Chapter 2: The First Fuck
The floorboards were hard under his knees, a grainy pressure he felt through the thin carpet. He stared at the triangle of black lace between her legs, so close he could feel the heat coming off her skin. The lavender and musk were stronger here, intoxicating.
“Well?” Her voice floated down, lazy. “You wanted this. So ask.”
His throat clicked dry. “Please.”
“Please what?” A heel tapped beside his thigh, a soft, impatient clock-tick.
“Please… let me…”
“Use your words, little man. I am not a mind reader.” She shifted her weight, the muscles in her thighs flexing. “What does that pathetic thing between your legs want?”
He swallowed. “I want to taste you.”
“Louder.”
“I want to taste you!”
She let the silence stretch, the bass from the other room filling it. Then she chuckled. “Through the lace. You don’t get skin yet. Show me you can be obedient.”
He leaned forward, his nose brushing the coarse mesh of the fabric. He could smell her directly now, a salty, primal scent beneath the soap. He opened his mouth, pressed his tongue against the damp lace. It was a barrier, bitter with detergent, but the shape and heat of her were underneath.
“Pathetic,” she sighed, but her hand came down and tangled in his hair, not gently. She gripped tight, guiding his face forward, holding him in place. “Earn it.”
He worked his tongue, tracing the seam of the fabric, feeling her stir against the pressure. A low sound escaped her, and the hand in his hair tightened. She began to move, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips, grinding the lace-covered cleft against his mouth and nose. His own arousal was a painful, throbbing ache between his legs, ignored.
“You like that, don’t you?” she murmured, her voice huskier now. “Being used as a towel for a real woman’s cunt. Your wife, she lets you do this? Or do you beg and she says it’s dirty?”
The question, the mention of his wife, was a physical shock. He moaned against her, the sound muffled. Shame boiled up, hot and immediate, but it only fused with the excitement, making it sharper, more vicious.
“I didn’t think so,” she said, answering her own question. She kept moving, the rhythm increasing. “You save all your little perversions for strangers. For someone who doesn’t care if you cry.”
With her free hand, she hooked her thumbs in the sides of the thong and pulled it down her thighs, letting it fall to her ankles. She stepped out of it, kicking it aside. The hand in his hair yanked him forward, hard, until his mouth met bare skin, wet and swollen.
“Now,” she commanded. “No more lace.”
The taste was direct, complex, utterly foreign. He lost himself in the mechanics of it, in the sharp pull on his scalp, in the stifling, perfumed air of the room. She used his face, her movements becoming less theatrical, more urgent. Her breaths came shorter above him. He was a tool, an object, and the freedom in that was dizzying.
After a while—minutes, maybe only seconds—she pushed him back by the hair. He looked up, his mouth wet, his vision blurred. She was looking down at him, her lips parted, a flush high on her cheeks. She looked satisfied, but her amusement was still there, edged with something colder.
“Stand up.”
His knees protested as he rose, his body trembling. He was achingly hard, the neglected erection bobbing as he moved.
She looked at it and snorted. “All that work, and it’s still just a thumb.” She reached out and flicked it with a fingernail. He flinched, a spark of pain and pleasure shooting through him. “It’s so red. Like a little angry troll.”
She turned and walked the two steps to the bed, sitting on the edge. The black sheets swallowed the light. From a drawer in the nightstand, she produced a square foil packet. She ripped it open with her teeth, never breaking eye contact.
“Come here.”
He shuffled forward. She took him in her hand, her grip firm, clinical. He gasped. Her skin was cool.
“You will use this,” she said, rolling the condom down his length with efficient, dispassionate motions. It felt strange, a tight, artificial sheath. Her mockery continued as she worked. “So small. I have used thicker pencils. Does it even feel like anything is there now?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, honestly.
“We will see.” She lay back on the bed, propping herself on her elbows. She didn’t open her legs. She just watched him, a challenge in her eyes. “You want to fuck me? Then do it. But I am not moving. You have to reach.”
The bed was low, her hips high. He moved between her legs, his heart hammering. He tried to position himself, but the angle was wrong. He was on his knees on the floor, but she was too tall. He had to rise up onto his toes, straining, one hand bracing himself on the mattress beside her hip. He fumbled, the condom-sheathed tip sliding against her thigh, missing.
She laughed, a bright, cruel sound. “Having trouble, little man? Too far to climb?”
With a desperate shift, he found the entrance and pushed. He slid in an inch, the tight, wet heat a shock so intense his knees almost buckled. A choked sob escaped him. He pushed again, sinking deeper, finally fully inside, his body pressed against her, his toes cramping from the strain.
For three seconds, it was heaven. The feeling, the conquest, the illicit perfection of it.
Then she lifted her hips, just an inch off the mattress.
He slipped out completely, falling forward against her with a grunt.
“Uh-uh,” she chided. She was smiling, her green eyes gleaming in the striped light. “I didn’t say you could stay. You have to work to keep it.” She lowered her hips again. “Try again.”
He did, teeth gritted, the pleasure now mixed with a frustrating, agonizing struggle. He got himself inside, managed two thrusts from his precarious, tiptoe stance, and she lifted again, breaking the connection.
“You are like a little dog,” she observed, her voice calm, as if commenting on the weather. “Humping at the air. Is that what you do at home?”
Sweat dripped from his temple onto the black sheet. His thighs burned. Each time he entered her, the sensation was overwhelming, but it was instantly stolen, leaving him empty and desperate. He was crying, he realized, silent tears cutting through the sweat on his face. He wasn’t sure if they were from humiliation, physical strain, or the brutal, exquisite fulfillment of his deepest fantasy.
“Please,” he gasped, not even knowing what he was begging for. To stop. To finish. To be allowed to stay inside for more than three seconds.
“Please what?” she asked, her body still, offering no help. “You paid for this. This is what you wanted. To be shown how small you are. In every way.” She reached down and wrapped her hand around him, not guiding him in, just squeezing lightly. “So be a good little client. And keep trying.”