I had woken up thinking about him, my body covered in sweat, my thighs clenched trying to hold onto the pulsing ache between them. Like waking from a fever dream, I had felt disorientated; my skin itched as if just touched, ghostly fingers had stroked a sheer trail over my heavy, slumberous limbs.
One of my hands had gripped the sheet, my knees drawing up as frustration crashed through me. I rubbed and dragged my nipples on the material as my body rippled and moved. Even my stomach craved the friction as it moved with the roll and surge of my hips and bottom. The cool air brushed my slick folds as my legs worked apart.
I had needed his touch: I wanted him so badly. It was always the same mixture of gratitude: that I could feel something this strongly after so long and fucking outrage that someone could control my body to this degree.
Tears of frustration had leaked from the corner of my eyes. I hadn’t wanted to touch myself. I had wanted him to do it. Only him.
Wanting his hands on me, his mouth, his tongue, I had writhed and tormented myself until I was screaming his name in my head. One second yelling for him to get out of my mind, my body, the next begging him to come to me, to put me out of my misery. The irony was that I knew he would come to me if I asked, the problem was I didn’t know how.
It only took one touch in the end, one press of my fingers, one circular motion on my swollen, hungry clit and I had burst open, screaming my climax to the empty, silent room.
Now I am waiting for him.
Pissed off with myself for giving in so easily (one text was all it took), but feeling that swelling desperation, the bone deep need to see him build inside me, I sit and wait on our park bench. My light summer skirt blows up in the breeze and I place my hands on my lap to hold it down.
I don’t have to wait for long. He is always punctual, prides himself on it.
I continue to stare ahead as he sits beside me, but I feel his arm go around my back to rest along the wrought iron seat.
“Why didn’t you call me?” He asks softly.
“I didn’t need to call you.” I answer abruptly.
“Why do you fight it so hard? Why can’t you just accept us, this?”
This isn’t the first time he has asked me this. I know the answer, but I cannot verbalise it. Saying the words would mean giving up another part of me and I am not prepared to do that. But his very presence makes a liar of me. I feel the heat of him down my side, the gentle movement of his finger on my shoulder and I want him.
It is that fucking simple.
Closer… Touch me… Fuck me.
My throat is tight – I can barely swallow – the words stuck like toffee. The muscles in my thighs are so taut they’re almost vibrating.
“You’re really on edge. Are you wet and swollen?” His hand comes to rest on my bare knee, I bite my lip. “I’m going to make the ache go away… going to make you give in.” He catches the involuntary shake of my head and laughs low and soft. “I know you don’t want to, but you know you need to.”
His hand begins to slide up my thigh. I hold my legs together, unknowingly making things easy for him. Twisting his upper body towards me, he thrusts his hands up my skirt and yanks my knickers down to mid thigh. I see them briefly, brazenly sitting there just below my skirt for the world to see, or the lunch time strollers at any rate. I don’t have time to absorb my shock before he takes hold of my hair and turns my face towards his.
His eyes roam my face. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but they finally rest on mine and I flinch slightly.
“Stop hiding from me.” He says against my mouth.
“Let me in.”
His hand flicks my skirt up and dives under. My thighs quiver, a last ditch effort to stay closed before they loosen and he takes immediate advantage.
I gasp against his lips on first contact, our gazes locked.
His fingers plunge into my drenched, engorged flesh and my eyes close as I finally receive the touch that I have craved.
This is bliss.
He works his fingers inside me, setting a steady, heavy rhythm, banging up against my clit with every up stroke. I moan into his mouth and spread my legs a little wider, feeling my knickers pull tighter, whispering “Yes, yes, yes…” – a mantra dragged from a place deep inside of me.
He pulls back slightly so he can watch his hand moving under my skirt, see how shameless I look and I open them a little more.
“Fuck, yeah! You’re beautiful – dirty – perfect.” He murmurs.
He adds another finger, stretching me, going deeper. I can feel it taking over my body, growing and building until I am panting and break out in a fine sweat.
My eyes fly open as he grips my hair tighter, the sharp pain bringing a sudden moment of clarity. I am going to give him what he wants. I fight it briefly, but there’s really no point. My body has accepted it even if my mind has not.
“Oh god! Please don’t stop…” I am frantic now, oblivious to time or place.
“I won’t… give it to me. Let me feel it.”
“Yes, now, it’s now…”
I close my eyes, feel my breasts move with the force of his thrusts and holding my breath I let go and finally give in…
…and it is glorious.
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