The Things That Make Me Give In (3 page)

She hears him dealing in his usual brusque fashion with a condom – the twang and snap of rubber – and can’t stop
wondering why he has one on him. Does he keep them in his drawer, just waiting for wicked students to cross some line? Or were they in the pocket of those dusty cords – the kind of trousers you would never imagine condoms being inside?

The contrast is jarring, exciting. He grabs her hips too roughly, before pushing in – easing in, really. It isn’t the force of him that makes her smack her hands flat on the board, but the tension of his cock inching into her clenching hole. Her pussy wants to force out the too-thick invader, she wants to push and squeeze until he is no longer jabbing into her, but really that’s bullshit because more than anything it feels delicious to shimmy and tighten around him.

‘Ah, yes, that’s gorgeous,’ he says, and it’s worth it just for that. ‘Do you like –’

‘I like to hear you talk. I like to hear you talk in class all the time. Say things to me.’

‘And once he’d driven his hot prong into her creamy depths . . .’

‘No – no, please – say what you like. Say what you want. Don’t tell me about what I’ve written, just tell me what you want.’

‘I want to fuck your snatch until you cream all over my cock.’

‘Oh, God, yes.’

‘And then I’m going to lick your clit for hours and hours without letting you come.’

‘Fuck – you bastard, you bastard.’

‘Tell me you like me shafting you.’

‘I do – fuck my tight cunt! Ream my little pussy, you fucker.’

‘Oh Christ, more of that, more.’

He has hold of her hips more tightly now, and is jerking her almost off the ground with every thrust. It’s not difficult to give him more. It’s not difficult because of course he’s right, he’s right, God, she’s always wanted to change pulsating love blossom to cock and cunt and clit and pussy and tits and, oh, it’s even better than she could imagine hearing his clipped, posh voice using all of the words she never dared to.

She presses her face against the board and probably smears herself with green ink but cannot care. Someone will come in and see them – him hunched over her, fucking into her while her skirt slops around her hips. How small she must look! And how much like she’s being pleasured so thoroughly that it’s hard to breathe.

When his hand suddenly reaches around her thigh and then down, and he presses two fingers roughly against her clit – just a press, nothing more – she gags on the sounds her own body wants to make, and jolts against his touch. Her pussy swells and tries to choke his jerking cock, but she doesn’t climax until he says, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming – fuck.’

And then she has no more words. Just groans and gasps and sighs that mingle together and make a story: the story of her own passion. She wants to write on the board a thousand times:
and then she came, and then she came, and then she came
.

‘Turn around,’ he says, and once he is gone from her she does. She realises, uncaring, that she is lost in him, and so does what he tells her. Skirt still around her hips, knickers hobbling her. Pussy wet and glistening and completely exposed. Her clit twinges looking at him, as uncovered as she is. Lewd and ruffled with his trousers open and his still stiff and latex-covered cock poking out at her.

‘What would your heroine say if she didn’t come?’

Her mind blanks – there’s a reason he’s asking, but she can’t think what it is. Everything is a lesson, but this is a different one.

‘What would your heroine say?’

‘Nothing,’ she blurts out, and he nods.

‘What should she say?’

Let me fuck Professor Clenham instead of you, oaf,
she thinks, wildly, but that isn’t the right answer. She breathes a lick of cool air into her own hair, twists inside her sweaty clothes. Her nipples are too tight and sensitive against the hot wool of her
jumper; the aftershocks of her orgasm wriggle through her clit over and over.

‘Make me come,’ she says, and then he gives her that bright, odd smile, that flash of something that is perhaps his true self. Perhaps he thinks she hasn’t come already, or maybe he just wanted her to ask. His true self demands that she ask.

He leans in, and ghosts against her what may become a kiss, some time later. For now it is just a whisper over her mouth: ‘Always ask for what you want, lovely Clara.’

He sinks to his knees before her, and she leans back against the board. Slow, so slow. She is moving through syrup and everything is alight with its golden glow. When he parts her thighs with his now gentle hands, she sees everything made large: the cuff of his shirt, poking out of his tweedy sleeve. The deepness of his eyes like a well inside herself.

He speaks as though laced with that syrup, a note of humour in his voice – as ever – but deep with it, resonating with it. The ends of the words trail over her, one after another, linked but not quite flowing, and if it were not for his cool, almost smoke-roughened voice, she knows she would giggle. It would probably be all right to giggle, because the corner of his mouth hooks up as he leans forward and says, ‘He pressed his lips to the flower of her womanhood.’

Yes
, she thinks.
Oh yes, press your lips to my cunt
.

He kisses the slick tip of her clit, first, just barely anything at all. It’s a maddening kind of touch. He is even more awful than she could have imagined, and even more lovely.

I’m going to write a story
, she thinks,
in which you don’t get to have me until the very last page
.

And then when he licks, the story changes all on its own. She wants him to have her again and again and again on every page, licking and teasing and working her clit with his sultry, sinful mouth. She can almost hear that voice of his stirring against this swelling, aching part of her body, making little circles that don’t quite touch, until she is mad with it.

She imagines him speaking poetry against her sex, against her slippery, slick slit, against her straining clit. She imagines riding him and being ridden. She imagines nothing at all as he slides two fingers upwards, parting her glistening folds for his tongue. The tongue that presses and flicks and makes her need to sit down. She needs to sit down. She needs to lie down, but instead her begging words come out as: ‘Oh, please, please, suck me, fuck me, oh God, please.’

In answer, he pinches her clit between his scissoring fingers, and draws his teeth across its tip.

Her papers fall to the floor. She knows that her legs are spread so widely, so lewdly, and her Professor crouched between. Not even crouched – she is sure he appears like something consuming her, big even when he’s on his knees, his face and mouth hungrily at her pussy. He grips her hips – shoving her skirt up to bare it – and yanks her closer, and she almost stumbles over him.

Her clit swells and blooms in his mouth. Fresh honey spills over his fingers. She doesn’t even know his first name, and cries out, to her eternal embarrassment: ‘Oh Professor, oh, God, I’m coming!’

Her whole body thrums once, twice, her clit pulsing wetly with its own strange beat. She thinks she goes up on tiptoe, but his hand at her hip presses her back, back to safety. Back to nothing like safety. She closes her eyes and tries to hold on to her orgasm even as it dissipates.

All that’s left is a red face and Brazil.

She hears him stand up, but keeps her eyes closed. He’s moving around now, tidying himself up, most likely, but she keeps her eyes closed still. She’d be happy to never have to open them again, and yet somehow he makes her, when he straightens her own clothes. He tugs at her skirt, quite sharply, and her eyes jerk open.

The expression on his face isn’t one she expected. It isn’t one she’s ever seen there before. It’s like a lovely, warm, delicious secret.

He leaves her skirt alone, and fastens a button on his tweed jacket – as brusque as always. Less brusque when he peels a strand of sweat-stuck hair from her cheek and tucks it behind her ear.

‘There,’ he says. ‘Very presentable. Very proper.’

You wouldn’t have thought that anything had happened at all. Maybe not even after she has asked, ‘What happens now?’

And he has replied, ‘I have no idea. Let’s see what you write next, shall we?’

I NEVER MEANT
to start the whole thing. It wasn’t my fault; I can’t be blamed. He shouldn’t have looked so tempting and gorgeous and like an exotic bird just waiting for me to stare. He shouldn’t have done all those things he did that I couldn’t help watching, like my own personal, private filthy movie.

I shouldn’t be using the defence of date rapists around the world. It was all his fault, your honour, for being such a damned trollop. If I hadn’t learnt otherwise I would have imagined that he earned his living as a stripper, a stripper who spent his days giving anonymous women lap dances.

But he isn’t. He’s a photographer. He does the watching, for his living. He watches beautiful women posing beautifully, and probably fucks them afterwards, also beautifully. He probably has secret cameras all over his apartment, and films them doing horny things for him.

Only that’s me, not him. None of the above is him, probably, and I’m the one who secretly watches someone doing horny things for me. And, all right, I don’t film him. But there have been times . . . oh, there have been times when I’ve been tempted to.

That first time – I tried to turn away. I thought about saintly things, like Jesus and Gandhi and charity drives.

But even then it was too much for me to fight. Gandhi lost and I ended up standing at that secret window, fingernail between my chewing teeth, thighs pressed too tightly together, watching the man in the apartment across the alley.

It’s the angle of the apartments, I think. Mine is higher up, and his is lower down, and the strip of alley between us means that he can’t see my window as well as I can see his.

At first I was sure he was putting on a show for the couple below, but then they invited me around to tea and I saw nothing but wall facing the alley. No window. He thinks he does his little show for nothing but brick, or maybe he doesn’t think it’s a show at all.

It’s just the way he is. He can’t help himself.

And I can’t help watching.

I mean, it makes things worse that he’s gorgeous. I don’t think that’s what initially hooked me, but it certainly contributes. He has this lean, leonine face, which gives him a constant predatory air. His lips curl into an ever-pout, as sultry as the exotic dancer I liked to imagine he was. When his mouth hangs open, pulled by lust, it destroys every effort that morality makes to claim me.

But I didn’t notice his face the first time, because I was too busy watching him reveal his body to my starving eyes.

He had been wearing this clingy top, with buttons all down the front. A kind of undershirt, I think – obviously I had missed the first part of the show. But the second part was the real meat of the thing, so I needn’t have worried.

I remember thinking in an almost laughing way:
what is he
doing? Because he had stood there in front of his window, sideways on to me, and started unbuttoning the shirt. And he had done it in such a deliberate, sluttish, stripping sort of way that I had immediately thought:
he’s with someone.
Someone is in front of him, off-screen where I can’t see, and he’s stripping for her, one button at a time.

But I know now that there was no one.

I think he does it in front of a mirror. I can’t fault him for it; God knows I would too, if I looked like him. I would slide that shirt off my shoulders, shoulders jutting out like accusing fingers, lips parted. I would admire the golden slide of my
body, the rough scratch of hair on my chest, the dip of my navel and the curves of my solid muscles.

Oh, mystery apartment guy, how glorious you are! I’m weak, I’m weak, weak in the presence of shapely strippers.

And then he slid his jeans down his legs, too, and I was hypnotised. I was paralysed. The little movie he made in the box of his window got hold of me, and chained me to my own window. I bit semi-circles into all of my nails. I spliced my thighs together.

The jockeys he was wearing clung to him in a way I wanted my hands to. My hands were actually briefly jealous of them. He had – has – a fabulous arse. Almost too big, perhaps, with a delicious curving heft to it that makes a person want to squeeze.

And of course, his cock. I think his cock sealed the paralysis. The way it curved – really curved – like a crooked finger, and seemed to try to bob upwards, even though its weight kept dragging it back down again. It had a lot of heft, like the rest of him. A real fleshiness, a solidity.

It didn’t take much for me to imagine taking that cock in my mouth, my pussy, my arse – anywhere, anywhere he wanted to put it. For the first time in my life, I fantasised about a real live man, a man I could actually see, fucking and fucking me. I remember standing there feeling a hollow space between my legs, one that waited for him to fill it up.

And it was better and dirtier because it wasn’t some actor in a movie but a real person. I watched a real person take his cock in his hand, and rub himself slowly, so slowly. I watched him look down at what he was doing, and watched his lips part and heard the groan he made even though it was soundless to me, and it was as sweet as ripe cherries. As sweet as sugar poured on my tongue.

He fucked his own hand, and rocked his hips into it, and let his eyes shutter closed just for me, all for me. And when he came I came close too, because there’s nothing sexier than watching a man make love to himself.

Or, at least, that’s what I thought.

In truth, there are sexier things. And he was only too happy to show them to me.

The second time I watched him do it was on purpose. I’ll admit it. I wasn’t paralysed, I wasn’t stunned into spying. I saw him standing in front of the window, slowly sliding out of his clothes.

And I watched.

I watched even more when a beautiful, lithe little thing joined him, sinking to her knees before him, unbuckling his belt as she went.