The Things That Make Me Give In (10 page)

Instead he gave me a present. A beautifully wrapped bunny rabbit, all of my own.

I didn’t tell him that I’d never dared to buy one myself. Or that I’d never dared to buy any of the things I pretended I never liked – steamy books and
Playboys
like the ones I’d once found
in my father’s shed. All those filthy stories and pictures that had made my teenage insides squirm, now reduced to just memories of what that felt like.

I don’t know why I stopped wanting to feel like that.

But it seemed easier than I could ever have imagined when I finally got down to it.

At first I couldn’t. I drank two glasses of wine and let him massage my shoulders with oils. I still couldn’t. He blindfolded me and whispered in my ear that he loved fucking me and fucking me and having me smother him with my soft wet pussy and, oh, how wet I got when he licked me, that it barely took anything at all – maybe just his cock in my mouth in a dark cinema . . .

Then I could.

He has to be filthy first – getting his cock out in a public place like a dirty old man. Then I can get on my knees and swallow his cock, and after that I can fuck myself with whatever toys he’s bought me, and then after that I can let him go down on me.

He forces me not to cover my face with the sheets when he does it. But it’s not really like forcing, because he’s been dirty first, you see.

‘You’re not really mad, are you?’ I ask him, because he sort of looks it. His kind of mad, though – the type that’s not quite holding on. And he bears this out by sliding me a sideways glance and almost grinning.

‘Right, knickers off so’s I can spank you,’ he says, after a minute of this Cheshire-cat expression.

Naturally I laugh. He’s a funny creature – why wouldn’t I laugh? But then he just keeps on staring at me with his big twinkling eyes and I start to go hot all over. My skin gets really prickly, like that time my husband took me to the South of France and I lay out too long on the beach. I didn’t burn, exactly – I’m always careful with the suntan lotion. Instead I just prickled.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say to him, but he just laughs as though, yes, it
is
ridiculous.

‘Only get your knickers off, just the same.’

That’s what he actually says to me! I look back at him as sour as can be, but this only seems to make him more impish and cheeky – now he’s got a hand up my skirt, and I don’t seem to be stopping him.

He strokes the material that’s pulled taut over my pussy, making it tighter yet. It feels as though it’s strangling all my soft tender sweet spots, and I protest. I squirm. I manage to get out: ‘You first! You’re first!’

‘So it’s to be gentlemen before ladies,’ he says, but he knows what I mean. Anyone could know what I mean, by now. Doesn’t he understand what I need?

Of course he does. My husband would stare blankly at me and keep his trousers on, but even as Colin manhandles me on to my knees I can see he’s taking his off. Shoving them down, rudely, while my unstockinged skin burns against the horrid rough material covering the seats.

I think there are little flowers stitched into it. It feels like crumpled crisp packets. My legs are apart.

‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ he says, as cool air fondles my almost bare bottom. I see what he sees and my face flashes as red as the lacquered walls of this carriage: my pouting pussy lips, trying to escape their cloth prison. Before he even says it, I suspect that my wetness is quite evident.

‘What’s all this, then?’ he asks, before pressing his finger to the place I’ve made the wettest. It’s almost at my arsehole, and I cringe away, thinking of what he’s done to me there.

But I relax a little, when something soft and hard at the same time rubs against my thighs. How silky it is, as though the skin has been stretched fine enough to see through. And you can see, really – his cock is big enough and gets hard enough to let me see the blue tracery of veins clearly.

I think briefly of my husband’s cock. The sad softness of it,
and its texture – like the crisp packet seats. Burring against me, clinging to me, never so smooth and fine.

‘We
cannot
have sex here,’ I hiss back at Colin, but it’s too late for that now. He has his nimble little fingers twisted in the elastic of my knickers, and they’re making their descent to my ankles. The train rocks, and I rock with it. I close my eyes. I close my eyes and keep on protesting, words all run together like the clackety-clack of wheels on rails below us: ‘No don’t you can’t stop please oh why oh you disgusting little beast.’

He laughs at the word ‘beast’, while his fingers make a slippery path through the folds of my pussy. He just flicks the underside of my aching clit, and then backs away when I wriggle. Then repeats the whole thing, when I tell him that all my husband’s colleagues are here, someone will see us, the train’s packed, clackety-clack.

I’m sure I feel his Cheshire-cat grin against my feeling-every-detail, oh-so-swollen pussy lips. From behind, too, for extra lewdness. My heels pointed at the carriage door, dress around my hips, sprawled across the seats like a doll of the real me.

The real me smiles serenely and poses with her hands pressed neatly to her lap and a headband keeping all of her hair in. Golden husband sits beside her, as primped and perfect as she is.

I press back into Colin’s mouth. Sounds that usually never escape the covers over my face spurt out, sounding like the agitated mewls of a cat. That is me, after all. I am a cat in heat, rubbing myself against Cheshire’s face. Soon he’s going to mount me, and what on earth am I going to do then? I don’t have anything to hide my face and this time, God, this time I might really need it.

There’s not just myself to hide from, though – they could all catch us here.

‘You ready?’ he says. I never thought anyone would ever ask me that. I certainly never thought it would come out of a mouth covered in my cream.

I don’t even have to look to know it’s there. I know what he does and how he does it, and I’ve seen him sitting on his haunches before, mouth gleaming and completely unselfconscious about it. Sometimes he will lick his lips, as though I taste wonderful.

How filthy and dirty and disgusting.

‘Yeah, you’re ready all right,’ he says.

Now his cock is greasy rather than smooth, greasy and rubbery. He always has a condom and he never seems tired of using one, which I suppose should be a rather practical thought.

I have no idea why his practicalities excite me even more. When I feel the rubber I stop pretending that I’m wriggling and rut back against him, waiting for that gorgeous way his big filthy cock spreads me. I look at the lacquered walls and picture all those perfect, primped businessmen at the little window in the door, gawping down at us. At my gash, swimming in liquid and pink enough to mistake for sugar-candy.

And then his big thick thing stretching me.

They all wish they were him, of course. They all want to ream my pussy with their equally massive cocks, shoving my face down into the crisp packet seat and gripping my arse the way Colin does. There’s nothing cheeky and impish about the way he digs his fingers in and drags me back on him, hard enough to make me whine and complain.

But my imagination isn’t complaining. The lewdness tether is off and I can see them all lined up at the door to take me, to fill me up with their thick come and ease the way for their mates – yes yes yes.

Yes, God, yes, Colin, fuck me, fuck me dirty.

Of course I say all this. But I guess I don’t really believe in it or don’t really want it – I’m not dirty at all. Because when he tells me to do something – something tame in comparison to being fucked by any number of my husband’s colleagues – I can’t quite do it.

I lie, in fact. I can’t do it
at all.
I whine ‘no no no’ as his cock lurches and twists inside me – he doesn’t fuck like my husband, but grinds himself against me, rocks and rubs and oh so enjoys himself.

And I enjoy him, even if I still whine.

‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Be a sport.’

Which probably makes it seem as though he’s very casual. Still that blithe uncaring imp and not really that into this. But Lord, the tone of his voice is so much better and sweeter than those words suggest. High and tight and as though he has to keep it from floating away by holding it on a leash.

I resist, despite this persuasive tone.

‘Just . . . put your hands back . . . it’ll be as easy as buttering bread.’

I grit my teeth. I resist the waves of pleasure finding their way through me. He’s twisting himself so well against the sweet spot inside me that doesn’t exist. I know it doesn’t exist. My husband has ploughed into me dozens of times and never makes me bite my lip.

‘No. No. Someone will see! Everyone will see! No!’

‘It’s a bit late for that, love.’

I panic immediately – of course I do.

‘Is someone there? Is someone there?’ I gasp, but he strokes my back before the gasping and panic can get too out of control. And I recognise the gesture even amidst the rutting. He’s comforting me. He’s reassuring me.

It’s odd, really, but these things don’t seem unfamiliar, from him.

‘There’s no one there, I promise. They don’t give a monkey’s about us. And any rate, wouldn’t I tell you if there was?’

He would. I know that. But there’s something fabulous about the fact that he shoves a bit of cheekiness into that final question. As though maybe . . . just ever so maybe . . . he might not tell me at all.

I do as he asked me to, and cover my own ass cheeks with my hands. I can feel it’s going to take some more bracing
myself to completely follow orders, but he squeezes himself against me when I manage that much.

Like a hug, I think, and feel suddenly giddy and gleeful.

‘Go on, then,’ he says. ‘Keep going.’

My cheek is now squashed into the seat, and tomorrow there will probably be a very unexplainable carpet burn. I’ve got my eyes scrunched tightly closed and my lips pressed so tight together that I’m sure I’m about to make them bleed. But somehow the tightness and the burn and my hands squeezing my own arse combine to make something that stirs inside me. No one could be more humiliated than I am now, possibly on show and spread, made to touch myself in disgusting places. But I only have to think about how all this must look and my pussy tries to clench around his prick.

I have to keep going. I squirm and twist and can just about reach . . . the place he isn’t plundering this time. The little crinkled hole remembers, though, and flutters when I touch it with my own finger.

I’ve never touched myself there. But it makes me shimmy and shake to do it, anyway. Further shimmies happen when he slides his finger around mine, slippery with my juice, making it easy.

And then I’m doing just exactly as he asked: fingering my own ass while he fucks my pussy, on a crowded train to Holtley.

I think it’s the fact that he suddenly begs me, hoarsely, to come. That’s what sets me off. The fact that he begs and the fact that suddenly I have to be quick, and my ass ripples around the tip of my finger as my pussy tries to devour his cock. I’ve never before had orgasms like the ones Colin gives me – long wet luxurious things that make my body jerk. My body loses control over itself and goes into a spasm of pleasure, every moan I try not to make finding its way out of me anyway.

I think about all of my husband’s colleagues hearing me, and moan louder.

‘Oh, fuck, yes, loud, really loud, go on sweetheart!’ he blurts, just as his thrusts become as jerky as I am. All the lovely, careful twisting and rocking is lost, but this is just as good when you’re in the middle of a climax that doesn’t want to end.

It seems to crest again, just one final sweet time, and it’s different. It’s different because, when I let go on that last note, I also call out his name.

So we didn’t get caught on the train. Nothing really happened all the way there and all the way back. Why should they be interested in us, after all? They’ve got their business things to talk about, and then there’s all that drinking to be done, and drowning in cologne, and primping so that you look better than the man before you.

We could fuck right in the middle of them all and they wouldn’t notice, I’m sure.

But the thing is, I think my husband has noticed. I think he’s downstairs right now, and that he arrived while we lay dozing, unaware.

I sit up in our bed – mine and Colin’s now, really, not mine and my husband’s – and try to listen out for what he might be doing. Did he come up and catch us? Or has he yet to climb the stairs?

I can’t be sure. Colin seems to be, though.

‘He’s about to come up them stairs and kill us,’ he whispers, really close to my ear. I jump, and he puts that soothing hand on my back.

Only this time the soothing hand makes something awful well up inside me. I shove him away. I shove him away with the same bitterness as he betrayed when he talked about the pretending and the liking and all of those odd things.

‘It’ll be all right,’ he says, even though I shoved him. ‘It’ll be fine, don’t worry. He’s probably just stewing. You can talk him round.’

I shove his hand away even harder, hearing that.

‘Hey, now. Hey.’

When I finally give in to his stroking, it’s a stony sort of acquiescence. That’s what I am: turned to stone by my husband catching us, and the idea of trying to talk him around.

‘Don’t be upset, love. He’ll come around. He loves you, doesn’t he? Love forgives all sorts.’ I can feel his big eyes stroking me in the same way that his hand is, but I refuse to look. I keep staring like stone at the wall. ‘He knows you need him – blokes like that.’

But I can’t stay stone when he says things like that. I just can’t. I shouldn’t have when he first spoke about my husband coming around. Coming around!

‘I need
you
,’ I say, and it comes out so fierce that my initial intention – to look at him while I say it – can’t be met.

He is as I expect him to be: shocked. He goes very still and, when I can finally rest my trembling gaze on him, there is a new warmth in his big eyes. Nothing blithe and uncaring there at all.