Chapter 24
BIRDIE
My jeans are yanked down to my knees, and so are my panties, and for a minute, I only hear the heaviness of his breathing and the blood whooshing in my ears.
Hot hands slide up my thighs to my rear and then squeeze.
They release and then squeeze, again and again, and on the fourth time, I come to realize that my anus must be visible like this, and my vulva too, glistening and swollen enough to display my opening.
I try to straighten up, the embarrassment powerful and instinctive, but he shoves me back to where I was, with my hands on the workbench and my body bent forward.
A finger comes to press against the tight ring of muscle and taps it almost scoldingly.
“I like looking at this. I like thinking about fucking it one day. You wouldn’t want to take away something I like, would you? ”
There it is again—that charm, that sly persuasion.
I felt the easy strength of him holding me upright as I climaxed just a minute ago, of his hand on my back bending me over—he could easily overcome me with only his body, but I don’t think that’s enough for him.
I think he likes the challenge of… What had he called it in the barn? Pushing? Transgressing?
He likes using that lovely voice to persuade me that up is down and wrong is right, making me complicit.
And yet, antithetically, he’s happy to bear the weight of my conscience and blame, happy to be labeled the evildoer after the fact. It’s strange.
His voice is rough when he says, “I think I need—yes, I need this right now.”
I tense as he pulls off my shoes and then my jeans and panties all the way off, thinking he means the place he’d just been touching, but somehow it’s more horrifying when he gets to his knees behind me and uses his thumbs to expose the wet center of me.
I feel his breath there, and the embarrassed panic comes again.
I haven’t showered since last night; I was sweating earlier.
“Ry…you can’t—”
But he ignores me, and when I try to move away, I get a smack on the bottom for my trouble. I squeak—more in surprise than anything; it doesn’t truly hurt—and then suck in a breath when I feel his mouth brush against me.
The touch is shocking, and so is the idea of it, because if I’d known, if I’d been able to shower first—
His tongue is hot and slick and strong, and my arms nearly buckle on the table.
“God, that’s good,” he mumbles from behind me. “Wanted this for so long.”
His nose presses into me as he licks my clit, and I squirm away again.
I get another smack, and then his tongue goes right inside, plunging, unlike anything I could have imagined.
I hear rustling, the fumble of fabric, and I can’t see much when I try to look back over my shoulder, but I do see his arm moving in a fast, jerky rhythm.
He grunts against my skin, grunts again, and…
he’s masturbating. He’s stroking himself with his mouth on me, his tongue against my clitoris, sliding into my entrance.
Oh… The idea of that is…it’s making me forget everything else. I want to watch him do it. I want to know what he thinks about when he does. I want him to do it and then finish on my naked backside, and I don’t even know where I got that image, but I suddenly want it so badly.
Then Bell’s standing up, and I can see a little more now.
His penis—his cock, that’s what he would say, there’s no need to be prim when I’m silently begging him to ejaculate on me—is freed from his trousers, his belt hanging open at either side.
It’s thick and ruddier than the rest of him, and it juts stiffly between his hips as he tears open a foil packet with his teeth.
I flush to see that his mouth is wet. I flush again as he rolls the latex down the length of his erection.
It shines in the broad daylight, fitting snugly to him, and he’s so practiced at putting it on that reality slices through the haze of lust. He’s done this so many times, and I never have, and I’m about to let him go inside me, and once I do this, I’ll never be able to undo it, and I shouldn’t—
He grabs my hip with one hand, the other on his rigid arousal, rubbing the sheathed tip against me.
“Wait,” I say, trying to turn. “Wait.”
The large hand on my hip doesn’t let me move. “Is that all you have to say to me?” Bell asks. “Just wait? Nothing else?”
I remember then—I have to tell him that I want to leave if I want him to stop—and I freeze. I don’t want him to stop for real. I want him to keep going, both because of our deal and because I’m literally aching for more. But choosing to want this, even after craving it this last week and a half—
“Nothing else,” I mumble. I’m suddenly miserable—too miserable to refuse or to consent.
It would be a lie to say no and a sin to say yes.
Bell’s back presses against mine, and he leans down to speak in my ear.
“Are you sad because you know good Catholic girls don’t take it bent over?
” he croons. “I told you that you could tell me no. Good girls say no, right? You were just minding your own business, and I came in with my wicked fingers and clever words, and you suddenly found yourself with a cock between your legs. It’s not your fault, sweet bird.
You did your best.” The tip of him is broad, but everything is so slick between us that he’s able to start pushing into me.
I can tell he’s leaning back to watch, and his voice is all rough satisfaction when he says, “You’ve nearly got all of the head in. God, your cunt is so tight.”
“It hurts,” I whisper, my head dropping. I reach back to find him and stop him from going deeper, but he catches my wrist and then pins it to the small of my back. He keeps penetrating me, and it can’t get any wetter, but it’s wide; it’s so much, I feel like I’m being pulled apart. “Ry. It hurts.”
“But you’re taking it so well,” he praises me.
He’s speaking in that same velvet croon from seven years ago, dark and coaxing.
“And I’ll make you feel so good with it, I promise.
It’ll slide up inside you and rub you in all the right places.
It’ll fill you deep and spread you open, and then when I touch your hot little clit, you’re going to come screaming.
” He keeps going, and I keep trying to twist away, and then he holds me even tighter, pushes his erection inside me even more relentlessly.
The banded fingers around my wrist and the hard hand around my hip are now bright points of pain to match the sharp feeling between my legs, and it’s oddly…
exhilarating. All of me feels vivid and living and real in his hold, under his invasion, and when he murmurs, “It’s okay to fight if you need to,” I feel such immense relief that tears sting my eyelids.
I wriggle, I twist, but he doesn’t let me move an inch…even though I feel every single inch he moves. “Stop,” I breathe. “Don’t.”
“Just a little bit more,” he says. His voice is a little rougher now. “A little more won’t hurt you.”
“Please,” I say, sounding pitiful. “I want to stop.”
“It’s okay, Birdie. It’s not your fault. I’m making you, aren’t I? I wouldn’t take no for an answer, and now here you are, my cock splitting you open. Do you want to fight some more? Tell me to stop again? Do anything you like. It won’t change this. Only one thing will.”
The last part is spoken a little more gently—a reminder, I think, that ultimately I can stop him.
But I make myself forget it, shove the knowledge away.
I don’t want to own the guilt; I hate having to count my daily sins like loose change.
I don’t want to think about anything at all, actually, because what he’s doing to me is outside of thought, too strange to be snared in words.
He’s hurting me with the hand around my hip and around my wrist, with the intrusion into my body, and yet everything feels sparkling, bright, alive.
My chest feels deliciously, thrillingly tight—like I’ve been swinging from a rope above the creek and I’m caught in the air, nothing underneath me—and everything below my navel shimmers and pulls with an urgency that I would be ashamed of if this were happening any differently, but I don’t have to be ashamed.
It’s Bell’s fault. He’s making me do it. I didn’t want to.
He’s using his grip on me to pull me back onto his erection after he slides out again, and the discomfort is melting away, leaving behind a hot pleasure that is somehow harder to bear.
My gasps have become whimpers, and my whimpers have become moans, and he lets go of my wrist so he can rub that greedy place in front of his cock, his fingers so unfairly certain as they caress me.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he asks. “I won’t tell anyone. I won’t tell them how hot you were to get it like this, bent over in broad daylight, not even in a bed.” He tuts, his thrusts getting longer and deeper.
I don’t think I can breathe. My diaphragm won’t bellow down; my ribs won’t expand. Everything is held hostage by the terrible, wonderful, radiant promise building under Bell’s fingers.
“Ry,” I moan. There’s no mistaking my squirming now, the wriggling, and with what will be horror once I have a chance to think about it, I become aware that he’s no longer pulling me back onto his cock—I’ve been the one rocking myself back onto him, the one seeking more and more.
It feels so wet under his strong fingers; my breasts ache to be squeezed and touched.
And I can’t stop. The better it feels, the further away the idea of sin feels, and the less everything that isn’t more and harder matters.
“There you go,” he purrs, leaning over me a little, laughing as I still try to fuck myself onto him.
“See? It’s not so bad once you let yourself have it.
You’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.
You’ll fall asleep dreaming of it, even.
Like I do. Every night, wanting exactly this.
Oh, I feel you getting tighter. Are you about to finish for me?
Don’t worry, don’t feel bad that you’re coming on my dick so soon.
I made you, didn’t I? I forced you. I put my hand down your pants without asking, and you didn’t stand a chance. Poor thing.”
The orgasm is a saw of light ripping right through me, tearing me open with a hot, bright surge of ecstasy, and then digging in, back and forth, my body squeezing and releasing, hard, shuddering contractions that buckle my knees for real this time.
Tears are dropping from my eyes, and I’m keening, and Bell has caught me, holding me up so he can keep thrusting, his grunts low and rough.
“You have no idea—” His hips punch forward, and with his arm around my waist, I’m literally driven into the air.
I’m still limp and shivering from that near-fatal release, and I feel like a plaything. A doll. Hot tingles dance across my skin at the idea. At the thought that I’ll be a doll to him for the next year, his doll, a toy to be used whenever he wants.
“You have no idea,” he starts again, the words grunted as he rams into me with my toes barely skimming the floor, “how much I fucking needed this. All these years. Jesus, Birdie. I was a man possessed.”
He sets me down, braces my right hand against the workbench with an impatient one of his own. The next slide of his erection is so deep that my moan is guttural, animal.
“I was right to be possessed, though. This pussy is so fucking good. I’m going to stay possessed for a good long while with this in my bed. Your mouth under my desk. Fuck, Birdie, this is it—”
He comes with a fierce noise, his hips going hard and slapping as he drives deep and stays there as he fills his condom.
And I can…feel it, the swelling of him, the way his thickness jerks inside me, the mechanics of his ejaculation, and it makes the hot tingles burn against my skin and sink deep into my belly.
With a very faint and ragged sense of alarm, I recognize that I want more.
Again. Already. This hasn’t been enough, not even to last the space between my orgasm and his.
Not even to last through the harsh breathing in my ear.
It’s why you’re not supposed to choose sin: because it begets itself, because one bite of the fruit will never be enough, and the awful thing is that you almost don’t want it to be.
Bell staggers too when he’s done, catching us both with a quick hand at the edge of the workbench, his chest pressed to my back and his jagged exhales warming my jaw.
At some point, I must have reached back for his hand on my hip, perhaps to push it off or claw at it, but instead, my hand is sealed over his and our fingers are woven together.
While Bell had me bent over the workbench, while he took my virginity like an overdue payment and then climaxed inside me, while his words rolled around my mind that I’d tried my best, that it was his fault, that I hadn’t wanted to be orgasming around Ryan Bell’s cock on a Wednesday afternoon—while all that was happening, I’d been holding his hand, and he’d been holding mine back.
His breathing is still hard and he’s shaking violently behind me.
“Upstairs,” he says hoarsely. “We have to go upstairs now.”