Power Play Page 10

  I put words in there like disgusting and filthy animal, but they just seem to make things worse. My clit actually jerks and swells when he tells me that it’s running down his arm and making a stain on his shirt cuff.

  If there is one, I’m going to make him leave it there.

  ‘Are you done?’ I ask, but really I don’t have to. It’s obvious he’s done. His legs aren’t holding him up any more – he’s practically lying on the table, like a wet dishrag – and the desperate expression on his face has folded down into nothing. Now it’s just this lax, near-exhausted sort of thing, that faint little smile the only suggestion he’s still conscious.

  And if all of that makes me want to do something very stupid, like stroke his hair and pet him softly, well. We just won’t go into that.

  ‘Stand up, Benjamin,’ I say, though it makes no sense that I do. If he stands up, I’m going to see everything, aren’t I? I’ll see his fat and probably still pretty hard cock, come glistening at the tip. I’ll see how dishevelled he looks, right up close and in my face.

  I don’t know how I’m going to get through it, I really don’t. And yet I still whip him with the tip of the pointer, when he moans that he’s trying, he’s trying, and how bad would it be if he just went to sleep right now?

  Bad, I think. As bad as spanking someone until they climax in the middle of a work day.

  ‘Oh God, don’t do – OK. OK, sorry. Sorry, I’m getting up,’ he says, but I can’t be thankful for the way he keeps his body faced away from me as he wrestles with his clothes and gets everything fastened up before turning.

  Instead I’m just filled with a kind of disappointment I shouldn’t be feeling. I mean, it’s not like I wanted to make things worse. It’s not like I wanted to see how he looks after he’s just been fucked.

  Right?

  ‘You … uh … don’t have a tissue do you?’ he asks, while I absolutely refuse to look at his flushed, pleasure-stuffed expression. Even if that means I end up staring at the glossy mess all over his right hand instead.

  You know. The one he practically shoves right in my face.

  I eye it with something like disdain, though of course disdain isn’t exactly what I’m feeling. I’m feeling something that makes me flick my gaze back up to him, as dark and deadly as ever I’ve felt it. And then once I’ve got it there, levelled on him, my mouth moves around words I didn’t know I was capable of saying.

  I’m not capable of saying them. It’s this arousal thrumming through me. It’s built a whole new person inside my body, one who speaks with my voice and looks with my eyes, but isn’t me at all.

  ‘Lick it off,’ I tell him, and then I just let the words hang there as they dawn over his oh so open face.

  ‘What? You can’t be serious. You want me to …’ he says, but once he’s left it trailing, I don’t feel any need to respond. I just stand there, staring at him, fuelled by the almost vicious ache that’s swallowing my sex whole.

  Until he does what I’ve told him to.

  Slow, he does it, slow, and like he’s still completely unsure about doing something as lewd as tasting his own come. But then after a moment something shifts, and those foggy eyes of his hold mine as he strokes his tongue over his fingers. As he licks, long and wet and rude, between each one.

  Before finally doing the thing I realise I’m wanting most of all.

  I want him to suck one of those long, thick fingers into his mouth, and when he actually does it I waver. I know I do. I can feel the longing on my own face, and that pulse beating so hard between my own legs I can practically hear it in my head.

  ‘You dirty boy,’ I tell him, but that’s not what I mean. More than anything I want to give him the truth: that this is the sexiest, weirdest, most terrifying thing I’ve ever been a part of.

  And that his mouth is so perfect I want to fuck it ’til he cries.

  But instead I just watch as he practically rubs the palm of his hand with his tongue.

  ‘You can go, Benjamin,’ I say, but I think he knows now what I really mean. After he’s dropped that hand down by his side he says, as though somehow he’s sort of – … I don’t know – worried about me:

  ‘Don’t you want me to do something to you?’

  Oh God, I wish I didn’t want him to do something to me.

  ‘You’re shaking.’

  I also wish he wasn’t aware of facts like that.

  ‘Just let me do something … let me lick your clit. I swear, I’m good at it.’

  ‘You can go, Benjamin,’ I say again, because I’m really not capable of more. If I go for more I’m going to break down, and that’s not the way this is supposed to go. I’m not supposed to lose control the way I did in the stationery cupboard.

  The way Woods did.

  ‘Well, OK,’ he says, in the exact manner that people use when talking about a crisis the other person doesn’t want to talk about. If you’re sure … I think, but unfortunately I do it just before he leans down towards me.

  And then the question is left hanging in my head as his perfect, soft mouth presses with exquisite gentleness against mine.

  I taste his come. Of course I do. He kisses me when my lips are parted, and even if he hadn’t timed it right I feel his tongue, flickering just ever so slightly between. Like he wants me to know what he’s just been licking off his own fingers, and once I do … once I do I’ll grab him. I’ll fuck him, right here on this table.

  So I suppose it’s a surprise to both of us when I clasp his chin in my hand instead. Hold him there, like that, as I murmur against his delicious mouth:

  ‘If you don’t go now, I’ll never do this again.’

  And then of course he obeys. Of course he does. But that’s not really the problem, is it? The problem is that I said those threatening things, and they made him fearful and had the right effect and so on and so forth.

  But they also included the word again.

  Chapter Seven

  I intend to be normal, I think, when he walks into my office. But of course the issue is: I’m only imagining that’s what I’m intending. I can’t say for sure, and I definitely can’t say for sure when he goes to sit down in the chair I’m indicating.

  I told him I wanted something innocuous from him, like a bit of simple dictation. He has the pen and paper in his hands ready to do it. But the second he goes to take his seat something happens, and then we’re just right back to where we were in the meeting room two days ago.

  He can’t sit down. He tries, God knows he does. I see him sort of turn sideways a little, as though maybe he can avoid the feel of the chair against his obviously sore ass if he just gets his body into the right position.

  None of it works, however. He gets about halfway into the chair before letting a little wince out, because apparently even the feel of his trousers pulling against his marked flesh is too much.

  Hell, it’s too much for me and I’m all the way over here.

  ‘Is there something wrong, Benjamin?’ I ask, and I can see it on his face. He has absolutely no clue how to answer. He isn’t even sure if we’re talking about this thing between us, I know, but that’s OK. I don’t know what I’m talking about either.

  I’m too busy hearing the word again running through my head over and over, as though I’ve suddenly become an impatient child, demanding their favourite ride.

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ he says, but it’s really unfortunate that as he does so, he also sort of shifts in his chair. And of course the minute he tries his eyeballs nearly pop out of his head. Perspiration suddenly dots his hairline. His hands don’t seem to know what to do with themselves, but they’re not the only ones.

  I don’t know what to do with myself either. Two feelings immediately bloom inside me when I see just how much pain he’s in: a kind of twisted arousal that I automatically want to kick under a chair somewhere, and even more horrible … the need to care for him. I actually feel it – it’s really there. I want to get up and go to him and do something impossi
bly sappy and stupid, like stroke his gorgeous hair. I mean, I knew I was a lost cause before all of this, but really.

  ‘Really? Because you don’t seem fine,’ I say, and I try to make it as cruel as I can, really I do. I try not to think about his bright, eager eyes, or the way that he smiles sometimes – as though his heart is full of that thing and it’s all for me.

  Instead, I keep the pressure on.

  ‘It almost looks as though you’re in some sort of pain …’ I say, but he holds it in well. He sits almost completely sideways on, hands so tight around the pad in his hand I can see white around the knuckle.

  ‘No, really. I’m totally awesome.’

  He’s gritting his teeth, I can tell – and it makes me wonder why. Does he think I’m going to do it again if he lets something show? Or is it the other way around? Maybe he thinks I’ll never do it again if he lets something show.

  It’s like a test, I think, of his bravery. But oh, he doesn’t need to prove a single thing to me. I know he’s brave already, because two days ago he leant down and pressed his mouth to mine.

  That in itself is a major achievement. After all, my strongest urge was to punch him after he’d done it.

  ‘Are you sure? Because you know, you can tell me. If you’re hurting.’

  I think I really mean it this time, which is also bad. As bad as me putting my hands between my legs just thinking about his tongue flickering over the soft underside of my upper lip.

  ‘No, really –’

  ‘I mean, I would hate to think that you were suffering unnecessarily …’

  ‘Honestly, I –’

  ‘Going through some sort of agony while I sit here perfectly –’

  This time he doesn’t wait for me to finish trailing off wistfully into some sentiment I actually probably really mean. He cuts me off, loud and sure and frantic, suddenly, and when he does he shifts in the chair. He presses his ass right to the seat and tells me clear: ‘I like it. OK? I like it. I like feeling the pain for days afterwards, because then I know it actually happened.’

  I’ve never seen him look so certain about anything, and it briefly makes him a different person. A bigger person, a surer person – one who knows exactly what he wants, and isn’t afraid to ask for it.

  Which of course just makes me think of all the things I’m afraid to ask for. I can’t even say anything to him, as I stand briskly and walk to the door. And though I know how it must look – I know how crisply I snap my little jacket down; how firmly I plant each heel into the soft carpet – I don’t feel that way inside.

  I feel the way he looks, most of the rest of the time. I’m the reverse of him. I pretend to be hard and cool, but really I’m bright-eyed and giddy and ready to play new games.

  ‘Uh, sir …’ he starts, because of course he knows what the door being locked means. ‘I know I just said I liked it, but seriously. I don’t think I could take another round just yet. Is that OK to say? I mean –’

  ‘Drop your trousers,’ I say, but I don’t turn and face him when I do it. I speak into the cool wood of the door, while my hand tightens and tightens on the handle. I wait for him to refuse.

  But of course he doesn’t.

  ‘OK,’ he says, voice so ridiculously eager and compliant that it’s almost like he’d never protested at all. I can hear him undoing that stupid belt he’s worn today – with the mushroom from Super Mario Bros. on the buckle – and unzipping those flimsy trousers, before I’ve dared to do what I most want to.

  I want to look, I realise. I’m fed up with beneath the table and under clothing. I want to see what he looks like bare, but by the time I’ve forced myself to swivel he has his back to me.

  ‘Did you want me to stand like this?’ he asks, when I don’t immediately say anything. But really he should understand: it’s because I can’t say anything. I’m just staring at the shape he’s made for me over my desk. Hands planted on the wood, naturally. Those long, strong legs spread, as though he’s not six foot seven hundred and eight.

  He’s like me a few weeks ago – only I never asked questions like that one, and I never looked over my shoulder the way he’s looking at me. He’s almost raising one eyebrow, I think, and if his lips were parted I know what I’d see: his tongue curling up to touch his teeth.

  ‘You should really learn to wait for my commands,’ I tell him, but I almost lose the words on their way out. As it is, I barely hear him answering me with things like ‘oh, sorry, do you want me to go back to where I was?’, because as he’s talking my gaze drifts down, down. And finds the gridlock I made of his ass.

  ‘Stay there,’ I say, though of course I only do it so I can get a long, long look at those marks. Some of them still red, some of them just a faint impression of the bad thing I did. All of them criss-crossing together in a way I never deliberately intended.

  I thought I’d just done it in a big blurt, randomly. But now I can see that the whole thing is as ordered as me, each line meeting at some point in the middle. Each one firm, sure, straight. Nothing veering off wildly.

  ‘Well. Doesn’t that look pretty?’ I say, and after it’s out I kind of hate myself. The word ‘pretty’ is just too much, even if Benjamin doesn’t seem to think so in the slightest.

  ‘I know, right?’ he bursts out, as giddy as a schoolboy. I can picture the expression on his face, despite the fact that he’s turned away from me: big-eyed and big-mouthed and bright as a new penny. ‘I’ve checked myself out in the mirror like a hundred times.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Totally,’ he says, and then he pauses, and twists himself a little, so that he can do something I don’t want him to do. I don’t want him to stroke a finger over one of those mean, red lines, while telling me: ‘This one’s my favourite.’

  ‘You have a favourite?’

  That fond look leaves his face, and is replaced by an ever so slightly anxious one that he levels at me over his shoulder. I notice, however, that he doesn’t stop touching the red line.

  ‘Is that weird?’

  My mind floods with the image of him naked, probably fresh from the shower. Water trailing down over his delicious, honey-coloured skin as he twists and turns and tries to get a better view of what I’ve done to him in a full-length mirror.

  I can picture his expression: ever so slightly heated, with a side of open-mouthed curiosity.

  ‘Very. I just don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Benjamin,’ I say. I tut as I make my way back to my desk, as though I’m not resisting the urge to look at his cock at all. I’m just going to one of my drawers, to get something specific. ‘I mean, you’ve barely even taken care of yourself. Is that what I’m dealing with here? Someone who can’t take care of themselves?’

  He frowns delicately, for just a moment, then seems to fathom what I’m talking about.

  ‘No, no – I can. I mean, I know I should have probably put something on it. But it’s like I said – I like to feel it. I prefer to just … feel it.’

  He makes a little fist for extra emphasis, though of course the moment he does so my gaze just has to flick down. Of course it does. I’m a diligent student of his every little tic and gesture. It’s important that I take in this one.

  And if I should happen to give his cock a long and assessing look while I’m down there, well … sue me. It deserves a long and assessing look, even if Benjamin doesn’t seem to think so. He just waits and waits patiently while I indulge an urge I’ve never actually been able to before – to just look at a man, in the rudest way possible and without a lick of apology – before finally breaking.

  ‘Do you want me to put my pants back on? Some girls want me to put my pants back on.’

  God, I love his matter-of-factness. I’m honestly starting to think there’s no limit to the things I could make him tell me, even if the things I make him tell me are the insane opinions of his obviously mad ex-girlfriends.

  ‘That’s because some girls don’t know what to do with a big, fat thing like
that,’ I tell him, and I mean it. I mean it, even if I’m actually one of those girls too. I’ve never seen a cock like his outside of porn, and the fact that it’s nearly curving up to his belly doesn’t help matters.

  It’s not even one of those big dicks that can’t seem to get fully hard. He’s as stiff as my back currently feels, and so slick and red at the tip that my mouth actually starts watering. Even as I’m stood there, watching, I see a thin, slick trail of pre-come make its way down over the length of his shaft, and all I can think about is licking it up.

  Though of course I don’t let anything like that show on my face. Instead I tell him to put his hands back on the desk, the way he had them before. And once he’s done it, I force myself to walk back around the desk. I give up the sight of his cock, so thick and good and God, God. I bet it feels amazing, sliding in.

  ‘Are you … uh …’ he starts, and though I know I should tell him to be silent, I can’t quite bring myself to do it. The problem is, I suppose, I like the things he says. I’m just waiting with bated breath for the next one, expecting something simple and crude such as are you going to do something with my big fat thing, then?

  But always getting something better instead. Something hotter, something that makes me wetter.

  ‘Are you going to get me all slick?’ he asks finally, and I know what he means. I do. He’s seen the little pot of expensive lotion in my hand, and clearly guessed what I’m intending. And yet the moment he says the words, I immediately think of something else.

  I think of some slut writhing around on a bed. Legs spread, pussy all open and pink and already wet. Just waiting for a man to do something lewd like poke his tongue into her soft, pink hole, until she creams all over the place for him.

  That’s what it sounds like when Benjamin Tate asks me if I’m going to make him slick. And I think he knows it. He looks at me over his shoulder again, that near-smile on his pretty mouth. Gaze all heavy-lidded, until I actually touch my lotion-slicked fingers to his backside.