reluctant to start.
“You know, I can usually go forever.”
“What’s different about now?” I ask, as I slither off my desk and down, down his body until I’m on my knees. He looks gargantuan from down here.
“You,” he whispers, before I run my tongue along the rubber-clad underside of his cock. It should taste bitter, I suppose, but it doesn’t at all.
“Keep talking, Brad,” I say, between licks. “What happens next?”
“Next she … Oh! Next … Jesus … she … she decides I need to be punished, for all the things I’ve been doing wrong … no don’t. Don’t suck me. Not yet – don’t!”
I squeeze the base of his shaft and cock a look up at him.
“You’re doing really well, Brad,” I say, and he tries to fumble on with his story.
“I … uh … where was I?”
“You were about to get her on your desk and fuck her with your big prick.”
“I don’t think I got to that part yet.”
“Yes you did, Brad,” I say, as I stand up and lead him by the cock to my waiting pussy.
I go to hop back up on my desk, but now that story-time’s done, he grabs me around the waist – just two big hands, practically swallowing me – and picks me up. Sets me back down and barely waits for me to steady myself or cling to him or anything. Just yanks me forwards with his hands on my ass, and shoves in.
I think I shout. It sounds very high-pitched and too loud. He apologizes when my hands clamp on to his shoulders, but then just falls to rutting against me, grasping my ass cheeks and tugging hard when it’s not enough for him.
He feels too fabulous, too hard against the soft sweet place inside me – I can’t stop myself from rippling my pussy over his stiff flesh. He groans in protest when I do, but that just starts the cycle up all over again: he groans, I spark with pleasure, my pussy shimmies and shivers, he groans again.
Until, finally: “I’m gonna come – damn. Damn. I wanted to fuck your ass.”
“Then do it,” I say, cool as you please while my insides boil and my pussy creams and I wonder what, exactly, the wrong way around actually is.
I didn’t think it was a thick hard cock skimming and slipping through all the juice that’s made its way between the cheeks of my arse. I didn’t think it was him saying: “I don’t think –”
Before my clenching arsehole gives way to his cock. But maybe it is, because now I’m getting fucked in the ass on my desk in the middle of a workday, and any second someone’s going to knock on the door, and I’ll have to answer full of cock. Stretched and fucked and the dirtiest I can be.
Though in all honesty, I think I can be dirtier. I wonder if he’d like me to fuck his ass.
“Jesus Christ, you’re choking me,” he gasps, but he doesn’t stop jerking against me and clasping my spread thighs and running all his little “uhs” together.
“You can’t come until I do, Brad,” I say, but that’s too cruel even for the person I’m being now.
Even so, he obeys. He presses the heel of his palm to my straining clit and makes me come without me even knowing what does it. His trembling does it. The way he bites his lip and can’t control his jerking hips. The way he moans: “I’m gonna go, I’m gonna – I can’t stop, oh man, oh man –”
It’s always the sights and sounds of someone else, that set me off. And I do set off. I shake with it. I clasp his hand to my pussy, I clasp him inside me. I moan loud enough for everyone to hear – even worse, I moan his name. He wrings it out of me, all these great surges of sensation. It’s like being washed in orgasms.
And then it’s all done, and he collapses over me on my desk. The desk where I once responded to an invitation from the prime minister.
“Behave yourself in future, Brad,” I tell him. “No one likes a tease.”
I have to say, it’s somewhat disconcerting to see the flash of purest confusion cross his perfect open features. He looks almost stupidly baffled, like a cartoon character of a real boy. But he pauses, and considers, and finally tries to formulate words.
“I …” he begins, then takes a step backwards, back towards safety. Though he doesn’t look unsafe, exactly. He smiles faintly, as he leaves, settling on acquiescence that seems as pleased as much as it is confused: “All right,” he says. “All right, Ms Layton.”
I don’t know what to make of that. I don’t know what he means by “all right”, and I have even less of a clue about what he was going to say after that first halting “I”.
But then I look down on the piece of paper he half-filled for his punishment, and see that he has written, over and over in his silly too-big handwriting:
“I have no idea. I have no idea. I have no idea.”
Reunion
Lisabet Sarai
Three years since I last saw him, and now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension winding me tighter with every moment.
It’s always like this. My chest aches. It’s difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.
I hover between joy and terror. It has been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my bared butt. I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage separating us even as our history and our fantasies draw us together.
Today will be different. I’ve booked us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the airport for my master.
I don
’t call him that to his face. He’d mock me, his voice bitter. “If I were your master, I’d simply order to you leave him and come to me, and you would.” He doesn’t give me that order, although I suspect that he’s tempted. He refrains, out of respect for me and my choices, or maybe in fear that his power over me is not as great as he would like to imagine. He spares us both, and I’m grateful, though now, waiting, burning to see him again, I almost wish that he’d put me to that ultimate test and take away the awful yearning that I feel when we’re apart.
Every one of my senses is on alert, yet he manages to surprise me. I’m looking toward the gates. He comes from the other direction and calls to me softly. “Sarah.”
I start and then laugh nervously. When I stand up, my bag tumbles off my lap to the floor, toys clattering inside. “You’re here!” I feel clumsy, silly, stupid, but when he bends to kiss me, everything but the joy disappears. I’m flooded with it, gasping, overwhelmed.
In his limbs I feel his pitiless strength. His lips, though, are gentle, questioning. Am I still his? I melt, open my mouth and my mind to him. Does he sense the answer? Sometimes I am certain that he reads my thoughts. He laughs ironically and calls me suggestible. I don’t know what to believe, which suits him perfectly. He wants me a bit off-balance.
I struggle to act normal, as if I were just meeting an old friend. “How was your flight? Did you have trouble with your connections? What about your baggage? Is that the only jacket you have? October here can be kind of chilly …”
“Hush,” he says, laying a blunt finger upon my lips. “Don’t chatter. Take me to the hotel.”
We take public transit to the city center. The desk clerk eyes us curiously when we register, an odd couple, me so petite and my master so tall, checking into a hotel room at ten-thirty in the morning. I blush as the clerk hands back my credit card. “Have a nice stay,” he says, and I’m sure that I catch something conspiratorial in his tone. However, my master is already pulling me towards the elevator; I don’t have time to worry about what other people think.
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