Authors: A Good Student
Elliot Mabeuse (5 page)
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ!" I moaned, throwing my head back in ecstasy. She was coming hard inside, her pussy clamping down and fluttering around my shaft, her thighs
squeezing me convulsively as I invaded her. She was all soft and tight inside, slick and hotter than hell, and I could feel those secret feminine muscles milking and pulling at me as she howled through her panty-stuffed lips.
I grabbed hold of her tits and held them like handles as I started fucking her, swinging my ass like a wrecking ball against her, using the big muscles in my thighs to send my cock thundering up into her against the resistance of her spasming pussy again and again, the salacious squelching sounds of cock in pussy and the sharp violent slap of loins against thighs like pistol shots in the room. With her hands pulled down almost to her feet, Emma was able to just reach my thighs as I fucked her and she scratched and clawed at me in her frenzy as I fucked her with savage power. I let go of her tits and grabbed her thighs so I could hold her steady because I was shoving her across the desk with the force of my thrusts.
"Ugh! You fucking bitch! Do you like this cock, Emma? Do you like this fucking cock?"
I reached up and pulled the panties from her mouth and threw them aside, but all she could do was wail, head back, eyes open wide and sightless as I fucked her, tits sloshing on her chest from the force of my blows. She seemed stunned by the force of her last orgasm, out of it, in a state of semi-shock, her body limp, but when I slid my thumb against her clit and started playing with her, she suddenly came alive again, her head jerking up to watch my thick cock sluicing in and out of her pussy.
"Oh God yes! Yes!" she cried. "Make me come! Make me come! Make me come!" She chanted it like a breathless mantra as her body rocked on the table and it drove me mad. I felt my orgasm start and I grabbed her ass in my hands and squeezed,
holding her buttocks and cramming that dick into her, fucking her so fast I was like a jackhammer, fucking her so fast I couldn't even breathe. There was only the feeling of her cunt on my dick, the pressure in my balls, the feeling of her body in my hands.
"Oh fuck yes!" I cried. "Gonna come, baby! Gonna come in you, Emma! Jesus!
Jesus, baby!"
I loomed over her now with a look of absolute rage on my face, muscles swollen, fingers digging into her ass—the rage of orgasm, the helpless gush of seed. Emma was hysterical, squeezing me, twisting her hips, trying to pull it out of me. I rose up on my toes as I felt it start, trying to cram the last inch of dick into her as the thunder shot from the soles of my feet and blasted from my balls and cum blew out of my dick with the force of a fire hose.
"Fuck!" I cried, "Fuck, Baby! Take it! Take my hot cum!"
I leaned back, hips out, fingers clawed into her ass, holding her against me like some cum-receptacle as my ass flexed and body twitched in powerful contractions, sending my semen shooting in hard, heavy gouts deep into her quivering belly, one after another, each one accompanied by a burst of mind-shattering ecstasy. I could picture the hot white seed splattering into her soft pink insides and dripping from her tissues, coating her with my thick ejaculate, and the image just brought fresh bursts of cum boiling up from my balls.
I came so hard my legs started to tremble, and then my arms, and my belly—all of me, wracked by a post orgasmic weakness like I'd rarely known. The girl had sucked
it all out of me, had made me come like a hydrant. With trembling hands, I untied the ropes holding her wrists to her ankles and her legs flopped over the desk.
"Can you move?" I asked.
"I don't know," she replied. "I don’t think so."
I laughed, moving to the side of the desk and grabbing her waist, pulling her up until she was lying on the desk. It was big enough that I was able to climb up there with her and put my arms around her. She seemed uneasy.
"You don't have to," she said.
"Don’t have to what?"
"Hold me."
I looked at her. "What if I want to?"
She made a face and shrugged. "Most other guys don't."
"You've done this before?"
"Not like this. Not so… elaborate. But I told you, there's something wrong with me. I like it too much. Men don't like girls like me. I seem to have a lot of one-night-stands. They always think they have to hold me afterwards, but it's okay if you don't."
I stared at her now as she lay there. I'd left bruises on her tits and the rope was still on her wrists. She was full of my semen and more of it was even now leaking out between her legs and drying on her thighs.
"It's a fucked-up world," I said. "Filled with fucked-up people. But I don't think you're one of them. I think those other guys were the fucked-up ones. I want to hold you
I want to hold you, not because I feel sorry for you. We have an agreement, remember? This is only the start."
Emma looked at me and brought her hands up over her breasts, as if to protect herself. Her eyes in the dark were luminous. "You're serious?"
"Yes. Dead serious."
I slid my arm under her head and pulled her to me and she rolled partway so that she was pressed against my side. I kissed her shoulder and caressed her hair and she put her leg over mine.
"It feels good, being held," she said.
"It feels good holding you."
Outside the office and the dull, plain community college building, the parking lot ran down to a patch of grass where a copse of trees separated the campus from the highway that led to the dreary grid of suburban streets and fast food places, most of them eerily empty at this hour. The sordidness of where we were and what we'd done sank into me and left me feeling ashamed but I refused to give into it. I believed what I'd told her. She was beauty to me. She was ecstasy. She was mystery.
I held her tighter, lying there on that stupid desk.
I had promised her connection and intimacy, and instead had delivered sexual pleasure, with ropes and violation and overt perversity.
I hoped there'd be time to find out if they were perhaps one and the same.
Chapter Five
A friend of mine says that a woman's biggest fear is abandonment and a man's biggest fear is responsibility. I don't know if I believe it, but I suppose that's as good an explanation as any for why I was living alone at the time I met Emma. I was twice her age and I’d had my full share of relationships of all shapes and sizes. While I'd found them interesting in a morbid kind of way, I'd come to accept the fact I was pretty lousy at them. I was a spectator, not a participant. To be honest, I was selfish, irresponsible and immature. I still am and suppose I always will be. I was no longer looking to change.
No matter how my relationships started out, they always seemed to end up the same way, as a burden and an imposition. I know living with someone and loving them is a co-operative effort, a two-way street, but for some reason it seemed the things I had to give up and sacrifice in order to keep the peace were never worth it in the long run.
I'd been married twice, once for two and a half years, then, twelve years later, for four, and in both cases my wives had big plans for me. I couldn't live up to them. I tried, but making them happy by making myself miserable just wasn’t sound emotional economics.
They tell me I probably wasn't really in love then—that when you love someone, you'll do anything to make them happy. I don't buy it. In fact, that seems like a pretty good working definition of slavery to me, but this is the kind of stuff I’d hear from women, who seemed to have the moral high ground when it came to definitions of love and relationships. They certainly seemed to know what they were talking about, so I had a tendency to keep my mouth shut and avoid the whole subject.
So when I met Emma, I wasn't really looking for anything, or if I was, it was maybe the exact opposite of what was generally accepted as a normal relationship. If anything, I wanted to strip away all the jockeying for moral superiority and sense of social obligation and get down to the raw, primal genital imperatives of male-female attraction. I didn't want to get into a situation where I'd have to meet her friends and listen to her music and get involved in her life any more than was necessary, and I didn't want to impose all my crap on her either. I wanted to be her lover, not her friend, and meet in that place where our bodies and minds felt nothing but raw animal pleasure.
From there, we could see where the emotions led us and possibly develop some kind of arrangement that wouldn't become suffocated under a mess of domestic trivia, crushed by interpersonal fatigue syndrome.
I wanted to see how long the two of us could keep this thing at the boiling point without getting overcooked.
Of course, it's impossible to have a sexual collision like Emma and I had that night in my office and come out of it emotionally unscathed. I spent that entire weekend sitting around in my loft in my cut-offs, thinking about her and aching. It was hotter than hell but I wouldn't even turn on the AC because it meant closing the windows and that felt like cutting myself off from her somehow, as if she might be sending me thoughts and pheromones on the breeze from way up in the ‘burbs wherever she lived. Instead I just drank bottled water and sweated and remembered the feel of her skin and the way her muscles trembled against the ropes as I fucked her and she came on my cock. I could still smell her sex in the sweat of my body.
My novel was almost finished and it was entirely bullshit, I could see that now.
The intensity of emotion I'd felt with Emma made me realize how false and contrived everything I'd written was. Yes, sex is sex and always intense. Sex deals with immediate sensation and literature deals with abstract ideas and they really can't be compared, but it was becoming clearer to me all the time that ideas were what you played around with when you couldn't get any sex. Intellect is eighty percent of the mind trying to figure out how to get the body laid. Whether it's writing books or solving quadratic equations, it's all loneliness and we're all stuck with it.
So I sat around and obsessed about Emma. She was upsetting all my theories. I mean, it was only sex after all, and sex wasn't the same as love. The problem was, I knew what sex was, but I was never sure about love. My own personal guide to love was that it was measured by how much I wanted to be with someone. By that definition, I was pretty much wildly in love with Emma.
I had her number and thought about calling her, but the last thing I wanted was to bother her. It wasn't just a case of not wanting to look uncool or needy, but it also went against my new non-relationship relationship rules. Besides, I was supposed to be the dom, and in my ignorance at the time, I thought that meant I should be cold and aloof and unfeeling. That was nonsense, but what did I know?
At eight I went out to the bar down the street to get a beer and some cool air, and when I came back there was a message on the phone.
"Hi, it's me. Emma. I was just bored and wanted to talk but it was nothing important, and I guess you're out. You can call me if you get home like before eleven or so. Bye."
My hands were shaking when I sat down and picked up the phone. She got it on the third ring. "Hi, Emma? It's me. Conner."
"Oh, hi." She sounded a little fuzzy, sleepy, but came alive at the sound of my voice. "It's nice you called me back. I didn't think you would."
"Of course I would. Why wouldn't I? How are you? Everything okay?"
"Mmm, yeah. I guess so. Just bored."
It was the first time we'd spoken since I'd walked her to her car after tying her wrists to her ankles and fucking her raw on the desk in my office at the community college where she was in my poetry class. The event hung between us like a huge weight we had to cautiously feel our way around.
"Bored? Me too. You should have come over here. I could have found something for us to do."
I could hear her sly smile over the phone. "Oh? Like what?"
"You know what."
"No," she teased. The sound on her end changed, as if she'd cupped her hand around the phone or moved it closer to her lips. "Tell me," she whispered. "I want to hear you say it. Please?"
I couldn't resist. She made me want to do it, and the words just spilled from my mouth before I could stop them, my voice low, my urgency real. "I want to fuck you, Emma. I want to tie you up and get my cock inside you and make you take it, every fucking inch, and I'm going to do it. There's no way you can stop me, Emma, there’s nothing that can stop me, baby. I'm going to come over there and kick down those doors
and find you, Emma, tear off your clothes and take you. I want you to come for me ‘til you can't stand it anymore. You understand?"
I heard the dry sound of her breath. "Oh God," she said. "No one's ever talked to me like that before."
"It's more than talk," I said. I was actually a bit dizzy. What had happened to me?
I had to turn away from the phone and take a breath. "Do you like it?"
"You must think I'm horrible," she said. "A real slut."
I smiled. I couldn't remember when I'd cradled a phone like this, like I loved it. "I don’t think anything like that."
She didn't say anything for a while, and then: "Conner, I have to tell you something. I've got a boyfriend. We're engaged. Well, almost engaged."
I'd already suspected as much. A girl like Emma didn't go around unattached. I'd thought I was above it and wouldn't mind, so the brief stab of hurt surprised me but I pushed it down. I had no right to it.
"Congratulations," I said.
"Doesn't that make you hate me?"
"No. What does that have to do with me?"