Look at Me!. Felix Baron
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turned to Jeff and told him, ‘That was wonderful. What can I do for you, darling?’
‘Turn over, Connie.’
Oh! She knew what that meant. He was the first and only man who’d ever done that to her. Her mom had never warned her against it, most likely because she’d never imagined such a thing. It was certainly never mentioned in the Book of Chaste Behaviour that her Mom’s puritanical sect considered second only to the Ten Commandments.
Whatever, her mom wouldn’t be scolding her and spoiling Jeff’s, and her, pleasure.
Constance rolled onto her tummy and tensed, waiting. He was above her, poised for a second, and then he lowered himself onto her like a warm and heavy blanket of love. His weight was mainly on his knees and elbows but even so, it was inexorable.
The heat of his cock’s stem spread into her spine from her tailbone to the small of her back. Feeling the length of it thrilled her. Even though he’d taken her, used her, that way before, what she knew he was about to do had to be impossible. She was so small. He was, by comparison, huge. Where he was going to enter her, it was a tight little knot. His cock – its head in particular – was far too big. Dreadfully big.
When was he going to do it? What was he waiting for? She couldn’t ask for it, could she?
The hidden minx inside her told her that she could.
Constance moaned, ‘No, Jeff! Please, don’t. Don’t do that. I don’t know if I can stand it.’ The cheeks of her bum flexed but all they could feel was his scrotum. She tried to work herself higher up the bed but his restricting bulk made that impossible.
Jeff whispered, ‘You’ll take it, Connie. I am going to make you take it.’
‘You are going to force your way into me back there, with that great big thing?’
‘Yes, darling. I am.’
‘That’s so bad.’
‘And you love it, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’
‘Admit it. You want it.’
He was torturing her. He knew about her upbringing. He knew how strict her mother had been. He knew that she hated to own up to her own perverted desires. Hated to. Loved to, if forced to. It had to be forced from her or she wouldn’t – couldn’t – do it.
Would it be the same with the other thing, the one thing she refused to do for him? If he forced her, would she find that she liked it? No! Don’t think about that. Thinking that way was dangerous. It woke memories of her dead mother’s rules.
Constance hollowed her back, tilting her bottom up at him.
‘Good girl! That’s right, just like that!’ Without releasing her, Jeff slithered back and lower, drawing his shaft down along the crease between her cheeks. He prodded. It wasn’t the right place, too low. Last time, he’d steered himself with a hand.
As if he’d heard her thought, he told her, ‘Hands free, this time.’
Constance grunted.
Jeff writhed an inch each way and up and down, probing.
Yes!
The wet hardness of his knob was nestled right against her trembling pucker, kissing it. He pushed. Constance pushed back. If she concentrated on relaxing back there …
Oh. Oh. He was stretching her. He was forcing his way into the narrow constriction. Constance felt herself expand. It didn’t hurt, not much, but it was such a violation of her tender flesh.
And he was inside her.
Just the head. Her muscular ring gripped his cock just behind its dome. The moment, the brief second of maximum stretching followed almost instantly by a partial relaxation, had been exquisite. It was like some sort of revelation.
Perhaps he read her thoughts again because Constance felt his thigh muscles tense and then the reverse pressure as he drew back, almost dragging the sleeve of her rectum with him, and ‘popped’ out …
And rammed back in.
This time there was no pause. His thrust went on and on, opening her depths, forcing her back passage to adapt to the shape and girth of his shaft. Jeff’s pubes were grinding on her as if he was desperate to gain every last possible inch of penetration. And he was pumping. Each stroke felt easier than the one before and yet her excitement grew and grew.
His big hands took hold of her hips. Jeff knew not to pull her up to all fours – she didn’t allow that, just in case it dislodged the bedclothes – but he heaved her up off the bed just a few inches before slamming back down on her. She was totally impaled.
He half-rolled, so that her weight was on her left side. His right hand worked under her. Its fingers found her button again, but toyed with it for just a second before they squirmed past it, inside her. Jeff must be able to feel his own shaft pistoning into her. That was so obscene.
It was the obscenity of it that drove her over the edge into the chaos of her second glorious climax.
It must have been three or four in the morning when Constance woke up. It might have been the dim light from the small lamp on the bedside table on Jeff’s side. It might have been him folding the bedclothes down to her waist and fumbling with the buttons at her throat.
Damn!
Constance sat up sharply, clutching the neck of her nightgown. ‘No!’
‘Please, Connie? Surely …’
She slapped his face and turned over to bury her face into her pillow. The bed creaked as Jeff got up. He’d be headed into her living room to finish the night on her lumpy couch. Well, she wasn’t going to be guilted into doing something she didn’t want to do. Let him suffer!
When Constance woke again, with the first light, Jeff still hadn’t come back to bed. Men! As if sulking solved anything. She decided that she’d take the moral high ground and simply pretend that nothing had happened. If he apologised, all to the good. If not, well, she’d just have to forgive him anyway. That was the way women were, forgiving and modest – sweet and modest – charitable and modest. Always modest. Modest. The damn word landed with a dull thud.
He wasn’t on the couch and it hadn’t been disturbed. There were no dishes in the sink. His shaving gear and toothbrush were missing from the bathroom. His spare suit wasn’t in the closet. There was a space on her bookshelves where his IT books had been.
Jeff had taken his things back to his own apartment.
She’d been dumped. Well, no. She’d dumped him, really. A slap across the face counts as that, right? He’d broken her rule. She’d slapped him. He’d left, taking his things. How did she feel about that? Crushed, for sure. Empty inside? Maybe. She’d thought he might have been the one. Angry? Yes, she was angry. How dare he! Look at all she’d done for him, the things she’d let him do to her. For him, she’d been a very bad girl. She’d enjoyed it all, but that was beside the point. When a girl does those forbidden things for a man she’s doing him a favour, no matter how good they feel. All she’d ever denied him was to let him look at her shameful nakedness. Could that be so important that it’d make him break up with her?
Couldn’t he have explained that?
Perhaps he’d tried, but not hard enough, obviously. The bastard!
What was it about the sight of a girl’s body, anyway? She’d let Jeff bugger her. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Bugger her.