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‘No!
Really
?’ she gasps – not quietly at all. Clearly she
did
think something was going on, between us. ‘But I thought … well. I don’t know what I thought.’

That I was sacrificing him to the God of lust? It wouldn’t be that far from the truth.

‘Yes. And you wouldn’t believe what he’s into.’

She snaps words out immediately, as though I was asking her to guess. I don’t think Derek is doing it for her, any more, I really don’t.

‘Cottoning!’ she says, and I almost burst out laughing.

I think she means
cottaging
. In fact, I’m deathly certain of it. I glance up at Gabe, wondering if this conversation is being heard and whether or not he’s hurt/confused/disturbed by my revelations, and find him looking over his shoulder, a frown so cartoonishly incredulous all over his face that it belongs on Jeanette.

I almost giggle, seeing it there. Even more so when quite stupendously, he mouths
cottoning?
at me.

Sometimes I forget, about Gabe’s wealth of knowledge.

‘Glory-holing,’ I say, and now his expression is just pure
don’t tell her that, are you talking about me, don’t tell her that!

But of course, he can’t come over here and tell us that he’s neither gay nor into sticking his dick through holes so that someone can suck it. Mainly because I’m fairly certain that he has an erection, by now.

The look over his shoulder says it all, really – he can’t turn his body, because then she’d see.

‘I don’t even know what that
is
.’

She’s still whispering. So am I – I don’t want to unduly disturb the female customer who’s currently looking at a copy of
Despairing Love
. You don’t want to destroy your business just because you’re trying to gently humiliate your little love slave, who’s standing squirming, in the corner.

Woman-in-raincoat buys five books – four tame, one dirty, naturally. Cardigan is far bolder – three works of absolute filth. It’s usually the case. Men are much more furtive during the coming in and browsing portion of the book shop experience, but they tend to buy the naughtier stuff.

Jeanette raises her eyebrows at me, when she sees the covers. I wonder if they’d make a loop all the way around her head, if she knew I’d ordered Gabe to circle passages in a book almost identical to one of the ones Cardigan has chosen.

When Cardigan’s gone, she leans in and asks me if Gabriel behaves himself, while he’s working.

‘Oh God yes,’ I reply. ‘He does everything to my complete satisfaction.’

I bet he’s aching, by the time Jeanette and the last customer of the day leaves. He was offered no respite. It’s been busy, and Jeanette wanted to talk during all the times we weren’t busy, and though he went and hid in the alcove I know he’s been sorely tested.

Still, when I lock the door and make my way slowly to the corner he’s standing in, the first thing he says to me is:

‘Should I carry on?’

He doesn’t keep his back to me. I can see the long line of his cock, through all that grey.

‘No. I think you’ve done enough, for today.’

‘I don’t think I’ve really earned my wage,’ he says. I think he has, but saying so would probably just make us seem much more like a prostitute and his perverted client.

I’ll save that for later, when he’s needing just that little extra twist of humiliation.

‘Well, I suppose you’ll have to work twice as hard for me tomorrow, then, won’t you?’

He looks satisfied, by that – or as satisfied as someone can be, when he’s breathless and lust-glazed. His hand – the one that’s not still holding a book and pencil – hovers restlessly close to his groin, as though it can’t wait to get at what’s there.

‘Do you want to masturbate?’ I ask, and he replies with a little muffled groan. ‘Don’t be ashamed. I do – I want to. I’ve been sitting on my little hard chair, grinding my wet pussy against it whenever I thought about the dirty things you’ve been reading.’

‘Really?’

Why does he always sound so surprised?

‘Of course.’ I take a step towards him. ‘Now – are you going to show me what you’ve been reading? Or do I have to guess?’

He moves quickly, then. To a stack of books behind him, on the little white windowsill. I hadn’t even noticed, but I thrill when I do. He didn’t just put them back on the shelf – he made a pile, for everyone to see!

‘I was going to let you guess,’ he says, still breathless – but now there’s an almost giddy quality to it. ‘But I thought it would be much more efficient to put them all together and give them to you. In order of preference.’

He’s a wonder, he really is. What would I do without him?

‘How thoughtful,’ I say, as he hands them to me. There are eight books, in total, and none of them look like the sorts of things a sweet, middle-aged, female customer would comfortably buy without a romance bolster.

When he leans in close, briefly, I can see the perspiration on his upper lip.

‘You can go, now.’

It kills me to say it. It really does. I’ve never wanted someone’s face between my legs so badly in all my life. But his expression tells me I’ve made the right decision – caught somewhere between frustration and a kind of odd delight.

He doesn’t say a word, in protest. He just nods, and as he goes to pass me, he does the strangest, most tender thing.

He leans in, and kisses my cheek, softly. Just a sweet little kiss, that makes a sound of sudden and intense arousal escape my lips.

I turn in time to see him fold his coat over his arm, to hide what walking funny will probably give away, regardless.

‘Good night, Madison,’ he says.

I can’t think of anything to say, in reply.

I
TAKE MY TIME
, getting to the books. It’s like I’m getting ready for a lover, only he’s made out of paper and pencil markings and I’m insane.

I shower, and wear something silky and black, and arrange them in front of me on the bed, in order of Gabe’s preference. Apparently he likes
Sin In Red
the most, and
Outdoor Pursuits
the least. Though I don’t think the word
least
really comes into it.

He’s not really judging them, after all. He’s just picking what he wants most, and I’m now going to get to find that out.

I open book one, and there it is, circled on page thirty-eight.

“He could feel the silk chafing against the head of his cock, a maddening reminder of what she had made him do. The panties felt too tight, restricting, as though her hand was constantly clasped there, around his aching shaft.”

How utterly, utterly delicious. And also how open to interpretation. What is it that he likes, about this? That a woman forced a man to wear her underwear? Is it just the idea of something silky, against his cock? Does he want to be restricted in some way, confined, is it the tightness?

I wonder – would I have found a pair of lacy knickers, if I’d have searched more thoroughly through his drawers? Dirty boy, filthy boy, fuck I love it.

And then there’s book two:

“His cock leapt in his hand, climax surging up from his tightly drawn balls. He couldn’t keep the strangled gasp in, as surge after surge of pleasure went through his already over-taxed body.

And it was at that moment, as thick spurts of come splashed against her pristine porcelain basin, that Delaney Marcus burst into the bathroom.”

God bless Delaney Marcus for pretending she didn’t know he was in there.

I remember Gabe saying how he’d jerked off after hearing me on the phone, but I had no idea he did it while thinking about me bursting in on him. I mean – that’s what he’s saying here, right? I might not be as cool and daring as Delaney Marcus, but I’m sure I could fill in, quite convincingly.

I want to burst on him, just as he’s coming. That would be absolutely excellent, I have to say.

And this is before I get to some of the other stuff – God, the things he’s into! He’s twice circled the scene in
Going Down
where the group of girls make the arrogant hero strip for them. And then there’s the bit where Marnie Sheriden slides a slick finger into Gregory Tate’s arse, and the bit in
Desperate Measures
when the reluctant heroine spanks the conflicted hero.

I’m amazed he’s even managed to find this much submissive guy/dominant heroine stuff, but he’s got laser guidance when it comes to it, it seems. He got the bit in
All Business
, when Bree makes Dirk wait, and wait, and wait. He got the bit in
The Hard Way
, when the two girls tease some little office schmuck until he cries for mercy.

It doesn’t escape my notice that a lot of them are my favourite parts, of these various books. It makes me wet just reading them, never mind the layer of Gabe’s tortured desires over the top of all of it.

I can’t stop myself from putting my hand between my legs, while thinking about him doing the same. He’ll probably still be wearing something – pyjamas or sweatpants, maybe. Hand burrowed inside, to get at his straining cock. Me – I just flip this little black thing all the way up to my stomach, legs spread, uncaring.

It’s not as though anyone’s going to walk in and see. I wonder if Gabe imagines that’s what’s going to happen, and so is forced to keep his clothes on, just in case. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t like his clothes off – maybe it’s the furtiveness of it, that gets him going. It’s certainly something, because he didn’t circle that forced-to-be-naked scene for nothing. Maybe it’s that he simply doesn’t like his own body, which makes me want to stop touching myself and start thinking about him in annoying, frustrating ways.

But I persevere. I picture him, again, with his hand pumping inside the material of something or other, hips rocking ever so slightly. Head pressed back into the pillow, mouth open – probably being noisy, too.

Or maybe he’s got his fist stuffed into his mouth, for fear that the neighbours will hear him. He hadn’t seemed to mind making a little bit of noise in the shop, but I remember him pressing sounds against his squeezed together lips, when we were in his apartment.

I guess it’s all about who’s around to hear – the old lady from next door, listening to him be a dirty masturbator … that just wouldn’t do. And especially if he does it three or four times a day.

What on earth would everybody think of him, if they knew?

I come downstairs the next morning, to find him already waiting outside. As though perhaps he has something to talk about with me, and just can’t wait to get to it. An hour later simply wouldn’t be good enough.

But when I open the door and let him in, he still can’t seem to find the words. He looks happy, and when he takes off his coat he does so in the oddest way – like he wants me to see him do it, like he wants me to think of stripteases and other things he clearly finds terrifying.

I think I might be able to persuade him to take his clothes off, some time soon.

‘Did you have a nice time, last night?’ I ask, and the grin he breaks into is delightful.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he says, and then there’s this weird pause, this sort of tense moment in which we just stare at each other.

Before I step to him, and he leans down, and we kiss, long and wet and stuffed full of this strange languid sort of sensuality. His hands slip around my waist and he caresses me, suddenly soft and sure, the slippery push of his tongue like a reminder, of all the things he didn’t dare do, before.

I take a step back, smoothing my hair and catching my breath as I go. He seems reluctant to let me do so.

‘Describe what you did last night,’ I say, after a moment, and I see him wipe his palms on his trousers. Could be they’re as sweaty as mine are.

‘I made myself paella.’

‘And before that?’

I expect him to evade, again, but he doesn’t. He keeps his face turned to one side, but he sticks to it.

‘I masturbated.’

‘Where?’

‘Standing up. With my back to the door.’

‘You couldn’t even wait, you dirty little mess.’

His eyelids flutter and almost shut.

‘No. I can’t wait, now. I did it once and then I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again, not until later, but I couldn’t concentrate on the television.’

‘Why not?’

‘I kept thinking about you, reading all those … things.’

‘Like how you want me to make you wear women’s underwear?’

His gaze clicks with mine, but it doesn’t look as terrified as I’m sure it would have, not so long ago. Instead he looks furtive – he licks his lips. His eyes are big and round and his chest seems to be almost heaving.

‘Would you … you wouldn’t really do that, would you?’

I’m glad I put a pair into my trouser pocket.

‘I thought hot pink might be your colour,’ I say, as I pull them out for him to get a look at.

He immediately shakes his head – but I think it’s just a reflex, really. I’ve hit him on the knee with a hammer of sex, and he has to voice some sort of protest. Otherwise he’s just easy as well as kink-riddled.

‘No,’ he says, faintly disbelieving.

‘I bet you’ll look fabulous in them. All that lovely pale skin against shimmering pink. Very nice.’

He screws up his nose, but then goes with something I don’t expect, ‘They won’t fit, Madison.’

‘What are you talking about? You’re skinnier around the hips than I am.’

‘I doubt that – but the hips aren’t my problem. You know they won’t fit.’ And then he leans forward, and whispers in this fabulous and hilarious co-conspiratorial way, ‘Because … you know. Because of my – I have trouble with underwear as it is.’

I giggle. I can’t help it. He rolls his eyes.

‘Well, I guess you’ll like it all the more then, right? Nice and tight on your big dick.’

He groans – I think partly with embarrassment.

‘Go on. Go to the bathroom and put them on. Or would you rather I make you do it here?’

He snatches the dangling slip of pink silk from my hand, at that. Almost angry, but not quite. And then he makes his way into the back, material bunched in his fist.

I wait until I hear the door lock, before I follow him back there. It’s no fun if I don’t get to hear him mutter and curse, after all, as he slides those little knickers up his thighs. Everything comes through muffled and jumbled up, but one thing gets to me loud and clear: the way he moans, when that silk clasps around his cock.

‘Feel good?’ I ask, and he makes a little startled sound. I guess he hadn’t known I was there.

‘It’s … can I take them off?’

‘Is it hurting you?’

He takes a moment, with that one.

‘I – no.’

‘Is it pressing nice and snug against your dick?’

Even more reluctant, this time.

‘Yes.’

‘Does it feel good?’

‘It feels like women’s underwear.’

I like it, when he’s funny.

‘Good. Now put your trousers back on and come out here. You do remember how you said you’d work extra hard for me, today, don’t you?’

‘I – wait. Wait, I can’t. Madison, I can’t.’

‘You mean you’re not going to keep your word?’

‘I can’t walk around with these on. You know I can’t.’

‘Then maybe you gave me the wrong passage to read.’

He makes a little exasperated sound.

‘No. No. It’s not that – I do want – God. OK.’ I hear him take a deep breath. ‘I can’t walk around with these on because they … they’re rubbing against me. It’ll just be too much.’

He sounds wretched. But in some really, really awesome sort of way.

‘You know what I mean, don’t you.’

‘You mean you might come in your brand new underwear. God, how disgusting.’ I pause. Just for effect, you know. ‘Now get out here.’

It takes a minute, but eventually the lock snaps. The door opens. He’s sweating, and smoothing down hair that doesn’t need smoothing.

‘Show me,’ I say, and he makes a sound like the wind, dying. ‘Just lift your jumper and pull down the waistband of your trousers, so I can see.’

The flash of pink is a sight to behold. As is him, showing it off. I love how he twists his body and rudely reveals it, like a dirty bitch showing off her obscene tattoo.

‘Very nice,’ I tell him, and he groans. Not in a despairing way, either. In an excited sort of way.

It turns out to be a very amusing day. At one point I see him crouch to get at a lower shelf, and when he does so his entire face changes, as though someone twanged a little string inside him. He has to stay like that, on his hands and knees, before whatever is going on inside him dies down.

But it’s OK, because luckily, a customer stoops to ask him if he’s all right. I guess she heard the faint noise of protest he made – that sigh of pleasure and frustration and fear, all the sounds so sweet and fumblingly sexual.

When it gets to lunchtime, I turn the open sign to closed and wait for him to go to the bathroom. Of course, I know what he’s going to do. He knows that I know. I can see him watching me, out of the corner of his eye. I can see him trying to hide the stiffness in his trousers, by holding a box in front of his groin.

He’s done the same all day. Such an assortment of things, to keep prying eyes off his erection. A cardboard sign, a plastic bag. Though really, it’s not as bad as it would usually be. The knickers seem to be holding him in nicely.

And by nice I mean in all senses of the word.

‘Where are you going?’ I say, but he doesn’t answer. He’s grim-faced and determined, likely not thinking about the scene he circled, where the heroine catches the hero, masturbating, frantically.

Or maybe he is thinking of that. He probably is. What else would he be thinking about?

When I go to the door I can hear him, breathing through it. At first a little hectic, but then with more rhythm. And every now and then, he’ll cut a sound or a high breath short, and it’s so real and strong that I can picture exactly what he’s doing:

Pressing his hand to his mouth, to stifle his moans of pleasure.

‘Gabe, are you all right in there?’ I say, and it’s so much like a game I could cry with happiness. I can feel it filling my chest as much as it’s filling other places, even when I try to hold it down.

Don’t
, I think,
don’t
, but then he answers, ‘I’m fine. Really. Don’t come in here.’

And I’m not sure I can stop it. He’s playing, with me. It’s obvious. I think he means it, but at the same time …

The door won’t be locked. I know it before I even get close to trying it. And I just reach out and turn the handle and push it open, not quite bursting in because I’ll never be Delaney, but close enough.

He has his trousers shoved down – not around his ankles, in a pathetic puddle. Taut between his legs, and no further than mid-thigh. He hasn’t taken the underwear off, and it flashes pink and gleaming against his delightfully hairy and finely muscled thighs.

I can’t see his balls, because the elastic is cutting over them – likely too tight for comfort. Though I suppose that’s the point. It doesn’t seem to be putting him off to have a pair of little knickers, digging into him.

Quite the contrary. His cock’s in his fist, the ruddy tip peeping between his tense, squeezing fingers, everything so clearly ready to go off that I freeze in delicious anticipation. I run my gaze all over this frankly startling tableau – one that’s so sexy and dirty and fabulous that I’m sure he must have planned it just so, oh God, you little whore – just waiting for it to happen.

But I guess he’s in no rush.

He squirms, first, and stutters some sort of apology that I think is at least half-faked. Though the flush that spreads over his cheeks and down his neck is real enough. He swallows, audibly, and that seems real, too. We might be playing dress-up, but clearly he can press the actual feelings down on himself hard enough.

‘Ms Morris,’ he says, and I can feel myself slipping into the role as easily as I would glide into a warm bath. ‘I can explain.’