Sweet Agony (16 page)

‘Fuck me,’ I say to him – which I suppose is bad enough on its own.

But the real problem is: I do not stop there.

‘I know you want to fuck me. I know you liked doing that and I promise it would be no different at all. I’m so hot and wet you could just sink right in without any trouble, just rut and rut until you fill me up,’ I say, and I do not regret a word of it.

Why would I, when his response is so fucking fantastic?

‘God, you greedy little slut,’ he says, those words alone enough to get me. However, it’s the admiration in his voice that really finishes the job. I hear it and I just respond without even thinking about it.

‘Oh, fuck, yes, say that again,’ I tell him.

But I’m glad I do. He apparently feels the same way too.

‘I should get you by the hair,’ he says.

‘Yes, yes, yes, you should, yes, please.’

‘Fill your mouth so you can never say such filthy things.’

‘Mmmmm, yeah, just do it, just come in my mouth,’ I say, so delirious over the fact that he suggested it that I hardly think about what I’m doing when he does. My excitement seems to have reached some kind of apoplectic level where I’m no longer sensible of things like
moving parts of my body over other parts
– or at least I’m not until he speaks again.

‘Are you masturbating? Not two seconds and you’re already frigging yourself like some beast in heat,’ he says, and I honestly don’t know what I like best. The fact that he uses the word ‘frigging’, or the sound of him being so affronted by my gall.

In all my days I never thought I’d be so lucky, to affront someone with my gall.

‘I can’t help it, I can’t help it, you make me this way, you do this to me,’ I tell him, but what I really mean is:
I think a spring wedding would be smashing
. And, judging by his just slightly too amused response, he feels the same.

‘I make you fuck your own cunt, do I?’

‘Ahhhhh, yeah, yeah – just the idea of you doing it makes me go out of my mind.’

‘So you’re thinking of my cock while you slide those fingers in?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say, so close to incoherence I’m not even sure if those ‘yeah’s
count as words. They fumble out of me minus much-needed letters, and I can see that the situation is only going to get worse. My pussy is so sensitive that any real stroking makes me wild, and all the while he just keeps on talking.

Good God, his talking is the
best
.

‘Shame they’re nowhere near as thick,’ he tells me, so casual about it I could just kill him. He knows what he’s doing, saying something like that. He always knows, even when he pretends otherwise. He makes it seem like some boring detail that he just felt like bringing up, and I have to deal with the fallout.

And in this case the fallout is the full understanding that he is telling me he has a big cock. A big thick cock, of the kind I now have to think about constantly.

‘Oh, don’t say that.’

‘You’d need to use double what you appear to be using now.’

‘Fuck, fuck.’

‘You’d need to stroke in so much more deeply.’

‘This is torture, this is torture,’ I say, but I have no idea what torture really is. I think him telling me about previously mysterious parts of his body is bad; I think hearing just how much he would fill me up is worse. But, as he then points out, there is something that trumps all of this, in at least a dozen different ways.

‘You think this is torture for
you
?’ he asks.

And then I’m not quite sure what to do. On the one hand, I want to be sympathetic. I want to soothe and be kind and apologise for my complaining. But on the other, there is my body and the way it chooses to deal with this news. I will be honest: it does not do it well. I think I might actually have a little orgasm, just at the idea he presents there:

That he not only wants something more than this.

He’s
tortured by his desire for it
.

He looks at me writhing and moaning and making myself wet, and he craves it more deeply than he does that iron-clad restraint. I know he does, because, even if I set what he just said aside, his silence afterwards speaks volumes. It almost vibrates with a waiting, as though he expects me to do the rest.

And to my great surprise and delight, I do not disappoint.

‘Tell me what you need,’ I say, and, by God, I mean it. I think I’m pretty much prepared to do anything, up to and including things I would never have entertained before. If he asks me for my arse, I will give it to him. If he wants to fill every hole I have, I am happy to let him. In fact, when he finally tells me what he needs it’s almost a disappointment, after gearing myself up to so much.

‘Just keep talking. Keep saying every filthy little thing you can think of.’

Though to be fair, almost disappointing with him is pretty much explosive excitement in any other context. It makes me giddy just to think about doing it, and especially after I try.

‘I’m so wet for you,’ I say, with more moaning abandonment than I ever used before. I alternated before now – making sure the dirtier words were spoken as calmly as possible and the calmer ones got the dose of lusty breathlessness. But that is not the case here. I sound like the horniest whore on the face of the earth, to the point where I feel confident I hit the mark.

But man, am I wrong about that.

‘More than that,’ he says, so I go one step further.

‘I want you to fill me with your hot, slippery come,’ I say, now certain that this must have done the trick. It burns me to get that idea out, considering how much it refers to him. It suggests that he can get hard and have orgasms and spill his jizz just like every other man, and that thought is roasting hot.

Yet still it falls short.

‘More,’ he says, like someone unsatisfied with a knife in the gut.

He needs it to be twisted, to really do the job. He needs to make it bleed.

So I make it bleed. Oh, man, do I ever make it bleed.

‘I want you to fill every hole I have – fuck my arse, fuck my mouth, fuck my pussy. I want you to cover me in come, just make me a mess, it doesn’t matter. I know that you’ve never and you know I’ve never so just do it all over my face, do it on my tits, cover my clit in great ribbons of it, cream in my cunt until I’m overflowing and still ravenous for more,’ I gasp, every word so filthy and shameful that at first I think I must have gone too far. I overshot what he was asking for and hit
gross
, and when I finally pull the sheet away he will have left the room. And maybe also the house, and the country, and possibly this planet.

The next time I hear of him will be on the news: First Man To Start Living On Mars.

Or maybe: Man Murders Woman With Sex By Tearing Off A Sheet.

Because that is what he then does. He rips it off so suddenly and shockingly I give a little squeak, as though
I
am the one who needed it there. For a second it’s as if our roles are reversed, and, I have to say, I love it in a way I feel sure he must never. It makes my heart pound in my pussy and my breath come all ragged and weird, and the feeling only grows stronger.

I see him staring down at my totally bare body, and the pounding seems to triple. In a second my heart is going to bust right out of there, and when it does I feel sure there is going to be a mess. There is
already
a mess down there. I can barely keep touching myself without skating off to less interesting parts of my body. I aim for my clit every time, and end up somewhere just south of my left knee.

Not that I really mind all that much. I think if I actually hit the target here, while lying in the sudden liquid darkness of his heavy-lidded eyes, I would most probably never stop coming. Chances are he’d have to take me to the hospital, to get some kind of anti-orgasm medication. Either that, or constant climaxes would end up being my lot in life. Medical science might want to study me – and all because I accidentally rubbed my clit in the middle of whatever this might be.

Though I say ‘whatever’, when really I know.

This is him losing control.

Of course, on anyone else it would probably look like nothing – and especially in light of what he has done to date. He has read dirty stuff to me and spanked me and made me stand in rude ways, stroked me with a paintbrush and licked me between my legs. He really should be exploding by this point. Most people would most likely want to kill me with their cocks, way before we ever got to here.

But he is not like that, and all the arousal centres of my body know it. They see him stripping out of his jacket and decide to go haywire. It takes every ounce of restraint I have not to fling myself at him immediately, and not just because that jacket is now on the floor.
He threw it on the floor
, I think, then I have to move right on to the next set of revelations. And they
are
revelations.

He has dark patches under his arms, as though he has spent the last hour in something other than complete cool calm. In fact, I
know
he spent the last hour in something other than complete cool calm, because aside from the sweating and the shaking –
holy God I think he might be shaking
– I can see something distinctly in those expensive trousers of his.

Something I have to break the rules for, despite my better judgement. I know, I know how much he hates physical contact. I know he does and yet if I just lie here and look I might never be sure. I could go away thinking that the shape I see there is nothing, instead of something that turns the world upside down.

So I just…reach forward. Slowly, slowly, to give him a chance to tell me no. He can stop me at any time, I tell myself, and that much is technically true. But once I brush the thick, hard thing between his legs I no longer feel as sure. He seems frozen, utterly frozen. I could probably carry on doing this for hours if I wanted to.

But if I did, I somehow doubt he would ever speak to me again. He looks like he might not ever want to speak to me now, thanks to my stupidly curious hand. The hard breathing comes to an abrupt halt, as if grabbing his cock also gets him around the windpipe. And for just a second, those eyes flash wide.

I can almost hear the ‘how dare you?’
coming, though when it doesn’t I don’t exactly feel grateful. I feel like I might have ruined him. Destroyed him for ever just because I needed to feel his erection – because it is that very thing, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I pull back almost immediately, but I can still feel the exact curve and heft of it. More than likely I will still be able to some time into the next century, even though I try to put it from my mind.

I try, but it gets difficult when he starts to unbutton his trousers.

Is he really unbuttoning his trousers? He does it so slowly and deliberately I think it must be something else – like an optical illusion brought on by extreme lust. It almost looks like he fell asleep and is doing it while dreaming, despite the fact that he is one hundred per cent awake. If he wasn’t, I doubt he would be able to tell me to lie back down. And he definitely couldn’t add the other thing he does, because the other thing he does is so specific, and so hungry-sounding.

‘Show me your clit,’ he says, as though he’s been thinking of what he’d like to see best of all for a long, long time. All he needed was the will to ask it, and now he has I have to obey. I don’t even think about it. I just use my fingers the way he did not so long ago, parting my slick folds until he can see. Every part of me tingling with the thought of what he might do – and I think pretty big too.

I imagine him putting his hand inside his open trousers, while he orders me to frig myself. And I do get part of it right. He does tell me to keep rubbing until I come. He just also happens to take his cock out while I do it. I make one slow circle around my oh so sensitive clit, and then he just can’t seem to help it.

He fumbles himself out, so frantic I almost miss the main event. I get a flash of skin and the curve of his fist, and precious little else. But then, I hardly need anything more. Just the idea of him jerking his cock while I finish myself off is enough. Just the knowledge that his cock is there, almost out in the open and so stiff I think it strains against the confines of his hand. Really, anything other than that is a bonus.

So when he gives me one…

Oh, God, when he gives me one…

I suspect I will never recover. I see him start to shudder the way I do as I get close – the way I am now, as my orgasm begins to break low down in my body. And that hand he has on himself speeds up, so suddenly quick and eager that it thickens everything I’m currently feeling. The little bursts of too dense sensation in my cunt and my clit get bigger, better, brighter, and even more so when he puts one knee on the bed.

He’s going to do it on you, my mind babbles deliriously.

I really think he might. I think he might so much that I tell him to go ahead, I tell him to come all over my pussy, I tell him, why should he care? I even think to tell him that it poses no danger, because he never has with anyone and I never have with anyone and we both know it. He even knows I’m on the pill, because he’s a smart arse who reminded me to take it the other day, just to show me that he knew.

Though still I somehow think he won’t.

I somehow think he
can’t
, right up until the very last moment when my pleasure is almost peaking, all the sounds I want to make stuck somewhere in my throat, my body like a live wire, running hot. And then I feel the first burst of slickness against my jerking clit, so thick and good I simply have to go over too.

I twist in absolute bliss, filled to the brim with the idea that he just did the dirtiest, nastiest thing. He came on my cunt, so copiously I can feel it running between the cheeks of my arse. I can barely move my fingers through my swollen slit without getting in all the mess, and oh, it just absolutely sends me. It makes me think we are finally over whatever hill we were on, with nothing but more of this in front of us.

And then I see him. I see his falling-down face as he takes in the thing he just did, and I know. There will always be a hill, and no relief waiting for us on the other side.