Bad Girl

She knows she shouldn't do this. Knows her conscience should be kicking her to a more sensible course of action, but she can't help herself. So many weeks, months, of should-not, ought-not, though it would have been so easy. The man sits quietly in front of her, sipping his coffee as he has done for countless mornings and afternoons. He's talking about jobs and plans for the week, but she isn't hearing him. He has made offers over the months, covert and overt, ranging from a casual fuck, to running away together. And always, she has deflected. Sometimes acknowledging his affection, but being clear that she doesn't reciprocate, sometimes having to warn him how uncomfortable his admissions make her. She has tried always to be kind. Such one-directional affection and desire do not sit well with her. Were she to feel it in reverse, and be met with such consistent and firm rejection, she'd have removed herself from the man's presence. Pride, she supposes she has pride, because she can't imagine such constant and hopeless devotion in herself. But this man, has never desisted. He's ebbed and flowed around her, letting her know he is ever available, should she say the word.

And she never has.

Has never told him that she's taken many a lover over the years. Never shared how much she enjoys sex. Never shared that she enjoys...alternative sex. Never told him of anyone, or anything, she has ever done. Never shared her extra-marital activities throughout the long years of marriage to her husband, with whom the man is good friends. Her husband knows of the man's affection and desire for his wife, actually feels sorry for him. And for all her husband knows she does get up to, he knows his wife wouldn't go there.

And until this moment, his wife never would have.

But his wife is frustrated beyond words. Things have not panned out as she thought they might with her most recent lover. Argument, disagreement, hurt, an inability to find the solidity of compromise. Different life situations. She persevered, for as long as she could, but has now severed contact. But she is sexually awakened, activated, by the turbulent and satisfying sex she has been enjoying for weeks. And yet, with the crashing demise of the relationship, there is nowhere for that energy to go. She and her husband, they don't fuck. Not in a way she craves and needs.

She is on edge, and the bruises she has self-inflicted, striking herself with a leather strap on the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, are not enough. They are a day old now, the ache dulled, the sting gone, the red faded. Bruised purple flesh, banded along her inner thighs, is a pleasant reminder. But the physical pain of impact play has dissolved only the very edges of her frustration. Sexual need, not for release, but to feel fucked, claimed, taken, has coalesced into an internal straight-jacket. She feels the inner tension causing outer stiffness, holds herself rigid in the chair. She daren't let the internal seething surface.

But it is doing.

She finds herself staring at his hands, hands she has admired before, but carefully, secretly. Observing skin and tendon, the glint of sunlight on bronzed hairs. A man's hands and forearms are powerful visual stimuli to her, fingers gesticulating or forearm muscles flexing, rippling. She imagines fingers held together, pressed into her. She is gazing at his hand, the width of it, wondering how it would feel, bunched into a fist, curled within her cunt. She's daydreaming the flexion in his forearm as he might draw back his hand to strike her arse, or her face. She gives a small jump of a shudder, clears her throat.

He has asked her a question and she opens her mouth to answer, but feels a familiar micro-second of mind-slip. Before her brain can retrace its steps and halt her intention, she blurts out, "Julian, would you like to fuck me?"

There is a suspended moment, as his eyes lock on hers, and he stills. A weight of something hangs in the air, and she recovers herself enough to choose retraction or elaboration.

She ignores her conscience.

"One time offer. Just fuck. Right here, right now. Mark is at work, won't be home for hours. No strings, no drama. Just fuck. I don't even want you to speak. Just a nod of your head if you want to, or shake your head for no. And I'll never mention it again. It won't change the friendship."

Julian is staring at her, and for once she detects none of his usual affection, his thinly veiled desire to speak of his feelings. She looks at him steadily, waiting. He nods his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. She gives a tiny nod of acknowledgement, and smiles. Stands up from the table and walks down the hallway to the bedroom, waiting for him to follow her.

She's already stood by the bed, facing the door, before she hears his chair scrape back from the table, his coffee mug clunk to the wooden surface. He enters the room and approaches, staring at her, not speaking a word. She is much shorter than him, and holds her right index finger up to his lips, indicating no talking. He looks down at her, does not acknowledge her finger in any way. She stands on tiptoes to reach her face to his, kiss him gently, chastely almost, on the lips. Then her hands move to his tradesman shirt, unbuttoning him. She is aware of the bulge of penis within his jeans. She slides the shirt from his body, feeling very small suddenly, this close to him, the usual table or distance no longer between them. She has been so careful up to this point to preserve that space, to not allow him any closer. Lust has washed that care away, and she feels an urgency to touch his flesh, feel him against her, in her. She lifts his t-shirt, silently asks for his assistance in removing it. The bending of his knees, lowering his body so she can slip it over his head, might be comical if sexual tension wasn't brittling the air. She slides her fingers up over his chest, his clavicles, the concavities near his neck, brushing fingertips over tattoos and the small amount of frosted chest hair, his nipples, drawing a sharp intake of breath from him.

She drops to her knees, unbuckles his belt, undoes his jeans, slides them down his legs, pulls them over his socked feet. She carefully removes each sock, pushes the pile of clothes to the wall. She is kneeling now, looking up at him, noting the boxer-shorted bulge in front of her, the dark of puddled pre-cum on the fabric. She almost smiles but holds it back. Her fingers reach to hook over the edges of his boxers above each hip, and she back-and-forths them slowly down over his pelvis, neatly pulling the elasticated waistband over the head of his cock, deliberately brushing the length of the sensitive underside. Her mouth waters looking at the turgid flesh before her. She loves sucking cock. She wasn't sure what she was expecting, but Julian has a nice cock, thick, not too long, but plenty long enough. She licks her lips, desperate to take him in her mouth, feel the familiar twitch and seep of happily engulfed male flesh. But it might not do to be too forward, not yet. Perhaps best to play coy, shy, hesitant, though it may be a little late for that, and she isn't very good at it. She stands up, allowing her clothed body to brush against the tip of his cock. He inhales sharply.

She stands in front of him, very still. This is the wrong way round for her. Usually she would be stood naked, exposed, in front of a clothed man. But Julian doesn't seem phased, looks down at her. She begins to feel uncomfortable under his steady stare, and a flicker of self-doubt flashes through her. A delayed reflection, questioning what on earth she thinks she's doing. But his hands reach to her head, his palms cupping the sides of her head, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. He bends to kiss her lips, and this kiss is not chaste. His lips part, his tongue traces her lips, pressing into her mouth. She gives a little moan as she opens to him, her hands reaching to grasp his forearms, her cunt twitching. She can feel the slick of labial flesh sliding against knickers. He pulls away and begins to undo her top, one focused button after another, his fingertips brushing the pillowed flesh of her breasts above the silky bra fabric. He reaches round and undoes her bra, removes the shirt, then the bra, reaching to undo her belt and jeans buttons. He stands back, and speaks for the first time.

"Take them off, and your underwear."

Her cunt thrills at the command, meaning much more to her perhaps than the simple utterance does to him. She moves to obey, stands naked before him.

"What do you want? From me? Why now, and what is it you want?" Julian asks her softly, not touching her, his cock lazily to attention between them. She is taken aback at his poise, feels a further wobble of self-doubt, swallows and recovers herself, the lust re-crystallising.

"I want," she begins, but her voice falters and breaks, erupting in a coarse whisper. She clears her throat and tries again.

"I want you to fuck me, please. Just fuck me. Hard."

Julian watches her face impassively. "Okay. I'm guessing that means you don't want me to make love to you. And I'm good with that. I can just fuck you."

And to her shock, he grabs her upper arms and twists her body round, shoving her so that she lands on her back in an inelegant sprawled heap on the bed. She sees him watching her chest settle, and can feel her heart pounding.

Julian is on top of her, his body pressing her down, his right knee forcing her legs apart. His left hand reaches to scoop both her wrists within his fist, holding them above her head. Neither of them stops to think as his cock presses at the entrance to her cunt. She knows she's already slick, that he won't have to press hard to force his cock within her. Her pelvis rocks up involuntarily as much as she is able under his weight, and the tilt is enough to flick the head of him into her. He drives forward with his hips and she cries out with the thrill of being filled, her head snapping back. Cock driven and pressed deeply within her, stretching her cunt, pressing to her cervix. Heat floods her face and chest as her body responds. Julian begins pumping into her, a grunt escaping him every now and then. She can feel his cock engorge further, grow larger, though the increasing lubrication means a full but frictionless sensation. He lifts back, reaches to draw her legs up, press her knees to her shoulders. She feels him hesitate, only for a second, as he sees the bruises on her inner thighs. She isn't watching his face, can't gauge his reaction. She moans, refocusing his attention on her face as he presses more deeply within her. He grinds against her, begins fucking her in earnest. She feels the inevitable build of orgasm. Always in this position, she will cum, and often messily. A momentary flicker of background thought about his potential reaction to her cunt gushing, but then the orgasm mounts, and her moans increase as he fucks her harder. She has to stop herself from the reflex of asking to cum, lifting her body as well as she can to meet his thrusts, as she screams out a squelching orgasm on his cock. Julian barely slows his motion, fucks her through it, and she readies herself for him to pump her full of his semen.

But he doesn't. He slows his motion as her orgasm fades. Perhaps he's riding the spasms in her cunt. She's gasping for air, breathing heavily, delicious post-orgasm, cock-filled pulsing cunt. Visceral thought of please don't fucking cum yet, almost vocalised. But Julian doesn't. He manoeuvres himself off her, flips her over onto her stomach, props himself on his left hand. He uses his right to guide himself to her cunt again. She lifts her body to press herself up and onto him, scoop him within herself. And Julian lowers himself. She can feel his stomach on her lower back, his thighs atop and within her own. His upper body propped up on his arms. Her head is on the duvet, and she can see his left hand and forearm. She's enjoying the bounce of their bodies as he once again finds his rhythm and fucks her. This won't make her cum, but god it feels good, cock-filled, still tight from her orgasm. She is murmuring her enjoyment, listening to his breathing, feeling his driving motion rock them both. Then he pulls back.

"On your knees," he grunts at her.

She is surprised to hear the gravelled lust from him, and so terse an instruction. Something she is used to, responds to, but is unexpected from him. All that pent-up lust and desire perhaps, unleashed. She scrambles to her hands and knees, a little wobbly on the bed. His left hand on her hip, his right guiding his cock to her again, entering her, both hands on her hips. She hears him exhale his appreciation as he sinks within her. She groans as he presses as deeply within her as he can, begins fucking her again. His hands reach round and underneath her, his body scooped around her, and he grasps her breasts, cups them, squeezes. Gently at first, and she whimpers encouragingly at him. He applies more pressure, fingers digging into her flesh. She murmurs her appreciation. She is not the kind of woman to talk during sex, but her body language leaves nothing unsaid. His fingers gouge into her, his large hands encasing her breasts, and he increases the force he is applying. She vocalises, grunting, moaning, and thrusts her hips back at him. This tells him all he needs to know. He leans back, his right hand now pressing to the middle of her back.

"On your arms, chest on bed, head on bed. Arch your back for me," he says to her.

She whimpers as she drops her upper body, arches her back. This gives him deeper access, and is a more...humiliating position. She thrills at the feelings it generates. She's settling into his rhythm again, slow deep thrusts, when she feels him lean down over her body, his hands reaching underneath her, to grasp between her legs. His hands grip her soft flesh just where the bruising from yesterday is. And he squeezes. She cries out at the sharp shock of it. Unexpected, not unwanted, far from it, but she's surprised he thinks to do that. The pain is welcome, oh so welcome. And she does manage to speak.

"Oh, yes. God, yes. Yes please."

Julian tightens his grip, pinches the flesh hard between thumb and forefingers, squeezes in a tightening vice as he increases the speed of his cock pumping in and out of her. Her body tenses, her cunt oozes, and she can feel another orgasm building within her.

"Oh God," she manages, and Julian understands, lifting himself up and away from beneath her, his hands finding her, and fucking her hard and fast, bashing into her cunt, his balls slamming against her body, stimulating her clitoris. She feels her orgasm begin to crest, and is too far gone this time to stop her habitual request for permission.

"Oh fuck. Please? Please can I cum?"

She feels the split second of hesitation, his uncertainty, unfamiliarity, and then he recovers. One hand gouges fingertips into her hip, the flesh of her upper buttock, the other reaches to grab a fistful of her hair, twist it violently, and yank on her head. His cock thrusts viciously into her.

"Yeah, you can cum. You fucking cum all over my cock. Like the cock-hungry whore you obviously are. After all this time. Christ." Hearing this, she is acutely aware that his surprise, his shock at her behaviour, has twisted to anger in him. The knowledge triggers her, and she screams out an orgasm, her cunt grasping at his cock as he thrusts deep within her, her scalp burning, sharp pain in her hip from his fingers. She feels liquid ooze as he pumps in and out of her, more slowly now through the spasming of her cunt.

Julian has not yet cum. His cock is rock hard, now barely moving in and out of her, her cunt still gripping him tight in the aftermath of orgasm.

She isn't sated, but she feels fucked. And grateful to him for that. His turn now, she thinks. She wriggles back against him, moves to rise from the bed.

"Stay there," he says to her, his hand still wrapped round a fistful of hair. She stills. "You like being fucked? Like being taken? And you like a bit of pain?"

She goes very still. Unsure how to respond. This is a one-off, she thinks. I so should not have gone here, although she is glad she did. This is a much better fuck than she was anticipating. She hadn't thought he had it in him, to fuck, rather than make love. She had decided, unfairly and in the spur of a moment, to use him. Because she'd needed to feel. Simply her immediate and overpowering desire to feel fucked, feel a cock inside her, claiming her cunt. His performance was an added bonus and had made this a whole lot better than anticipated. But she didn't feel the need to talk about it, about what she liked, about how she responded. This was a one off. No strings, no expectations, no nothing. Just him, in her. His turn now.

"Yeah, I do. But, your turn now." She moves to get up, again.

He shakes her head a little in his large hand, causing her to cry out in surprise.

"Yeah, too fucking right it's my turn now. But I'm a little surprised by your performance just then. Unexpected shall we say. So, you get to choose. Because I'm not going to cum in your cunt. Mouth, or arse?"

She feels a shock of arousal spasm in her cunt, and knows he can feel it too. This is even more unexpected. Anger from him, revenge maybe? They both know he's been after something for a very long time now, and she's deflected and defused the situation countless times, never allowing more than hugs and pecks on cheek. Her mind races to respond. But not fast enough.

"Choose, and choose fast. Or I'll choose for you, and I'm not minded to think twice or kindly about it." Julian's grip tightens in her hair.

"Mouth, mouth please. Cum in my mouth," she manages, the savage sting in her scalp causing her to squeeze her eyes shut. But her cunt clenches, again.

Julian slides out, not releasing the hair balled in his fist, dragging her across the bed. She cries out. He pulls her to the floor, knees scraping on the woven textile of the rug. He's standing, legs spread, cock bobbing in front of her. She sees her own slime creamed at the base of his cock, the glisten of herself coating him. She feels wrong-footed, caught out, by this treatment from him. He doesn't pull her mouth to his cock, waiting instead for her to make a move. She repositions herself so she can take him in her mouth, her left hand coming up to enclose the thick shaft, her lips and tongue moving to encase the head. He groans softly as the warm wet of her mouth engulfs him. She moans at the feel and texture of cock in her mouth, at tasting him, tasting herself. She is savouring, appreciating, feels her cunt twitch and dribble. She works the saliva to her lips, coating his shaft, the sticky tang of his coated cock dissolving on her tongue. She takes his cock in, centimetre by centimetre. He groans again, his hand holding her hair loosely as she uses the freedom of movement to gradually take all of him into her mouth, repeatedly withdrawing and bobbing her head a fraction more of his length as she sucks him. When she feels him hit the back of her throat, she stills, holds him there, her left hand reaching to cup his balls, scratch long nails over loose skin, stroking him. Then she pushes, pushes herself down onto him, forcing him into her throat, holding herself there. She gags, feels the urge to retch, feels her eyes tear up, her nose begin to run, her mouth beginning to fill with viscous saliva. She holds herself there for many seconds. Long enough that Julian expletes.

"Fuck. Oh Christ. Fuck, that feels good."

And his hand tightens in her hair. Just as she is about to draw back, he pulls on her hair, forcing her head to stay in position, her throat to stay locked round his cock. Both her hands fly to his hips, to attempt to push back. He holds her firmly, and she cannot withdraw. She feels the retching begin in her stomach, cannot breathe. A desperate mewl sounds in her throat, tears seep from her eyes. She will retch, violently, vomit...