The Things That Make Me Give In (5 page)

I climb up on to the table, on all fours, and tell him to lick my pussy. Keep as much of the bag on as possible, and lick my pussy.

And to his credit, he does. One slide of his tongue through my slit and I’m there, calling a name I do not actually know.

I wouldn’t say what we do gets weirder. It doesn’t. We masturbate for each other, and strip for each other, and play dress-up. Over time we include other people less and less, and then it’s just us and the various inventive ways we find to entertain.

I let him watch me with things in my pussy, and finally he persuades me to try something in my ass, too.

I persuade him to do the same. Though really it’s less like persuasion, and more like we just put up notes with demands on them, and somehow it’s easy to meet those demands. They’re not demands at all, but requests. Guidelines. If you want to play this game, this is how you do it.

I don’t want to stop doing it. Not even when he brings back a girl one night, and jealous heat replaces the other kind. The good, exciting kind that we’ve been cultivating for so many weeks.

But I don’t know why. Our way is so much better than all of that real touching business.

I can’t see her face, but I suspect that she’s beautiful. Most of the girls he had before were, so why shouldn’t she be? Her body is smooth and pale and sweetly curved, good enough to make me consider anew what I would do if he pinned a note up asking me to find a girl to have.

But I confess: I thought we were past this stage.

I thought we were but now there’s this girl, and she’s –

I realise, then, that I cannot see her face. She comes into clear view, handled by TTGB, and I’m startled by what is missing. Her face is completely covered – and not just by a paper bag. This is something exquisitely planned. He has covered her face with a kind of veil, or perhaps a sheer stocking, or something else that hides her hair and her jaw and her every feature.

It’s a bizarre sort of mask, but, more than that, it is very, very affecting.

I think I gasp. I certainly cover my mouth. I see him stare at me through the glass, sending some kind of message that I can’t read, spiralling up to where I stand, motionless. He isn’t smiling, but he handles her gently. Oh, so gently. He strokes her back and settles her into position on the bed he has long since drawn up to the window, for my viewing pleasure.

I only give him my chair and table. Occasionally my window sill.

He deserves more. Because beneath the silk of the sheer fabric I can still make out the shape of her face, and it’s clear that this shape is so like mine. The same almost too big nose and broad cheekbones, the jut of her stubborn jaw like a pointing finger: I am like you.

He has picked a girl like me. I can even see the dimples just above the curve of her ass, like mine, and how pink and sweet her nipples are.

However, when he bites into her cute little rump, he looks disappointed. It doesn’t mark in quite the same way that my own succulent flesh does, going from bone-white to a virulent red. And she doesn’t buck the way I did when some anonymous man bit down.

I wonder if he paid for her. She seems bored, and boredom just won’t do when the woman you watch through glass is never so. I always give him the very best in enthusiasm, and I’m doing just that even now. I can feel my own gaze burning out of me, down to him and this masked facsimile.

That’s what you do to me, I tell him with my eyes. You make me jealous, even when I swore this was just a game and you’re fucking a pretend version of me. I raise my hand and swish it through the air and he obeys my silent command: he smacks the ass of the girl who isn’t me. He smacks it again and again, even when I don’t command it, as though he too is angry about what he wants and what he’s getting.

I’m what he really wants. He is what I really want. I want it so much that even watching him with someone else makes my pussy cream – my knickers are soaking and far too tight on my swollen lips. The need to rip them off and touch myself with hands that are not his rises and rises, but I disobey it.

I want to watch him fuck her, first. Go on then and fuck her, I think.

And he does. He presses her down on the bed almost cruelly, and shoves his gorgeous cock into every hole he can find. I watch him fuck her ass, all slick-shiny with her juices and her spit, and I beg myself to give in.

But I don’t. I imagine what that must feel like – I know well enough, now, having obeyed him and fucked myself there with a dildo – and the pulse in my clit and my pussy ripples over into an ache, a constant thrumming ache. I clench around nothing, imagining that strange stretch and burn, the gorgeous feeling of slickness everywhere, the solidity of his cock.

So good.

But then he spoils it all. He doesn’t come – I know he doesn’t. He just pulls out of her and tells her to get dressed – or she decides to get dressed on her own – and then watches her, cock still pointing at the sky.

It’s all very impersonal. She dresses, he removes the condom. It’s over, it’s over – and without any sort of finish. I try to get his attention and make him obey me again, make him finish it, but while she dresses he keeps his back to the window.

I slap the glass. Still nothing.

It’s only after she’s gone that he turns on the bed, and stares straight at me. Those eyes, hooded and limpid. I think about how much he must ache, right now, how hot and worked up he must feel, but I still hate him for not finishing, because it’s worse on me.

I realise that I don’t want to masturbate yet again. I don’t want to put on a show – though I’m sure that’s what he wants.
He wants everything through glass, forever, and maybe I want that too. Things aren’t so cool close up. They aren’t so sexy.

Even when you can almost
taste
what his flesh would be like in your mouth.

I lick my lips and he echoes the move, as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking. He even swipes his thumb over the tip of his prick, and transfers the delicious slipperiness there to his tongue. Flutters his eyes closed, just for me.

I can’t resist doing the same: this is what I taste like. I put my hand inside my knickers and tremble just at that slight touch, then lick away the tang of myself. Honey-sweet, lemon-sour.

He smiles. For that smile, I would do anything. I touch myself again, and again, underwear somehow ending up around my ankles, skirt yanked up to my waist. He watches with burning interest that I’m sure would soon become lazy, if we weren’t enacting this strange little ritual. If we were together, and normal, and dating.

His back arches up off the bed, when I shove two fingers into myself. He only has to clasp his cock roughly, jerk once or twice, and thick ropes of come splash over his belly. The sight of them shining against his golden skin is enough to make me follow, thighs trembling, fingers sloppy and busy.

Eyes tight closed and imagining that the fingers are his.

I guess imagining will have to be enough.

Sometimes we meet up. We do. And if the meet-ups are not exactly traditional, it isn’t just because of him. All of this isn’t his decision – I wouldn’t want you to think it was. I decided too, in notes and through glass. With the mask of sheer fabric over my face.

So we meet up in art galleries and department stores, always in places with great swathes of glass between this section and that, between this part of my heart and that. And we reach up, and press our hands together through yet another false partition separating us.

THEY’RE BIG AND
strapping in their nicely tight clothes, looking weirdly identical even though they’re not. She supposes it’s because they’re both in primary-coloured T-shirts, which are tucked into their butt-hugging jeans, and they’ve both parted their fine soft hair on the same side.

One is dark, though, and the other’s light.

They grin as one and chug down more beer, while she finishes up putting their books away. They’ve mostly understood the things she’s explained, but really it doesn’t matter. They’re too much of an asset to the college’s team to make it an issue when they think metaphor is the evil Transformer.

One of them switches on some music, and she jumps. She jumps and is irritated. Didn’t she tell them no music? Oh, how tiresome they are. And now they’re dancing, clumsily, like bears up on their hind legs.

It only takes a moment before she’s somehow between them. They should know, of course, that she doesn’t like to dance. Even at parties she is very strict on that score. All that touching and grinding and posturing – it isn’t for her.

And yet here they are, bumping against her and swaying their hands through the air.

‘This is great,’ Steve says to Brett, and Brett replies to Steve that he thinks so too.

They always talk like that. Almost like twins, sharing the same thought. Even if the thought they share is empty of wit or intelligence. Just simple sentences like
See Spot Run
: did you
do this? Yeah, I did do this. Should we go out? Yeah, we should go out.

She doesn’t think they’re slow, really. Just a bit . . . meat-headed.

They’re meat-headed now, as they try to get her to dance sexily. Twisting her hips with their big hands, tugging her back and forth like a doll. It’s not an unusual feeling, however. They often make her feel like a doll.

‘Let’s play a game,’ Steve says.

She thinks of plastic cups and saucers, tea parties, the little hidey-house she used to play in as a girl. Of course, there were never really any tea parties. Just her, hidden away, making her brother’s action figures wrestle each other.

But Steve doesn’t need to know that. She watches him whip his dark hair out of his eyes – beautiful eyes, really. Soft and smarter than he seems, set in that almost too angular face. Brett is soft by comparison, but his big square chin still gives him an air of the Nordic.

Maybe the game can be dress-up, and they can both put on long wigs. Prance around in armour for her, pretending to rape and pillage.

But instead Brett grabs her quite suddenly from behind, and wraps a blindfold around her eyes.

He does it all in one smooth motion – they’re both quite graceful, really, when they want to be. One second she can see, the next her world is dark, with just the heavy masculine smell of them – tinged with soap and that baby shampoo they use – to guide her way.

She thinks she can feel their presence, though. They’re so big, it’s hard not to be aware of them – hulking around, just on the periphery of her senses. Irritation skitters through her again, but she finds herself groping for them anyway.

They dance just out of her grasp, sniggering. They dance until she stamps her foot and goes for the blindfold, but Brett has tied it too tight to get off easily.

‘Oooh, she’s getting mad,’ Steve says, as she wrestles with it.

‘Yeah, she is getting kind of mad. I’ll take it off if you want, Lacey.’

She turns to glare at him through whatever is over her eyes, and actually hears him shuffle with the knowledge of his own wrongdoing. A slap rings out, and she knows Steve has struck his friend. On the upper arm, maybe – somewhere solid.

The blindfold stays on. The blindfold stays on, and hands are suddenly back on her hips. Steve’s, she suspects. The hands rub suddenly, rudely, and then even more rudely – they clasp her bottom.

She immediately goes up on tiptoe. She goes up for his gruff words, too: ‘Lacey, you’ve got a great ass. Come and look at this ass, Brett.’

Brett obeys. Still contrite, she thinks, but lumbering nonetheless. The floorboards creak beneath his solid mass, and then she is boxed in by two giants with no way of seeing either.

Another set of hands join Steve’s on her ass. Sometimes squeezing hard enough to hurt, other times just testing, just cupping and stroking.

Both are now breathing hard.

‘It’s real nice,’ Brett says from close enough in front of her that she can feel his breath on her cheek. He must be stooping, she thinks, to get his hot breath so close while so thoroughly groping her ass.

‘You caught us,’ Steve says, into her ear. ‘You win Blind Man’s Bluff, Lacey.’

And then he tugs her skirt up around her waist.

‘Oh, check it out . . . red panties!’

‘Is it a thong?’ Brett asks, and she thinks she feels Steve nod.

Brett’s hands are back on her ass. Skin against skin, this time, feeling for the strip of material between her cheeks.

It’s hard to tell though, really, if they are
his
hands. There seem to be five million fingers all over her, and she staggers beneath their explorations.

They steady her, however. They’re very good at that – so big and unyielding. If one of them should accidentally get a handful of her breasts while they’re doing the steadying, well . . . they can’t really be blamed. She doesn’t blame Steve for hoarsely demanding that his friend remove her blouse, either.

She can imagine how touching her breasts would so quickly make him want more. They’re nice tits, after all. She knows what they look like, in the red satin bra she picked out that morning. Full and rising up to be kissed, to be petted, to be admired. As creamy as the topping of a too-rich dessert.

Brett falls on them as if they are a dessert. He slobbers and sucks and licks all over the plump half-moons, grunting like a starved pig. It’s Steve who gets him to cool off and shoves him back, and she hears his half-whined apology as other hands reach for the front clasp of her bra.

‘I wanna see them,’ Steve says, and then her tits are exposed to the cool air.

Of course her nipples immediately harden. They harden even further when Steve licks his fingers and plays with them, rubbing his groin against her still bared bottom. After a while of this toying and teasing – which she squirms against and tries to pull away from, naturally – he leaves them be and starts tugging roughly at her blouse.

Down her arms and off. Soon she will be naked, she’s sure.

‘Come on and suck her tits while I get her skirt off,’ he tells his friend. She has no idea where this sudden authority has come from. Steve is not usually the leader of their little team. Neither of them is.