Control (6 page)

‘I do it … I sometimes do it three or four times a day. I’ve done it in the shop, too. I did it while you were on the phone to Barrett and Bates. I came so hard that my knees buckled, when I thought about you telling them that they simply weren’t satisfactory.’

His words come out in a breathless rush, as though it’s not really him talking at all. At the end, he swallows thickly – like everything just vomited out.

Me, on the other hand – I’m holding my breath. I’ve been electrocuted by his words about coming and masturbating and three or four times a day, and it seems incredible that I even manage to talk again at all. Never mind actually getting the following words to burst out of me:

‘Now get on the bed, and show me how you do it.’

He does so immediately. No protestations, no hesitation. He’s even unzipping and shoving his trousers down his thighs as he goes, hands jerky and fumbling, legs tangling together. When he sprawls back on that pristine bed, it takes everything in me not to simply fall on him.

My entire body feels possessed by my cunt, and there’s no longer just a trickle between the cheeks of my arse – there’s a waterfall. My thighs are wet. My clit seems immense and it aches, solidly, relentlessly. But I stay standing, and I watch, I watch. I watch him stop watching me so that he can stare at the ceiling and maybe pretend I’m not here. I watch him shove his neat grey jockeys down, and take his eager cock in his frantic hand.

His thighs stay caged by his trousers and underwear but somehow that just adds to the overall effect: the one that fills me with bursting, slippery desire. It gets worse when in between rough tugs at his cock, he brings his hand up to his mouth, to lick a wet stripe over the palm.

Before returning to stroke, all over and around his thick shaft. He arches almost clean off the bed, to feel it, body twisting and awkward but never losing that tight jerking grip on his thick shaft. The less he seems aware of me, the quicker and meaner he goes at it, rutting up into his hand like a filthy animal, stifling his groans against the press of his lips.

However he has to look at me, when I hand him the vibrator. His expression makes me want to take off all my clothes and spread my legs – you know, for the view. But it seems I’m just fine fully clothed, because he bucks harder into his fist as his eyes travel down my body, and he presses that sweet buzz between his legs, no problem at all.

I watch him rub it over his perineum, his tight sac, the slick tip of his cock, all the time squirming and eventually moaning with abandon. And then finally – and strangely, most arousing of all – he discards his little toy and ruffles his shirt and tank top up, so that he can come all over his own belly.

He grunts once, gutturally, his eyes now on his own surging prick, and then thick ribbons of come spatter over the surprisingly hairy and pretty taut expanse of his stomach.

Though describing it so doesn’t really cover how long it goes on for – long enough for his grunt to dissolve into whimpered moans. He makes a mess of his tank top despite his best efforts, too – he comes with such a force.

And then he’s just quiet, and still, and probably very embarrassed.

T
HE TIMER’S GOING OFF
, somewhere in the kitchen. Of course I’m amazed I can hear anything what with this clanging alarm bell of arousal clamouring away inside me, but there it is.

I’m torn. On the one hand: extreme horniness. On the other: I don’t want him to burn to death with his trousers around his ankles and spunk splattered all over him.

It just skirts way too close to dying of horniness.

While he’s still immersed in bliss and not thinking too hard about what he’s just done, I snap to a decision – quick to the kitchen, all heating appliances off, then back to appease the nagging harpy between my legs.

It takes longer than I had anticipated, however – mainly due to the fact that his cooker is three hundred years old. Immaculate, but still – most likely hand cranked. The lasagne’s probably being reheated by a light bulb.

Plus there’s the fact that I get distracted, by the photos that aren’t on the front of his fridge, and the post-it notes that aren’t stuck to his neat little cork notice board. He has a cat calendar, and the only thing on it for this month is
begin work
, in his tense handwriting.

I wonder if he ever wears the vaguely flowery apron, hung on the back of the door. I wonder if I’m
ever
going to get satisfaction, from a man who owns scented notepaper.

I’m guessing not, judging by his appearance when I make it back to the bedroom. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed he jerked off not moments before. Would not have believed it. It looks like he’s just finished chapter seven of Uninteresting Books For Boring People. He looks
tidied, cleaned, put back together again
. His trousers are zipped and his hair is smoothed, and he goes to say something that won’t be explanatory – something light and irrelevant, I imagine, like
shall we eat
?

I’ll tell him what he can eat, all right.

I can feel tension creeping up my back. My lips, pinching themselves together. I want to kick his legs out from under him, but instead words force their way up, before he can talk about lasagne.

‘Gabe – you weren’t going to leave me like this, were you? How rude.’

On the word
rude
, his lips part. He looks startled, uncomfortable.

‘Of course not!’ he blurts out.

‘Then why are you dressed again?’

He searches the room for inspiration, and I’m pretty sure I can actually
see
his mind working. Figuring out the ratio of immorality to sex. If he puts a hand on my tit, is hell just around the corner, or down the next street?

But it’s me who’s too immersed in hell thoughts, it seems, because when he
does
step to me, it’s so sudden that I start. He reaches out – almost wary, I think – and then strokes one hand down my arm. Just that. Nothing more.

Though it’s still entirely possible that I gasp. I feel as though I haven’t been touched in a decade, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s
Gabe
who’s doing the touching. Gabe, who often seems too terrified to make eye contact.

Even if he’s not too terrified to do this. He rubs his hand up and down, up and down – almost like a friendly reassurance, if it were not for my trembling response. I shudder as I watch him watching himself touching me, his too-dark and too-intense eyes following his own hand, over the shivering sensitive inside of my arm. He follows it all the way up to my shoulder, where his fingers pinch and rub the material of my shirt in the most weirdly lewd way.

And then the lewdness flickers over to something else, as quickly as it had arrived. Something else
worse
, because I think he might actually be about to kiss me. He’s very tall, so it’s not hard to miss. He has to lean down, and come so close to me, and I think of all those cheesy movies with the hero going in finally, finally for a kiss. The heroine swooning, hardly able to believe it.

This wasn’t what I had in mind, when I started this. And yet I find myself tilting my face up to his, as his parted lips get closer and closer, and all I can think of is the utter hilarity of an odd backwards movie kiss.

That doesn’t make me want to laugh. By God, I think I might actually be swooning – at the very least, I don’t think I’ve ever closed my eyes before, on feeling someone’s mouth pressed to mine. And he’s so tender and so gentle that it makes me ache, in a hundred odd and completely unused places. Unfortunate, really, that I don’t have all day.

I want to touch his body and I want him to touch mine, and I want to be naked and writhing with him, immediately. So I worm one sly hand beneath the prison of his olive green tank top. And maybe I also curl my tongue, around his earlobe.

He goes stiff against me, and stiffer yet when I poke said tongue right into his ear. Though really I think it’s the combined effect of me gripping his jaw hard and holding his face down where I can reach, on top of my exploratory probings.

He makes a sound like this:
unf
. And when I lean in to kiss him, his mouth is soft and yielding. He sags against me, lips no longer quite so mean, fingers finding the slick mess I’ve made of his right ear.

Clearly, he’s still sensitive from that earlier orgasm – he can’t seem to take it when he touches the wetness, and his reaction gets even more pronounced when I stroke over one still hard nipple. There is whining, and wriggling, and when I move to pinching that firm little bud, he lurches forward as though doing so will get more contact on his cock.

It doesn’t, however. I shy my lower body away from him in perfect tandem, and then tug and twist at the nipple I’m still playing with until he gives even more over to me. Even more cries of pleasure, even more squirming and whining – it opens him up to such an extent that when I push for it, he lets me slide my tongue into his mouth.

And of course I know that, ordinarily, such a thing wouldn’t be world-shaking. I can’t remember the last time I had a kiss, without some tongue. But with Gabe, everything seems to have a new level of lewd – my hand up his tank top is like a hand on someone’s cock. Pinching his nipples through his clothes seems akin to something far dirtier, like, say, forcing someone to masturbate with a vibrator.

And sticking my tongue in his mouth is like fucking it.

He makes a little startled sound, before moaning blissfully – exactly the way I imagine he’d respond, if I did just fuck him. His mouth moves against mine tentatively, at first, but then with a little more boldness as my hand slips beneath the confines of his shirt.

It takes some tugging and wrestling, but I manage it. And then my hand is on his bare stomach, his bare chest, while he presses his lips to mine, wetly.

It’s a shock, to discover that he’s as hairy everywhere as that glimpse had suggested. Somehow I’d imagined him largely smooth and soft, but there’s nothing to apply those two adjectives to. His torso is uniformly hard and lean, thick with hair and utterly masculine.

He goes to say something, when I twist a few strands around my fingers. Something embarrassed or awkward, that I muffle with my mouth forced against his. This time when I kiss him, his tongue flickers against mine. Just a little. Almost as though it isn’t doing such a thing at all.

And when I move back, he moves forward, eating at my mouth hungrily, slippery tongue getting bolder and bolder until I’m trembling again, and more aware than ever of just how wet I am.

It comes in fits and starts, however. He’ll kiss and kiss me and explore my mouth until our jaws ache, but then he’ll stop and pull back, and every muscle in his body will suddenly tense against mine. Only when I grasp a handful of the thick hair at the nape of his neck does he push forward again, seek me out again, moan thickly into my mouth.

But I can see that this is all building to him pushing me away. He feels hot and too feverish, shivery-sensitive everywhere and eager to get away from my prying hands. And sure enough, after what seems like a desperate age of frantic making out, he tugs away from me, turns his face to one side.

Even in the low light of his bedroom, I can see the flush devouring his cheeks and throat. His lips are kiss bruised and pouty-slick, and I just want to go for another round, just one more round of this juvenile sticky fumbling – like I’m back in college again, wrestling with my boyfriend in the back seat of his Ford Fiesta. Tongue-y kissing seeming like the height of filth, my sex so wet and filled with ache that I could die from it.

I am going to die, if it isn’t my turn, soon.

‘Don’t –’ he starts, but he doesn’t get any further. Or at least, not with words. Instead he tries to shove my hands down and out of his shirt, struggling to straighten himself before he’s even free of me.

Even stranger, as soon as my hands are away from his bare body, he actually
reaches
for me, again. His left hand – much bigger and broader than his lean frame suggests – cups the back of my neck, my jaw. He reels me in as though forgetting how nervous and hesitant he appears in every other way, and when he kisses me this time, it’s hotter. Bolder.

While his right hand … his right hand moves forward, to cup my breast.

I go rigid. I think I come. Either way my defences are down and all rational thought flees – I don’t care what he does next, or what I do next, or what he wants. Just please have him carry on doing what I think he’s doing: unbuttoning my shirt.

Whatever it is, he does it quickly and with fumbling fingers, as though at any moment I might stop him. His kisses grow sloppy and erratic, each one punctuated by a desperate groan or hum of pleasure.

It’s clear: he didn’t want me to undress him. But he sure wants me to be undressed.

I let him push me back onto the bed, body thrilling at this brief new side to him. So eager and hungry for something, for me – indeed, once my shirt is unbuttoned he moves back, almost crouching on the edge of the bed with my body sprawled out before him, and the look he gives me as he does it …

His dark eyes gleam, assessing me, and he chews on that plump bottom lip as his hands wander over the skin he has exposed: the almost-flat plain of my stomach, the steep hills of my breasts still encased in black silk. My nipples are standing out stiff and proud through the material, I know, but I don’t
know
it until his lips part on seeing them. On seeing my tits, my throat, my collarbone. The little dip of my belly button, that he touches first.

I feel him press just one finger there, tentative and curious, before laying his big hand over my stomach. Then he spreads his fingers wide, taking in as much skin as possible, before sliding his hand up, up, to the valley between my breasts.

He doesn’t quite let himself touch them, however. I think he might be waiting for permission, but his soft shaking breaths and marvelling eyes tell a different story. I think he knows he’s allowed – more than allowed. This is his chance to explore.

I don’t have any choice. I have to ask, ‘You want me to take off the rest?’

His patiently wandering gaze flicks up to meet mine, suddenly agitated again but no less arousing for it. I like his agitation, his nervousness – both rub against my tingling hot spots like calloused fingertips, though I couldn’t say why.

‘Is that what you want?’

He doesn’t answer again, but his jaw tightens when I shimmy back on the bed and away from him. I lean against the headboard, smoothing my skirt and almost closing my shirt as I go. Prim, again. Neat.

‘Tell me you want me bare, and I’ll give it to you.’

His eyes flash wide for the barest second, before he composes himself again. Though in all honesty, his composure is not what it should be. His hair has slanted sideways and his mouth can’t seem to close, and I can see the tension in his thighs and his shoulders. The tremble through every inch of him.

And of course, he’s hard again – I can see the thick jut of his cock through his tweedy trousers. When he passes one hand over this obscene bulge, unconsciously, my sex swells against its cotton confines. I feel as though I’ve been straitjacketed, down there. I feel too full and uncomfortable, just aching all over to remove my clothes in ways my words belie.

‘You’re teasing me,’ he says, after a second – but he doesn’t sound upset. ‘Are you going to refuse if I ask?’

I suppose he would seem very practical and ordered, like usual, if it were not for the tremor running through his voice. That cut of hoarseness, right at the back.

‘Is that what other girls did, on this prim little bed?’

His face doesn’t darken, the way I expect it to. The question bounces right off him, not hitting the mark of offence that someone who’d been snubbed would certainly have.

He just shakes his head. As though there haven’t been any girls
to
snub him.

‘If you want it, you have to ask,’ I say.

His thick brows gather together, but not really in anger or frustration. Again, I can practically
see
him considering and struggling, attempting to plot out his next move.

‘Shouldn’t you just be telling me what to do?’ he asks, and though it’s true that a thick gush of pleasure goes through me when he says such a thing, I wonder what ideas about sex are floating around in that complicated brain of his.

‘No – I think I’d like this, instead. I think I’d like you to ask me. I think I’d like for you to come and get it.’

His brow smoothes out, but he looks no less disconcerted.

‘Take –’ he begins. And then again: ‘Take …’

I think about him looking at my shoes. My dirty, sharp little shoes on his beautiful polished floors.

‘What do you want, Gabe? Would you like to see my tits?’

His eyes close briefly, on the word
tits
.

‘Yes.’

‘Then ask.’

‘Why do I have to –’

He stops himself, before his words become a frustrated shout.

‘Because I say so. Go on, be dirty. Say I want to see your tits, Madison.’

He shakes his head, almost amused.

‘I can’t say that.’

‘Then say Ms Morris. Ms Morris, I’d like to see your tits. You can make an appointment, if you like: Mr Kauffman to view the breasts of Ms Morris five seconds hence.’