Addicted (13 page)

Much to his amusement.

‘Couldn’t wait, huh?’ he asks, and I wonder what he’s thinking of. Is he picturing that shy girl in the story, so much sweeter than me? I’m doing the exact same thing she did: masturbating under the cover of her pretty cotton underwear. But it’s different, and I know it. It’s different because he tells me so, a second later: ‘Oh, you love it,’ he says.

And I do. I love those first teasing strokes over my little bud, and the feel of my own wetness in-between. I love how hot I feel, how hard I clench around my finger when I briefly sink inside … But most of all, I love knowing that he’s watching.

I never thought I would. I’ve never so much as stroked my own inner thigh in front of someone else without feeling self-conscious … but, God, I do. I do.

And I love hearing him, too.

‘Are you rubbing your clit?’ he asks, and I nod. I can’t answer him. The sensation is so intense that I’m pinching my lips together, in case some of it leaks out and takes down a small city. I can’t even touch myself directly, there, because it’s far, far too much. I just have to circle around and around that one place, until I can feel it starting up inside me. I can feel that long, low stutter, that little hook that gets a hold of me and draws my orgasm out.

But I don’t want it to happen just yet, because he’s still talking.

‘Tell me what it feels like,’ he says, then hardly waits for the answer. ‘Does it feel good, baby, huh? It looks like it feels good. It looks like you’re gonna come all over your hand – oh, yeah, that’s fucking sexy when you arch your back like that. That’s it, that’s it, rock your hips …’

He’s still talking, and I’m still going crazy over it.

‘Moan for me, baby,’ he says. And you know what? I do. I make this frantic, desperate, ridiculous sort of sound, all drawn out and far too loud. Then once I’m done with it, I do it again. I moan again – this time higher and more protracted – because, by God, it’s a great thing to do. It’s so freeing, in a way I’d never really considered before, and when I hear my own voice I don’t want to curl away from it.

It spurs me on instead. It makes me stroke myself harder, faster, and after a while I actually prop myself up so I can watch whatever he’s watching. I want to see what’s making him gasp and say such filthy things, and when I do I kind of understand. The material has slid to one side and you can see little glimpses of me. And the way I’m working myself is just so … out of control. It’s like I can’t get enough, like I’m completely lost to this pleasuring of myself.

And I can’t deny how good that looks.

Or how good he looks, standing over me.

I don’t know when he got up, but he’s there when I open my eyes. And he’s watching me with such intensity that it’s hard to bear at first. I almost squirm away, before a million things drag me back: the sight of his erection, straining so impossibly against his jeans. His parted lips, his foggy gaze … the words he’s still spilling all over me.

‘That’s it, keep going. Keep doing it – you gonna make that pussy come, huh? You close? Come on, tell me, tell me,’ he says, and this time I can. I’m at that point where words are possible, and they just shove out of me in a rush.

‘Yeah, yeah, oh, God, yeah, that feels so good.’

‘How good?’

‘Ohhhhh, so good I’m gonna come all over my hand, oh God, I’m gonna come so hard, oh God oh God,’ I babble. In fact, I babble so hard and so insensibly that I do something else, without even meaning to.

I put his name on the end.

‘Oh Dillon,’ I say, and am just conscious enough to get a glimpse of the pleasure on his face, before my orgasm overwhelms me. Before it grabs hold of my whole body and wrings it out – from my swelling, pulsing sex, all the way up through my belly and my chest and right the way out of my mouth.

‘Dillon,’
I say again, but I don’t even care. He can be victorious about that, if he wants to be, because in all honesty I’ve never known anyone who was good enough
to
want to be. Who actually wants the small claim of his name, said by me as I shudder through pleasure that he brought about.

Because he did, oh, he did. I might have done the work, but this feeling I’m currently shaking through – this surging, bone-rattling, muscle-stiffening sensation – is courtesy of him. It’s him looking at me and wanting me to feel it, like some insane cheerleader on the sidelines of my orgasm. He makes me not want to be that shy shadow girl from my stories – the one who’s never sure and always ashamed; the way I’m ashamed, about almost everything.

Which is probably why I laugh, when I’m done.

Instead of shying away, I laugh with every inch of my body.

* * *

Of course, now that I’m my new confident and carefree self, I’m able to do things I previously wasn’t. I’m a strong and sure woman, and it’s totally, totally OK for me to go for his cock. It absolutely is. I even do it with a sly smile on my face, as though to say, ‘Hey there, stud, I know what you want.’

So it’s perhaps the most mood-dampening moment of my entire life when he kind of laughs, and manoeuvres my hands back down. I think something actually sinks inside me – but then, isn’t that the thing about sudden surges of confidence? They leave you with such a long way to fall, when they prove misplaced. I think I might actually be crestfallen, even though I didn’t know crestfallen was a real thing. I thought it was just a term people used to describe disappointed girls from the nineteenth century, who maybe didn’t get their lollipop.

And then I think of the other connotation of lollipop, and feel just as silly as I’ve ever done. Have I completely misread this whole situation? Maybe I looked utterly ridiculous, frigging myself into oblivion, and now he’s all put off.

He just doesn’t
seem
put off.

He says:

‘Really, it’s cool.’

But his face is the colour of … well … mine, and his cock has made a small military compound under his pants. He can’t even casually walk to the kitchen, because apparently it’s parade day at Fort Dillon’s Underwear.

I think he actually hobbles, so
obviously
he wants it. His lips might be saying no, but his body is definitely saying yes.

And then I realise I’m invoking the defence of sex pests everywhere, and have to pull myself up short before I get eight to ten in the sex-pestery wing of the nearest prison.

Good God, he makes me nuts. He makes me so nuts that I seem to have lost the brain power necessary for figuring all of this out – though, in fairness to me, he doesn’t exactly make it easy. After I’ve laid there for a while in my underwear, absolutely mystified and unsure how to proceed, he calls to me from the kitchen:

‘Hey, what do you want on your pizza?’

And I just don’t know how to answer that at all. I’m too unaware of the rules and parameters. Is getting a pizza proper post-orgasm etiquette, in the world of normal sexual behaviour? I just don’t know, because last time I did this with him I skied down his bed and then fled. And all the sex I had beforehand occurred when I was already living with the person, so once sexual contact had taken place we usually just went to sleep.

But I can’t go to sleep now, because he randomly wants to eat a pizza.

Unless he wants the pizza for reasons other than eating, in which case I really am in trouble. I’ve never had to use a stuffed crust to get a guy off before, and am pretty sure I’d be really bad at it. I’m not even good at the ordinary stuff, like persuading a guy to let me take his pants off. I’m sort of secretly hoping he’ll have already done it when he finally emerges from the kitchen – but he hasn’t.

He’s still completely covered in clothes.

Which only makes me feel more naked. It’s like I turned up for a date in just my underwear, even though that seems really unfair. He didn’t tell me that we were going to suddenly switch from sex to whatever this is, and now I’m totally unprepared. I’m caught midway between a million things – standing and sitting, pulling my shirt on and leaving it off – while he continues being all casual and blasé.

He even hands me a Coke, while I’m still standing there with my hand in one sleeve. And then he takes a seat, and puts his feet up on the coffee table that wasn’t there the day before. He’s had a hard evening’s work, I guess, and now it’s time to … relax?

I don’t know, I don’t know.

But, dear God, I wish he’d say.

‘You gonna sit down? Pizza won’t be long.’

That probably counts as saying, right? At the very least, he doesn’t want me to leave immediately. It’s not as if he’s done his business with me and now it’s time for me to go. I’m supposed to sit – maybe in the chair opposite in him – and that’s a good foundation for me to work with.

But it still lacks one crucial point.

Am I supposed to be dressed or not? It feels kind of weird for me to not be, at this point, but at the same time I can’t shake the sense that it would send a signal. Putting my clothes back on means that I’m all set, and couldn’t care less what happens with him. I’m ready to walk right out of the door, and he
still
hasn’t had a single thing from me.

And that just seems crazy. It’s completely backwards. Right now, I should be the one unsatisfied, and yet somehow I’m not. Or maybe I am, but it’s really different from the usual sort of vague disappointment.

I’m not sad for myself.

I’m enraged for him. I’m full of five thousand things I could do to him, right now – all of them tumbling through my mind one after the other in a great orgiastic burst of tangled limbs and wet mouths and, ohhhh, God, I bet he’d like that. Would he like that? I bet he’d
love
it. I bet he’d like it so much that he’d –

‘So, Kit. You work in a library, right?’

What is
happening
? I can’t even answer without putting an ellipsis in the middle, because I’m so unsure. Is he really wanting me to talk, or is this some kind of test? It feels like a test, but if it is I’ve no clue about the answers. This is what I go with:

‘I … guess.’

Like some timid pupil, who wishes they hadn’t raised their hand.

‘That’s pretty cool.’

‘… thanks?’

I don’t know how a question mark gets on the end of that word. It just creeps in, without my permission – and of course it says so much, once it’s there. It’s says that I find my job so dull I can’t even accept a compliment about it without asking someone if they’re sure.
Are you certain you meant cool
?

I think you should have gone with utterly mundane, completely mediocre … the job of a person who’s afraid to forge a path through life, and instead settles for cardigans and catalogues and unsatisfying relationships with a man.

Like this one, only the
other way around
, it’s the
other way around.

Why can’t he see that it should be the other way around?

‘Do you wear little glasses?’

‘Um … sometimes.’

‘And your hair pinned up.’

‘Well, it’s best for work, so …’

‘With strands falling out all over the place.’

‘I guess, but, you know, it’s just because my hair is so unmanageable and there’s this one kind of piece that never wants to … wants to … Wait. How do you know all of this?’

I have a sudden flash of him staring in through the tiny murky ankle-level windows that look down into my little basement lair – my section of encyclopaedic tomes and books of historical importance that no one bothers to come and see.

Except for him, with his imaginary peeping.

It has to be imaginary, right?

‘I don’t, really.’

Oh, thank God, it’s imaginary.

‘I was just listing all the attributes of some sexy librarian cliché I have in my head.’

I think I was a little hasty with the ‘thank God’. Peeping I could have probably dealt with, but some ghost of me who might actually be sexy … that’s a tougher call. Especially when I’m still standing here with half a shirt on, unsure whether I should sit down or not.

And when I finally do, it’s certainly not a sexy thing to see. My legs are still quite rubbery, and they fumble around on the way there. Then once they’re seated, they’re not sure how to place themselves. I’ve always been really bad at crossing one over the other – my legs are so short and chubby that they never seem able to do it right. But of course I can’t sit with them gaping open, because my shirt barely grazes my underwear.

So in the end I settle for knees primly together.

Like a librarian.

A sexy librarian.

A sexy librarian who’s just realised she’s buttoned her shirt up wrong.

‘Oh … uh …’ I say, and go to sort them out. Somehow I’ve put the top one in the third hole, which is bad even for me. I tend to go to work with the two sides just a fraction out of alignment, but this isn’t a fraction at all. I’m practically showing boob on one side and stomach on the other.

Not that he cares.

He stops me before I can fix it.

‘No, no,’ he says with a laugh. ‘Leave it like that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s cute. You’re cute.’

‘I don’t think cute is the technical term for what I am.’

‘No? Then enlighten me.’

‘I think it’s called
being a disaster
.’

‘And you don’t think your disastrousness is the least bit adorable?’

I’ve no idea what to say to that. Mainly because I’ve never considered the concept he’s talking about in any way whatsoever, but also because he seems so certain. He’s a very certain person, Dillon. He kind of bulldozes you with his total conviction, until you find yourself somehow sitting on a chair of his in a badly buttoned shirt, unable to think of anything but sucking him.

Just ask, my brain whispers. But my brain can’t be trusted. It’s turned into a total idiot, and besides … there’s something else I’m starting to wonder. Because he did say that thing about loving patience and holding off. So it could well be that this is all just part of his master plan, to possibly have an orgasm so intense it collapses the fabric of space-time and turns the Earth into a giant black hole.

In which case I’m all for it – despite the bit where my body gets spaghettified due to the intense pressures of his insane gravity. I mean, that’s kind of happening to me anyway. So, really, where’s the issue?