against him like a rutting animal, it seems.
He doesn’t even have to say anything in response. He gets the message loud and clear, and rubs right back against me. I’ve practically mapped every inch of his cock with my tender, swollen lips by the time he finally eases his way inside, though it’s different once he’s there. Bigger, thicker, forcing and spreading me open in a way that makes me gasp.
‘OK?’ he asks, but that’s all I get. That one chance to tell him I can’t take it, a second before he fucks into me again. And then again, hard enough to almost sprawl me over the table. Hard enough to send a deep, heavy sensation through my belly and out of my open mouth.
I have to wonder: did he really think I was going to say no to this? Oh, God, I can’t even say no to it when he jolts into me over and over, hands so tight on my hips I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m going to come again, I know, but I can’t accept it.
It’s just too easy.
He makes it too easy. He moans my name, breathlessly, and pounds that gloriously thick cock into me, and right when he’s on the brink, right when he’s shuddering and losing himself the way I already have, I lose it too.
I draw patterns in the wood of his table with my fingernails. I shout the name I’m only partially sure is the right one, and strain to get more of what he’s giving – this intense, pulsing sensation, so unrelenting it’s almost like pain. It makes me want to struggle against it, as much as it makes me want more.
And then it’s over, and the choice is made.
‘Again,’ I tell him. ‘Do it again.’
But he just laughs into my back – against the material I’ve soaked through, while surviving this ordeal – and asks me if I’m trying to kill him. ‘I knew you’d be the death of me, you dirty little minx,’ he says, though none of it’s unkind. The laughing, the comment that suggests he knows me better than I know him … it’s not cruel.
It’s more familiar than anything else. This is the part where we’re supposed to relax and enjoy each other’s company, maybe lie on a bed together and while away some time. Only we’ve done it backwards, so now we’ll have to make introductions. Flirt, gently, until we’re comfortable with each other.
And then hold hands, as we ascend the stairs.
Luckily, he’s made a good start. We’re holding hands now, though I’m not sure when he took hold of mine. And I don’t know when he started talking, either, first in exhausted fits and starts, then a little more, as we straighten our clothes. ‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that to you,’ he says, and instead of being silent, this time, I respond with the things I’m thinking.
‘I didn’t know you were paying attention,’ I say, while he eyes me steadily.
Of course I realise then that he’s not putting his clothes back together. He’s taking them off, while we do this thing in reverse.
‘Really?’ he asks, then does a little more than reverse things. He reframes it entirely, like piecing together a movie from someone else’s point of view. ‘All those heated glances over the copy machine? Asking me if I like sugar, lingering too long at my desk? What kind of person wouldn’t pay attention to things like that?’
Me, apparently. I didn’t pay attention. I called those things mundane and ordinary, and all along they’ve been anything but. They were really signs I should have read, signals I should have been able to decode. When he said, ‘Would you like a drink?’ he really meant: ‘I’m going to talk about your clit to you in about five minutes.’
I should have known.
But out here on the edges it’s always hard to see things clear. Up is down, left is right. A dull little comment is actually an invitation; a glance in someone’s direction a promise.
When I really think about it, we’ve probably been dating for months.
On Wednesdays We Play
Madelynne Ellis
When the hood comes off, the light from the naked bulb stings my eyes like the radiance of a thousand suns. At first, his face is merely a black spot that eclipses the glare. Around me the air smells of damp earth and concrete and things that live in the ground. Where are we? There’s a familiarity about the place. Are we underground?
Cellar … ? We’re in Jason’s cellar, where he keeps his wine, his amp and his toys.
Why are we in the cellar?
Unable to do much else, I blink, and slowly the blurred coloured spots clear from my vision to reveal the hard planes of a face: a narrow Roman nose, and eyes the green of tinted glass. Not Jason’s face, but someone far more familiar. Someone I see every day at work, and with whom I pass the time of day by the photocopier. Only now he’s neither bespectacled nor business-suited, and his wavy brown hair has lost out to a buzz cut. I stare up at Saul in wonderment and confusion. His aquiline brow is rent down the middle by a tight silvered scar, but what truly grabs my focus is his mouth. Thinned by his current expression, his lips nevertheless form a perfectly plump Cupid’s bow. He has the lips of a kiss-happy hooker. The rest of him, dirty great army boots, braces worn over a dusky khaki shirt, is all mean brute. The image truly suits him.
‘Comfortable?’ He tests his ink-stained knuckles against the ridge of my jaw, putting just enough pressure into the action to nudge my chin upwards. ‘I asked you a question.’
As if I can reply with my mouth sealed with tape. Well, I suppose I could nod my head. Not that I am comfortable. I’m distinctly uncomfortable, knowing neither why I’m here nor what’s to come. When I struggle, ropes bite into my wrists and ankles, the coarse fibres unmercifully irritating the bare skin. Yep, uncomfortable – just as I like it.
‘Freya – t-t-t.’ He clicks his tongue as if he’s faintly amused by my wriggling. Certainly it will take far more than a dainty shuffle to release me. His smile stretches impossibly broad, showing off coffee-yellowed teeth, as he snatches up a clipboard and leafs through the notes there. ‘What a bad girl you’ve been, siphoning money from the company tea account, cheating all your fellow employees of their daily brews. Shame on you.’ He throws the clipboard aside and it skitters across the concrete floor. ‘So, what’s it been going on … shoes, this rather fetching dress?’ We both glance down at the stretchy red fabric that hugs my skin, and I finally understand who left me the note and why I was asked to dress so provocatively. I’m playing the corporate thief, caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I guess it’s nicely grounded in reality, since I have borrowed from the fund recently.
A trail of sweat chills the space between my breasts as Saul’s fingers creep across my cheek. He rips the tape from my mouth.
‘What do you want? Ouch! That hurt.’
Saul stands tall again, and slowly shakes his head. ‘You know it’s lucky for you that it was me who found out about your little siphoning scheme and not one of the other pen-pushers, who’d have gone straight to the management.’
‘You mean they don’t know?’
More sweat prickles across my shoulders as he holds my gaze, neither confirming nor denying whether he’s snitched to the higher-ups. The regular management will have my arse for this.
