Power Play Page 18

  But this … this is different.

  ‘I want to make love to you again,’ he says, and he does so in such a proprietary sort of way. Like we really are lovers now, and because of that fact he gets to suggest stuff and ask for things.

  Things that make my insides run right out of my body.

  ‘We’ll discuss this later,’ I say to him, because that seems like the best way to go really. It keeps things neat and ordered, and it takes note of one very important fact – that we’re currently in public. That people are looking, as I pretend to get milk from the refrigerator and he pretends to finish nuking something in the microwave, and though none of these people are Aidan Harcroft, I can’t help thinking about him.

  He’s different with me now, and I know it. He gives me knowing looks that seem both amused and oddly … proud, I suppose, and all of it is just a little much for me. Aidan’s glacial eyes and Benjamin’s proprietary make love to you and oh, Lord.

  I’ve made this awful mess, I think, and the worst part about it is – I don’t exactly want to stop. I mean, I’ve told Benjamin that we should cool it a little, and we’re doing well on that front so far. It’s been four days, without any kind of touching or game playing or kissing or any of the things I so desperately want to do with him.

  But then, that’s the problem, isn’t it?

  I desperately want to do all of them. Desperately, crazily. I hadn’t realised how much I’d started craving all of this, but now that I do – it doesn’t bode well for Benjamin. It can’t possibly bode well for him, because the moment I really start considering all of this I feel a strange coolness flood through me.

  It replaces all the insides I’ve just lost, one by one. And by the time he’s worked up the courage to say something more to me, I’ve got something very specific to say to him.

  ‘Six thirty, in my office,’ I tell him. ‘And we’ll just see about that.’

  * * *

  By the time it gets to 6:25, I’m almost beside myself. My leg keeps jiggling up and down all of its own accord, and I think I’m actually sweating inside my clothes. I’m made nervous by too long without him and too much pressure from Aidan’s iceberg eyes and too much thinking about those words: make and love.

  Though of course, all of those things only make the ideas I’m currently dreaming up worse. I started out with innocent, tame sorts of activities, like maybe I could tie Benjamin to a desk and leave him there for a little while.

  But since then I’ve progressed into a different sort of territory, and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it when he gets here. I’m not sure if I’m really going to order him to behave that way, because of course I know why I’m wanting it. It’s the ultimate in keeping things ordered. It’s the perfect way to press the reset button, all the way back to the beginning, when things were simple and straightforward.

  The idea almost has a kind of symmetry to it, and I like that. I like thinking about how Benjamin’s going to handle it, though as per usual he doesn’t do what I expect him to the moment I say the words.

  I just tell him that I’d like him to pin me to the desk and fuck my ass.

  And he just tells me to lift my skirt.

  No really, that’s what he does. ‘Lift your skirt then’, he says to me, and after he’s done it he actually puts his two big hands on my body, and starts … rubbing all over me. One goes to my belly and one goes to my ass, and once they’re there I can feel him just sort of … fondling me, until my clothes start rucking up and near-disappearing.

  And all the while he murmurs things in my ear, like in the break room, only worse. So much worse. I didn’t think it could be worse, but apparently he’s able to achieve it.

  ‘Can I play with your pussy while I do it?’ he asks, but I can’t answer a question like that. I’m too busy marvelling over whatever’s happening right now, because it’s the exact opposite of what I was intending. I thought about things being clinical and cool, and somehow we’re making out against my desk, and his mouth is all hot and wet and warm, and when he finally turns me around and starts pushing up my skirt in earnest, I’m not the least bit detached.

  And neither is he.

  ‘You seriously go around without any panties on?’ he asks, while my heart tries to hammer its way through my chest. It’s very like something Woods would say to me, true enough, but it’s missing a rather crucial element.

  Disdain.

  ‘You know, you should really be silent when you do this,’ I say, and wince after the words are out. But it can’t be helped really – it has to be this way. It has to, before I go insane.

  ‘You want me to not talk?’

  I try to focus on the words he’s saying, but it’s hard, very hard. He’s already got a hand between my legs, and he isn’t just clasping or making sure I’m actually as panty-less as my naked ass seems to suggest I am.

  He’s sliding one finger through my slit already, and after a second of gentle stroking he finds my clit. Of course he does. I’m so wet it’s like gliding towards that little bead on a water chute.

  ‘Because I think I’m gonna have some trouble, considering how slippery you are – oh my God, look at that. My fingers just slide right on in. Ohhh that’s soo hot, that’s sooo –’

  I crack down hard, before he can finish.

  ‘Yes, I want you to be silent. I’m ordering you to be silent. Don’t say anything, don’t touch me – just fuck my ass. All right?’

  I feel him go a little still, then, though I daren’t turn around for the expression to match it. Is he put out by what I’ve just said? Does it disturb him just a little? And more importantly – is this the thing he’s going to refuse to do?

  And then I realise … he’s taking so long to reply because he isn’t doing so with words. He’s not talking. He’s just nodding his head against the nape of my neck, and he follows that exquisite bit of obedience by bending me over the desk. He actually does it, slow and steady and like he just knows exactly what I’m asking for.

  I won’t lie. A great flood of something like relief goes through me when I finally feel that cool wood against my cheek. When things are, at last, back to that sweet simplicity, and I don’t have to think about anything any more.

  I just have to think about his hands on my inner thighs as he spreads them with a deliberate sort of slowness. And if he kind of caresses me at the same time, well, that’s all right. I can bear that. I can even bear him kissing the curve of my lower back, because a moment after he gives me that little bit of tenderness I feel the slick, lewd shape of his tongue, running between the cheeks of my ass.

  And he doesn’t do it sweetly either. He’s not nice about it. I can hear his breathing, harsh and guttural, and his hands are on me, spreading me open. It’s obvious what he’s after, I think – more. More of the taste of me, more of the squirming I’m doing.

  More of me coming apart in his hands.

  Because I absolutely do. I’m just not prepared for a sensation like that against something that shouldn’t be so sensitive – though I soon learn how wrong-headed that opinion is. I think I actually sob when he finally licks and licks at my tightly clenched asshole, and I definitely do for the finale:

  His finger, just stroking ever so lightly over the place his tongue just was. Like a threat, almost, of something he could do if I’m prepared for it. But if I’m not, well … maybe he’ll just wait until I beg him.

  Or not beg him, exactly. Really, when I think about it, it’s much more like an order.

  ‘Do it,’ I tell him, and he doesn’t need me to explain. He simply eases that one maddening finger into my ass, as slow and deliberate as anything like that can be, and once I’ve taken him all he licks again, around the place he’s opened up.

  It’s unbelievable. It’s delicious. But most of all it’s making me realise how much I actually enjoy the sound of his voice when we’re together like this. I miss him telling me all the things I barely dare to think about – like how something feels or tastes or
looks – and for the briefest moment I almost tell him so.

  I can take the imaginary gag off if I really want to. I can do anything if I really want to – and that thought, for some strange reason, makes me hold the request inside.

  Instead I go with something clear and practical.

  ‘There are condoms in my desk drawer,’ I say, though of course I don’t tell him what else is in there. I just watch him in the exact way he watched me when I first spanked him – through slitted eyes, with my cheek against wood – and revel in the reaction when it comes.

  It’s probably the strap-on that’s making his face flush like that. Or maybe it’s the handcuffs, or the ball gag, or any other number of delights I’ve got in there for occasions like this.

  By the time he’s managed to fish out a rubber, he’s the colour of a tomato and obviously dying to say something. He tries to sort of mime how he’s feeling at me, with an expression best described as ‘a flash of widening eyes with a hint of open-mouthed delight’.

  Though his delight could just as easily be outrage, or a kind of amused disapproval. There are whole worlds on his face, and I want to live in every one of them.

  ‘Don’t make me wait, Benjamin,’ I say, but I ensure my tone is fierce when I do. I don’t suggest any of that nonsense – about worlds and living in him and what have you – though I suspect it wouldn’t matter if I did.

  He’s so excited now that he can barely get the condom on. He doesn’t have anything left for figuring out vocal inflections and hidden feelings – and that’s fine by me. I’m practically clawing at the desk by this point, and all I want is to feel his hands on my hips, pulling me back and back onto his big, thick cock.

  But thankfully he doesn’t make me wait long. There’s a lot of under-his-breath cursing from somewhere behind me, and a lot of rubber-snapping sorts of sounds, and then finally, finally the blunt head of his cock pressing against a place I’ve never had penetrated by another person.

  I’ve had plastic, but plastic just isn’t the same. It’s not heated and it isn’t just ever so slightly yielding, and most importantly: it isn’t attached to anything with feelings. It doesn’t send a million sensations through the point of connection right up to the other person standing behind me.

  Who can’t seem to help moaning the second my body gives under that firm, unrelenting pleasure.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to be silent, Benjamin?’ I ask, but I’m just being cruel now. He clearly needs to let something out of his body, because squeezing at my hips and my ass with perspiration-slicked hands just isn’t doing the trick.

  It’s not keeping him calm. It’s making him dig his fingers in until I actually let out a little shocked noise, though of course he’s sorry once it’s happened – and I know this without any words from him. He tells me in the way he soothes over the marks he’s just made, with the back of his hand.

  And in the way he just lets his cock ease into me, one slow, slippery stroke at a time.

  ‘Ohhh God you’ve no idea how good that feels,’ I say, then almost laugh after I’ve let the words out. In the absence of him I apparently supply my own little rundown of what’s happening, and what it does to me.

  Namely: it makes me rut back against the press of his cock, until he can’t help making another surprised sound.

  And this time, I don’t punish him for it. I can’t punish him for it, because his hands are on my hips and he’s starting to maybe fuck into me a little, and the sensation is so intense I forget to remain measured and still on the desk. I forget about him pinning me, or being restrained in any way, and just reach behind myself to grab at him.

  Though once I do, it gives him the perfect opportunity to grope me a little more thoroughly. I lift up off the desk and he just does it – one hand stroking up over my body until he finds my left breast. And then once he’s filled his hand with it he squeezes, and uncovers my taut nipple beneath the material, and strokes it in a way that drives me almost out of my mind. Just the pad of his finger – slightly slick for reasons unexplained – right on the tip, then working back and forth … ohhh.

  It’s good enough to loosen my tongue further, into asking for all the things I suppose I always wanted to – because that’s the thing, isn’t it? With him, I can ask. I can tell him to pinch that stiff little bud, and fuck that big cock into me harder, and when he does both for me without question I stop holding back altogether.

  What would be the point in doing so now? There isn’t a slither of space between our bodies. He’s pretty much pulled me right back against his chest, and though that hand he’s worked inside my shirt is ostensibly about fondling my breast, it’s also fairly clearly about crossing his arm over my body, on the diagonal.

  He’s holding me, I think. And I’m not hanging onto the desk any more – I’m definitely hanging onto him. I’m clinging so tightly to that crossed arm I’m practically cutting off his blood supply, and when he pushes his face into the side of mine I know I’m lost. Any second now and I’m going to start making out with him, and then it’s just a short hop, skip and a jump to cuddling in front of the television.

  Or at least, that’s what I’m thinking when the door to my office abruptly opens.

  After which, it’s very hard to think of anything at all.

  * * *

  I suppose the problem is not that we’ve been caught doing something extremely rude in my office. I mean, for example – if another person had walked in on us doing this, I’m fairly certain they would have squeaked a ‘sorry and’ exited the place immediately.

  No, no, the problem is not that someone has found out our sordid little secret. The problem is that it’s Aidan Harcroft who’s done the finding. Aidan Harcroft, who does not turn around and walk back out again, or offer his apologies, or express any kind of shock or outrage like a normal person.

  Instead he strolls right up to the sideboard in my office and pours himself a large Scotch. As though what’s really happening here is some sort of insane invite to a cocktail party, and the attire was just listed as ‘smart/casual/anal sex’.

  I can’t move. Or breathe. And Benjamin certainly can’t make up for my shortcomings in that department. He’s so far from breathing I’m beginning to fear for his life. If he doesn’t take in oxygen soon he’s going to die for sure.

  ‘Well, you two certainly look like you’re having a good time,’ he says, and though I try to think of a way to say actually, no we’re not without sounding like a complete imbecile, it quickly becomes clear that there isn’t one.

  Benjamin’s cock is deep in my ass, and he’s got a big handful of my left tit.

  The jig is up.

  ‘How kind of you to notice,’ I say, then don’t know how I dared. Words like those are only going to make things worse, and this fact becomes obvious when Aidan actually takes a seat by the sideboard.

  Yes, that’s right. He pulls up a chair and then he sits down.

  ‘It’s been extremely hard not to, all things considered,’ he says, as he crosses one leg over the other. Swirls the Scotch I’ve never touched around in the glass I’ve never drunk from.

  ‘And what are these things you’ve been considering?’ I ask, though it comes out a little less indignant than I intend, and a little more like I’m wondering where this is going to go. And if it ends up a certain place, well …

  Benjamin’s reaction to that might be interesting.

  ‘I think you know. I think Benjamin knows too, though he’s being awfully quiet on the matter.’

  And then of course it hits me, all in a big rush of who the fuck knows.

  Benjamin can’t speak.

  Because I ordered him not to.

  ‘He’s taken a vow of silence,’ I say, but naturally Aidan knows exactly what I mean. He runs the point of his wicked tongue over those shark’s teeth of his, and takes a little not-casual-at-all sip of his Scotch.

  ‘That I’m assuming you gave him.’

  I try to turn a little, then, to see if I c
an catch the expression on Ben’s face. But when I twist, all I can see is one shoulder and half an arm. All I can feel is the juddery up and down of his chest, as he does his best to keep to what I told him to do.

  And it’s that struggle, I think, that forces me to answer.

  ‘What do you think, in all honesty?’ I say, aiming for flippant and hitting shaky. I can feel Ben’s hips going, just a little, and it isn’t making any of this easier to figure out. Every time he does it I’m reminded of how hard he still is, how excited – and of course I get a burst of sensation as that stiff thing rubs over the nerve-rich rim of my stretched hole.

  ‘I think you look beautiful with a cock in your ass.’ He pauses, that sharp gaze of his just a touch sultry, for the briefest moment. ‘That is what he’s doing to you, right? He’s fucking your ass.’

  ‘You’re good at this guessing game, I have to say.’

  ‘I’m good at a lot of things,’ he says, and oh the slow curling smile he gives me … it’s almost a relief in the midst of all this terrifying talk and laser-gazes. It makes it easier to answer, though I don’t say what I intend to.

  ‘Like watching people fuck?’

  His smile broadens to epic proportions.

  ‘Oh, yes. I make an excellent spectator – and especially so when the view is so delightful.’

  Of course I immediately wonder what sort of sight I’m making. Half my clothes off, legs spread, that slick cock buried deep in my ass … I must look like the rudest thing anyone could ever imagine. Or at least, that’s what I think until it hits me.

  He isn’t really looking at me any more.

  He’s looking at Ben.

  ‘Does he usually get this flushed when you let him fuck you? Or do you think he’s just embarrassed that I’m watching?’

  It’s a combination of both, I know – but I don’t tell him that. I don’t say anything,

  ‘God, that cock of his. I mean, everyone in the office knows what he’s got underneath those ridiculous trousers, but still … it’s something else to see it buried to the hilt in your ass.’ He takes another little sip of Scotch, as though he’s just ruminating over all of this. He’s not really talking about cocks and asses at all. He’s having a polite conversation about a fascinating political topic, and I just have to avoid the pitfalls and minefields of such lively debate. ‘How does it feel, Harding?’