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I chewed my lip before saying, as calmly as possible, “Like what?”
“Like showing you how it displeases me that you don’t consider me worth... more.”
I swallowed again, feeling breathless.
“I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he said, flexing that finger. But only once, just briefly.
Warmth flooded my pelvis and I sighed. It was so good—that small movement.
“But I am.”
“I am,” John said. “Worth more, I mean.”
“Of course.”
Something in his voice had me standing ramrod straight. My nipples were hard knots of traitorous flesh, signaling to him exactly how turned on I was. There was no denying that this version of John made me hot. And a bit nervous.
“So I’m displeased.” He pinched one of those rudely pointing nipples hard enough to make me wince. It was just a shade too hard and that knowledge had me practically panting.
“I’m sorry.” I said it anyway. We both knew by the way I said it that I meant I was sorry for his displeasure.
He circled me slowly, moving behind me so that his breath, as he spoke, whispered across my neck. I shivered and my open shirt fluttered around my breasts and belly, tickling me. I almost didn’t register what he said.
“I think you need to be more sorry.”
I didn’t turn when I heard him move. I was nearly afraid to, not just because I might see what he was doing, but because I was afraid of more displeasure on his part. As insane as that sounded. I was a bit bewildered: we’d played in the bedroom, him bossing me...me bossing him, no one ever taking it too seriously, but something in this John...
My John...
Something about this whole thing was different. I rubbed my legs together and felt the slick moisture at the very tops of my thighs. In my mind, I had a brief fantasy of him rushing me from behind. Bending me over, looping one of his big paint-speckled arms beneath my waist and taking me that way. Fast and hard and yes, boys and girls, rough.
Again, I’d drifted off and almost didn’t hear him. “What’s a fair number for treating me like the invisible man?”
I turned my head to ask him what he meant and saw the stirrer he held. A tremor started in my stomach and worked its way down into my cunt. What I was feeling was a mystery emotion—it couldn’t decide if it was exhilaration or terror.
“Why do you have that?”
“Oh, this? Remember this?”
It was the only stirrer they’d had when we’d picked up the paint. The clerk had joked it was a stirrer on steroids. Actually it was meant for industrial cans and it was huge. At least two feet long and four times as thick as a normal stirrer, we’d taken it as a joke. But John—this new John—was holding it and it didn’t look like a joke.
“I remember,” I said past a dry tongue. But god help me, my pussy tightened greedily around nothing at all. I liked a bit of pain, real pain, not play pain. And I had never ever admitted it to John, because I didn’t think he’d be around long enough to need to know, truth be told. But now, here we were.
“So, I’ll ask you again, Starr. How many do you think is fair? Can you see me now?” He waggled that chunk of wood at me and grinned.
“I can,” I said.
“Good. Now give me a number, or I’ll choose.”
I studied him. Same kind face, brown eyes, chunky glasses. Same pretty, wheat-colored hair; same broad shoulders, flat belly, long legs. Same low-slung jeans and worn-out tee and big hands and... He slid the stirrer along the terrain of one of my bare asscheeks and goose bumps studded my thighs. I shivered.
“Five,” I said.
“Come on now. Five? That seems pretty light for a girl like you.” He tapped me on the hip with the stirrer and each tap reinforced how hefty the stirrer was. John watched my face and moved to stand in front of me. Then he slowly slid the piece of wood between my thighs. Inserting it an inch at a time, but never ever coming near to where I wanted him. Where I needed him. My merrily thumping clit.
I sighed. “A girl like me?” I managed.
