Shall We Play?

Right now he could literally feel her pressed tight to the paint on the other side of the wall, afraid but excited, curious but needy, yet almost totally closed in. Paradox layered on paradox as her intense teeming neural messages and external sensations threatened to overwhelm his hypersensitive brain. If he closed his eyes and concentrated enough he could almost see her through the layers of paint, drywall and insulation between the studding uprights. Her lust echoing his immediate appetite.

Marcy was a mischievous little minx at the best of times, it was how they'd first got together. When they'd first met she was a fairly bright waitress with few apparent aspirations. Until he'd gotten to know her better.

The night they met he'd done the mind trick to humiliate a boss she hated, and almost by way of a thank you she'd dragged him into her bed, sometimes playing these breathless, teasing little games. She hiding behind a barrier, locking him out, making him wait. Available yet not, always delighting in his heightened frustration. Working him up to a barely restrained frenzy before breaking down the barriers and taking all he had in a form of sexual judo. Drawing him in, then wrapping herself around him in a starfish-like embrace, sucking him in, draining his essence, milking his greedy sexual drive of every last drop to fill her own inner void.

She was half a dark brown wavy haired head shorter than his five feet eleven. Good looking enough, mouth maybe a little too wide, nose perhaps a little too sharp, breasts just a little too large for perfection. On the plus side she was flighty, flirty, and one of those untroubled souls who wafted through life as if on a cloud, unfortunately often leaving a shipwreck of finances and truncated relationships behind her.

Simon knew little about her past, only that she'd been through the care system, suffered a couple of previous boyfriends from the weird and abusive category, but had enough courage to give them the finger and walk away rather than suffer in silence or become some babyfather's occasional plaything.

As for him, Detective Sergeant Simon Gregory Calvin? Just a soon to be divorced career copper with a very intense sense of right and wrong. Mostly. Sometimes. Not always. Head still buzzing after four solid days and nights working case after case. Bunking at Marcy's when off duty while his soon to be ex-wife screwed her new boyfriend in his one time marital bed.

Where had this all begun? Six years ago he'd been a patrol officer, just another low-ambition uniform carrier, little better than a security guard, but a terrorist bomb had almost caved in his skull, leaving him into a coma. Only restored to health by an experimental stem cell treatment, he'd come back from the nearly dead, bringing both a new ability to read minds and a little of the night with him. Talents which let him see and hear what people were feeling and thinking. Past the everyday surface lies, self deceptions and false faces of the everyday, down to the very truth of the soul. Watching the flaring colours of their petty deceptions and the darkness of their close-held secrets.

Now he was an experienced, slightly cynical detective sergeant with a supernatural talent for sniffing out the truth. Unfortunately his telepathy and ability to read auras, like being a policeman, couldn't be left at the office.

From a telepaths point of view, the great thing about the furnace intensity of their affair was that it blanked everything else out. The angry sullen rows and corrosive drip feed of everyday bitterness from all the places his work took him disappeared when he and Marcy got down and dirty. All the worlds disappointments and frustrations constantly battering at his hypertrophied sixth sense, like a million drowning hands grabbing, dragging him down into their putrid depths. All gone. For a while.

This evening the scenario Marcy had chosen was the bathroom game. She'd come out fresh from the shower laughing at something on her phone, paused to read a message, he caught the image, it was from one of her girlfriends, then she glanced at him with a sly smile, a wicked little thought slipping away like a fish into darkness.

A moment later she'd thrown a heavy damp bath towel at him, then waggled those fabulously rounded buttocks, the ones she often fussed about being too big, before firmly shutting the bedroom door behind her. Just to get his attention. In mock-irritation he threw the wet terry cloth through the still-open bathroom door into the shower.

This was all part of the game. As was her prolonged preparation. For a long while he could hear nothing but her hairdryer and her soft off-key humming from behind the thin bedroom door while he tried to watch the soccer.

When Marcy reappeared around half time she was dressed, made up, best earrings dangling, smoothing down the short, figure hugging dark grey jersey dress she'd bought the weekend before. Wearing it with sheer black hold up stockings, the ones topped by lacy dark borders she knew drove him wild. Stocking tops her hemline barely concealed. The ones which flashed temptation every time she bent over. Which was often. Just slowly enough for more than a brief flash.

Like dark neon road signs pointing up her inner thighs to sexual nirvana these bands of softly seductive darkness shouted, almost screaming for his attention. Even if he hadn't been able to read Marcy's rampant intent, her whole body was most assuredly in on the act. She stood over him for a moment, blocking his view of the 3D football game with a speculative lip tapping finger. A girlish twisting flick of the hips making her skirt hem dance right across his line of sight. A calculating sexy smile on her full coral glossed lips. Then without a word, turning and posing her body with care she bent slowly over and picked a deliberately discarded magazine off the floor to show off a brief hint of creamy upper thigh, a barely glimpsed hint of black thong restrained pussy, and her speckled green eyes, pupils dilated, flashed a mischievous over-the-shoulder glance at him. Dragging his attention away from the banality of 3D sports.

She stood, turned, caught his eyes and saw the immediate flash of unconcealed lust cross his face. Pouting and swiveling in mock modesty, bending forward, pulling down the front of her skirt with a Marilyn Monroe like wiggle, she wagged a mocking finger at him. In lowering her skirt hem, she 'accidentally' pulled her dresses scoop neck down to flash the gorgeous roundness of her C-cups at him.

Then she'd quickly moved the few paces into the bathroom and gave him a taunting look from the open doorway, just to make sure she had his full attention. Ducking into the shower, she grabbed the still damp towel off the floor and threw it again so the wet terry cloth wrapped itself around his head and with her triumphant laugh it was game on. He mock-snarled and jumped to his feet, trying to throw the towel back.

With a playful little laugh Marcy fun-slammed the bathroom door, and he heard the flimsy lock click a moment before the towel thumped off the door.

Which brought them full circle into the now. With the bathroom door firmly closed against him, standing less than a metre from the grainy surface, feeling her on the other side, hands either side of her head, fingers spread wide like a gecko, as though trying to climb without footholds. Eager ear close to the wall, straining, trying to sense him in return. Breathing shallow and intense, the minor discomfort of a poorly chosen underwired bra digging into wall flattened breasts. Neatly trimmed arrowhead of pubic hair bristling, moistening pussy tightly cupped within sheer synthetic lace. Thong gussets straining with the unconscious undulation of her hips. A riffle of anticipation shivering up her spine to her gorgeously oversexed little hindbrain and the blossoming soft wet heat from below, born of her fear of loneliness, clearly radiating through twenty centimetres of fire retardant drywall and insulation.

Sensing her need fuelled the fire of his own lust, inflating his flesh, pushing, stretching fabric, straining to break free from clothy restraint. Mindlessly wanting to plunge headlong into her soft places, penetrating and punishing her for shutting him out. A limbic urge to hurt her physically, but not too much, for imaginary petty wrongs. To wrestle her over his knees, skirt up, panties down for a playful spanking before taking her roughly. Wanting to hear her gasping with anxiety and desire, pushed on her stomach, his hands grabbing at willing hips, pulling her spreading buttocks up to meet him, roughly pushing her thighs wide then thrusting, hips frenetically slipping his panting stiffness inside her, glans tip twitching with the desperation of near orgasm, and all the time the sense of an overloaded, electrified tightness at the back of his skull until it exploded, a dam bursting down his spine all the way into her aching, thirsty little pussy. Making her drink her fill of his spurting seed. Feeding their shared appetite. Feeling her wetness desperately gripping at his failing erection as he emptied himself with a cannons recoil, into her once with a grunt, again, and again, then a final snarl tailing off into breathless gasps with a final pulsing thrust.

Imagining the simultaneous cry emptying her lungs as she too came in a soft nuclear detonation that would echo inside his own skull. Then he daydreamed of falling over heaving breasts and spasmodically rippling stomach, rolling off onto his back, both of them gasping for air on lust rumpled sheets like fish out of water. His testicles empty and aching for long minutes while sticky fluids refilled depleted reservoirs. Sticky sperm dripping from her sated fuck-swollen little slit.

Ah. Back in reality he felt a damp, below waist stickiness and let out a short soft snort of embarrassment. Felt cooler air on his cheeks as the immediate blood pounding sexual flush receded. He put out his right hand to steady himself against the door frame. From the other side of the wall he could still feel her pressing herself up beside the door, anxiously waiting for the knob to turn.

Best not to disappoint, then. He breathed in sharply through his nose, ignoring the sticky sensation in his crotch and reached sideways for the bathroom doorknob. It refused to turn more than a centimetre either way. He rattled it sharply, felt her sharp intake of breath, knowing without seeing that she'd turned her dark haired head to look, pupils dilating and stifling a giggle. Time for the next move in their little game.

"Marcy." He leaned forward and put his mouth close to the bathroom door, speaking in a near whisper. "Open the door. I want to give you a present." Her response was a rapidly suppressed but clearly heard giggle. He could sense the stiffening of her spine and warm, wonderful, breasts squashing ever more tightly to the wall. "You'll really like it." He said softly.

"No." The playful, taunting petulance of a little girl.

"Marcy." He drew her name out like stripping a stocking from her wonderful thighs.

"No. You don't want me." He felt her right index finger raised to touch her lips, licking it with a wicked tongue before letting her hand drop. "You don't care. All you want to do is watch dumb 3D sports shows." Her tone gave the lie to her words, her thoughts a jumbled rush of contradictions layered over the deep purple need of her flesh.

"Oh yes I do." Closing his eyes, he tried to see through hers, feel though her skin, listen to the siren sexual anthem radiating out from complex clitoral nerve clusters.

"You don't." She pouted but her heavy breathing gave her away.

"Why?"

"You never say." She teased.

"I might not say, but I do better." He wheedled.

"No you don't."

"Anyone can talk. I show. That can't lie." He hedged a little.

"That's all?" She said dismissively.

"It's a big all."

"Well I don't know about that." He heard the undertone of a soft throaty giggle contradict her words.

"I know you don't mean to be a bitch." He moved his mouth closer to the door. "You know, Marcy. I only want to give you a little kiss."

"No."

"You don't want me to kiss you?"

"No."

"You didn't ask me where I wanted to kiss you." That got her attention. Her eager gasp was clearly audible right through the partitioning. The flare of bright purple from her aura making the faux-wood barrier of the bathroom door almost shimmer.

"No."

"If I didn't want you, why are we here? Why have I just come in my pants at the very thought of you?" That elicited another tiny giggle. "I know you want to open your thighs, feel me slip into that hungry little pussy of yours. It's starving. Poor little thing. Won't you let me feed it?"

"No. It's going vegetarian. No more pork. It doesn't want any more of your horrible meat."

"So it's going on a plastic only diet? Is that what you're telling me?" He teased right back. "Can you afford the batteries? Or is something else in need of a little snack? Maybe if I bend you right over and push a finger in?"

"You wouldn't!" She caught his meaning and the purple sunburst of her aura flared ever more brightly in his minds eye. An almost nuclear sunburst of prurient interest almost too painful to look at.

"More than a finger?"

"No!"

"I know you're interested." Oh Simon, you greasy bastard. She's hot for it, just teasing to see how far you'll go. His face wore a savage smile of intrigue. Almost without trying he could feel Marcy's breath quicken through the wall. "Why don't you come out and let me play with you? It'll be fun."

He could feel her sphincter muscles twitch in anticipation. This was almost as good as actually fucking her, face down and quivering on his erection, shrieks of orgasm muffled by pillows. Her quivering hips pile driving back into his seismic, incoming thrusts. "No." Her voice was quivering, and he didn't need his mind reading talent to know she was lying.

"Marcy. Open the door. I want to clean up before I fuck you."

"No."

"You want me all slippery with come when I slip into your horny little arse?"

"..." Her little squeal of anticipation was like hearing glass crack. Then. "No!" But it wasn't a real refusal, more the shock of having another of her dark little desires stripped naked.

"You can't hide in there forever." No reply. He wiggled the bathroom doorknob playfully, feeling her left hand straying down to skirt hem, pulling it up. Eyes dilated, soft little gasps growing jerkier as fingers strayed down part shaved pubes to her hot, wet, ravenous little slit, left index fingers raising skirt up over her hips and pushing thong straps down over her sexy bottom, cloth peeling off her skin, feeling electric air caress her between hungry arse and greedy pussy.

A tectonic shudder passed up Marcy's spine as her left index finger skirted the needy little anal orifice down and under to the anticipation-tight ridge of skin rounding the back of her vulva, massaging a stiffening clitoris with her right. Stiffening nipples almost painful where they were pressed against paintwork.

He heard her gasp when fingertips brushed her anus again, taking up a tantalizing circular motion, stroking slowly around the rim, panting at first, then giving out a tiny squeak and pushing at the tight little circle of almost vibrating muscle.

Her gasps grew shallower and tauter as fingers massaged and probed ever more feverishly. He tried the door again. "Are you going to let me in?" He could feel her left cheek and forehead pressed up against the door, seeing through her eyes he could see her staring emptily into the steamed up bathroom mirror. Feeling nipples rampant against her bra, one escapee nuzzling into the smoothness of her grey jersey dress, dark brown wavy hair a mess, panties drooping down to mid-thigh, right hand vibrating, left index finger embedding itself in her arsehole, jiggling for the most sensitive spot. "No." She groaned but her heart wasn't in the denial.

Looking through her eyes into the bathroom mirror he saw her with mouth partly open, tongue flicking snakelike at whitened teeth. Empty eyes rolling slightly upwards in the ecstasy of near orgasmic masturbation. He lost the image as her eyes shut. She gasped as a fresh nerve cluster added it's siren song to the chorus.

"Open the door love." He pleaded. A tightness had entered his voice which was getting harder to control. A ring of discomfort ridged his throat. Forcing his normal tenor momentarily into a castrati squeak. Ever harder to resist the primeval urge to break down this frustrating flimsy internal barrier and grab her, throw her down on the bed, on the floor, anywhere and fuck her sex softened brains all over the room. Any room. He coughed to cover his embarrassment and regain control of his voice.

He closed his eyes for a moment to concentrate, feeling every inch of her fabulous goosebumped skin through her own senses as the soft jersey dress joined panties on the damp bathroom floor, a sensation of aroused wetness trickling down inner thigh, eyes and mouth wide, staring as though haunted, breath harsh in throat. Her right hand paused machine-like clitoral chafing, reached behind her and one-handed popped her bra. Near transparent bra straps sagged over shoulders as it slipped forward and down, exposing both gorgeous browny pink nipples, already erect and sticking out like buttons. A moment later there was a soft thump as she leaned back against the wall, resting shoulders on the warm patch where her breasts had been. Left index finger probing, right hand resuming manic clitoral rubbing, fingers probing and squeezing her lubricated slit. Simon leaned against the door, sweating and flushed, luxuriating in the glow of her rising inner heat.

Shrugging gym tautened shoulders, he let his jacket slide untidily to the floor, pulling t-shirt over his head and tugging at a suddenly too-awkward belt buckle. "Open the door baby. I want you." He pleaded, trying the door again, rattling the knob almost fiercely, other hand pushing off restricting clothes. Kicking off crotch sticky trousers and underpants, exposed prick already erect again, angling upwards, almost painfully engorged. "Marcy. Open the door. Please. I love you." That did it. He felt her right hand drift away from its frenetic hyper stimulation of cunt and clitoris, fumble flicking the latch. He roughly grasped at the bathroom door knob clumsily rattling and twisting it the wrong way.

Simon snarled at the door, pounding it with the heel of a frustrated hand. Then the catch opened and he was through and around, picking her up, pushing her against the faux-stone splashback between shower and wash basin. Mouth almost swallowing hers, tongues fighting, probing desperately, stiff tip of his cock pressing up against her point of neatly trimmed pubic hair, hungry fingers cupping her ripe buttocks.

Her right hand slid round the back of his dark curled head, pulling his face deeper into hers, feet scrabbling, left thigh hooking up and over his right hip, shapely stocking clad leg curling round the small of his back.

Up against the wall, consumed in a fireball of need, hard cock being pushed down so his upper shaft rubbed between slippery pussy lips, his fingers grasping to spread across her buttocks, he hauled Marcy off her feet, swinging around and carrying her the few steps out of the bathroom, shoulders heedlessly bumping and clipping door frames to their Queen sized bed, falling onto her, pinning her squirming horny body down as she tried to flip onto her stomach, his circumcised glans pushing harshly against softly engorged pink labia. Her pale skin flush-darkening pink like sunburn. A deepening excitement running from shoulders to hip, down thighs and across flushing face. Panting, struggling, pushing.