Intrusion

by Charlotte Stein

  What difference will it make if I do? He knows he can have me if he wants to. He can see how much I want to—so no offer is going to tempt him. He’s incapable of being tempted, if this isn’t enough to put him over the edge. I was practically a nun before I met him and look at me now: legs spread, pussy all glistening with my excitement, body arched as though someone just fucked into me.

  No, no. . .he will never, he won’t, he can’t, I think.

  And then just as I’m sure—that’s when I feel it.

  I feel his hard cock against the curve of my ass.

  I PROMISE MYSELF I won’t try testing any theories out. Yet the second he kisses me goodnight sometime around eleven the next night I just want to go for it. He had an erection, I know he did, and if he had one that means I did something to make it happen. Or he did something to make it happen. Maybe both of us together made it happen, in which case I simply have to find the right combination and I could give him some of the same things he’s given me.

  He makes me feel so sexually free. Not to mention satisfied.

  And if all I have to do to help him is maybe bite him a little bit. . .well, I can do that. Of course I have no idea if the bite was the reason. The only thing that makes me think so was that urgency in his voice and the memory of his reaction. Neither is evidence of anything.

  But I can’t see any harm in trying.

  He kisses me, I turn my head a little and just. . .nip him a little. Just enough to get a reaction, if he’s willing to offer one. And to my great delight and overwhelming excitement, he is. He doesn’t even hesitate or shift gears slowly. His hand immediately goes to that danger area it was in the other day—right on the underside of my left breast.

  Maybe even squeezing it a little, if I’m being completely honest.

  Though that isn’t what excites me exactly. I don’t flush hot and fire up for the cupping of it or the sense that he kind of wants to try me out—maybe get a little taste of my plump tits so he can consider them later. No, no, it’s the heat that rolls off him. The fever he seems to descend into. I graze him with my teeth and his lips part, his lids lower, most of him goes all loose and lax.

  I want to call it something silly, like horniness.

  Yet somehow, it doesn’t seem silly at all to do so. A great gush of sensation goes through me the second I think of it. Horny, I think, eager, I think, like some teenage boy suddenly set free, and my pussy swells against my already damp panties. My clit jerks, as though he has a little string around it and just tugged, hard.

  Really, it’s no wonder I pant his name. Or rub myself against him. Or go straight from mild kissing to wild moaning in under thirty seconds. I think somewhere in there I call him baby, which seems completely at odds with everything he is.

  But it feels good to do it.

  And he appears to have no objections. On the contrary—as soon as the word is out he goes up another level. He claims my mouth with his, and when even that isn’t enough he pushes me back. He pushes me back onto the bed and puts my arms above my head.

  Not in a forceful way, you understand. He kind of laces his fingers with mine and shifts almost as though the whole thing is a mistake. But I feel it all the same. I know it for what it is. He wants to get as close to the moves as possible, without really doing them at all. Tiny little rolls of his hips that echo the wild hump of a good fuck. Hands together the way that every limb on our bodies probably would be, if we went for it.

  And that hot, wet mouth.

  God, does he know how hot and wet his mouth his? How soft those lips are, with just that background hint of his thick stubble. . .

  That alone would be enough.

  But then I feel it, oh, fuck, I feel it against my thigh. So thick and hard and completely unmistakable. He definitely has an erection, and, good Lord, that knowledge is so much more intense than I thought it would be. I was sure I processed it the other day, but now I know I didn’t at all. I still imagined it might be nothing.

  I still thought he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, or that it was just wishful thinking.

  And as soon as I have conclusive evidence I go all still. I pause midkiss, doing my best not to rub or press at that solid shape but wanting to more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life. The very idea of doing it gets me groaning. I say his name and it comes out with twenty syllables, and when I pull back just a little way and see it. . .

  That’s the moment I lose the rest of my control.

  I mean, obviously I try to hold on to myself. I kind of look without really looking, so he won’t be made uncomfortable by my goggling eyes. And I don’t loudly exclaim, or start asking a bunch of awkward questions, or tear his pants off immediately and hump him into oblivion. But I can’t deny how intense the urge is to do all of those things.

  Just the sight of it cleaves my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I think I start shaking, and I know I wish for him to be wearing anything but what he actually has on. If he was in something more modest I could probably deal with it a little better. Jeans would probably help—or at least help more.

  Sweatpants are a fucking nightmare.

  Why did I never realize what a nightmare they are? I suppose they usually seem so innocuous and innocent, on any other random gym-going person. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve never seen a guy hard while wearing that soft, jersey-like material? I can’t say for sure. I only know it looks. . .it looks. . .oh, it looks. . .

  Like something I want to kiss, openmouthed and eager.

  The curve of it is so clear, the outline of that little ridge around the head so obvious. He must be swollen there, and aching—just like I am. And if I doubt that for one second, well, there’s other evidence for me to see. In fact, my breath catches in my throat when I see it.

  He’s so excited, he seems to be leaking a little. There is the slightest damp spot close to the tip, barely there, but no less arousing for it. I swear, if I wanted to kiss his cock before, then God knows what I want to do now. I think about pulling my panties down and rubbing my wet cunt all over it. Or pulling those slack things down so I can get a better look.

  It’s really a miracle that I settle for the slightest touch.

  Though it doesn’t feel like a miracle. It feels bad. It feels like throwing myself off a cliff. I hardly even understand how I do it—my hand seems to move independently of my body. It jerks forward and suddenly I’m making contact, and then after that everything is fucking terrifying.

  An electric shock seems to go through me. The bad kind of electric shock. My teeth clack together, and more than anything I want to take it back. Pretend I didn’t do anything at all. Make out like it was an accident.

  Only I can’t because he just got the electric shock, too. I swear to God I hear his teeth clack the same as mine. At the very least he jerks back, and his eyes go wide, and he seems to want to say something without really knowing what to say. Probably something like how dare you touch me, I think, even though that doesn’t quite seem to fit his expression. He looks stunned, true. And his body makes a bow, so he can get away from my hand.

  But there’s something else in his eyes, too. A kind of disbelief that has nothing to do with my daring and everything to do with the way it felt. I think. . .I think it felt good. I think it sent a little sizzle up his spine, the way his words and his urging send one up mine. His breath comes quick and shaky, and though he puts a hand between us like a barrier, I can see his hips are still rocking toward that touch.

  So much so that I sort of move toward him a little. Not enough to get past his force field, but enough to get words out of him. Loud words. Wrong words.

  “I can’t,” he snaps, at which point I need to make it clear between us.

  “Even though physically you want to?”

  “It’s not about being physically wanting to. A corpse would get excited by what we’re doing. Just look at you—your eyes are enough to turn me on. Sometimes I can barely stand to hold your gaze because it feels like a hand around my cock,�
�� he says, and I’m thankful that he pauses after that. I need a moment just to recover from the word cock and the sense of being complimented. In truth I could use an industrial fan and three ice packs—but I make do. I get through to the other side, where he’s saying things that are a little less exciting. “My problem is that after a certain point it just. . .feels unpleasant.”

  “So you lose your erection?” I ask, even though I know what the answer is. I can see the answer, still so thick and heavily curved.

  “No, not exactly,” he tells me. “I just want to stop. I get certain images in my head and I want to stop. I have to stop.”

  “Would it be different if I bit you?

  “What? What do you—”

  “You seemed to like. . .I thought maybe. . .” I start, and then he gets it. A half-amused light sparks in his eyes—though when he speaks his voice is gentle.

  “Beth, I didn’t get an erection because you bit me. Pain is a good distraction, sure, but it’s not what’s going to keep me in the moment. If anything. . .it’s. . .”

  “Go on, please go on.”

  “I like it when I know for certain that you’re enjoying yourself. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. If you so much as groan wrong, it will make me freeze up. I have to know you like it, and that I’m not hurting you or frightening you. That’s what excited me the other day—when you said that nothing had ever felt that good. That was. . .stirring.”

  “So how about I—” I start, but end up cutting myself off before I can finish. His eyes close and I simply stop right there, and I’m glad I do. His words back up the sudden tension in him. They underline what I know already.

  “Please don’t make suggestions. Let me just. . .”

  “Okay. Okay we don’t have to. I need you to know at this point—I only want to because it seemed like maybe you did. That maybe you kind of do. But if I’m wrong. . .”

  “You’re not wrong. I feel very. . .frustrated.”

  “You do?” I ask, and it’s all I can do to keep the eagerness out of my voice. He says that one word and excitement almost gets the better of me. Images flash behind my eyes, and all of them are filthy in the extreme—or at least filthy for him. He could probably pose fully dressed on a chaise lounge and I would lose my mind over it.

  So when I think of him in the shower, completely unclothed, covered in soapy slick water with his hand on his. . .on his. . .on that thing I can see through his sweatpants. . .yeah, that kind of finishes me off. If I was wet between my legs before, I’m a river there now. And though I feel bad about that, there isn’t much I can do about it.

  Not when he just goes ahead and makes it worse.

  “Yes. Of course I do. Have you any idea how amazing you look when you come? Or what it’s like to kiss you and feel that heat rising between us and see how pink your cheeks are and how hungry your eyes seem and just shut it down? I don’t want you to think it’s always easy for me. It isn’t. I tried to. . .”

  “Tried to what?” I ask, in a voice that could be carried away on a stiff breeze. It’s a miracle I manage to get out words at all though, all things considered.

  Did he just say when you come?

  I think he did. I think he suggested that he has real and visceral sexual responses all the time, and most of them concern things that I actually do. He sees me getting excited and that excites him, and then he tries to do something.

  God, I don’t want to hear what he tries to do.

  Except for all the ways in which I want to hear it more than anything in the world.

  “I tried to masturbate the other day,” he says, and my heart bangs against something inside me. My hands have made fists and my mouth goes all dry—though to be honest I have no idea why. I have no idea why all of these tiny things affect me so much. It’s like that horror movie thing again, only instead of everything being terrifying everything is a turn-on. It even does something to me when he adds, “Needless to say, it didn’t go well.”

  “So you get to a certain point and you just have to. . .” I say, too afraid to add any specific detail to the end there but just willing him to give it anyway. Maybe he does things, you know? Maybe he does things that make him stop. Like squeezing at the base of his cock or biting the meat of his own bicep.

  He might. He could. I wish I didn’t wonder if he does.

  “I have to stop, yes. I don’t physically want to but. . .” he says, and though he steers clear of any kind of exact descriptions, it still has an almighty effect on me. I think of his body suddenly, like some runaway freight train with his mind trailing behind. I see him as he has really been all this time—full of barely checked desire that he tries desperately to master.

  And I consider how nightmarish all of that is.

  “Christ. Okay. That. . .okay,” I say, because what else can I do? I have no helpful advice for him. He has to fathom this out for himself, no matter how long it may take him. We could still be like this in a thousand years, barely making it to second base and struggling to so much as kiss. We could be, I think, as he searches my face for answers he might never find, not ever.

  Unless he just grabs for them, quite suddenly.

  “Do you want to touch me?” he asks, and at first I don’t get it. I have to ask, I have to put barriers and provisos in the way.

  “Only if you want me to,” I tell him, thinking that I’m being good.

  This is what he needs. He needs slow maneuvers toward things.

  Or so I think, until he comes close to cutting me off midsentence.

  “No, don’t think about me. Think about you. Only you,” he says, and I’m so startled and so unsure of what he might mean that I answer like a robot.

  In my effort to be careful I go too far.

  “Yes, I want to touch you,” I say, and so he has to press on.

  His voice is oddly impatient, for him.

  “How badly would you like to?”

  “I don’t know if I should say. I don’t want you to feel obliged—”

  “I don’t feel obliged. You can go ahead and tell me,” he says, and there it is again.

  That hint of impatience, so unfamiliar coming out of his mouth.

  “Sometimes it’s all I can think about.”

  “And in these thoughts. . .what usually happens?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Things. Stuff.”

  “I would really like you to be specific,” he says, at which point the light starts to break through the clouds. I have to want it, that’s the thing. He needs to know this is everything I need. He craves my lust, the way a man might after starving too long in a desert of oh God, I don’t want to worry about doing the wrong thing.

  And, holy fuck, I want to give it.

  God, if only I knew how to give it.

  “I imagine you stroking yourself,” I try, but that isn’t nearly enough. He prompts me almost immediately, and suddenly I have to face the thing I want the most.

  The thing I don’t even know I want the most, until it’s right there.

  “And then you show me how you like it.”

  “I see. So I hold your hand over my cock.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. You kind of. . .stroke yourself by using me.”

  “So you like that idea.”

  “I do. And I like the words, too.”

  “What sort of words?”

  “The ones you’ve just used. When you say things like cock it makes me get all. . .you know,” I say, and get a blast of double embarrassment in the face for my troubles. The first lot because I just told him I get turned on, and the second because I said it in such a childish way. You know—like I’m twelve.

  Instead of twenty-four and so fucking horny.

  “I don’t know. Can you describe it to me?” he asks, and this time I do better.

  How could I not, when he’s looking at me like that and I can see his cock is hard and I know his hand is soooo close to that swollen thing? How can I not when everything is suddenly this exciting? All I have to do is literal
ly describe what’s happening to me.

  Most of which he probably knows anyway, with his psychic fucking powers.

  “My clit swells, and everything is suddenly real wet down there.”

  “That sounds good. That sounds like you like it,” he says, and, oh, I don’t know why that thrills me so. His words are so. . .simple and innocent.

  They shouldn’t make my voice waver when I answer.

  “I do. I absolutely, one hundred percent do.”

  “Do you imagine me doing things to you?”

  “God, yeah. All the time. Constantly.”

  “Tell me what they are. Tell me how badly,” he says, and it’s the badly that makes me do it. Or is it the hand he suddenly brushes over one of my bare arms? Maybe it’s both combining into one unholy mess of just fucking go for it.

  Certainly feels that way, when I say:

  “I lie awake at night, thinking about you licking me.”

  Licking, I said licking. And when he adds, “I know where you mean, but say it anyway,” I go one worse than that. I get worse. Somehow the undercurrent of hunger in his words just pushes me up a level, and filthy stuff comes rambling out of my mouth.

  “Licking my pussy. Licking my clit,” I say, and you know what?

  I love it. I love it so much I almost don’t hear what he tells me next. My brain is so preoccupied with that one naughty word and how open he’s being and all the things I might say to him next that I don’t quite process it.

  “Like I’m going to now?” he asks, and then three days later it hits like a lightning strike. All the gears inside me kind of slow to a halt. My mouth opens to answer, but no sound comes out. How could there be? There are barely any words suitable for this situation. The best I can think of is praise God, but if I go with that I might disturb whatever fragile fog that seems to have descended over him.

  He looks like he’s teetering on the brink as it is. His jaw is tighter than my entire body, and his eyes can’t seem to stop searching mine. In the end I have to say something, because not doing so might be worse in the long run.