Equal Opportunities Page 20

  Just looking at him I’m getting more and more turned on. I feel like I can hear my engine revving higher and higher. The bondage, the body, and the thing that’s going to happen next. Oh, god. I slip my hand into my knickers and my fingers seem to dissolve into sheer liquid heat. My clit is so fizzy and on the edge it feels like it’s got pins and needles. Buzzing, sparkling, shards of ice. Too close. Got to calm down.

  There’s a gag lying on the bedside table. Too big and too red – just like the mouth it might be going in. I’m not sure yet if I am going to use it. David and gags – I don’t know how that will work. But maybe the threat of a gag will be fun, will get me somewhere interesting.

  God, he looks good, fucking great, in fact. A mess of hair and a tiny apricot arse. ‘I could come just from looking at you,’ I whisper, my voice carrying in the expectant stillness.

  David makes a noise. A sort of sexy moan. Luscious and desperate and loaded. He seems like he isn’t into talking right now. He’s probably psyching himself up for what’s coming. And that’s a shame, because there are a few things I want him to say to me. Or, maybe, to confess to me. Stoic mood or not, they just can’t wait. And those thoughts make me melt again.

  Like an addict I trace my finger once or twice over my clit. I’m such a hopeless case. I walk over to the bed and climb on top of David, leaning down so my dressing-gown-clad body is pressing against his naked back and my lips are at his ear.

  ‘David,’ I say in a voice that is lower than low, ‘David, I want you to tell me how much you like this.’

  ‘Uh,’ David says, a kind of aroused defiance.

  ‘You do, though, don’t you? So let me explain. Either you can tell me how much you love being treated like this, how much you are wanting it, needing it and loving it, or you can wear this,’ and I grab the gag from the beside table, holding it up so he can see.

  Moving his head round as much as he can, David looks at the gag, then at me, then back at the gag. And he nods his head.

  Bastard! He’d rather take the gag! He’d rather take the gag than talk about it.

  Angry, I shove the big red ball hard into his mouth and pull the straps painfully tight.

  Then I climb off the bed and leave the room.

  I go into the kitchen, where Thomas is sitting at the table drinking a nervous cup of coffee. Looking at him makes me feel better. My anger melts like snow in springtime and I feel gently warm inside. I think I’ve done it right this time. Instead of springing Thomas straight into some sexual Neverland I took things slow. Well, and we had a history, by this point. Thomas knew me far better. Trusted me, even.

  I had to sit him down and explain about David and me, letting him down gently of course, because our recreational sexy fun was going to have to end. But I think he was OK about that. He never took our diversion seriously anyway. Never thought of me as marriage material – well, serious girlfriend material – or anything. I was always far too old and too weird for that.

  Which means Thomas is pretty laidback about being thrown aside now David has returned. It’s like he always knew it was going to happen sooner or later.

  As for this last little favour he’s doing me, well, how lucky am I? By rights this shouldn’t have worked. There was no reason to assume Thomas wouldn’t be freaked out this time, slower pace or not.

  He was a little shy at first, then confused and then just a little embarrassed by what had happened before. But it wasn’t long before he was looking me dead in the eye and saying, ‘Whatever. Whatever you want. If you tell me to do it, I’ll do it. That does it for me.’ And then he was as flippant and upbeat as ever.

  So here we are. David is tied down. Thomas is ready and waiting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, naked. I’m teetering on the brink. Of everything.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I say, sounding and feeling gentle, nurturing. I reach out and brush my thumb across Thomas’s cheek.

  ‘Fine,’ he replies, breathless and deferential. He looks down to the floor, just a fleeting glance, but I clock it and I know he was checking out my shoes. Thomas’s shoe thing is getting so obvious. I’m wearing the green ones. Not really for him. Mostly because they feel perfect for this sort of thing. They give me a little height, the right posture. And besides, they match my robe. The dressing gown I’m wearing is also a jewel-bright green, made of a glossy material that seems to say something to me about decadence.

  I have a collar for Thomas too. It matches the one David is wearing, naturally. Without speaking, I lean over to Thomas and slide it around his throat, pulling tight but not too tight. I hear his breath catch. Just a tiny gasp and then a precious moment of stillness. Oh, he likes it.

  But for Thomas it doesn’t stop at the collar. I attach a lead – a similar strip of thin black leather, with a little chain and a snap hook where it connects. It’s pretty much the classic set-up, really. Me in heels (albeit clunky, chunky ones) and floaty belted robe, and Thomas naked, collared, led round on a lead. In fact, I’d almost be getting worried that this was too by-the-book, too cliché, if I didn’t have David tied down in the next room ready to spin things out into orbit.

  I point to the floor and Thomas slides off the chair on to all fours. My heart rushes into my mouth. Thomas. Pretty young Thomas. On the floor. Naked. On his knees. I know it’s bad. I know I shouldn’t, with David tied down in the bedroom.

  But how can I not? Thomas. As my dog boy. When am I ever going to get another chance?

  I tug on Thomas’s lead and bring him closer and closer to me, until his face is nuzzling, his mouth and nose nudging into my crotch. I can feel his tongue, big and swollen like his lips. When I pull back the folds of my robe so he can press it against me, it feels as delicious as ever. I’m just too turned on by all of this, by everything, not to do this. It’s only a quickie. Just to take the edge off. It won’t detract from the main event. In fact, it will even enhance it.

  Besides, isn’t this supposed to be David’s punishment, right? And we all remember what he is getting punished for. Looking at it that way, what I’m about to do is practically compulsory.

  Before Thomas’s tongue has grazed me three times I’m already coming, my knuckles whitening where I’m steadying myself on the edge of the kitchen table. I don’t bother to stifle the sounds I am making – and I’m a screamer – so I know David has heard. After all, he’s heard me come so many times, he can’t fail to know what I’m up to. The thought of that, of him listening – tied and gagged – and all the frustration and confusion that would cause, makes me really squirm.

  As soon as my legs feel sturdy enough, I let them take me into the bedroom, with Thomas crawling after me on the end of his lead.

  David lifts his head as soon as we walk in and looks at me with a weird, and weirdly delicious, mixture of arousal and betrayal.

  Oh, David, my poor precious boy.

  I drop Thomas’s lead and go over to him, bending down to whisper in his ear. ‘I know you heard me come. But you do know that you are going to make me come a hundred times harder than that little release with what you are about to do for me right now.’

  The only sound he makes is a soft, wet, muffled grunt. Which is the perfect reply.

  I leave David on the bed and go back to Thomas, who’s still crouching on the floor. ‘OK, Thomas,’ I say, keeping my voice as level as I can. That’s all I need to say, because he knows what I want.

  Despite the orgasm I had in the kitchen I can feel my excitement level rise immediately. Just a gentle burn at the moment, but creeping up, and I think I’ve timed it just right.

  I settle down in the corner of the room. I brought several fat cushions with me so I could be sure I would be a comfortable spectator. David’s flat is oddly functional. The bedroom carpet isn’t deep and soft but a hard-wearing, tough weave that doesn’t catch his wheels. He doesn’t have a squashy armchair in the corner, but why would he? His comfort priorities are slightly different. Hence, my BYO soft cushions.

  From my position, reclining on
the floor, I can see the bed perfectly. (I checked out all the eyelines in advance.) I can see David, bound face-down, beautifully helpless. And I can see Thomas, standing up, collared and erect (in every sense) and looking at David, spread for him on the bed.

  As I watch, Thomas climbs on to the bed and positions himself, kneeling between David’s spread legs. Then he reaches out and touches David’s arse with his fingertips, gently exploring, almost reverent. And then, contrastingly sudden and sharp, he dips his head and that incredible tongue touches that exceptional arse.

  And as Thomas licks David until he’s moaning round his gag, I just watch. Much as I love what I am seeing purely for its own sake, I am also having an out-of-body experience, as I put myself in both of their places. I know exactly how it feels to be doing what Thomas is doing right now. I know how delicious and bittersweet David tastes. And I also know what it is like to be on the twisting, keening receiving end of Thomas’s tongue.

  But, artistic as it may be, I want a lot more from this evening than a bit of pretty rimming. I want the lot. The ultimate. And they know it. They both do.

  It’s no time at all before David is ready, and by ready I mean he is straining against the chains around his wrists, lifting his upper body and doing anything he can to get more of Thomas’s tongue. In short, he is more or less screaming to be fucked, using everything but his mouth. Thomas sits back on his heels and uses his fingers to slide inside.

  David pushes back on to Thomas’s hand, but he’s so ready, so warm and needy and open, that fingers are not enough already, and Thomas quickly moves on. He slips on a condom, lubes up, repositions himself and then, easy as anything, slides inside.

  David turns his head so I can see his face, but – maybe it’s the gag – his expression is unreadable. He’s glassy-eyed and pink-cheeked. The gag is making him drool a little and I can see glistening wetness round his mouth and on his chin. I love that.

  Thomas begins to move, thrusting gently at first, but his movements quickly become faster, firmer, more urgent, as he gets more excited and it becomes clear that David can take it. Hard.

  It starts to get brutal then. It’s less about a show for me and more about two men getting each other off. Doing whatever it takes to get there. Brutal and nasty. Thomas dips his head and bites the fleshy angles between David’s neck and shoulder. David yells and growls through his gag, urging Thomas on with his body as best he can. And Thomas pushes his hand under David’s body and grabs David’s erection tightly, pumping hard.

  Faster and faster. Vicious friction. They are like one creature, thrusting, jerking, fucking. Animals.

  And then Thomas is screaming out. And so is David. And so am I.

  Perfect timing.

  David

  Here’s the thing. The thing about the Thomas thing. I did do it for Mary. Because I wanted to show her I was truly sorry. About Eleanor. About everything.

  But I also wanted to show her. Show her what I find it so hard – so impossible – to tell her. I wanted to show her how much I like all the bad things she likes. Because I do like them. And, really, I might as well get used to that fact. When it comes to all the nasty kinky filth Mary dishes up – I like it. I love it. I want it. I want her to do whatever she needs to do to me. Whatever she wants. I want her to feel like she owns me.

  Whether Mary has awakened tastes that were always there – as she likes to claim – or whether something (Mary, the accident) made me like these things, I don’t know. All I know is, this is what I am.

  So, although part of it was for Mary, it was also because I wanted to have Thomas fuck me, more than anything. It turned me on.

  But, that said, this had better be the last we see of Thomas around here. I’m not a fucking pushover. (And, yeah, I did mean to say that.)

  Mary

  Three days after Thomas fucked David, I still get all unnecessary if I so much as think about it. So I try to only think about it two or three times a day, four maximum. And actually, now I mention it, so not sticking to that rule.

  But that doesn’t matter, because I’m in the good place. My good place isn’t always the same place, but right now it’s my flat, in my bedroom, my bed, nestled under David’s arm with my head resting on David’s firm yet gently yielding bench-pressed pec, and David’s chin resting on the top of my head. A little tuft of David’s chest hair is tickling my nose. Various parts of my hot naked flesh are entwined in and over and round various parts of his hot naked flesh. This ultra-intense closeness is delicious and special and better than sex.

  Finally, I’ve got David into bed. Into my own bed. In my own house. I didn’t even realise how much I wanted this until he said he wanted to see my place and explained, with a shrug, that it was perfectly possible for him to get up my stairs.

  He crawled up. Three flights. Yes, there was much biting of lips and digging of nails into palms on my part, as I tried to keep control while he did that. Oh, god. There aren’t really even words … But it was epic. Beautiful. He was a brave prince climbing my tower. A hero.

  It was fucking hot.

  But I managed to squish my ardour down hard enough that the evening wasn’t short-circuited by me jumping him on the first landing.

  So now here I am, in bed with my number-one dirty fantasy. And it’s probably going to stay a fantasy for a while. David’s tired. He shouldn’t really have done the stairs thing. Well, no, obviously he should have done it; I just shouldn’t have expected any more hot action from him after that.

  Thing is, just the idea of David is enough to send me into a raving hormonal frenzy, and being with him day in, day out, is like living in a sexed-up wonderland. Like I’m living in a porn movie, or I would be if I had it my way. Because, oh! David! Being with David, just looking at David, makes me want it all the time. I cannot leave him alone, and David, though a twenty-four-year-old man, can’t quite match my ever-ready pace. Sometimes I feel like I’m practically harassing him, I want it so much.

  I can’t blame him for saying no occasionally. Fact is, David is still recovering from a serious accident. He is in a wheelchair, which means he spends a lot of time sitting down, which, in turn, can lead to various problems. I don’t know a great deal about the medical ins and outs. He seems to want to keep me at arm’s length from all that. He doesn’t want me to go back to his social club, and he’s never wanted me to come to his physio sessions (which he’s been skiving off from for the last few days, for obvious reasons). In some ways it’s sweet that he doesn’t tell me too much about all that medical stuff. That he doesn’t want to expose me to all that. But he needs to understand that it’s not like I’m going to run a mile if I see the dark (and, frankly, unsexy) side to his disability. I can cope. But there’s no rush.

  So it happens that sometimes I’m half insane in a blaze of horniness and David, well, David really isn’t. And then I need to have a way to take care of myself. And take care of myself I do. I am a grown-up liberated woman, after all. Cuddling up to him and thinking bad, bad thoughts about how he climbed those stairs might even be close to perfection. Might easily be enough to get me there. But close to perfection can be improved upon, there’s room for a cherry on top of this cake. A smutty cherry, for preference.

  ‘You used to be a pretty bad boy, didn’t you?’ I say. Fishing. Blatantly. Fishing for dirty talk.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ David replies, fully awake now and ignoring the bait like the teaser he is.

  ‘Yes you do. You used to be a real bastard. A real love ‘em and leave ‘em type.’

  ‘What, find ‘em, fuck ‘em, forget ‘em? All that?’

  ‘Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Well, maybe I was like that, a bit. Long time ago.’

  ‘So tell me about that. I should know about that stuff. All that stuff from before.’

  ‘What? Before I was disabled?’

  ‘Yeah, well, no, well, kind of, but I meant more before me.’

  ‘So what do you want to know?’


  ‘I don’t know. Something bad. Something I’ll like.’

  David

  Mary is still in a state of hyper-arousal from the stair-climbing show-stopper. She really loved that. Her cheeks and chest are still flushed. Her lips are still red. Her breathing is shallow. I wonder if she will manage to listen to quite a long story. I hope so, because I have the perfect thing.

  I wrap my arms tight around her, and find a husky whisper in my voice, which I know will make this story extra shiver-inducing.

  ‘OK, how about this. It was the summer after I finished uni. I was twenty-two or so, and newly single – I’d just finished with this girl I was seeing in Sheffield. It was a mutual thing, the break-up. We’d just graduated and were both starting on the career ladder, and neither of us wanted a partner cramping our style.

  ‘This was before I got the IT job at the uni here. I think it was a week or so before I started. I wasn’t working with Larry then. I’d never met him. So this was before I started on that whole ladykiller lifestyle that Larry and I created together. Before David-the-Player was born. But this – this story I’m about to tell you – was, I suppose, where it started. In a way. It’s how I realised that I could be like that. The real birth of all that Mr Loverman stuff.

  ‘See, I’d sort of grown into myself at university. What you see before you. Before that, when I’d just finished my A-levels, I was a bit sort of spoddy, a bit lanky, a bit greasy and zitty, but I bulked up and dried out a bit when I got into my twenties. I looked better than I had ever looked. And I was starting to realise it.

  ‘So that day, the day in question, I was at my mum’s house. It was a nice sunny morning, or afternoon, probably, by the time I’d surfaced. My mum was off at work. She worked at the university too, actually; in fact that was how I got that job fixing the computers and shit in the first place: she fixed it up for me. So, anyway, she wasn’t there and I’d just got up, pottering in the kitchen, tea, cornflakes, all the breakfasty-jazz, and the doorbell rang.’