Equal Opportunities Page 8

  David doesn’t reply, he keeps his eyes fixed on the road. But I can see it in his face. He agrees with every word. Relief floods through me. ‘What,’ he says after a short pause, ‘what are you going to do?’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘Yes. What are you going to do to me?’ And, god, when he says that my hair seems to stand on end. He so wants it.

  ‘Well, my eager little bitch-boy, I haven’t really decided yet, but I think for starters I’m going to tie you up.’

  David almost crashes the car.

  In David’s house I keep my promise, pushing him down on the bed and tying his wrists to the headboard with the thin cords of nylon fabric that started life as part of my top – until I ripped them off, desperate for bondage material. David’s house is really not kitted out for kinky sex.

  ‘We should have gone to my place. I have all my stuff,’ I mutter as I fiddle with the cords, trying to get the restrictions just right.

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Sex stuff.’

  ‘Well, the trouble with your place is it isn’t very accessible, is it? Unless you have a lift stashed away somewhere round the back.’

  I laugh a little and then shut him up by pushing my fingers into his mouth and twisting them around. He gasps and then sucks, wetting them and making them slide more easily. I pump in and out, thinking about what he would be like sucking cock. Tied down like this and having a massive erection jammed into his helpless, saliva-sticky mouth. I wish with all my heart I had come prepared with a delicious ring gag, so I could strap his pretty, pouty mouth open in a permanent surprised O, like a blow-up doll. But, without my much-loved equipment to fall back on, I just have to rely on my improvised wrist ties and the extra-delicious bondage-substitute of David’s own bodily limitations.

  I take my fingers out of his mouth and climb on to the bed, then dip my head and run my teeth down his chest. I do it slowly, over and again until he starts to keen lightly. Not talking back to me any more, no small talk or bratty backchat, just making the sounds of pure, frustrated lust. I know his cock is hard, just from feeling it against my leg once or twice. And I know how much it is straining and begging for me to touch it, too.

  ‘Missed me,’ I whisper as I glide back up his torso and let my lips float next to his ear.

  ‘Just a bit,’ he manages. And that’s just a tiny bit too flippant for my liking. I thought I’d got rid of that with the bondage and teasing, but it seems he still has a bit of zing left, which is nice, actually, especially as I have a little something in mind to bring him down a notch.

  Keeping my mouth pressed lick-close to his ear, I form soft private words out of the lightest breath. ‘Did you touch yourself? Did you touch yourself and think of me?’

  ‘Actually, no. I wanted to, but I was waiting. I thought I’d find you. My friend Larry has your number. So I saved it all for you.’

  I sit back on my heels, straddling his chest and let him babble all of this out. I feel wonderful as I watch him, talking rubbish, but burning with a kind of vicious ravenous need at the same time. I am like a different person when I am with him. Not a nurturing thing. Pure animal. When he’s finished his explanation, I say, ‘Do it now.’

  ‘Do what now?’

  ‘Touch your cock. Hang on, I’ll just unhitch.’ I lean forward, my body brushing against his face, undo a knot and free his right wrist.

  ‘What? Do what?’ He’s frowning.

  I climb off him and reposition so I’m lying next to him, my body curled around his, my head on his chest. ‘Go on. I want to see you do it.’

  ‘Sorry, I, well. I’m sorry. This isn’t quite what I expected.’

  ‘Well, if you want to come tonight, that’s what you’re going to have to do.’

  I run my fingernails over his chest, digging hard into the vulnerable flesh around his nipples. He groans, pushing his head back and showing me his white swanlike throat. He is so magnificent. His body is truly wet-dream perfection. A dizzying blend of sculpted and damaged that seems to flood my senses, leaving me almost as helpless as he is right now. I push his right hand down his stomach to brush against the head of his hard cock, which is rigid and tight against his ironing-board belly, and he moans again, turning his head to the side, away from me. More dazzling white neck. I stretch up and lick it. It’s as smooth as soap, but it tastes of musk and dark sweat, sour and sweet.

  He starts to touch himself, pushed over the edge by my tongue and teeth making cobweb patterns. I keep pinching and toying with his nipples too, thinking of my clamps at home (although they might be a little too much right now) and twisting his delicate flesh extra hard every time I want to hear that pained little cry that gets me a little closer to my own personal goal for the evening.

  When his right arm starts to move a little faster, I stop playing with his nipples and reach down between his legs, finding that soft secret place behind his balls. A little tiny piece of tenderness that holds any number of very satisfying secrets. I press gently. David inhales sharply when I do that. So close.

  And then it just takes a little more pressure from me on that tight little half square inch of skin, and he’s off, squirming and screaming and coming hard into his hand. I watch his face, the pink blush over his pale cheeks, the long sharp line of his elegant nose, his firm, over-sized pout, his tight-squeezed eyes.

  I try to make myself remember it all.

  David

  When I open my eyes she’s looking at me and smiling. It’s like a dream. My bedside lamp is on behind her – the only light in the room – and she’s backlit, stray strands of her otherwise immaculate bob creating a fuzzy frizz halo. She looks like an Eastern European religious painting, and I feel suitably blessed.

  I’m still pretty buzzy post-come, but I’m aware that I need to reciprocate and wonder where I should start. My left wrist is still tied to the bed frame, so I’m not in a great position to start directing the action. Nevertheless, I feel I ought to offer my services.

  But before my mouth is even a tiny way open, she decides that it is – as it always seems to be – her move. And move she does, flipping from lying next to me on the bed to straddling me again, but this time right over my face.

  My world goes dark. Dark and hot and heavy with the scent of night-blooming pheromones. My world is nothing but Moonflowers and Jasmine. I push my tongue out between my lips and I find her, right there. Closer than close. It would be just too, too easy, if it weren’t for the fact that I can barely breathe.

  I put my right hand against her thigh. But she grabs it, pulling it up and pushing my fingers into her mouth, biting on them. My cock’s getting hard again, swelling gently, even though I know it knows better.

  I find new paths with my tongue, bumping up against one of her hands, which is here too. We work together, her hand and I, a team with a common goal – to get Mary to come before I suffocate.

  It’s mercifully quick. I don’t know if it’s my tongue or her hand or her own bizarre kinkiness that does it, but we’re there before I know it. Suddenly, suddenly, she’s collapsing, her weight falling against the wall behind me. She moves her legs a little as she relaxes, and delicious light and air rush in to find me. I can hear her moans and sobs properly now, and my own rushed panting.

  She shifts, moving down my body and lowering herself back on to the bed, leaning over to crush her lips against mine, which are still wet and swollen. Bruised with her.

  She kisses me for a long time.

  Mary

  I can’t let the evening end without a proper shag. For some reason we never got around to that on our first night together. So this is our first time – which is worth noting.

  We give it half an hour. I make some tea in David’s kitchen first. Everything is surprisingly clean for the home of a bloke who lives alone. When I mention this to David he looks a bit bashful and mentions something about his mum living really nearby.

  Too cute.

  And then, once our tea is drunk, we do it. I clim
b on top of him. Pure Madagascan vanilla. No bondage or anything. Just me and him. I’m so wet. I practically glide on to his hard cock. It feels perfect, like it’s replacing a lost part of me. I move up and down. Slower. Faster. Wanting it to last forever and yet not being able to wait for the climax. I use my hand to tease my clit at the same time, because I really want to come when he does. I really want to be right there with him.

  His swollen lips are parted a little. His cheekbones are dusty with pinky blush. His eyes are closed. He is so beautiful.

  ‘David,’ I whisper, ‘do you like fucking me?’

  ‘I …’ David opens his eyes.

  ‘How long has it been since you fucked a girl, David?’

  ‘I don’t know. Two years. Bit more.’

  I don’t know why it turns me on that David hasn’t had sex for so long, but it does. It immediately turns up the heat.

  I slow down my movements on David’s cock, until I am barely twitching.

  David stares imploringly at me, but I keep very still.

  ‘Please,’ he whispers, ‘please don’t stop.’

  I laugh. And even though I feel slightly power-crazed, even though my mind is racing with images of climbing off David right now, tying him up again, teasing him back to his peak, over and over, making him wait all night, begging and pleading – I can’t. I can’t do it. Because I just want to come with David’s cock inside me too much. So I start to move again. Faster and faster. Until there is no way back.

  Part Two: March

  David

  Getting serious with Mary is too fast, too easy. It’s all down to the sex, of course. I want to have sex with her all the time; I can’t seem to control myself. And in order to facilitate this all-sex-all-the-time lifestyle, I need Mary to be around all the time, which means within a couple of weeks she’s practically moved into my bungalow.

  It’s weird, because I used to be the kind of guy who would try to avoid even letting a girl know my address, let alone clear out a drawer for one. But now look at me. Here I am with a semi-live-in girlfriend. Mary’s met my mum – my mum’s round a lot – she has a packet of tampons in my bathroom cabinet, a lipstick on my mantelpiece and, best of all, a basket full of sex toys tucked under my bed.

  So I’ve compromised. And it is so very worth it. I have never had so much sex in my life. Why didn’t anyone tell me how much fun this whole committed relationship thing could be?

  It takes about three weeks for Mary to get around to tying me to my wheelchair, after hours, days and weeks of incessant talking about it. Not that I should complain about that, because the way Mary talks about these things would be more than enough to keep me sated even if she never acted on any of it.

  Strangely, she doesn’t use any of the old equipment from her basket, which I now know from experience contains all manner of soft ropes and cuffs, even chains. This time she talks about wanting the perfect look and liking things to be all new and shiny for this special occasion.

  In the end, after masses of deliberation, she straps my wrists to my armrests with two pieces of emerald-green ribbon that she unravels from her hair. As she winds the satiny strips around and around, and her hair falls out of its stubby pony-tail into that familiar chin-length bob, she whispers to me not to struggle or tug at the ties too much or the ribbons will tighten and dig into my flesh.

  I don’t reply. I can’t speak anyway, I’m too turned on. But Mary has this way of talking to me sometimes that just makes me meek as a kitten. She seems to make it clear that she owns me, and I don’t have any say in the matter.

  Maybe it’s because she is so precise when she does these things to me. I know she plans every detail, even when things seem impromptu. And when she takes control, she seems cool, almost distant. In contrast, I feel dirty and wanton as I find my breath quickening and my flesh flushing. And it feels so wrong to get turned on by her nastiness, her cruelty, her abuse. It’s wrong. I’m wrong. And all those wrong feelings make me so hot. They are what make her better than anything. Anything I’ve ever had.

  Mary is still acting super cool. She doesn’t know what’s happening in my head – well, I don’t think she does. At any rate she shows no signs of knowing about my inner battle with the contradictions she has unearthed in me. She pulls her knickers off, which are also green – bottle-green – and puts them over my head, pulling them down so they cover my eyes. The world goes dark and greenish.

  And then she leaves the room. I don’t know how long she’s gone for, and I don’t think she goes far away – I only know she’s left the room because I hear the click of the door.

  But when she comes back, I am about twenty times more desperate for her than I was before she went away.

  She straddles me and licks my cheek. I’m panting, but I don’t want to be. I’m embarrassed by how turned on I am by being left like this. Being controlled like this.

  ‘Admit it,’ she says, her mouth by my ear, ‘you love this, and you’re hard as a rock, aren’t you?’

  ‘Uh.’

  ‘You love it, you little bitch. You love being like this.’

  ‘Being like what?’ I say, trying to keep some kind of control.

  ‘Being helpless like this. I love making you helpless. I know you think it’s kind of sick. But I’m not going to lie to you. I am turned on by the fact that you are helpless. Well, maybe I shouldn’t say that, exactly, but you seem helpless. At least, you are easily made more helpless. Oh, I know what you are day-to-day is different. I’ve seen you driving your car and being all Mr In-Control, but behind bedroom doors, with me, this is what I like. Seeing you tied up. Blind. And the thing is, I think you like this too. I see it in you. This goes beyond the accident, beyond your disability. This is something deep down in your bones. You love this.’

  Having whipped up a bizarre torrent of emotions with her little speech, she reaches between my legs and finds my hard cock, aching and thrusting into her hand.

  I’m keening and mewing as she slides back off my lap and crouches between my legs. I hear the low sound as she opens my flies, feel her soft, smooth, breath for a moment, and then feel her envelop me in sudden wet heat.

  I can’t move. I can’t see. I can’t do anything. All I can do is come for her. Over and over. Screaming and sobbing.

  Mary

  It takes – what – a month before I feel normal with David. Up until then it’s almost like I’m in awe of him. That’s the exact word for how I feel. Awe. I worship him. Seriously. He is my religion. Everything I’ve ever wanted. I look at him when he doesn’t realise, and my mouth goes dry. I just cannot believe he’s here. He’s with me. I spend whole days smiling like a goon.

  I don’t think he knows how extreme my feelings are, and it really is better, for so many reasons, that he doesn’t.

  It does start to fade away eventually, that feeling that he is just too perfect. I don’t let his godlike status stop me from having sex with him. Oh, do I ever have sex with him. But maybe my feelings make me a little more, I don’t know what, maybe a little more aloof than I would normally be with him. But in a way that works quite well. Makes it easy for me to play the icy dominatrix, which is pretty fun.

  I’ve kind of moved into his place. Well, halfway. Put it like this: I spend more time at his place than Carrie’s, which might be a bit premature, but is such a relief.

  Carrie knows all about David. Obviously there was the time he came round with the mysterious Larry. And then there was the conversation I had with her when I finally unearthed myself from David’s place, three days after our reunion at the party.

  She cornered me in the kitchen – caring enough, I ought to note, to ask me where I’d been all this time. And I was on such a ridiculous high I told all.

  And then she said, ‘So this David, he was the guy that came around here. The one with the friend in the wheelchair?’

  ‘No. David is the one in the wheelchair,’ I said. I was modging together a rather half-arsed tuna sandwich as I spoke, so kind of distr
acted. In fact I was feeling like I hadn’t eaten properly for days and I was so desperate for protein I would have happily shovelled the tuna into my mouth straight from the tin. So I was preoccupied with the much-needed sandwich and didn’t catch her slightly off-beat expression, until I finally looked up and saw that she was staring at me, her mouth a little open.

  Then she said, ‘And that’s who you’ve been with?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All this time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That guy in the wheelchair?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Having sex?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All this time?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t we already do that one?’

  ‘Yes.’ She laughed. And then she frowned again. ‘But is that OK? To have sex with him? Like that? Like for several days?’

  ‘Well, yes. I mean, I think so. I didn’t break him.’ I smirked. ‘He was like that when I found him.’

  And that was so David talking. That was the kind of thing he would have said and then laughed and looked round, hoping to find a shocked expression on a nearby face. Carrie did indeed have a shocked expression on her face, but I wasn’t nearly so comfortable with it in the cold light of the kitchen.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, quickly, ‘just a joke.’ And after that moment of discomfort, Carrie disappeared to her bedroom.

  And that was really the last time I saw her properly. To speak to.

  Yeah. I feel a bit guilty about that. I have popped in, to pick up books and stuff, but managed to avoid anything more than nodding in the hall. I suppose she knows, has guessed, where I am spending most of my time.

  But I don’t spend very much time thinking about Carrie and whether she wonders why I’m never home. I’m far too busy thinking about other things.

  After a while I do manage to shake the notion that David is a figment of my imagination, but my passion doesn’t dim one bit. I can’t see that ever happening. I honestly think I will never get tired of David. But if I do, well, after I’ve tied him to his chair and had his cock inside me, I feel I could exit this world with everything ticked off my personal Things To Do Before You Die list.