Which has the bonus of spreading my legs. Once my feet are back on the ground, they’re noticeably further apart than they were before – and he’s still staring, too. He holds my gaze long after he’s leaned in to plant an open-mouthed kiss on my split sex, all wet and warm and too much, too much.
I don’t know what to do with it. I can’t watch someone watching me, as he slides his tongue between my swollen lips and licks whatever he finds there. I just can’t. He isn’t even tender about it, holding back until I can take it, delicately forging forward when I urge him on. He grasps great handfuls of my ass and holds me there. He mashes his face right into my spread slit, and once he’s as deep as he can go he licks over my slippery hole like he’s searching for a way in.
Which he finds, easily. Of course he does. He’s so greedy I’m surprised he hasn’t lost his way down there, so eager for more that he’s forgotten the breadcrumbs to get back. It’s like he’s drowning inside me, and when I make a startled sound he only forces himself deeper down.
He finds my clit and really rubs it, in a way I didn’t think was possible with that particular appendage. I thought it had to be a thumb, for it to feel like that – or maybe some sort of toy of the kind he most likely has. He’s that kind now, I see.
He’s the kind who forces me to stand still while he works his tongue back and forth over my clit, until I’m moaning. I actually moan, even though we don’t really know each other and haven’t properly spoken before now.
Our first real words to each other are cries of stunned pleasure and feral grunts of satisfaction – the former from me, the latter from him. Of course the latter’s from him. I can practically see the triumph in his gleaming eyes, as though this is all some strange sex-based revenge for wrongs I didn’t know I’d done to him.
He’s going to give me orgasms until I’m sorry for dressing him down in that meeting one time – even though I never actually have. We acknowledged each other at the photocopier, once. We saw each other in the bar downstairs, and conspired in the awkward camaraderie of colleagues who don’t really know each other.
And it all somehow led to this.
‘Oh, God, I’m coming,’ I say, because I have to. It’s so shocking that voicing it is a requirement, not an option. My legs are trembling, trembling, trembling and it’s kind of like he’s twisting something, lowdown in my gut. And then he takes my so-swollen clit between his teeth and that’s it.
I make a noise like an animal dying. I grunt the way he did, five seconds ago – guttural and unfettered, full of a kind of satisfaction I’ve never felt before. This is what going over the edge easily feels like. This is what pleasure is.
Something that makes you sob, even though you don’t want to.
Though it seems that he isn’t satisfied with this. I’ve not given enough. I’m not the kind of mess he was hoping for. He wants to reduce me to rubble, I realise – which of course only gives credibility to that whole revenge-based idea.
But the thing is … it doesn’t feel like revenge, when he carries on making these wet, nearly unbearable circles around my clit. It feels like he’s simultaneously bringing me down from the most gut-punching orgasm of my life and winding me back up into another.
It’s almost good. It’s almost not. It’s just right on that glancing edge, perfect and blissful and nearly too much.
Seriously – where has this genius been my whole life? Why have I settled for less, when I could have had this? I mean, for God’s sake – I nodded my head at him, over the copy machine. Which now seems like a crime punishable only by death.
From incredible orgasms.
‘Stop,’ I tell him. ‘Stop.’
But of course he doesn’t. He’s on a mission, now, to make me collapse – and I know it is a mission. I can feel his fingers really digging into my ass, to keep me where I am. And when I manage to wriggle my hips he stays with me. He keeps his tongue on my clit, pressing now in this rhythmic, unsettling way that sets my nerves jangling.
It’s not going to be long, I know. I can feel a different sort of orgasm building at that point of connection, so intense it’s like burning. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to take it, but when it finally starts to break he keeps me rooted to him – like some unsteady tree that’s somehow grown right out of his face.
I’m more connected to him, I realise, than to my last three boyfriends. There’s nothing between us. No whisper of material, no veil of propriety or personal space. He’s right up against me, right there with me, and, once he’s done, that feeling doesn’t go. He stands and steps back, but I can still see me all over his face.
And I can feel that hunger for me burning right out of him, too raw and real. This is what sex is, I think, but of course I can’t actually say. It would seem like the kid who wasn’t paying attention in class suddenly raising their hand to tell everyone that maths is about numbers.
It seems obvious, now. But I’ve been in the slow sexual group for far too long to actually say so. Instead I let him kiss me with his glossy mouth, stunned by the taste of myself but unable to say that, too. Other girls … they’ve probably tasted themselves a million times. They’ve kissed like this: open-mouthed and ravenous, the rhythm of it so much like sex that I have to stop and check we’re not actually doing it.
And they probably have men turn them around all the time, to bend them over things.
‘Put your hands on the table,’ he says, and, God help me, I do, I do. I can hear him unbuckling and unzipping, and even that doesn’t make me hesitate. I just want to feel him unleash some of that hunger, in something other than my direction.
I want to see what it’s like when it’s turned around on him. Will he moan the way I did, grunt the way I did – will he pull me back onto his cock in a desperate sort of way? I don’t know, I don’t know, and that’s the kicker.
I’m fumbling blind through a forest of him, unearthing each delight along the way. Never sure if it’s going to be something thrilling or frightening, right on the edge that’s now as sharp as a knife.
And then I feel him, condom-covered but still somehow dangerous and dirty and oh so good, sliding and sliding through my slit. And I hear him, too – oh, the sound he makes when I spread my legs wider in this agitated sort of way, wanting more but not sure how to say it. How do you ask for more from someone you’ve barely spoken to?
By rubbing yourself 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,