Twenty
I realize my mistake the moment we’re in bed together. And it’s that I just did the hottest, dirtiest thing to a man I’m massively attracted to, in a way that satisfied him. But I’m not satisfied at all. My whole body is buzzing over the way he felt, and how he reacted, and the taste of him, still sweet and hot in my mouth.
And now I’ve got to lie next to his sleeping form, agonized.
Half of me sure, at this point, that I can just ask.
The other half of me still feeling like it’s kind of weird to. I mean, what are we doing here, exactly? Being fuck buddies? Working out some tension? Taking advantage of a strange situation to get some hot sex? You will be doing that last one if you keep persuading him to do this stuff, my brain scolds.
But even that doesn’t really dampen what I’m feeling.
I took a cold shower when I got out of the hot tub, but I can already feel my own wetness again. It’s making my pyjamas all messy – so I pull them away from my body. Or at least, that’s what I intend to do. But somehow I end up cupping myself, just a little. Just to ease the ache, maybe. And that leads to more, and even more after that.
Until finally I feel him tense next to me.
‘Ohhhhh, you’re touching yourself. You’re totally touching yourself,’ he moans. Because of course he wasn’t asleep at all. I’m starting to think he’s never asleep now. He’s just pretending his way through the same agony I’m enduring.
So why not just go ahead, I find myself thinking.
Like an asshole, trying to justify whatever this is to herself. ‘No, I wasn’t. I was just trying to get comfortable,’ I say, in an effort to not be one. But I think he’s got my number by now. Wholesome doesn’t mean he’s not savvy as fuck, I think.
And sure enough:
‘You don’t have to say that. I don’t mind that you are.’
‘Maybe you don’t. But I do.’
He makes a confused sound. ‘Why though?’
‘Because I feel as if I’m taking advantage of you.’
He shifts on the bed, and even though I don’t look I know he’s turning to look over his shoulder at me. I even know why: he thinks what I’m saying is absurd. And now he’s gonna demolish it, quite clearly.
‘But I’m the one who just got something wonderful. While you got nothing at all. Which by any reasonable calculation is the opposite of what you’ve just suggested. In fact, you might even call it ungentlemanly of me, to experience such complete bliss while leaving you hanging,’ he says, most likely because god is not kind.
‘I’m not hanging. I’m fine.’
‘It doesn’t sound like you are.’
‘Because I sighed a little bit?’
‘No. Because you’re so inexplicably wet I can actually hear it, again.’
Fuck , I think. But there’s nothing I can do to get out of it at this point.
I just sigh and spread my hands. ‘It can’t be that inexplicable to you.’
‘To be honest, it always is with you. I’ve no idea why you get so excited over me or anything I do. But especially now, when nothing sexy happened to you at all,’ he says, and sounds genuinely puzzled about it, too.
Because he’s not savvy about everything, I guess.
When it comes to understanding his own hotness, he’s got worms for brains.
‘So you think that looking at me like a horny slut and flashing your big hard dick and then letting me do you until you come in my mouth counts as nothing. That seems unsexy to you. You can’t imagine why that would give anyone the horn,’ I say, a little more aggressively than I intended.
I hear his breath catch in response.
Followed by a long, very still-seeming silence.
In fact I almost apologize, before he kicks back into gear.
‘I don’t know, I think I blacked out after you called me a horny slut,’ he says, all low and hoarse. You know, just to leave no doubt as to how he feels about this. Though as ever, I feel like I’ve got to check in with him.
‘And by that you mean you liked it. You like me talking about you in those terms. It gets you going, when I do. Even though that makes absolutely no sense at all that you would feel that way.’
‘Why doesn’t it?’
‘Because it was a weird thing to call someone so wholesome,’ I say, like it’s just so obvious. Even though it isn’t, even by my own logic. That he then uses against me, to devastating effect.
‘Wasn’t it you who said sweet things can go hand in hand with filthy ones?’
‘I said that you can be polite and still excite someone. This feels different.’
‘But not exactly untrue. In fact not untrue at all.’
‘Beck, you’ve barely kissed anyone. You’re not a slut.’
I roll my eyes on the end of that.
And he chuckles at me. He chuckles .
‘You don’t need experience to be one. You just have to feel this greedy and desperate for it, all the time. And you should know that I do. That just because I seem cheery and nice doesn’t mean I don’t love doing myself. Gosh, I love doing myself. Sometimes I spend all night just making myself come, over and over, and of course it’s worse now that I have you always in my head. Saying dirty things and telling me I’m attractive and touching me and putting your mouth on me – oh, you put your mouth on me. Lord, the word slutty is too tame for what that did to me,’ he says, all in this kind, matter-of-fact, news reporter sort of way.
Yet somehow, that does not lessen the impact of it all.
Because I knew he was horny, of course I knew by now.
But not to that extent. Not to doing-himself-three-times-a-night levels. And plus, he just used the actual words. He didn’t cut himself off, he said them. Like he’s starting to get less restrained. He’s letting himself be a dirty little potty mouth – and worse, I think he did it because he knew what it would do to me.
There’s something about his tone, something teasing.
Something almost expectant.
I swear, it’s all I can do to not just grab him. To speak, instead.
‘Good. Because I want to do it again right now,’ I tell him.
But that just makes the teasing worse.
‘Ohhhhhh and I want you to, I do. Oh gosh, I would do anything to feel that hot, wet mouth all over me again. But the thing is, I really don’t think me getting another turn before you’ve had one would be good manners on my part,’ he says.
Because he’s a little shit.
‘Did you just offer me oral sex via an etiquette lesson?’
‘Well, I mean. Not if that was disgusting of me to do.’
‘It was more the method of suggesting I was shocked at. And the fact that you are a dude who’s bothering to suggest it at all,’ I say, and there’s a silence then. A very pointed silence. Like he’s trying to fathom something unfathomable.
‘And by that you mean they rarely do,’ he says, finally.
At which point I know I should stop.
But it’s hard to be anything but honest with him.
‘Not even rarely. Never. It never happens.’
‘That cannot be true. I refuse to believe it. I do not accept that there are men out there lucky enough to have you next to them ready and eager to have that done to you, and they can’t work up the wherewithal to even suggest it.’
‘Most of them can’t work up the wherewithal to do a lot of things that feel good for me,’ I say, and know I’ve definitely revealed too much now. He’s really not gonna like that, I know, and sure enough he turns fully around to hear this.
Now I can just about see him looking at me all horrified.
‘But I thought you enjoyed having lots of sex. Why are you having it if it’s never fun for you?’ he asks, so innocently confused about it that it kind of breaks my heart. And I have no idea how to answer him.
I just end up blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.
‘Because you always hope it will,’ I say, but of course realize once I have just how sad that is. How meaningless and paltry everything in my love life has been, until right now. Until him and the way he looks at me and the things he says and does. Like right now – his eyes go so soft and wounded-seeming. Like it hurts him, to hear that.
Then they get this determined gleam, and oh god .
I think I’m about to be well and truly fucked here.
Maybe in more ways than one.
‘Well, you don’t have to hope with me,’ he says, in this way-too-firm sort of way. This really good dad energy, I’m going to fix this way, that inexplicably turns me on just as much as how fucking sexy he looks right now. All rumpled and hairy in his good-boy pyjamas, goddamn it. And he’s still talking, too. He’s running away with himself. ‘Because I love seeing you all excited. I love knowing that you are. And the thought of making you feel even better is so hot to me. Especially if I get to do it by licking and kissing between your legs – oh man, I can’t think of anything sweeter than that. I can’t imagine more of a turn-on than making you squirm and moan, and rub against my face, and say my name. Because I think you would, wouldn’t you? If I got it just right?’
Then he looks at me, as if the answer might really be no.
When of course the answer is that just hearing him say all of that got me going. And not just because of his unravelling restraint – no, it’s the fact that me feeling good matters to him. It turns him on to think of me enjoying whatever he does to me. Which sounds like nothing, I know.
But feels like everything .
So much so, in fact, that I am doing something very bad right now.
‘Oh my goodness, are you masturbating again?’ he says, when he realizes.
And I’m too far gone to even deny it. Or stop.
‘I have to. I have to, the things you say just drive me absolutely bananas.’
‘All I did was say what’s true. I want to lick you, all good and long and slow.’
‘Fuck, just don’t – don’t, you’re making me want to say yes.’
‘You say that as though you think I don’t want you to,’ he tells me, and oh god, the way his voice drops when he does. The slight teasing note in it. The way his eyes drop to my still-moving hand, barely obscured by the darkness and the covers.
It makes me rub faster. It makes me buck against my own touch.
And talking sense is getting super hard.
‘No, I know you do, I know, but, Beck, none of this is real. You should be doing all of these almost firsts for you while in the middle of something real. With someone you actually care about,’ I say, but my voice is all half moan.
It doesn’t sound like I mean it.
Plus his expression says it doesn’t even make sense.
‘Hazy, I do care about you.’
‘Oh god, even hearing that does it for me.’
‘Then let me do this. I want to. I want to make you feel as good as you made me – and it doesn’t matter to me how or why or what’s going on between us. I don’t care about firsts, I’m not bothered that this isn’t real. The physical sensations are real. The pleasure is real. The desire is real. What else does there need to be?’ he asks, so sensibly that I go to say yes.
But just before I can, I hear a little voice in my head.
There needs to be more , it says. And it doesn’t mean that there needs to be more for him. It means that there needs to be more for me . Or at least, it means I want more. For the first time in my life, I think, I want more . I want him to know I care, and to be cared for in return, and have all the things I always thought I didn’t need.
Because Mabel was right.
It wasn’t that I didn’t.
It’s that there was nothing there for me to feel it about.
And that’s a bad revelation to have, while lying in bed with my hand between my legs and the man I actually do feel those things for leaning over me. It makes me want to do something weird, like touch his sweet face and kiss his soft mouth and murmur sweet nothings to him.
Even though what we’re talking about is just fucking.
Making each other come our fucking brains out.
Which is exactly what you need to do to get this feeling out of you , I think to myself. Fuck it away. Just give in to mindless, sweaty, heated fucking. And that seems right, that seems sensible. So that’s what I lean into. I talk like I would to anyone I want this bad. ‘Ohhhhh baby, lick, please, lick me, do me right here,’ I say.
Though honestly, I don’t expect him to react the way he does. I think he’ll be tentative, hesitant, just a shape in the darkness slowly moving toward me. And instead he sits up. And he snaps on the bedside light. And yeah, I know that I wanted to see things more clearly the night before.
But that was about me looking at him .
I didn’t really consider that he might want to look at me . And not just for practical reasons, either. The second everything is illuminated, his gaze just wanders all over me. Quickly and frantically, like he’s been waiting a long time to take all of me in, and wants to cram it into his eyes the moment he can.
Which would be enough on its own to tell me he likes what he sees.
But there’s more – and all of it so obvious I don’t even have to ask. I don’t have to wonder, like I do with every other guy. I see him bite his lip over the way my pyjama top has opened a little, to reveal the plush curve of my left breast. And I actually get his eyes stuttering briefly closed when I arch my back, and it makes the stiffness of my nipples super clear.
Then he goes lower, and oh.
Oh god, the sound he makes over what he finds there.
Because I’ve soaked through the silky material there, it seems – and I know how lewd that must look. I can feel it, clinging to the swollen bud of my clit. To my slick folds, and the plush, parted seam of my sex. And he groans to see it, loud and long and deep and dirty.
‘You must be so desperate for some relief,’ he says.
And somehow even that’s sexy. It makes me moan and squirm and want to say weird things, like yes, daddy . Then I’m thankful that all I manage is a breathless please, please, please , while trying to push my pyjamas down. Fumblingly, too eager, I think, but it’s okay.
He helps me.
He tells me, ‘Easy, easy, I’ve got it.’ Like he’s suddenly the confident one, and I’m the inexperienced newbie. Though I think it’s really more that he’s tackling this the way he tackles most things. The way he’s tackled this whole retreat. Very organized, very efficient, very practical about it. Super competent, when it’s something he knows.
Though even when he doesn’t know it, he goes about it the same way.
He gazes at what he’s revealed for a second. Drinking it in, in this slightly overwhelmed sort of way that makes me want to do even dirtier things for him. Then he takes a breath, and assesses. ‘I think direct is probably gonna be too much,’ he says. Like an expert in a different field, trying to work out how to build me an orgasm.
He nods to himself. Murmurs, ‘So maybe something more like this.’ Then he leans down – a little hesitantly, it’s true, but not nearly as much as I imagined – and he just sort of licks around the place I want him most. He makes this slow trail over my bare mound, so soft I barely feel it. And just when I’m thinking that’s not enough, he dips down just a little. He lets that maddening tongue ease into the seam between, parting everything so easily as he goes. Then he just strokes over my now oh-so-sensitive folds in one long, filthy swipe.
But even better – he makes a sound when he gets to the end. ‘Ohhhh yeah,’ he moans, right there, right up against my aching pussy, in a way that heightens the sensation astronomically. It burrs against everything he’s not yet touching, like he has several mouths and they’re all determined to make this blissful.
Though it’s not just the physical part that turns me inside out, of course.
There’s also the thought of him enjoying it that much. God, yeah, that gets me, I know it does. Because it happens again, over everything else he has to say. ‘You taste so good, so lovely, oh, it feels so soft and so much sweeter than I imagined,’ he groans, and I almost come for him right then and there. As if a man wanting me to feel good is my kink, unearthed after all these years of thinking it must be other things.
I was sure it was greasy beards and motorbikes.
But I learn differently here, when he licks in a way that leaves no doubt that he’s telling the truth. This one isn’t for me, it’s for him. And it’s so greedy and lascivious and lewd it makes me buck on the bed. I hear the slick, hungry sound of him doing me like that, and loving it, and I just can’t stay still.
But he even seems to find this delicious. ‘So you enjoy it when I get sloppy,’ he says, in this wondering sort of way. Almost to himself, I think – as if he’s testing things out, and proceeding according to whatever the best results are.
Though I don’t realize how far he’s going to take that, or how inexplicably arousing it is, until he starts getting specific. ‘Do you like something inside you, while someone does you like this?’ he asks. So matter-of-fact about it. So practical.
But god, I can’t even say anything in response.
I just nod, frantically.
Then I watch him watching himself, as he rubs two fingers over everything he’s just stroked over, before slowly easing them down, down, down. Just to tease, at first, just to make these careful circles around the entrance to my cunt. And only after he’s made me rock my hips and moan brokenly does he do it.
He works his fingers into me, all good and easy.
No shoving, no forcing. Just unrelenting gentleness that gets me clutching at the sheets and saying his name. ‘Beck,’ I pant. ‘Please, please.’ But he still doesn’t do more. There’s no touching my now bursting clit. He just works me like that for what feels like forever, eyes all heavy on what he’s doing.
Lost in it now, I suspect.
‘So much easier to tell what you like than I thought. Like when I do this, I can feel you getter slicker. I can feel you tightening around me, like you want to keep me inside you. Is that what you want? You want to keep me there?’ he asks.
But he doesn’t wait for an answer. He just stays right where he is, buried deep in my cunt. And when I whimper and try to get more friction, he does something else. He kind of curls his fingers, it feels like. As if he’s beckoning someone over. Then he rubs, all good and deep and oh, holy fuck. Oh god, oh god. It’s so intense I almost try to get away from him for a second.
But even that he understands, completely. Apparently he’s able to gauge my reactions so well that he gets it was intense pleasure, and not pain. And he laughs. ‘I read about that in a steamy novel. I didn’t think it would work,’ he says, even though it didn’t just work at all. It worked so well I think I’m going to come. Somehow, inexplicably, I’m going to come. He hasn’t so much as grazed my clit, all he’s done is fuck my pussy with two fingers, and I’m super close.
And even more astonishing:
He knows it.
‘Ohhhh, is that gonna get you there? Oh yeah, it is, isn’t it. You’re gonna do it, oh yeah, you’re gonna, here, just let me—’ he starts, and then he finishes by doing it harder. He rubs and rubs at me until that thick coil of pleasure all low in my belly just gives. It unravels, and surges through me, hard enough that it makes the other night look like nothing at all.
This time, I can’t even keep the noise behind my teeth.
It bursts out, loud and big and honestly pretty disgusting. It’s almost a grunt, like a wounded animal. And god, the mess I make. I know I spill all over his hand, I know I do. I feel it, in a way I would be deeply self-conscious about with anyone else. None of this seems particularly pretty of me.
But the thing is, I’m with Beck.
And I know he doesn’t care. In fact he groans himself, to hear it, and to feel it.
Then just in case there was any room for doubt, he licks his now slick fingers. He sucks them, in this completely abandoned sort of way. As if he’s not even aware of me watching him, or doesn’t mind what he looks like to me if I am. He just wants to taste my come, and in a way that says he loves every single second of it.
In fact he loves it so much that he’s currently doing something about it.
He’s touching himself , my mind informs me. Then before I can even imagine it must be wrong, he sits up on his knees, over me. Like he wanted to look at me, as he does it. And he does look, too. His eyes devour every inch of me, so greedily I don’t even think twice about unbuttoning my pyjamas.
Even though usually, I wouldn’t.
I’d pose prettily, in some flattering lingerie. But why do I have to here, when he looks so desperate just at the idea of what I might be doing? I get halfway down and his eyes flash wide, and his breathing quickens, and oh, the way he fucks himself, just for me. The way he rolls his hand over his cock – like he’s trying to relish every second but is too needy to really manage.
It makes me think of what he said, about how much he loves to make himself come. And how much more he obviously enjoys it when someone else is with him, looking the way I do. Breasts bared, legs spread, gaze most likely as heated as his looks. Not even most likely – I know.
Because I’ve never wanted anyone so much in my whole life.
It’s the reason I reach for him. That I tell him, ‘Just tell me what you want, tell me anything, I’ll do anything you want.’ And think nothing of it all when he gasps out, ‘I want to kiss you as I come.’
In fact, that sounds good. It sounds great.
I drag him down to do it immediately.
Then his mouth connects with mine, and I know I’ve made a mistake. Because the kiss isn’t anything like the ones we’ve had before. It’s desperate and intimate and tender and brutal all at the same time, as if somehow this is the end of the world and this one touch is all we have left.
And just as I’m thinking that’s mad, he comes.
And I drown in the sound he makes, when he does.