Control (7 page)

Of course he knows I’m mocking him – just a little, not enough to singe, I hope – but he goes for it anyway. All in a jumbled rush, as though the words are sharp and scour his insides as they go.

‘Take off your bra for me,’ he says.

It’s close enough. Who am I to deny him, after an internal battle like that? And when he adds the word
please
on the end, well. I just want to shove my hand into my knickers and bring myself off, immediately.

‘Shirt first?’ I prompt, and his mouth almost makes a smile.

‘Yes,’ he replies, breathy and bashful.

I kneel up on his uncomfortable bed, stockings almost making me lose my way, and then I take my time. I unbutton the cuffs of my shirt; I fold it neatly once it’s off. And all the while his impatience vibrates against me, a living, arousing thing, made worse by his inability to push through it. He doesn’t demand or ask anything further of me, though he shakes with the need to.

When I unclip the bra and slide it down my arms, finally exposing my breasts to his heavy gaze, his passes one hand over the bulge in his trousers, again. This time, it lingers there. It really rubs, and his tongue flickers out to lick his firm lips.

The cool air feels wonderful on my tense nipples, but I bet that tongue would feel even better. Not that I think he’s going to do anything like that, of course. No, instead he says in this blank, strange voice, ‘Turn around.’

At first I’m sure I’ve misheard. Not only because it’s Gabe actually telling me to do something off his own bat, but because the request itself is so … odd. I thought he wanted to see my tits. The back view’s not half so interesting.

And yet he’s waiting, he’s just waiting for me to obey.

So I do. I turn slowly, on my knees. Consider putting my hands on the headboard – even though that seems much more like an Andy sort of request. It seems like an Andy thing to do, too, when he puts one firm hand on my back, and bends me forward.

Somehow I end up on my hands and knees, facing the giant cross that isn’t over his bed. And though I adore many deliciously naive and awkward things about Gabe, I won’t lie. The newness and unexpectedness of this act prickles delightfully along the length of my spine.

For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to fuck me. His hands even go to my thighs, and he pushes my skirt up until I know most of me’s exposed to him. Just a strip of white knickers between his gaze and my cunt, and that’s got to be see-through by now. I can feel the sodden material trying to merge with my flesh, in some sort of awful shameful fashion.

Even though it’s Gabe that should be ashamed. He’s the one with all that baggage on him. And yet when I imagine his precise eyes assessing me, his carefully measured repression, doling out his slight, sighing reactions – my cheeks heat. I clench his perfect bedspread into white-knuckled fists, expecting maybe disapproving words:
you little slut. Look at that soaking wet pussy. You know what you need? You need a big fat dick in that whore’s cunt
.

Of course, no such words come. Instead I hear and feel him move off the bed, and I bark it out before I can stop myself:

‘Don’t you fucking go anywhere, boy.’

He hiccups around his response, but that’s OK. I hiccupped inside, while saying those words.

‘I won’t – don’t worry, I’m not.’ A pause, full with heat and tension. ‘Come closer to the end of the bed.’

I do, without looking – looking would spoil the surprise. Maybe he’s going to fuck me, long and hard. Maybe he’s going to tease and torment me. Maybe he’s going to play the sudden authoritarian, and spank me. How dare I toy with him, like this!

And it could be that’s what I want. Or what I deserve, at the very least.

However, I know what he’s actually doing, when I hear it – and it makes me thrill more deeply than any shame-based fantasy. He’s kneeling on the ground.

‘Gabe,’ I say, but he just tells me, in this breathless sort of voice, ‘It’s OK. It’s fine – I know what I’m doing. I know how to work this out.’

And then he just presses that gorgeous mouth to the tense strip of material between my legs, without having to be asked.

I have to hold in the sob of relief and pleasure because there’s no way I want him to hear it. It seems that I don’t want to do anything, apart from focus on the sudden slow drag of what must be his tongue, over that wet material.

His hands skate over the backs of my thighs and then up, beneath the folds of my skirt – and I think I know what he’s going for, even if the way he lets himself squeeze and fondle my arse – even daring to explore the cleft between – makes me doubt his intentions. I get a sense of being uncovered, or being detailed and mapped out like a science experiment …

And then his hands slide further up, and find the elastic of my knickers.

Most of which would be just as excruciatingly pleasurable even if he weren’t feverishly tonguing my slit through clinging material, at the same time. But as it happens he’s doing both, and so it seems that I’m getting close to coming without anything like serious contact on my clit.

I think of Greg, saying
oh, do I have to?
I think of Kevin, getting bored after five minutes. I think of Andy’s cock in my mouth.

And I judder, from head to toe.

I don’t think I can stand him inching my knickers down. Of course I knew he was going to do it, but it still makes me delirious when the thin straps dig and roll against my tensing flesh. Cool and blissful air hits the furnace between my legs – God, I wish he’d go on peeling these off me for ever.

But all too soon they’re at my knees, and dear Lord he’s
lifting
my leg – just a little, just enough so that he can complete the operation. Knickers all the way off. Bare arse and pussy exposed. I bet it looks like sticky honey, in this low light. I bet I look as lewd as fuck.

Though of course he doesn’t say so. He doesn’t say anything at all. Instead his breathing gets higher and tighter, and he sighs like the dying wind just before touching me right.
There
.

Nothing more. More’s enough.

I immediately push back against his delicately probing fingers, but only because I can’t help myself. It’s my intention to be patient – I want this pleasure to go on coiling itself for ever in the pit of my belly, but I’m desperate. I’m so wet that the barest touch slicks and slides his fingers the entire length of my slit, whether he wanted to go there or not.

It makes me sure that the first time he sinks something into me is not because he intended to. He just presses and fondles and runs unsteady fingers over and around each fold until suddenly he’s inside me, and I’m spread right open for him.

He moans, then – a real moan, tremulous and deep. I think he goes to say actual words, too – maybe about how hot I am, how slick – but like me he’s probably too engrossed in the slippery sounds I’m making. That click when he pushes a second finger into my greedy hole, then separates them. Tests me out, until whatever he’s feeling makes him shudder far more than it should.

It’s only when he starts fucking into me, though, that I know for certain he’s masturbating while doing so. He’s now groaning, quietly, almost constantly, and there’s another rhythm to his movements alongside this jerky fingering.

I think it’s all just having a cascade sort of effect. He pumps his fingers into me faster, twisting and searching in my slick heat, and then just as he finds what I think he’s actively looking for – that little bump inside me, that small collection of nerves – his mouth presses messily to my sex once more, over and around the slow steady push of his hand.

The first flicker of his tongue against my pussy is electric and impossible. I doubt it’s actually happened – he feels too greedy, too open-mouthed, suddenly feverish and hungry for my slippery cunt. And that’s definitely my G-spot he’s found. I don’t know how, but he’s curling his fingers and rubbing and all I can think is
science experiment science experiment hey Professor, Gabriel found her G-spot first! Look, she’s going to come!

It makes me long to see him. I think I know why he didn’t want me to face him – so bad, such a dirty boy! – but I need to. I need to see and know and I need a lot of other things, too, until he slithers his tongue over every inch of me, before coming to rest right on my clit.

Then I don’t need anything at all. I find my voice at that point, all right. I shout. I boil with obscenities.
Yes, lick my clit
, I tell him.
Lick it, you dirty little slut. Fuck my cunt
.

Words come out of me that I’m sure would make him melt through the floor, if we were fully clothed and face to face. And all the while I rock against his teasing mouth and tear at the sheets and pant as though I’m possessed, each kiss of my clit he manages to land promising to be
that
one, the one that pushes me into orgasm.

I’m so close I can taste my climax on the soaring edge of each fumbling, greedy lick.
Harder
, I tell him,
harder
, and though he obliges I’ve been too excited for far too long. I’m jammed up, locked down tight. I have to put my face to the bed because I definitely can’t hold myself up.

‘Just your fingers,’ I say, finally. ‘Just your fingers, and then tell me, tell me exactly what you’re doing.’

I think it makes it better that he obeys me immediately, without restraint. His voice jangles through me, thick with desire, as his thumb slides down to rub the tense underside of my clit.

‘I’m –’ he begins, but maybe he doesn’t finish with what he thought he was going to. Instead, he rushes out:

‘Oh Jesus – I’m gonna come.’

Just before my entire body clenches and gush after gush of pleasure goes through me, so intense I trap his hand and shout into his bedspread. I can feel my cunt spasming around his still working fingers, my clit jumping against his pressing thumb, everything inside me pushing towards one thing for what seems like forever. It goes on so long, I can’t remember when it began and when I’m done, through a haze of utter dissolution and shivering aftershocks, he asks, ‘Would you like another?’

H
E LOOKS FLUSHED AND
pleased with himself, when he comes into work the next day. Like he has a secret that no one else knows – the secret of my pussy, obviously.

I puzzle about it all day as we dance around each other – him coy, me so eager to slap his gorgeous arse it’s like a sickness – serving customers, straightening and tidying and making idle chit-chat about the weather.
God, it’s icy
, he says.
Yes it is
, I say, as thoughts of the body I still haven’t properly seen and of his furtive, dirty knowledge eat away at my insides.

I want to run
my
finger down the cleft of his bare arse – maybe while his rigid cock is deep in my mouth or my pussy. I want
him
to kneel on a bed and spread for me. I want him to tell me everything, everything about how he knew to do me so good.

I’m guessing it’s the books. He knew what he was doing because on page thirty-six of
Hearts Aflame
, the hero sticks his tongue into the hot wet mess of the heroine’s cunt.

But I’ve got to ask, anyway. I ask after I’ve run a couple of errands, and come back to find him making me a coffee in the kitchen.

It’s become a sort of tradition, now. I come back or come down from my luxurious moments of time to myself, and he has a closing-time cup of coffee ready for both of us – the only one he has all day. I’ve tried to get him to take more breaks, but he just won’t. In truth, I don’t think he even drinks coffee.

But he does it when we can drink it together, and I always want to sacrifice my me-time for the exact same thing. If I spent the afternoons with him, instead, why – think of the things we could get up to! Think of the things we could get up to if I didn’t open the shop at all. Think of the things we could get up to if I did nothing but roll around with him naked, in my bed or his bed or maybe not even a bed –

‘Hey,’ he says. His face lights up when he sees me – it really does. He had seemed flustered and withdrawn once everything was done with, the night before.

But I think he’s ready to talk, now.

Even if he does go very still, all over, when I put my hand on his arse. Not sweetly, either – not a pat or something you could mistake for another thing. I spread my greedy fingers over the entirety of one cheek, and let them wander into the cleft between. It’s a hard task, pushing tweed into someone’s butt crack. But I persevere.

The coffees in front of him are briefly forgotten – and they’re forgotten even more, when I stroke. When I squeeze. He doesn’t look at me, but I can almost feel his awareness of my hand and my body, now pressing ever so lightly against his side.

I get my mouth very close to his ear, calves straining as I go up on tiptoe, and whisper,

‘Where did you learn how to be such a filthy little pussy eater?’

He looks at me, then, big-eyed, but with that same pleased-with-himself-ness playing around his mouth. It doesn’t stop him glancing towards the kitchen door, however.

‘Someone could come in,’ he says. I guess he knows the drill, by now. It’s not as though I’m going to leave things at an arse grab and a dirty question. ‘The door isn’t locked.’

‘No one ever comes in past five,’ I reply, and then squeeze, nice and tight, until
he
goes up on tiptoe. ‘So come on. Where did you get it from?’

‘I
read
,’ he blurts out. I think he’s already half-cut with arousal and jangling nerves and other things delicious. ‘You know I do.’

‘You’ve read about fucking a woman with your fingers while licking her clit?’

He meets my eyes straight on, then. His pupils are fat and I think he might be almost smiling, but his expression still says – don’t play silly beggars.

‘You know what’s in those books, Madison.’

I think my nipples peak, when he says my name. He’s got quite a deep voice, really, and it curls around
Madison
as though savouring its flavour.

‘I do. But it could be you got the idea from somewhere else. Maybe some older woman, when you were too young to know any better. Shoving your hand between her legs after you’d mowed her lawn.’

He actually chuckles. Ducks his head.

‘I didn’t mow lawns. And there was no older woman. I just … I’ve always been good at putting theory into practice.’ His eyes dart all over my face. ‘I’m good with diagrams and working things out. I always have been.’

‘Are you going to work me out?’ I say, and that little faintly exasperated, tremulous smile becomes something more solid.

‘Is that what you want?’

‘I want you to show me all the theory you know, in great and varied detail,’ I say, and then I take his hand, and put it between my legs.

He lets out a little puffing breath and glances at the door again, but as he does so, he finds the time to run the pads of his fingers over my cotton-clad slit. Just a little test-out, to see what it’s like.

I’ll tell him what it’s like: wet and full and ready.

When he turns back I go to remove his glasses, but he shrugs me off. His gaze is fixed, concentrated on the hand between my legs, and he murmurs after a moment that he
needs to see what he’s doing
.

Right before pushing busy fingers into my knickers.

And then he presses, lightly, on the first thing he finds.

‘Mons,’ he says, in such a sweet explanatory tone that I would laugh, if I wasn’t fizzing and popping with anticipation. Is this what he’s going to do? Tell me all the theory, before we get to the practice?

I think it might well be.

He slides two v-ed fingers downward, the way eased by lubrication I’m already producing in excess. I think he says something about my near smoothness, my lack of fuzz, but it’s hard to tell when I’m breathing so hard and anything but strict anatomy comes out of him pushy and tense.

‘Labia,’ he says, clear as a bell, while his fingers skid stickily over my heated flesh. A little dart of feeling arrows through my chest and belly, but I can’t tell if it’s due to the simple, straightforward descriptions or the purposeful fondling.

‘Well – actually, this is your labia majora.
This
is your labia minora. It’s meant to be more sensitive, here, does it feel more –’

‘Oh, yes.’

His eyes spark with delight, before he looks back down at his careful, meticulous work. He’s so good, so clever, my Gabe.

Oh God.
My
Gabe?

‘And then here … here’s your clitoris.’ He frowns, ever so slightly. ‘I thought it would be less obvious – people talk about not being able to find it. But I can feel it really easily. I can feel it – though maybe that’s because you’re aroused.’

He looks up again, eyes big and searching.

‘Are you? You must be – you’re all slippery. And your clit’s all firm and swollen.’ He pauses. His eyes flick down. ‘Is it all for me?’

I guess what comes out of my mouth could be described as words, but they feel more like gargles of disbelief. Is he actually saying this stuff? What is it – OK if it’s an anatomy lesson? He got it all out so calmly, the bit about my slipperiness and my smoothness aside.

Yeah, that made him stutter, all right.

‘Who are you thinking about? That guy I saw you with?’

He doesn’t sound angry. His tone is almost … resigned.

‘You looked like you were enjoying what he was doing to you. I don’t know if I could ever be … I don’t know if …’

‘Kiss me. Kiss me while you touch me,’ I gasp, and he presses a chaste one to my lips as his fingers circle round and round my bursting clit. His caress is in no way hard enough, but it’s maddening and glorious all the same.

I have to grasp the nape of his neck and hold his mouth on mine, as I rut into that teasing touch. But he doesn’t pick up the pace or pressure – far from it. Instead his fingers slide down, down, to my greedy grasping hole.

He makes a sound into my mouth, as he sinks into me. I guess it feels good – I know it feels good to me. His fingers are so strong and thick, and he lets them glide and ease in and out, rather than pushing or forcing.

Before I might have said I liked it hard, but this is somehow just as good. It’s all so ripe and raw, his fingers stirring my slickness and his hot eager mouth on mine. His kisses are much wetter and more open, now, and he lets me fuck his mouth with my tongue. And when he pulls away, it’s only to tell me what he’s touching, and how. Not because he doesn’t enjoy the shameful thrill of being pushed and used by a woman.

He curls his fingers sharply, and rubs, and tells me he thought
that
would be hard to find too. But I guess he knows it isn’t, now – especially as I’m up on tiptoe, holding on to his shoulder, babbling at him to
let me sit down, let me sit down, I’m going to come
as though he’s the one in charge.

Though he doesn’t look it. He looks intense and fascinated, as his fingers twist in my pussy, thumb rubbing fitfully over my clit. He looks pleased that he’s got it all worked out, all the world forgotten – including his obvious erection – apart from my slick cunt.

‘Yes, yes – right there,’ I say, and then my thighs lock and my clit pulses and I moan my way through a shivering orgasm. I press his hand tight, between my legs – which is when he moans, too. Just a slight sound, but we’re suddenly so close that I can feel it, vibrating against me.

When I put my head on his shoulder, and relax all over – that’s when I notice Andy, in the doorway. Just standing there, leaning against the frame, arms folded over his chest.

He looks amused, I think – though it’s hard to tell when another man’s hand is still in my knickers, and I’m still buzzed and lax from a huge orgasm. I just want to lean against Gabe for ever, and not have to think about anything.

Especially not about whatever is probably coming, now. Somehow, I don’t think Andy is the type of guy to run away from a situation like this.

‘This your new boyfriend?’ he says. I can’t recall Andy being my old one, but I refrain from saying such a thing.

Gabe, on the other hand, snaps his full attention to Andy, immediately. Though he does so without removing his fingers from the insides of my knickers.

‘He looks like a real sweetheart.’

I wince, inwardly. Yeah, I don’t think this is going to go well, at all. What had he called Gabe, last time? A pansy?

‘Got him in the back of your shop, working real hard for you – I’m impressed.’

There are many possible things I could say, here: you shouldn’t be back here, Andy. You’re a pervert, Andy. Piss off, Andy. But I don’t say any of them. I just watch, and wait, as Gabe goes tense against me.

He doesn’t remove his hand from my knickers, however. I guess it’s a better mark of ownership, if it remains where it is. A badge of his good work and dedication – what a good boy he is!

Not like Andy. Nasty, spying, gorgeous Andy. Who’s getting closer by the second, to get a better look at what we’re doing.

‘Do you think she enjoyed that, mate?’ he asks, and I have to yank back my protective instincts – protective instincts I didn’t even know I had – on a leash.

But Gabe answers anyway, before I have to say anything.

‘Yes,’ he says, simply. It makes me want to pump my fist in the air for him.

Lord, this is all going horribly, horribly wrong.

‘I bet she did. I bet she did. You’re her little puppy dog, I’ll bet, jumping for a treat when she says jump.’

I hate Andy. I don’t know why I’m not telling him to get out.

‘No,’ Gabe says, but he doesn’t sound sure. There’s only so much effort you can pack into monosyllables, after all.

Andy raises an eyebrow. I think –
fuck
– I think he’s got an erection, and it looks almost as good as Gabe’s does, in those tight jeans. I guess tweed or otherwise – it doesn’t really matter. It’s still a fat thick cock, making perfect triangular shapes in material.

‘Really?’ he says, and then he’s close enough to touch my face. It seems incestuous, somehow, while Gabe and I are still attached like this.

‘She’s such a sexy bitch, though. I’d obey her.’

You liar
, I think, but I
still
don’t say. It could be that I want to see how this all plays out. Just a suspicion. And maybe more than a suspicion when Gabe says, sudden and through gritted teeth, ‘That’s not what I saw.’

And oh my heart goes pitty-pat, pitty-pat.

‘Yeah? What did you see, mate? Did you see me getting a little rough? Getting her to do what I wanted?’ He shrugs. ‘Maybe she needs a little of that, sometimes. After all – looks like she’s left you kind of high and dry.’

That is an
outrageous
accusation. If true.

‘But then I guess you’re not the sort of bloke who likes to order someone around. Am I right?’

Gabe doesn’t answer him. I don’t think the obvious intense arousal he’s labouring under is really helping him articulate. He seems trapped between confusion and suspicious anger.

‘But it’s real easy, I promise. Look, you just get her all worked up – and hey, you’ve already done that! Then you rub your groin, like there’s something pretty hot in there.’

I almost laugh. Is he serious? He’s got exactly
zero
chance of getting Gabriel to consciously do something so lascivious. He might as well ask Uwe Boll to make a good movie.

And I’m right, because he comes close to throwing an amused smile Andy’s way. I like his smile. It says:
you’re a Neanderthal
– which I suppose is true. But it’s also true that when Gabe starts to shake his head, Andy says, ‘No? OK – I’ll do it for you, mate. No worries.’

And then he
puts
his
hand
over Gabe’s
erection
.

I’m so stunned, I almost stop to check we haven’t flipped into an alternate dimension. I almost stop Andy myself, and I
definitely
expect Gabe to push him away. As passive as he sometimes appears to be, he doesn’t seem the type to accept a man’s hand on his groin – seriously, his sexuality is confused and shame-filled enough as it is. Another brick on top of the sandcastle and he’s going to end up underground.

Only he
does
take it. His cheeks burn a brilliant red and he shuts his eyes, briefly, but he doesn’t move an inch. He neither pushes away, nor pushes towards. He doesn’t even flinch, when Andy whispers in his ear, ‘So now she’s seen what you’ve got, you tell her you’re going to give it to her. Right? Tell her you want her on her knees, your cock in her mouth.’