‘Luckily I’ve got something that fits that bill. Do you know what it is?’
Fingers, spearing down lower then retracting, throwing my muscles into quivering confusion.
‘Is it you, sir?’
‘Mmm, I want to hear you say it. Say the word.’
‘Oh …’ I didn’t like to. I still found dirty talk embarrassing. It seemed crazy to be self-conscious when I had a man’s fingers up my bottom, but there it was.
‘You won’t get it if you don’t say it,’ he goaded. ‘Say it. Say what it is that’s going right up inside here.’
‘Oh …’ I stalled, jiggling in protest, but I knew from experience that he had enough self-mastery to keep this up indefinitely. He had kept me on edge and unsatisfied for a day and a half back in France once – using his fingers and tongue to take me there, then withdrawing and masturbating over my tied body instead, three or four times, until I was brought to heel.
His fingers stilled. I didn’t want that.
‘Your cock,’ I spluttered, trying to mask the word with a fake cough.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You can’t mask it with flowery language. You can’t disguise what you want. You want it dirty and low and filthy. You want to be used. Hmm?’
He smacked my bum cheek with his free hand and I yelped out the affirmative.
It was true. I wanted his cock. Wanted it badly, in the worst and most perverted place.
He slid an arm beneath my hips and raised me up to my knees, positioning my bottom high and vulnerable to whatever he chose to do to it.
His fingers popped out and then something wider and harder and hotter pressed forwards, opening me for that first moment of disbelief, of ‘this can’t work’, of ‘this will kill me’, before subverting all those impulses by seating itself inside me without injury.
But not without pain – the pain I had learned to embrace and to push myself into, the pain that was necessary for the pleasure. I let myself wail through the sting, knowing it was temporary and needing the release of tension.
‘It hurts, does it?’ he said, bending low with his lips against my ear. ‘So it should. You won’t forget this in a hurry.’
No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t forget the primitive joy of his abs grinding against my bottom and his long, thick shaft owning me, my cheeks spread open, my wrists and ankles tied, my hips in his firm grip. He knew now how forceful he could safely be and he slammed into me, over and over, grunting with the effort of it.
I was desperate to touch myself, the need driving me mad and making the sex even more powerful.
‘Get ready, get ready,’ he said, and at the perfect moment he reached down to finger me, the sensation exploding first from the front and then the back, a star-invoking double-whammy.
Whenever I came with him inside me, that was enough to bring him to his climax too. I think the idea of me getting off on what he was doing to me was his ultimate kinky turn-on and he was never more than a few seconds behind me.
He lay down on top of me, his softening cock still inside me, and kissed the back of my neck like a man possessed. His hands on my shoulders, he moved my face to meet his and catch me in a long, tongue-heavy kiss.
I was dazed, still somewhere up the air, when he broke off and said, ‘This is you, isn’t it?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You are who you are – most purely, most completely – when you’re with me, like this.’
Oh, God, it sounded like something I was going to have to think about rather than give the catch-all post-coital ‘mm hmm’.
‘Whayya mean?’
‘You’re like me. Keeping it all in. When it all comes out – the freedom is almost too much.’
He was right, yes. He was right about that. But the thought of being like him was strange and made me wonder.
* * *
In the car on the way to my bedsit, he took up the theme again.