After Hours (InterMix)(50)
Yes. Right. The movie.
I stared at the screen, taking nothing in aside from the abstract strobing of colors, the sounds of words I couldn’t make sense of. A few layers of fabric and a belt separated me from Kelly’s cock. My sex contracted at the thought, a greedy fist begging to clasp him. I’d never wanted a man this way before. So explicitly. So viscerally. If my usual fantasies were fully scripted romantic dramas, what I wanted from Kelly was base and pornographic, the clapping of flesh against flesh; ugly, thrilling moans and grunts; cuss words. Spit and sweat and scraping nails. I wanted his hands on my hips, fingers digging too hard into my skin.
Kelly’s attention left my breasts, wandering down my belly, palms gliding up my arms and leaving my skin tight with goose bumps.
“Gimme my glass.”
I leaned forward to grab it from the coffee table and he took it, handing it back after a pause, a bit emptier. I replaced it and Kelly settled me against him, his touch feeling lazier than before. He rested his cheek against mine, as though we really were still watching the movie. As if this were some typical date, except he just happened to be molesting me and I wasn’t allowed to speak.
He slid his hands down my thighs, chest flexing against my back, and when he drew them up, my skirt rose, dragged to my hips. The pads of his fingers were dry and warm, hard with calluses but not rough. They traced the lightest circles over the softest skin I possessed, faint lines blazing with sensation up and down my innermost thighs.
Do this forever, I wanted to beg.
I shut my eyes, hypnotized by his fascinating caresses between my legs, the hardness of his cock and buckle at my lower back. Hypnotized by the way he threatened to use me, even as he spoiled me. Ugly scars, pretty eyes; the calm breakwater forcing order on the ward’s chaos. The contradiction that was Kelly.
“Eyes open.”
Obediently, I pretended to watch the movie, focused on nothing but the tingling touch of his fingers; the heat of his deep, rhythmic breaths; the rise and fall of his chest against my back. He drew his lips along my jugular, moaned just below my ear. I held my breath. I felt the scrape of his teeth, the slick, firm drag of his tongue along my throat, just as the teasing of his fingers turned gruff, a whisper deepening to a growl.
“I’m gonna make you so wet.”
The words alone were realizing his promise.
He fanned his fingers, thumbs tracing the uppermost creases of my thighs and the hems of my panties.
“I’m gonna make you want me so bad it’ll hurt,” Kelly whispered. “Make you want me so much, you’ll come the second my cock sinks inside you.”
I gulped a breath, head hazy, body tight and aching. He hadn’t even glanced my clit yet and I was closing in. A hot and restless desire, an angry, neglected presence that demanded attention. I needed to fidget, but surely he’d only tell me to be still. Touch me, I wanted to say. But it’d only earn me another shushing and a longer wait.
“You want me already. Don’t you?” His thumbs stroked the outer edges of my lips through my underwear, lighting up nerves I hadn’t known I had, striking me mute.
“Don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, the sound a thick, physical thing, lodged in my throat.
“I know you do. But you have to be patient.”
One hand snaked up my body to cup my breast, and the other spread across my mound, warming my skin and taunting my clit with its proximity. But no contact.
“You’ll get my cock when I’m good and ready. And I can wait all afternoon.” Kelly half chuckled, half sighed, a distinctly sinister noise, then amended, “I can wait all weekend. And so can you, since you don’t get a say.”
With that, he took his hand from my mons and wrapped his arm around my waist, resting his cheek against mine. If not for the palm cupping my breast and the hard cock at my back, it would have been quite the sweet little scene.
I stared at the TV, trying to make sense of the movie, of eerie green spheres and Sean Connery’s eyebrows. What weird fetishes was I burning onto the sex processor of my brain? Would I be haunted by the sensation of a phantom hard-on pressed along my tailbone every time I caught a glimpse of Nicholas Cage from now on?
His palm moved across my breast, a slow caress that parted my lips and shut my eyes. The touch was echoed on the other side, back and forth until my nipples were stiff and aching. He teased them with both hands, plucking, then gentle pinching between his thumbs and forefingers. With a heavy breath he lowered his mouth to my ear, not speaking, not kissing, just letting his lower lip draw a faint line from my lobe and up along the curve then back again.