Control. Charlotte Stein
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but they’re not making it out. Instead he shakes his head in this slow, almost resigned sort of way.
“Go ahead,” I say. “Open it up and read something out to me.”
At first I’m sure he’s going to outright refuse. But he surprises me—he bends his head to read with barely another word or look.
I notice that he opens the book carefully, which makes the cracks on all of the spines something of a mystery. Until I consider what he must look like, clutching a book in one hand with the other on his cock. You don’t typically think about spine cracks when busy masturbating to some psychological depth.
‘“Kelly Matheson liked nothing better than a…she…when she went to work the next day.
He frantically rifles through pages, searching for the cracks in between what I know is steamy, steamy sex.
‘“She told him without hesitation: it was him who had done this to her. He made her want to stop being prim and proper, and claw at him like a wild animal. Her puss—her…she.
More rifling. His face looks so hot, I’m sure it would burn me if I reached out and touched it.
“Why don’t you just skip to the part where she has a threesome with those two hot gay guys?”
His gaze flicks up to me, bright and feverish already.
“I can’t read that part aloud.”
“So you know what I’m talking about, right? The bit where she gets fucked while the other guy fucks the guy on top of her. Right?”
His voice comes out wavery and oddly robotic.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
“Or how about the part where she makes him lick her pussy on that dirty staircase that leads up to her apartment? Oh, I like that bit. She’s so good at describing all the juicy details—the way his tongue thrums back and forth over her clit, the way he begs her to let him come, the way she gets so hot all over—are you hot all over, right now?”
“I feel lukewarm, actually. Almost cold, in truth.”
“Such a liar. You know what I said about lying to your boss. I think I’m going to have to punish you, now.”
God, those heroines would be so proud of me! He swallows, again—looks to the book for inspiration. I really doubt he’s going to find anything lukewarm there, though, I’ve got to say.
“Aren’t I already being punished?” he asks, bless his heart.
I crouch, to find something even worse for him to read.
That seedy one by Barry Haydon, perhaps.
But while there, I find something much, much better. I can hear him protesting from somewhere above me, but he doesn’t try to snatch anything away from my greedy grasp. He just waits, probably paralyzed with mortification, as I stand back up with something absolutely astonishing in my hands.
I could almost believe that he really did have a girlfriend who left all of this here. Because for the life of me, I can’t imagine Gabriel going into Ann Summers to buy a sex toy.
He groans and his eyes flutter closed, briefly. But despite this humiliation—or maybe because of it—something is pushing at the front of his trousers.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” I tell him. “I have one just like it.”
It’s true. I do. A little pink toy—a real back to basics sort of thing. The kind of gift you get when you buy five books from certain online stores, maybe. I can just see him hunched over a computer, eagerly picking smut so that he can get something that buzzes neatly against the head of his cock or just behind his balls or something more, something else—good God, who knows?
“I’ve never used it. I don’t use it—for anything.”
“Are you sure? Because I wouldn’t want to discover that you’re lying to me, again.”
Panic wrestles with his features.
“No—I’m not. I would never use that thing to—I don’t. I don’t.”
“To what?”
“What?”
“You said to. You would never use that thing to. To what?”
He runs an addled hand through his hair, then smooths it back down again.
“To…you know.”
“To bring yourself off?”
“Yes, exactly. Exactly.”
He sounds relieved to have been given the answer. I’ve no idea why. Someone else is at the helm, now, and apparently she is a hardass.
“By…what? Rubbing it over your nipples? Pressing it to your stiff dick?”
“No! No, I don’t use it to…do what you said.”
“So if I put this in my mouth, I won’t taste you all over it?”
He rolls his eyes skyward.
“Don’t put it in your mouth.”
“It smells like you. It smells like come,” I tell him, though it doesn’t really at all—it smells like antiseptic and soap and plastic. But he blunders into the trap, anyway.
“Oh God, does it?”
My sex shivers and pulses. The image of him wanking all over this pink plastic, hot streaks of come covering its surface—it’s too much.
“What a liar you are,” I say, and he moans helplessly.
“You know what liars have to do, don’t you? Spread their legs.”
He’s sweating. I can see it gleaming on his upper lip. His cock has created all sorts of right angles in his trousers and he’s practically squirming on the spot, but I don’t blame him—only this new me is holding the real me up. The real me wants to faint beneath the pressure of this almighty arousal.
The arousal that’s made me so wet I can feel it trickling into the crack of my arse.
“What are you waiting for? Spread them.”
He glances at the bed and I understand immediately why—he thinks I mean get on the bed and spread your legs, like an eager slut. It makes me wish I had meant that, briefly, before I turn back to the matter at hand.
“No—just stand with your feet apart. Really, Gabriel—you’re usually so good at taking direction.”
He shuffles and makes this adorable little clucking noise at himself, the way people do when they’ve just fumbled something really easy and obvious. Then he just stands there and waits, and waits, for me to make my next move.
For some reason I’m certain that when I turn the base of this little ridiculous pink thing, it won’t buzz to life. There’ll be no batteries in it, he’s never used it, it was a free toy for girls who buy books that are only meant for them.
But I’m wrong. It hums away merrily the moment I turn it on, and I feel his mortification press against my skin, sticky and delicious. It presses again when I step forward and whisper as close as I can get to his ear: show me where you touch yourself with it.
Of course he won’t, I know he won’t, but I also know that he doesn’t have to say it at all. The little shuttered gasp he lets out when I pass the thrumming tip over his shoulder and down the inside of his arm gives me all the information I need.
He likes it everywhere.
I let it slide down his suddenly very thin tank top, clinging briefly to the poly-blend before finding that little hard nub—the one that’s pressing eagerly against the material. So easily worked up, so sensitive—he gasps again when I let the vibrator trail over the jumping muscles of his stomach