Chapter 30
BIRDIE
“Christ, Birdie,” Bell mutters, his hand going tight in my hair. “That feels so fucking good.”
By my ear, the steering wheel moves, his free hand clenching the top as he drives us to his brother’s house for dinner. All of him is strung tight, vibrating like a violin string, and I can feel the quivering effort it takes for him not to move as I take as much of him in my mouth as I can.
I know I can’t be very good at this yet, but it is very gratifying that he can only last a few minutes with my mouth on him, no matter how clumsy my attempts are.
The giddy power I feel having someone this beautiful becoming absolutely distraught because of me is sinful; it’s too close to pride, the bad pride, the haughtiness condemned in the Bible.
But I truly can’t help it, it’s alluring to have this effect on him—it’s addictive.
It makes me quietly distraught too, the thudding pulse in his erection matched by the throbbing in my cunt, his tensed thighs matched by my own tensed thighs.
It’s a curse to be this responsive to him—maybe a punishment God pre-meted out, with divine foreknowledge of my late-blooming sexual pride.
Being careful with my teeth, I push my head down even more, savoring the afflicted groan I’m rewarded with.
I remind myself to breathe through my nose and relax my tongue like my surreptitious online research has advised.
I know Bell claims to like my inexperience, to enjoy the process of staining my innocence bit by bit, but after taking him into my mouth yesterday, I’m acutely aware of not only my deficits as a companion but also of the imbalance those deficits create between us.
He’s able to manipulate my body with every tool at his disposal—hands, mouth, cock, toys, towel—and when he gives me oral sex, he does it with an artist’s attention, with a master’s skill.
That doesn’t feel fair—to him, I suppose, but mostly to me.
We hit a pothole, a small one, but the truck’s work-ready suspension means that we bounce over it, and it shoves the head of Bell’s dick right to the edge of my throat.
I swallow reflexively, an automatic response to the sensation of something knocking against my soft palate, and then again, my tongue and throat moving around the plump tip.
Bell lets out a stream of curses so creative and so shocking that I nearly lift my head from his lap in pure astonishment, but his hand is now implacable in my hair, and the organ in my mouth is swelling and then he’s pumping his orgasm down my throat, his hips pressing up, his foot nearly slipping off the accelerator, his grunting breaths louder than the noise of the road underneath us.
I know he wants me to swallow anyway, but I also don’t have a choice—it’s swallow or choke—so I gulp him down and enjoy the way each swallow makes him hiss my name like an imprecation.
When he finally slumps back into the driver’s seat, breathing fast, I pull up. A thin ribbon of ejaculate leaks from the head, and I act on instinct, lapping it up with my tongue and then licking all over until he uses the hand in my hair to guide me up.
“I want to taste my cum in your mouth,” he breathes before leaning over the console for a hard, tonguing kiss. He keeps his eyes as much on the road as he can, but he doesn’t skimp on time, not letting me go until he’s satisfied.
Finally, he sits back and puts himself away, zipping up his trousers but not buttoning them. “Open up your pants for me,” he says, his attention fully on the road.
We’ve been lucky with the route we’re taking through downtown—there’s been almost no one around with rush hour over and the offices closed—but midtown is astir with people coming and going, walking, bustling, eating and drinking.
I glance self-consciously around, making sure no one will be able to see into the truck, and then do as he asks.
Bell slides his hand into the open waistband of my pants and immediately searches for my pussy.
His fingers deal efficiently with the gusset of my panties and the odd angle, and then two of them are inside.
The rest of his hand molds over my sex, his thumb and fingers crowded between my thighs, and stays there.
The fingers inside me don’t go very deep, and he doesn’t offer any stimulation with his palm; it’s not meant to do anything for me.
This is something for him, some kind of comfort or reminder—reassurance, maybe.
Which I think because he’s done it a few times now, mostly while falling asleep and then once two nights ago while we were watching TV.
Halfway through the first episode, he’d nestled me into his side and then casually cupped my pussy for the duration of the evening, like it was just another way to snuggle, like how another couple might hold hands.
I can feel the contentment radiating off him whenever he does it, the calm, as if nothing can trouble him so long as he knows he has my cunt to take the edge off if he needs to.
It’s mortifying. It’s unspeakably vulgar.
It makes me wet every time.
He looks completely at peace now, his eyelids hooded and his jaw relaxed, a smile playing on his lips. He could be any man out for a nice evening drive around town, save for the fingers wedged inside me.
A shrill noise shatters the obscene serenity of the moment, and I instinctively twist to look at the back seat.
“Ry,” I say. “My khakis.”
Bell makes a face as he slides his hand free. “I did not buy you khakis.”
I quickly button and zip as he licks his fingers, and I can’t resist staring for a moment at the picture he makes, at those strong, harmonious features in silhouette against the car window, at his long fingers and his sensual mouth. His fluttering lashes as he sucks my taste off his own skin.
I unbuckle myself and then push into the back seat, where the new pet carrier contains the tiny beast from the studio last night.
I ignore the flutter in my chest—our pet carrier, our tiny beast—and try not to think of the future and what the end of our arrangement will bring.
Shopping for food and a cat bed and cat toys last night had been…
painfully wonderful. Dizzying in its sweet ordinariness.
Like Bell and I were a real something, like I was actually his girlfriend, like this was a lasting happiness we were creating together.
It was the kind of wonderful that could only be matched by the cheerless dread of knowing it wasn’t real and that it would end, neatly and completely.
It would be over in a time so short that I’d be able to measure it in bags of cat food.
And that thought should be comforting. I should be soothed by remembering that my strange, semicaptivity is bounded and finite.
It shouldn’t make me feel so forlorn.
“It’s a wool and gabardine blend, and it happens to be a light camel,” Bell is saying as I unzip the carrier and start stroking the kitten’s downy head, “but these are tailored, high-waisted trousers, cut to a 1930s silhouette, not cut for someone who has a dual monitor setup. Calling them khakis is a tragic disservice. I can’t believe I made you waffles this morning, and this is how I’m repaid. Khakis.”
This makes me smile despite my unhappy thoughts.
“As if I could stop you from making waffles,” I murmur.
They’re a weakness of his, the waffles. He’s a clever and competent cook, making most of our dinners unless I fight him on it, and I generally don’t because it’s so, so nice to be cooked for, cared for, to eat flavorfully, with leisure and laughter and sparkling eyes over a highball or a coffee mug.
And generally, his breakfasts, lunches, and snacks are a doctor’s dream—lots of protein, lots of vitamins.
Cruciferous vegetables and berries and chicken.
But the waffles…he can’t help himself. Sometimes in the morning, sometimes for a midday snack.
More than once, I’ve woken to him working out his lust inside my body, and then afterward, he’ll leave and the smell of frozen waffles heating up will drift upstairs.
He always brings up two for me, with peanut butter and honey, cut into wedges just like his.
“I’m a growing boy, I need my waffles. And you need to keep up your energy so you can take care of this new monster of ours. Speaking of, is Lilith okay?”
Lilith—so named for the biblical screech owl of the waste—had stopped yowling the moment I started petting her and is now purring as loudly as the truck’s engine, trying to butt and rub against my fingers. “She’s fine,” I say, smiling down at her. “She just wants my attention.”
Bell sighs. “I wouldn’t know how that feels.”
“So it crawled into your house from the street?” Sean, the oldest Bell brother, is watching Lilith explore his gleaming wooden staircase with her trademark meowing outrage.
Sean’s arms are folded, his expression appraising, save for the slight curl in his upper lip.
He doesn’t seem to be an animal guy. “Is it…sanitary? Like to have inside?”
“She came in through an open window, Sean. We didn’t fish her out of a pile of used needles,” Bell replies. “And we took her to the vet this morning. After they checked for a chip, they tested her for everything and gave her a clean bill of health. And now she’s ours.”