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“Is that some kind of feminist stance?” he asks. “Or did something happen that’s put you off? Some dickhead did you wrong? Fucked around on you?”
“Notonething has happened. But if they don’t come, I’m never used.” I don’t lie. I’m a virgin, but I’m not about to admit that to him. I just refuse to behave like my mother or one of my father’s sluts, yet I enjoy coming as much as the next red-blooded person, so I made a rule. They don’t come. I do. It’s worked fine until now. Most of the guys I use are happy to get between my legs in any capacity. Then I make an excuse.
Still cupping between my legs, I say, “The pleasure is for me. I am happy with the arrangement.”
I watch his feet shuffle, hear his hands meet the cubicle door and a groan soar over the stall. Maybe he heard the strain in my voice. “You’re killing me, Woman. There is pleasure in giving, too. Let me show you.”
Are you begging me, Xander?
Holding myself to relieve the ache, I say breathlessly, “That sounds like some patriarchal crap. Let me guess. You’re in pain. Blue balls. I’m physically hurting you. And I can’t possibly understand what that is like for a man.”
“That’s some chip on your shoulders, Woman. Blue balls are real, Kaya. But no, it’s not your job to stop the ache you’re causing, but you’ll enjoy doing it.”
“Will I really?”
“Have you ever seen a man come?”
“Of course I have.” I dip a finger inside my pussy, the digit playing easily within the slippery valley. My lungs strain as they draw in the hot, moisture-laced air. “I’m nineteen. I’ve watched porn. I’ve watched men come on women’s faces. Piss on them. Spit on them.Usethem.”
He groans; it’s full of intensity.
But then he purrs, “Have you ever seen a man come while he’s staring atyou.” My mouth opens to gasp through the fog. “Like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever laid eyes on, Kaya. Like he could eat you. Ever seen a man falling apart, groaning your name, and spurting cum across his abdomen so hard his entire body shakes and convulses and— It’s. All. Because. Of. You.”
Fuck.
No, I haven’t seen that.
Staring at his feet, I hold my breath, wanting him to say more while I leisurely slide my finger in and out of my pussy. I don’t talk. Can’t. It might break whatever spell I’m in, and I don’t want that. I can practically feel that torrid, intense energy burning through the door, hot tangible waves that find me, beat into me.
Open the door, Kaya.
Then he moves away.
I listen to him pad into the stall beside mine, the shower switches on, and that familiar sound of water lapping as he begins to wash himself. He’s naked. I wonder whatitlooks like.
Is he smooth to the touch?
They look smooth.
Are you hard, Xander?
I continue to touch myself, imagining his skilled lips and trained tongue where my finger slowly plays. My pulse flutters through my veins, sensing him close, hearing him beside me while I casually finger myself.
But then the sound of the downpour in his stall changes. It starts to slap the tiles with more rhythm and purpose. My hand freezes between my thighs.
No. He’s not.
God.
I groan when I realise what he’s doing right next door. What I’m doing, too. The intensity of the water slaps become violent, interrupted suddenly by a deep groan that rushes from my temple down to my curling toes.
“I’m thinking about how you moved beneath me when my lips sucked on your pussy. Your soft thighs and arse bouncing against my face.” He groans again from somewhere deep, somewhere inside. “Fuck.”
I pull my finger from between my folds. My hands meet the wall that separates us, and my fingers flex against the wet tiles, brimming with need. To touch him. Wanting to dig through the ceramic and board, and wrap my hands around the source of all that pleasure. To feel its thickness. The way it pulses.
Breathless.
I’m breathless.
