Driftwood Deeds (6 page)

“Hurts... but...” 

“But?”

“But it’s... It’s good.”

 I frowned. Of course it made little sense but there it was. I loved the ache that radiated through my body and centered there, loved the way I could intensify it by leaning back against his crotch. 

“Do you want to take a quick shower?” He paused but when he saw my lack of comprehension, he continued. “It can help make you feel less overheated.”

It was only when he said it that I realized how soaked my blouse was. I looked down at myself, then lifted an arm and felt the stickiness underneath it. I grinned sheepishly.

“That sounds really good actually. Thank you.”

I don’t know what I expected but he just smiled, turned me around and started to unbutton my shirt. He brushed it off my shoulder and while I got rid of my bra, he pulled my skirt down to the floor. I hissed when it passed the swell of my ass. He went on to reach for the showerhead, adjusted water pressure and temperature and then helped me step over the rim into the bathtub. I felt like one of those infinitely precious collector’s dolls. My body went soft and pliable and letting it go, giving it to him to care for, made it feel like I wasn’t standing at all, like he was washing away all earthly concerns, anything that weighed us down. He touched my nose before he started to wash me with a pleasantly prickly natural sponge.

“Raise your arms,” he said, louder now to reach my ears over the sound of the water. “Higher, yes, you can cross them behind your head. Beautiful. Thank you.”

While he washed under my breasts and my armpits, I could feel myself shaking with desire again. His simple instructions, casually uttered, seemed to set each nerve ending aflame, hyper-reactive to every touch, be it ever so remote from the erogenous centers of my body. He seemed to avoid them almost purposefully, washing me from head to feet, conspicuously leaving out my bottom and my crotch. I was in a state where I was both acutely longing for his touch there, but at the same time felt so engrossed in the moment that I had to consciously remind myself of the missing areas until he smiled down at me and bid me turn around.

“Bend over and spread your legs. Rest your hands on the rim. There you go... such a sticky, dirty girl.” 

Shivering, a sense of vertigo overcame me again as he blew against my wet folds. Instead of bringing the sponge there, however, he placed the showerhead just at the top of my arse so that most of the water was funneled through the crack to splash down against my cunt. I started to moan immediately, my head leaning against the wall. Just when I thought this couldn’t feel any better, I felt something pushing against the puckered hole. I jumped a little but then calmed as he started to rub it clean, hard and eager, his two fingers making sure every tiny puckered fold was rubbed this way and that and opened up to the water flow. The sensations had me gasping even before he pushed his fingers inside me. My arse was tight, so tight around them, but he didn’t play around. It didn’t feel like he was doing it to give me pleasure, just that the pleasure was a necessary side effect. He was simply washing out a hole, watery slurping sounds smacked loudly in the small room. Then he hooked both fingers into my flesh and pulled the muscle apart. I felt water and air trickle inside, then his fingers followed, fucking me fast.

I think I lost control over my noises again, and before I could even properly enjoy it, he withdrew and turned his attention to my cunt. He was far less intrusive there. He used the sponge again, prickly and harsh as he rubbed it over my sticky thighs and folds.

“You got so nice and wet...” he told me after a while. “But I want to fuck you later and I want to feel it.”

As he said this, he pressed the showerhead against my entrance and immediately warm water gushed inside of me. I yelled out loud, bumping my head against the wall, but before the pressure became too much, he pulled the stream away and watched it all flow back out of me, down the side of my leg and splashing onto the ceramic bathtub floor. I cringed. It was hot and wet and felt almost like I was peeing right there in front of him. 

He repeated the procedure several more times, pushing a finger inside of me from time to time as though to test how slippery I remained and when I could feel every callous and every wrinkle around his knuckles, he turned off the water. 

I stood back up straight and immediately regretted it when an overwhelming sense of dizziness took hold of my head. For a second I thought I might faint but then I found myself pressed against his chest and he lifted me out of the tub and sat me down on the toilet.

I don’t remember when he’d taken off his shirt—I assumed while I was bent over facing away from him, but when I leaned forward, my face came to lie against his naked stomach. I rested there, breathing him in with each lungful of air. My arse felt sore against the toilet seat, my asshole stretched and my cunt raw and dry and clean for him, and when he patted my hair, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment or a place where I’d have felt more safe and taken care of.

A comfortable exhaustion was taking hold of my body. Like a long Sunday morning in bed, or that perfect time late at night after a glass of wine that makes the bed so much softer and makes your head spin when you close your eyes. That’s what that toilet seat felt like; it was my bed and his stomach was my pillow. 

Only when the immediate spell of exhaustion faded did I notice his scent again, and the softness of his skin. His fingers were in my hair, combing through it gently. 

My lips found his skin like a ship finds a harbor. It didn’t even occur to me that he might stop me when I kissed his stomach, when I felt those little hairs tickle my chin. He wasn’t twenty-five and it showed; he also didn’t have the stomach of a man who did sit-ups every day. It was a comfortable straight torso with some give under his skin, slightly softened by age and time. I could suck a fold of it into my mouth and bite it before I released it again. He grunted at this, and his fingers hardened against my scalp. 

“I see you are rested,” he said from what felt like far above me, smiling down. I whimpered. I think I pleaded unintelligibly, too, as I kissed and licked at his stomach. The waistline of his jeans rubbed against my chin and I wanted it gone, but when my fingers found the button, he closed his hand around mine. 

I looked up, all puffy eyes and bee-stung lips. 

“Please?”

“You have such beautiful instincts,” he whispered, hands cupping my face. His voice gathered force when he continued. “Ask again, be polite and specific.”

I blushed. Maybe it really had been instinct, or something terribly suggestive in his hands or his smell, but I had never pleaded for sex before, much less the chance to pleasure a man. But here I was, sitting on a toilet seat in front of Paul Archer, a man I had only just met and his words caused a painful stirring behind my clit.

“Please...” I started, the words were there, all lined up and I was too deep into the game to pretend I had any modesty left. “May I please touch you? Touch your cock? I just want to touch you...”

“Just touch?” His reply brought me up short and my mouth fell open.

“Anything you’ll let me do,” I spluttered and when I didn’t know what else to say, he pushed his thumb into my mouth. It was large and the skin was far more hardened than his stomach. Before I could wrap my mouth around it, he gently pulled down my jaw while his eyes locked on mine. My breath washed against his hands like waves against the shore.

“I suppose little puppy deserves a treat, something familiar after all that adventure.”

 As always, his voice did not contain a trace of cruelty or unkindness. He hardly even sounded condescending, which always seemed to stand in contrast with the words he uttered. With his thumb still keeping my mouth open, I just nodded and my eyes clouded over a little when he nodded down to his stomach.

“Take my cock out.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine; I was still looking up at Paul. There was no rush in his eyes but there was in mine and I brought my shaking fingers to the waistline of his jeans. Finding the button, I tore at it for a moment or so until I took a deep breath, forced my fingers to move as I commanded them to. It was easier then and I leaned my forehead back against his stomach while I pulled down the zip and reached into the elastic of his underwear. The painful pulling between my legs intensified at that first touch—the heat, the soft skin around the hard tumescence. I couldn’t wait and quickly brushed down the fabric until it sprung to light. 

He gave me a moment to appreciate it, to look at its size and shape. It was average, I suppose—not surprisingly long but beautifully thick, so much so that I couldn’t meet my fingertips as I wrapped my hand around it. He was circumcised, like most American men his age as he told me later, and he had one of the most beautiful mushroom heads I had ever seen. I found myself licking my bottom lip in anticipation and immediately, he clicked his tongue and pushed my jaw back down. Without another word, he breached my lips and pushed his cock inside my mouth.

I hadn’t done this in a while. I had been concentrating on my career and done little dating and my eyes bulged at the strain of my lips stretching around him. In a flash, I thought of my cunt and my ass, both still feeling quite intruded upon, and they had only felt two of his fingers. I whimpered a moan around his hard flesh at the thought and wondered how soon he’d fuck me or whether he’d wash my cunt out again because I could feel it growing more slippery with every passing moment.

With one hand around the base of his cock and the other hooked behind my ear, he controlled speed and depth completely. It was a new experience for me, the swift push deep into my mouth whether I was ready for it or not. He hit against my gag reflex with the very first stroke and my body cringed in response. He did it three more times, fucking my mouth in rapid succession until he pulled out all the way. A thick strand of saliva spanned between his cock and my lips. My stomach churning and new tears pooling in my eyes, I was still catching my breath when he angled my head up. 

“There’s something for you to work on,” he said with a gentle smile and patted my cheek. And just like that my cunt started to contract hard around itself, grasping at nothing. It wasn’t quite an orgasm but it made me moan and I showered his cock in kisses, licked all my sticky saliva off the beautifully defined head before he violated my mouth again. This time he pushed slowly, deeper and deeper until I couldn’t breathe and my throat contracted hard around him, trying to fight the intruder. It was the first time I heard him groan in pleasure.

My eyes were leaking by the time he pulled out and I keeled forward against him, gasping for air while he patted my head tenderly, whispering compliments that soothed my soul. I can’t say that I was crying even though tears ran down my cheeks unchecked. I wasn’t in pain or discomfort, I wasn’t afraid or shocked. I just wanted more and the tears seemed like a purely physical reaction, much like my cunt couldn’t stop getting wetter and wetter for him either. He gently brushed my tears away and told me how beautiful I looked like that. Again, I licked him clean and this time, he made me ask him to fuck my mouth again. And again.

Each time, he seemed to cut off my air supply a second or so longer, seemed to enjoy my spasming throat just a little more. After the third time he kissed my sweaty forehead. 

“Well, done little puppy. Hands between your legs,” he said. “You can rub yourself until I come.” 

I did as he asked and almost fainted with joy when my fingers touched a clit all but screaming for release. When he started to fuck my mouth again, though, hard and fast this time, I could hardly keep a rhythm and all my concentration went into my mouth, into keeping it open, into breathing and controlling my gag reflex.

I didn’t come, but it strangely felt like I did when he sprayed his seed against the roof of my mouth and I swallowed it down like a precious gift. It tasted bitter, salty and harsh like the sea. He pulled out and then lifted me to my feet before he enveloped me in his arms. My limbs were numb and hardly there and I was still panting, exhausted as though a truck load of new emotions, sensations, pain and desire had run me over. It was the most at peace I had ever felt. 

He kissed my hair, wiped my face again with a wet towel and then helped me into his shirt, closing just one button across my breasts. Then he took my hand and led me out of the bathroom.

“My poor, beautiful girl. I think you need a little rest.”

IX

“Are you hungry?” 

I looked up at Paul, uncomprehending for a moment. My mouth still tasted like him and at first, I could only understand it as a reference to more semen. Something had changed in his face, though, as he led me into his kitchen. It felt far more spacious now than it had upon my first visit here—I attributed that to the cramped quarters of the bathroom. It was hard to accept that the room hadn’t changed at all, when everything else, down to the very molecular composition of my cells, seemed to have been fundamentally altered in the last two hours. But there was the kettle he’d used to boil water for our tea, there the spines of the books I’d spied earlier, there the fresh herbs on the windowsill: rosemary, thyme, coriander, basil. I could smell them from where I stood with senses that still felt preternaturally heightened by the experience.

“I like sitting here while I cook,” he explained with a shrug. I followed his gaze to a leather armchair, squashed into a corner I hadn’t noticed before. It looked slightly greasy but comfortable, with a buttery sheen that came from long years of use.

 “Why don’t you sit and I make you something? I wouldn’t want to deplete your reserves completely.”

He grinned knowingly—Paul and his mind reading. I did feel like I had run out of gasoline or battery power during our time in the bathroom. Although, I suppose a simple look at my face and the lack of tension in my muscles would have given him all the information he needed without looking into my soul at all.