Caged for Cock Pt. 01

Note from author: This is the first part of a short series - this instalment is paced accordingly.

I'm still very new to this and would very much welcome constructive feedback. Enjoy :)

It would be true to say that Becca Jones ruined me for every other woman that might follow. And I can't say I wasn't warned.

'She'll be the ruin of you, lad,' Max said, in a little more than a whisper. Becca was out in the kitchen talking loudly into her mobile while she paced. That was Becca, loud, insistent, unrelenting, as if she was in constant dispute with the world. But her eyes - my god, her eyes - brilliant green, restless, and alive with something both terrible and magnificent.

And I just could not get enough. Whatever else, Becca Jones had me from the first.

Becca swept into the room, mobile pressed to her ear and waved her hand towards me, a gesture of either affection or distain. I could not tell. I shuffled to make room on the couch beside me. She turned, her denim short-shorts pulled tight and riding low. She turned, her top button unfastened revealing tummy, her belly button, the sparkle of her piercing poised lewdly above where her pink panties peeked. She pulled half-chewed gum away from her cherry lips, snapped it back, and then slumped down next to Max.

Next to Max, not me.

'Tosser,' she said, under her breath, not caring that whoever was at the other end of the phone could not help but hear. She leaned back, her fingers absent-mindedly walking the distance from Max's thigh to his knee. She let her hand rest there, her engagement ring - the one she'd picked out and I'd worked all summer to afford - caught the light and then chased it across the ceiling.

Max leaned away from her and towards me, 'She'll ruin you, lad. And don't say I didn't warn you.'

'Oh, do ignore him,' Becca said, phone now tucked beneath her chin, hand against his shoulder then back to his thigh. She'd painted her nails electric pink - to match her panties - and scratched at his leg playfully. 'You're just jealous,' but she said it to Max, not to me.

And it was true. Max had warned me, 'She'll ruin you if you let her'. Kenny called her a man-eater. 'She's more woman that you can live with,' he said, 'She'll eat you alive.'

And Katie - we'd come out to Uni together, I'd known her since primary school - told it straightest of all, 'She's a conniving bitch. You better watch out.'

But I didn't care. It was love at first sight and feral compulsion until the last.

First semester, a seminar on post-war theatre, and she was sat there, right there, two rows down and to the right. The lecturer droned, all fifty of us frantically scribbling notes, but Becca was somewhere else, somewhere better, somewhere beyond.

Becca Jones: playing with her hair, natural blonde with a shock of electric pink accents, a loose strand twisting and twisting around her little finger. Becca Jones: tonguing her lip ring as she gazed out through the window, seeing the world - not as it was, but as she wanted it to be. Becca Jones: picking at the place where her ink-black meshed stockings had begun to gape, lolling like a mouth, exposing porcelain white flesh beneath.

She was out of my league. I didn't need Max, Kenny, Jamie, or anyone else to tell me that. I'd only been with one girl and just one time. Mary Dunne, a week after we'd finished high school. She'd invited me over to go through college applications. At the time, I thought it weird that she'd ask me. We didn't know each other that well.

I remember making small talk with her Dad and her kid brother while she whispered and giggled with her older sister out in the hallway. Later, she took me to her brother's room. I never really understood why she did that: not her room, but his, and she kissed me. But it was a half-hearted thing, my lips were too dry and she wasn't really into it. I then overcompensated and tried my tongue, like I'd seen in the movies, only I was too sloppy and she was assuredly not into that. I knew she wasn't into it, because she told me. 'Disappointing,' she said, with a screw of her lips as if someone had force-fed her something suspect and sour.

She fumbled with my belt and I watched her like a stupid, knowing that I should help, or do something, but instead, frozen in place, my soul shrivelling down to nothing. She fumbled with my belt, but then made it, looking up through hooded eyes with something like disapproval. I could tell she wasn't into this and for some reason that was the thought the caused my cock to twitch and swell.

Shame and desire. Desire and shame.

She popped the button loose, and then unzipped my jeans. Mary Dunne was my first kiss and now she looked bored. She pulled my boxers loose and my four and a half inches - probably as hard as I've ever been - sprung free.

'Disappointing,' but it didn't need to be said. She had an expressive face.

She lay back on her brother's carpet, and pulled her skirt up a little, but not quite enough to reveal her knickers. I thought I might very much like to see her knickers. She was looking away and to the door as if hoping that rescue might come if she just willed it hard enough.

I stood watching her.

'For fuck sake,' she said, and I realised that she had been waiting for me. I felt myself redden with the thought of it, her disappointment, my ineptitude, my shame, her regret. I felt myself redden, but my cock was dripping. She wiped a dribble off her shin and against the carpet with a look of disgust.

She pulled me down, at first beside her and I leaned in to kiss her mouth. She turned away and I instead found the knot of her hair. It smelt just like the carpet. My cock was rigid, maybe as hard as I have ever been and she reached for it - but it was an absentminded gesture. She hesitated, her eyes flitting to me and away, before changing her mind.

Instead, she knelt, framed against the Star Wars poster bluetacked against her brother's wall. It occurred to me that her head perfectly filled the space occupied by Princess Leia and I smiled. She rolled her eyes and then drew down her knickers, plain, white, ordinary knickers, all said and done. Those same knickers caught at her knees and she eased to the right and then to the left before pulling them free. As she straddled me, I noticed that the top lefthand corner of the poster had come loose and flapped.

She lowered herself onto my cock but missed at the first attempt and I instead pushed up through the cleft of her ass. 'Fuck sake,' she muttered, but to herself. Second time she held me at the base, sank down, removed and then wiped her hand against my t-shirt. I could feel my cock swell against her abrasive tightness and I was a virgin no longer.

She rocked forward, me with a whimper, her with a grunt before pulling off and away.

'Too dry,' she said, spat into her hand, rubbed it on my cock. She spat again and rubbed it on her pussy. Her skirt hitched to her waist, her pussy unruly with curls of dark black hair. She bore up again and I shuddered, worried that I might let go and spoil it all. This time I slid in easier and she was warm and tight and gripped me like a clenched fist.

'God,' I said, and she hushed me.

'You can touch my tits if you want,' she said indifferently. I reached up and groped her through her jumper, not really feeling anything other than the sheen of her cotton t-shirt and the shape of her padded bra. She sighed with something like disappointment, before beginning to rock, forward and back, lifting herself a little and then pushing back down, as if she were getting into it. Or trying to get it over with. I flushed again, knowing that she wasn't into this at all and that she was only doing this now because of obligation, or because it was easier to finish than to stop.

I made it to the fifth stroke, perhaps the sixth, when, fingers stretched, teeth clenched, and toes curling, I exploded like a plane crash. Without intending it, I mewled like a dying thing. She leaned forward, the weight of her, and covered my mouth with the flat of her hand. The same hand that had lube up my cock and I could taste me, salty and sour.

'Sorry,' I said, as she clambered off and to the side.

'Disappointing,' was her only verdict. She took the corner of my t-shirt and used it to wipe the smeared mess away from her pussy.

'When you cum,' she said, 'You make a face like a girl.'

She got up and left me lying there. I noticed that her brother had kicked a jumble of Lego pieces under the edge of his bed and I wondered if he knew that they lay there, undiscovered and undisturbed.

And so it was with Mary Dunne, but Becca it was different. With Becca everything was easier.

I sat in the café, the one just next to campus, as she dropped her bag beneath the table, kicked at it, and slid into the chair opposite.

'Hi,' she said. 'Becca,' she said, but with a smile and a wiggle of her fingers.

She reached out and took my coffee mug and then ran her pink tongue along the frothed rim. She sipped and then pushed it back towards me, turning the mug deliberately, a half-circle, just so that I could see the perfect imprint of her bottom lip impressed in black.

'Have you started the paper yet?' she asked. I held the mug in the cup of my hands and sipped from the same place, imaging that I could taste the sweetness of her lips.

'Not yet,' I said, but it was a lie. I was practically done, there was just the final proof and bibliography to finish. She took the mug from my hands, turned it to the place my lips had touched, sipped, her eyes holding mine with a glimmer, and then passed it back.

'Maybe we could collab?' she said, 'You know, share our brilliance?'

My heart pulsed, filling my ears with the whoosh of an ocean breaking against rock, and I could feel it in my chest as I tried to play it right and tried to play it cool. Instead I gawped and nodded like an idiot.

But this time I pushed the mug to her. Her fingers brushed mine as she took it, watching me across the rim, amused. She licked, licked with the fleshy pinkness of her tongue. She licked the place my lips had touched and warmed and wet.

'Yum,' she said.

That night, she came over to my place. Max answered the door, we were rooming together back then. Baffled, he said, 'She here for you?'

Later, Becca was in the bathroom and Max leaned over and rabbit punched my bicep with a lunatic grin. 'Lad,' he said. 'What the fuck,' he said, 'There's gotta be a catch.'

We sat and waited, listening to the tinkle of her piss. I could feel myself grow hard. She flushed the toilet then ran the tap.

The next night I went over to hers. Her room was dimly lit, just a lamp with a piece of thin fabric hanging colouring the room blue. In the corner, a record player span, but the needle had run into the dead wax and the speakers juddered on every turn.

She helped me over discarded jeans, t-shirts, shoes, her bra, a handbag - the contents spilled and fanned out across the carpet. I sat beside her on her unmade bed, smelling the sweetness of her sweat and a vanilla hint of whatever sent she'd used that morning. Facing us, laced thongs, black, red, pink, and electric blue, hung drying against her radiator. She sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her shoulder against mine. Her black sleeveless t-shirt swooped an elongated V, revealing the tight fulness of her breasts down to where her chest ended and her tummy began. She scratched at exotic lettering which ran in black ink from her wrist and up her forearm and her bra strap slipped loose and down her arm. She left it, unconcerned.

'Should we get started,' she swung her legs onto the bed, tucked beneath her, while I took her desk. She flicked on the TV, some reality TV shit, while I opened up her laptop and began to type.

'What is your story?' she later asked, and I shrugged not knowing how to answer. 'Intriguing,' she said, but her eyes twinkled like she might actually mean it.

I worked on her essay over those two weeks, even though I could have finished it in one. Most of the time we worked at her place. Sometimes she would come over to mine. Max, still baffled, would shake his head, as if to clear it, before making excuses and heading out to meet up with whatever girl he happened to be boning on any given night.

I submitted my essay on the Friday before the Monday deadline. I finished up the proof on hers late Sunday evening before telling her I was done.

'Yay,' she said. She tossed her mobile onto the bed beside her, stretch her arms, her t-shirt gaping and revealing the flawless curve of her underarm. She leaned against my shoulder, she'd painted her nails neon blue, as I lined up the email and invited her to hit send. She hit enter, triple clapped her hands in excitement as her laptop fired out the email with a 'whoosh'.

She took my hand, warm, moist, against the cool delicacy of perfectly configured fingers, nails, and palm. 'What would I do with out you?' she said, and I realised I was standing without quite knowing how. She took my other hand and pulled me into an embrace, chest to chest, hip to hip, and I although I willed otherwise, I felt my cock harden between us and I knew that she felt it too.

'Cute,' she said, and pressed her lips against mine, holding it for an eternity of sighs.

'Better get you home,' she said, 'before you get over-excited.' Again, I felt that flutter - something akin to shame, but not quite. But my cock stayed hard and, between her bed and door, I found myself wanting to kiss her again, wanting her to press herself against me, wanting to taste the arch of her neck, the smoothness of her underarm, if only she would let me.

Our grades came back a fortnight later and she came to find me. Max was hanging out, PlayStation Controller in hand, as I let her in.

She held out the paper, eyes wide and glistening, as if she could not believe this thing.

'I got an A,' she said, her face as wide as the ocean, tidal currents pulling me into another embrace. I'd only managed a B+, but I didn't mention it. It did not matter.

'I'll be off then,' Max said, and edged out onto the corridor.

'I want to do something for you,' she said, sitting me down on the bed beside her. 'Just to show you how grateful I am.'

And I wanted to say to her that it was unnecessary. That it was my pleasure. That she didn't owe me a thing. But without noticing how, she stripped me of my t-shirt and jeans.

'Do you want to see these?' she said, gesturing to her breasts. I nodded. She lifted her top over her shoulders and shucked her bra loose as if it were no thing. Her tits tumbled loose and immaculate. Pale white, perfect in symmetry, bronzed areolas, nipples, pierced with silver bars, pert and now beginning to harden. And I wondered if that was because of me.

'You can touch them if you want,' she said, with a half-smile, and my hand trembled as I reached out and felt her for the first time and it seemed as though my palms prickled with something like static.

'Ooh,' she said, 'Goosebumps.'

I traced down with my finger across the curve of her breast to where a tattoo of a hummingbird fluttered in silhouette. I wanted to kiss her, I want to taste her, I wanted to touch where steel pierced flesh, but I didn't want to ruin this, and I did not know how.

'What have we here,' she said with a grin. My boxershorts were tenting with a wet smudge where cloth met the tip of my cock. I blushed as she rubbed her nose against mine, 'Bashful - I like it'.

I watched her face as she pulled down my shorts, my cock springing free in all it's disappointing smallness. I watched her as she studied it, sucking her finger and then rubbing in a circular motion just beneath the crown.

'Well isn't that the cutest pee-pee,' she said, and another wave of embarrassment overwhelmed me. I could feel the heat of it in my ears, my face tingling with humiliation. Except, she said it gently, sweetly even, and beneath the shame I felt pulse of something else, something that caused my cock to harden and twitch.

She held my shaft between her finger and thumb as if measuring the girth of it. If she was disappointed, she didn't let it show. She wet her finger again and then rubbed at the tip of my cock, smearing her finger with precum and then sucking the wetness into her mouth.

'You taste good,' she said.

She brought her finger back down, rubbed gently under the tip, my cock twitching with every full circle, before returning back to gather precum that was leaking freely now. She brought her finger up to my mouth. I hesitated for a moment - I'd never tasted myself, nor had I ever desired to do so.

'Open up,' she said, 'You taste yummy. Trust me.' And I did and so I licked with my tongue tasting salt, a bitter aftertaste, and the sweat of her skin beneath it all. I took her finger into my mouth, all the way to her hand, and sucked at it with relish.

'Ooh, kinky boy,' she laughed, 'I think we might have fun.'

She took my hand and placed it on her tit and I held her, feeling her smoothness, her warmth, her roundness, the patter of her heart. She reached with her free hand and pinched at her other nipple, pulling at the bar and then twisting with a low moan.

'You're getting me all worked up,' she said, crossing and then uncrossing her legs. Her skirt rode higher and I could see the place her black mesh stocking ended and her thigh-flesh began.

'Do you want to see my cute pants?'

I nodded like a loon.

She slipped off her skirt and shucked it away from her feet. She wore a thong, black straps cutting into the white of her skin, the neat triangle of material stark against the pale white smooth flesh of her pubis.

'Your turn to feel good,' she said, sitting down against the edge of the bed while I stood. And I wonder if she might suck my cock, if she might do that for me, and I could feel the pressure begin to build, the need for release.

'Relax,' she said, placing her hands on my thighs, the touch of her ice against my clammy heat. She leaned forward, I watched her, eyes wide, my cock twitching - almost imperceptible - to loping beat of my heart.

'Mmm,' she said, her black painted lips parting, a flash of white teeth, the subtle blush of her tongue, as she spilled a thick dribble of drool down to wet my cock, the warmth of it causing me to whimper. She looked up and smiled.

She cupped my balls in the palm of my hands, as if testing the weight, then gently squeezed. Her smile tipped as she squeezed again, this time harder causing me to arch up into it, as if that might ease the discomfort. She released, and blew against my balls, the freshness of her breath cooling the dull ache.

She spat again, this time nasty, with emphasis, the bubble of spit running down the length of my shaft, wetting my balls and running along my taint. She followed the wetness with her finger until she reached my hole. She used her spit to lube up her finger as she traced a circle and then again, spiralling in until she teased against the swell of my rosebud. I whimpered again, wanting to push back, wanting to thrust out, wanting to push back, wanting more, but not knowing how to ask.

'Interesting,' she said, with a grin. Her eyes sparkled.

'What do you want?' she asked.

I whimpered.

'If you want it, you've got to ask. Otherwise I'll stop.' She withdrew her finger from my ass and instead cupped my balls. She worked her hand up my shaft and wanked at it with a half-turn, then stopped.

'Do you want me to lose this?' she said, gesturing down to her thong.

'God, yes,' I wanted to say, but language failed me and so I nodded like a gawp and then blushed red through to crimson. My cock and my balls ached, the room swayed for a moment, settled, then swung right on back.

She released my cock, wiggled her perfect ass, and hustled her panties over her knees and away.