Chapter 9 #3
I take the head in my mouth. The angle’s wrong, my teeth catch, barely, and Celyn hisses.
I pull back. ‘Tip your chin,’ Celyn says, quiet, no judgement.
I tip, try again. Better. The jaw knows more than it did the first time, the stretch of it familiar now, wanted.
Salt, skin. The taste that’s Celyn and nothing else, the weight pressing my tongue flat, and I go down slow, as far as I can, further than the first time and further than the second.
Not all the way. Celyn’s too long for all the way and I’m still learning the back of my own throat.
The back of my hand against the lace still bunched at the hip. The rough under my other hand. Both.
Celyn’s thumb hooks behind my ear, the hips rock, shallow, letting me set how deep. I pull back. Tongue on the slit. The taste, sharper now, more. I go back down.
‘Ron. Fuck.’
The hips push up. I hold them down with one hand flat on the stomach, the muscle tense under my palm, the line of dark hair under my fingers, and keep the other hand on the neck because I need the stubble, I need both textures in my hands while my mouth is full and my knees are on the carpet and I’m hard in my boxers and nobody’s touching me and I don’t care.
Faster. Celyn’s hand tightens in my hair. The thighs shake. I can feel it building, the cock getting harder, the stomach going rigid, the breathing turning into short gasps. The hips trying to push up against my hand.
‘I’m going to.’
I don’t pull off, don’t want to. Celyn comes in my mouth, the taste, the salt, the cock twitching against my tongue, the thighs quivering, the sound loud and broken and not held back.
I swallow. The neck vibrates under my hand, the moan through it.
The taste is new but it’s not the taste that’s got me aching untouched in my own boxers.
It’s the throat still going under my palm, the sound I pulled up through it.
Then me. Celyn pushes me back onto the bed.
Celyn kneels between my legs and I watch the mouth moving lower and pulling my boxers down and my cock out, hard enough to ache, and Celyn’s mouth, not slow, not teasing, takes me in wet and tight and the tongue does the thing, the flat press under the head, then the swirl, then down, and my hips come off the bed.
The hands on my hips. Pressing me down. Celyn’s head moving, the hair falling forward, the mouth working, the contrast between the rough and the soft and the wet is, I can’t.
‘Fuck. Celyn.’
One hand finds my balls. Cups them, rolls.
The weight of them. The other hand pins my left hip so hard the print will be there tomorrow under the polo and nobody’ll know.
Celyn pulls off the head with a small wet sound, looks up, mouth open, the spit smeared at the base of the cock and at the corners of the mouth.
‘Look at me,’ Celyn says. The voice rough. ‘Don’t stop watching.’
Then back down. Deeper than I thought a mouth could go.
The throat working past where I thought a throat could work.
Cheeks hollowed. The eyes never leaving mine.
The come hits Celyn’s throat. No warning.
Celyn swallows me through it, the throat contracting around the head, the second pulse, the third, my hands in the hair, not pushing, holding.
The fourth pulse smaller. The fifth a twitch.
Celyn keeps me in until the body says enough and slides off, slow, the cock coming out wet and softening, and Celyn licks the spit from the base and sits back on the heels and looks at me. ‘Alright?’ Celyn says.
I can’t speak, nod, my hand’s shaking. Both hands are shaking.
The bed. Celyn face-down, one arm off the edge. The lace is gone now, pulled off at some point, don’t remember when, somewhere between the second time Celyn’s mouth found mine and the third. The sheet at the waist. The back, long, the spine, the shoulder blades.
I’m on my side, watching. The watching isn’t new but the weight behind it is, like wet concrete that found level.
‘You liked them,’ Celyn says into the pillow.
‘Yeah.’
‘Bought them on the high street. Nothing fancy. M&S.’
‘Right.’
‘Are you having a crisis about M&S lingerie, Ron?’
‘Shut up.’
The laugh. Into the pillow.
I reach over. My finger traces the spine. Down, slow. The line of the spine under the skin, slow. Celyn doesn’t move, the breathing goes even.
‘Last night you were stubble and a hoodie,’ I say. Don’t know why I’m saying it. The breathing even under my hand.
‘Mm.’
‘The night before, the eyeliner. The skirt.’
‘Mm.’
‘Thursday with the bare hands and the restaurant t-shirt.’
Celyn turns the head. One eye, the grey-green, watching me from the pillow. ‘And?’
‘And nothing. Same.’
‘Same what.’
‘Same. This. It doesn’t change.’
Celyn looks at me for a long time. One eye. Pillow crease on the cheek. Stubble. Then the face opens. Not the half-smile. Underneath. I haven’t. I can’t.
‘Good,’ Celyn says. Turns back into the pillow.
Good. Just: good.
The laptop comes out. Celyn sits up, crosses the legs, the sheet across the lap, the screen bright. Starts typing, keys fast, then stopping, then fast. Face in the light, stubble, concentration.
I lie back, watch the ceiling, watch Celyn. Lips moving slightly. Reading back. The profile in the blue-white glow. The red lace somewhere on the floor, a fact, not a question.
Wonder if Celyn’s writing this. The lace. The room. Me.
The key’s under the mat downstairs. Neither of us has mentioned it.
Wonder how long that lasts.