7.02. The screen of your phone lights up and it’s a text from him. Same safeword, yeah? Your heart stutters into a quicker pulse and you pick up the phone, wiping dishwater off on your skirt. Yep.

Hands back in the dishwater, cheeks flushing hot, pretending to scrub at a pot while you wait. The door from outside opens, closes, and then his stride on the stairs, long and loping. You don’t look round when he comes into the kitchen, crosses the room without breaking stride and grabs you, turns you round, presses you hard back over the sink with a hand on your neck, close up under your jaw, and the other clamped tight between your legs. Two of his fingers slip under the seam of your panties and dig up inside you, painfully hard. Possessive.

‘Hey!’ you say, struggling a little against him, hands pressed flat and straining against his chest. He makes a little huff of pleasure.

So wet,” he says, “yeah, you want it, don’t you,” and pulls you down to the floor, rolls over you, pins you with an arm across your chest and a thigh pressed between your legs. You thrash, arms flailing, try to get a leg up between you, but he grabs your knee and forces it to the side, flat to the floor. He holds it there with one of his shins while he scrabbles at his belt and pulls out his cock, long and almost fully hard, stroking it twice loosely in his fist. He kneels over you, one of your knees still under his shin, and presses your other leg open with one hand. The other hand is back on your neck, tight, thumb stroking soft over your windpipe.

You’re moaning but no sounds are making it past his fingers, and he’s pressing hard enough on your neck that you can’t move your head, can’t move anything at all. You can feel your face going red, eyes popping a little, can feel the black at the back of your eyeballs as he pushes roughly inside you, cock pressing close and heavy in your cunt. No lead up, no feeling-out strokes, just quick jackhammer fucking, his ass flexing as he pounds into you, legs sprawled behind him half-bent against the floor. It’s so fast and hard you hardly feel the individual strokes, just the relentless weight and friction of him, his hand sliding up from your throat to cover your mouth and half of your face, his body holding yours pinned helpless to the ground. The lurch of your body under the impact of his hips and the feel of him heavy and slick inside you collapses all your senses into a sort of choking shudder against his fingers.

“You like just taking it?’ he says, after a minute, voice low. “Like getting a cock forced inside you, slut? Like me pushing it in and keeping it there, gonna fuck you no matter what you do, keep you full of me till I feel like being done. You like taking it deep and hard, don’t you, not up to you, take it baby girl take it.’

When you come it surprises you, not just the suddenness but how strong it is – knock-your-head-against-the-floor strong, shaking aftershocks for minutes after. He slows inside you, lets go of your knees, resettles himself between your legs and then rolls over, taking you with him so you’re lying atop his body, his dick still pressing up hard and a little crooked inside you.

‘That was hot,’ he says, and kisses you on the nose. You sit up to straddle him, still unsteady, get your knees on the floor. He’s still got his clothes on and so do you, rumpled and breathing heavy. You take his tie and let it run out between your fingers.

‘Mm,’ you say, and start to move .



It happens in an IKEA of all places.

It was your idea to stop, too, at the last minute. You needed a bunch of boring things:  towels, a lighter duvet for summer, wine glasses to replace the ones you’d broken last week.

‘Ok,’ he’d said, and swung the car into the exit lane. ‘But I need meatballs.’

You’re halfway through the linens section and you’ve got your eye on some dark red towels  when he touches, just grazes your elbow. You stop and look back at him, over your shoulder. He’s got his fingers on one of the sheet samples, the ones that are tufted out so customers can test the feel. The one he’s touching is bright candy pink and he doesn’t even speak, just cocks an eyebrow and dimples. You know what he’s thinking about – the horrifically bubblegum-tinted bedroom in the little B&B where you’d spent a weekend last spring, most of it in bed.

You blush warm.

“Remember what we did there?”  he says, and in some alternate universe where you’re able to play it cool around him you probably roll your eyes, but this isn’t that universe and in this one his flirting still reduces you to flustered babbling, so instead you just look back at him and flush almost as pink as the sheet. It’d been your fifth time together, and the first time he’d brought up orgasm denial. He hadn’t used that term. He’d rolled over after your second round and you’d kissed for awhile, slow and exhausted and sloppy. Then he’d run a hand down your body and let his fingers rest soft and easy between your legs and he’d said, I really like making you come. You’d sort of meant to say something funny, light, but instead you’d let out your breath and kissed him hard, lots of tongue, an oh-my-god kind of kiss. Then he’d broken it off and said, in the same tone, I think I’d really like making you stop too.

It’d taken you a few seconds, and then your eyes had done a nervous sort of skitter across his face and rested vaguely just above one eyebrow. Have you done that before? you’d said, and he’d nodded, almost imperceptibly. I like it, he’d said, fingers brushing up along the shell of your ear. I don’t know yet if you will.

The ‘yet’ had made something flip dizzily under your ribs, and by the time you’d staggered into the kitchen two hours later to find something to eat you’d found out that you both, in fact, did like it. Liked it a lot.

Now, in the linen section, surrounded by carts and sticky toddlers, he hooks a finger through your belt and tugs. ‘C’mon,’ he says, and leads you on through lamps and bathroom fixtures and laundry baskets and down the escalator ramp to picture frames and mirrors. He doesn’t say a word but there’s a tension in his shoulders and a couple times he looks back and grins with his eyes narrowed a little.

Your belly tightens.

When you’re past mirrors and into picture frames and cookie cutter art, he goes around a corner into a tiny cul-de-sac of massive screenprinted canvases.

‘OK,’ he says, when you’re mostly out of view behind the end of a long shelf. ‘Touch yourself.’

Your head jerks up a little and your eyes widen, nervous, but before you can say anything he puts one of his hands into the back of your hair. It’s a light touch, barely there, just fingers gripping gentle at the roots, but the instant he does it your breath descends into a long shudder and your eyes lose focus a little. This is something else you found out about yourself, with him.

‘OK,’ you say, and loosen your zipper, stick your hand into your jeans. It’s weird, surreal, to touch yourself, feel the nub of your clit slip sideways under your fingertips while not 15 feet away people are pushing carts piled with plastic wine glasses and appliqued pillows. On one level you’re acutely aware of it, so aware it quickens your breathing and makes your adrenaline spike. On the other – well, his fingers are still rubbing against your scalp. He’s standing a foot away from you, casual, other hand stuck into his pocket, not even looking at you.

‘Good girl,’ he says, in a perfectly normal tone of voice. ‘Inside your panties or out?’

Your mouth has gone dry and you lick your lips.

‘Out,’ you say, and you’re surprised at how firm your voice still is. The cotton under your fingertips is damp already.

‘Put them in,’ he says, and then, ‘don’t hold back, honey.’

You’re blushing now, can feel the heat radiating up off your neck, and when your fingers slip easy into the slick between your lips, brushing over the swollen flesh of your cunt, you let out a tiny moan – more of a breath, really, but he hears it, and his hand tightens in your hair.

‘Quiet,’ he says, again completely easy, but he shifts a little and you notice, almost abstractedly, the line of his cock stiffen inside his jeans. You’re shifting yourself, sneakers shuffling a little on the floor, biting your lip. Then he moves a foot over and slips a hand down the back of your jeans, presses the tip of one finger firm against your asshole. Your vision slips a little, at that, and you push back involuntarily against his finger. There’s a woman looking at vases twenty feet across the room and your fingers are so slippery now they’re starting to lose their rhythm but you’re close, so close, and –

‘Stop,’ he says, and his hand tightens over the curve of your ass. It takes you a second to pull yourself up: your whole body is strung tight and trying to twist itself tighter. His finger hasn’t moved. When you finally blink and look around there’s no one close, well, no closer than they’d been two minutes ago.

‘Wha-’ you say, confused, trembling.

‘I wanna be inside you,’ he says, and other than that you don’t register much for the next six minutes, just his hand slipped down to the small of your back and a rush of IKEA landscape: plants, pet baskets, the huge flatpack warehouse. On the other side of the tills he gives you a glance and you duck into the infant change room, stand against the wall, still a little lightheaded. He slips inside a moment later and locks the door behind him.

He’s already unbuckling his belt as he turns around and he pushes his jeans down over his thighs and holds out his arms almost in the same movement.

‘C’mere,’ he says, mouths it, really, and you’re shrugging out of your own jeans, one leg all the way, struggling where it sticks over your ankle. Then he’s picking you up by the waist and you’re wrapping your legs around him, snugging in close and spine-tingling against his cock. It slides up alongside your clit and you grip his neck and ride right there a little, eyes closed and head fallen back, just the barely-there brush of him against the ache of your cunt. Then he grunts and lifts you an inch or two and pulls you down onto his cock, his hands somehow holding you up and pressing you down at the same time. You’re so worked up by now that the feel of him pushing you wide open makes you start to shake a little, tremble long and constant all down the length of your spine. Your hands tighten around his neck.

‘Not yet,’ he’s saying, and it takes you a second to try to respond. You get your eyes open and he’s looking at you maybe harder than you’ve ever been looked at before. ‘No,’ he says, ‘no,’ and your eyes stay on his, begging, and you’ve stopped breathing because if you breathe you’re going to come, you’re going to tip over the edge and –

‘No,’ he says, again, and now his breathing’s gone ragged too and he’s got you up against the wall between the change table and the toilet. You’re taking in little gasping-gulps of air and the your belly is an aching coil of tension, swelling, about to break, and

‘Fuck,’ you say, loud, ‘fuck, fuck,’ and he clamps a hand over your mouth and your nose both and holds it there. His hand is shaking a little and you buck your hips up against him.

‘Now,’ he says, and takes his hand away, and you lose all control of your body, can’t feel your limbs as individual things, you’re all melting disembodiment against, around, the jerking muscle of him. He presses you against the concrete, leans some of his weight through you against the wall.

He’s still inside you when you hear someone try the door handle.

‘Fuck,’ he mouths at you, suppressing a grin. ‘Fuck, shit.’ He lets you down and you hastily grab a paper towel and struggle back into your jeans. He pauses with his hand on the door and glances back at you.

‘Post-coital walk of shame?’ you say, dimpling. He grins, tips his chin up a little.

‘Just the walking part,’ he says, and opens the door.



It’s late when you pull into the parking space in front of the motel – dark and silent, 2 am, no one around. Gusts of wind are blowing some plastic bags around the lot. You’re here for a family wedding, drove up late after work; inside the motel room your cousin will already be asleep, snoring, probably, but – you’re horny, want it so bad your knickers are already wet inside your tights.

You look across the car, and he glances back and flashes a grin.

‘OK, babe?’

‘Yeah,’ you say, distracted. He’s still wearing his suit from the office. When he unbuckles his seatbelt you turn your body a little towards him and shuck your low heels into the footwell, brush your hand down the length of his arm.

‘You wanna stay out here for a bit?’ you say.

He looks across at you and cocks an eyebrow. One corner of his mouth twitches like he’s laughing at the question. You make a noise in your throat, exasperated arousal, and give his forearm a tug.

‘Come over here.’

He does, slides across the seat towards you, and as he does you shift around and over to straddle him, one of your hands braced on the seat back behind his head. You drag the other hand down his chest, knuckles slipping over buttons, coming to rest when your little finger touches the metal of his belt buckle. He kisses the hollow of your neck, wet-warm breath ghosting across your collarbone.

‘Hey handsome,’ you say, ‘take off your tie.’

He does, eyes fixed on your face, tongue slipping between his lips. His hands fumble a little, fingers tugging at the knot. When he gets it undone you take it, wrap it around his wrists and tie it in a simple knot, watching his face. His eyebrows are cocked up in flirtatious interest, face open, cheeks flushing pink.

You kneel up in his lap and push his arms up behind his head and back a little, so that his bound wrists fit snug over the headrest. The long tail of the tie has a foot or so left hanging, and you stretch it back to the hook above the backseat door. The tabbed pocket of fabric at the tie’s end slips neatly over the hook. He could get out of it with one jerk of his arms, if he wanted to. But you’re thinking, hoping, that he won’t want to.

For a few seconds you’re distracted, gone lust-blind over the way his arms stretched right up behind his head make his jacket ride up high on his shoulders and his biceps bulge, strained so hard against the jacket that you can see the muscles working through the fabric. His body is arched back a little, following the taut line of the tie, and he shifts, spreading his legs apart, feet shuffling against the floor mats.

‘Gonna have your nasty way with me?’ he says, eyes bright and flickering. You don’t answer, just peel off your tights and press down deep into his lap, grinding over his crotch, knees digging into the back of the leather seat. One of your hands touches his elbow and slides slow down his bicep, down to his shoulder, slips inside his jacket and trails down over his slightly arched chest. When your thumb brushes over a nipple and he puffs out a breath you pause and roll your hips, intrigued.

‘You like that?’ you say. He opens one eye.

‘Fuck yeah.’

You don’t reply, just unbutton his shirt and flick the same nipple again with the pad of your thumb, brushing upwards. You can feel his thighs tighten a little beneath you and do it again, twice, three times. His mouth is open a little now, breath growing laboured. You put one hand down on his hipbone, hard, and with the other you roll his nipple gently between three fingers, mouth closing over the other. His hips ride up then, not quite bucking but thrusting, surging forward. The nipple pops under your tongue. You can taste his sweat and feel the prickle of hairs around his areola. You suck a little harder, getting a sort of rhythm going between your fingers and tongue, and his cock jerks beneath you and tightens the crotch of his dress pants.

‘You do like that,’ you murmur, quiet, against his skin.

‘Hnnng,’ he says. He’s flexing his arms a bit, not hard enough to release the tie but enough that his pecs are jumping a little under your mouth. You tighten the hand on his hip and can feel him tilt his head to the side, throat bared. His cock twitches again and he shifts, uncomfortable now, pushing his hips up into you, but you raise yourself up on your knees a bit, teasing him, letting his crotch just brush against your knickers. There’s a second or two or maybe four (most Disney promises don’t stick but you’ve found out as an adult that time does stop, sometimes) where the tension is like a physical thing, eyes fixed on each other. Something unfurls in your gut and it’s not quite arousal or – no – it is, but it’s more than just slick, swollen flesh – not separate from that, exactly, but fuller, thicker, another layer, the drag of some sensory tide between you.

‘Babe,’ he says, hoarse, and you put your hands flat on his chest and close your eyes and grind down hard on the swell of his cock, keening low in the back of your throat. Then you’re unzipping his trousers and his cock presses up into your palm; he’s wet through his shorts. You pull him through the fly and run your thumb over his crown, breathing heavy.

‘Glovebox?’ you say, and his head’s back against the seat now, eyes blinking fast, but he grunts yes and you scrabble behind you, get one hand on the handle, pop it open. Papers fluttering, gum, car registration – there, a strip of condoms. You tear one open with your teeth and he gets his head up to look at you, flashes a grin. Then you’re pulling your panties to the side and sinking down around him.

You try to draw out the teasing, rolling your hips a bit to grind up over the root of his cock, forcing yourself to go slow, slow. He’s quiet, just heavy breathing and sporadic grunts, but the movement of his face does the talking for him; he’s biting his lips, eyes closed, head straining hard back against the headrest. When he starts to fuck up into you, hips pistoning, desperate for more, you make a satisfied noise and let him, bearing down hard to meet his thrusts. It’s fast and all friction now, shallow wet thrusts that quicken the nerves all down your spine and punch little noises out of you with each stroke.

‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come, sorry, fuck, gonna come -’

‘Yeahhh,’ you say, soft, throaty, and as he arches up he gives his shoulders a twist and his arms are suddenly around you, tight and strong, and his fingers are dragging along your lips and trailing into your mouth.

‘My turn,’ he says.



Geoff rocks the plug a little, and the widest part of the stainless steel bulb pulls heavy against the inside of Mark’s ass. He’s drowning again in the feeling of dragging suspension, the plug tensile on the edge of slipping either in or out, and he wants both and neither. It’s a discomposing kind of pleasure, like sensation has abandoned individual nerves and is pooling heavy and strong, stronger than him, in the cord of his spine.

The plug slides back in, and Mark’s panting, head thrown to the side. He’s on his knees, naked. Geoff is on his back beneath him, still mostly clothed, face just below Mark’s chest, one arm up around Mark’s hips so his fingers can coax the plug back and forth. His other hand is against Mark’s chest, splayed flat, fingertips pressing into the skin. When he’d said he wanted to watch – not coquettishly but with a dark seriousness – Mark had thought he meant, well, the action behind. Not this, not looking right at Mark’s face.

He lets the plug sink so deep Mark feels it like braille at the back of his skull, presses it a little so not just the bulb and the stem but the base of the curved handle are inside him, and then shallow tugs, quick and shuddering-good. This isn’t teasing. Mark’s done teasing. This is something else, peeling him open and licking along his bones.

He’s still panting, he can’t get his breath, can’t shake himself lucid from this feeling.

‘I’d like to know what you’re thinking,’ says Geoff. There’s a growl on the edge of it but the sheer impersonal force of the way he says it winds a fist right into Mark’s gut. His eyes are rolling back in their sockets and the world’s gone smeary-white.

Auuugh,’ says Mark, and arches his back more, presses harder into the pressure of the plug. Geoff quickens the movement of his hand and Mark gives a naked moan, on fire from navel to knees.

‘I can’t,’ he says, frantic, without knowing what he means. ‘I can’t I can’t.’ Geoff slides a little further down Mark’s body so that Mark’s cock, bobbing stiff and dripping, brushes against his lips.

‘You can,’ he says.



‘Don’t,’ she says, soft, with her hand up over the base of his throat, fingers over a tendon. She’s straddling his lap and her legs are split as wide as they’ll go, grinding down as close and hard as she can onto his lap. His wrists are tied loose behind him and he’s just in his boxer-briefs, teal blue today, and through her panties she can feel the wet slide of his dick inside his shorts. She grinds against him again, up-down, and he makes a noise, jerks. She clamps her calves around his thighs and tightens her fingers.

‘Don’t,’ again, ‘don’t move.’ Her other hand gets a grip in the hair at the back of his head and his chin tips up, instinctive, willing. She keeps her hand at his throat and lets the other drag down the back of his neck, over his shoulder, over his collarbone. She splays it out over one pec and pauses for a second.

She can smell him now, ripe and hot for it, and his dick is throbbing hard between her legs. She leans in, ever so slightly, and he meets her mouth and kisses her, wide open and quick, bottom lip caught and dragging against her teeth.

‘Hnnrgh,’ she says, on the exhale, and moves back just a couple of inches. His neck tightens under her hand and his mouth stays open a little, breath mixing with hers, jaw still tipped up. She presses her fingertips into his chest and thumbs his nipple, slow at first, pressing it flat against his skin and dragging deliberate over it. He grunts, jerks against her. Softer then, quick and regular, flick flick flick, and his breathing is quickening now and shallowing out. There’s a flutter in his throat and his cock is like steel, slick and quivering. She rolls her hips over him, biting her lip, and reaches down to ease him gently out of his shorts. Her panties are a mess now, wet and slippery over his thighs.

Both hands now on his nipples, twisting and pinching, measuring it to his groans. Her mouth is still close to his and she can feel the change in his breathing, the hitch in his shoulders. His hips are jerking a little, shuddering up against her.

‘I’m g- I’m gonna come,’ he says, hoarse, almost surprised, and does, curling against her body and spilling hot between them.