Читать книгу Dirty Talk - Jane O'Reilly - Страница 9

Chapter Two

By Sunday, I’m in trouble. I’ve written precisely three paragraphs, and they’re mostly the heroine waxing lyrical about the hero’s tie. Every time I try to get either of them naked, my hands start to shake, and the only key I can find is delete.

I can’t do it. I’m trying, but it’s just not happening.

But I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it if Dave wins, either. So I pick up my phone, and before I can lose my nerve, I call Phil. He answers almost immediately.

‘Amy,’ he says. His voice does something to my insides, to my knees, to my everything. Actually, it mostly does it to my pussy. It’s the same sort of feeling I get when Mr Smith bends Sally over the bed, in my favourite scene in Spank Me Sir. I can’t deny that I like the feeling, though I’d die from embarrassment if he ever found out. But he got me in to this, and now he has to get me out of it. ‘How’s the story going?’

‘Badly.’

‘How much have you written?’

‘Do you want an exact word count?’ I ask, fiddling with the corner of a sofa cushion. ‘Or the ballpark figure?’

There’s a sigh. ‘Do you want Dave to win?’

‘No, of course not. It’s just…I’m no good at this sort of thing, Phil. I’m not that sort of person.’

‘So you haven’t written anything?’

‘I have tried,’ I tell him. ‘I just…I can’t do it, Phil.’

‘OK,’ he says. ‘Jules said you had a dirty book. She saw one in your bathroom. Read me some of that instead. Let’s see what we’re aiming for.’

I sit upright on the bed. ‘I really don’t think…’

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Read me what you’ve got.’

‘Don’t you think this is a bit weird?’ My face is on fire and my palms are sweaty, and I don’t know why I don’t just make some excuse and hang up, but this is Phil. He’s been my friend for as long as I can remember, even longer than Jules. We can talk about this. It’s fine.

‘Weird how?’

‘You know,’ I say. ‘Weird you and me. Talking about sex weird.’

‘Sex is weird,’ he says. ‘What’s your point?’

I wish I knew. ‘It’s just weird, that’s all.’

‘Amy,’ he says. ‘You can trust me. You know that, right?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘But…’

‘Read,’ he says.

I can feel my stomach pushing its way up into my throat. I don’t want Phil to know how hard I’m finding this. I don’t want him to think badly of me. I sit there, gripping the phone in my sweaty hand, breathing too loud, too fast.

‘Enough of the heavy breathing already,’ Phil says. ‘Come on.’

‘OK!’ I snatch up my iPad and start to read.

He dug his fingers into her shirt and ripped it away from her body, exposing the full bounty of her sensitive breasts. Her nipples poked out, hard and dark, and he pinched them until she whimpered with delight. Yes, he said, yes. Tell me, Sally. Tell me what you want.

I rush through those few lines, stumbling over the letters. I have to stop and start again a couple of times. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and I can’t believe I’m actually reading this out loud. To Phil.

‘Keep going,’ Phil says. His voice is soft, and there’s something about it, something different. I don’t know what it is.

But I am suddenly all too aware of a low throb between my legs, almost like a heartbeat.

‘What is it, Sally?’

‘Please, Sir. Please, let me pleasure you.’ She kept her hands at her sides, knowing that if she moved, he might deny her what she craved so badly. The hot thrust of his erection into her mouth, as he fucked her face over and over.

‘You want to suck my cock, Sally? Is that right?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Very well.’

His elegant fingers slowly lowered the zipper of his beautifully tailored trousers. Sally could feel her body humming with excitement. She made no move to touch him, not yet, but she could smell the musky scent of his aroused cock, that heady mixture of warm skin and soap and sweat and the slippery moisture that lubricated his shaft when he was aroused.

Long fingers sank into his open fly, and then he slowly pulled his stiff prick free.

‘Fuck,’ Phil whispers. ‘That’s sexy.’

‘Do you…do you like it?’

It takes him a moment to reply, a moment in which my heart seems to stop. ‘Yes,’ he says finally. ‘Read me some more.’

I push my laptop aside, move myself further up the bed, until I’m leaning back against the pillows. I look at the words on the page, the familiar, dirty words. I swallow. I take a deep breath. And then I read some more.

Sally gazed at his erection, so long, so thick. Her mouth watered with anticipation. She had waited for this. She needed this.

‘Open your mouth,’ he commanded her.

Sally obeyed without question

The first thrust was sudden, sharp, deep. He sank his fingers into her hair, holding her firmly. She couldn’t breathe, but it didn’t matter. She could taste him, rich and musky. Her clit throbbed, and she could feel how wet her pussy was becoming. But she didn’t touch herself. She couldn’t, not unless he commanded it. She was his to use, as he would a toy for his pleasure.

‘Ah, Sally,’ he said, as he pulled back, and thrust again into her mouth. ‘No one sucks cock quite as well as you.’

She closed her lips around his thickness then, and began to suck, pressing her tongue against the thick vein that ran the length of the underside of his erection.

He groaned, and pushed himself deeper into her throat, until the heavy swing of his balls pressed against her chin. Then he withdrew.

Sally gasped, pulling in the air she needed, already seeking him again.

‘No,’ he said.

I pause. I’m clutching the phone tightly, and for a moment, I wonder if Phil is still there. I half hope he isn’t, because I’m not sure I can read the next part. My pussy is throbbing insistently, aching with the need to be touched. I move my legs restlessly. My knickers are damp. He can’t see you, I remind myself. Not that it matters. I’m still not about to masturbate while he’s on the other end of the phone. But I’m so hot. I shove myself upright, pull up my skirt, and tug my knickers off. Cool air settles on my heated skin. Better. Much better. I tug my skirt back down.

‘Amy,’ he says. Just my name, that’s all. Just that one word.

‘Yes?’

‘Carry on.’

I should stop this. What we’re doing is weird and wrong and inappropriate. But I don’t, because it might be all those things, but it’s also shockingly, undeniably exciting.

‘Amy,’ he says. ‘I’m waiting.’

There’s something in his tone, something rough and demanding. I’ve never heard him speak that way before, not to me anyway, and it switches something on inside me.

‘Touch yourself,’ he ordered her. ‘I want to see you touch yourself, Sally. Show me what a wanton slut you are.’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Sally lifted her skirt. Underneath, she wore the smallest red satin panties that exposed almost everything. She slipped her fingers inside herself, frantic now, aroused almost to breaking point by the feel of his gaze on her.

I pause for a moment, force myself to stay calm, because I know what happens next and I want Phil to know too. There is something deliciously erotic about what we’re doing. This is Phil, I think to myself. It doesn’t dampen my arousal. If anything, it makes it stronger. This is Phil. My friend, Phil. I know I shouldn’t think about him and sex together, but I do. I often wonder what he’s like in bed. I wonder what he likes, what he doesn’t. I wonder what his cock is like.

I bet it’s big. I bet it’s really, really big.

‘Amy,’ he says.

‘Yes?’

‘Why have you stopped?’

God, his voice. ‘No reason,’ I say, the words spilling out too quickly. I make myself focus, start to read again, though I stutter and rush.

Two fingers. Three. She leaned back, exposing herself to him, wanting him to see what she was doing, knowing he would appreciate it.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’

His hand slid round the thick length of his cock, and his wrist began to pump. He held himself so tightly, squeezing until the head of his erection darkened. Sally had asked him once if it hurt, when he pleasured himself that way.

‘Yes,’ he had replied. ‘All pleasure is pain, don’t you think?’

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. This is wrong, this is so wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should stop, now, before things get any more out of hand. If I stop now, I can pretend this never happened.

‘Amy,’ he says. ‘Don’t stop.’

His voice is rough and aroused. Is he touching himself? For a moment, the world seems to freeze as an image of Phil with his trousers unfastened and his cock in his hand flashes into my mind. I try to hold onto it, but it slips away from me, a fleeting, blurry thing.

I sit upright on the bed, listening intently. I’m reading the words from the page but I’m not listening to them. I’m listening to Phil, desperate for any clue, trying to get that image back. Trying to see it clearly.

‘I want to see you come, Sally,’ he said. ‘I want to see your lovely breasts flush and your clit throb and you back arch as you get yourself off. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

His words aroused her even more. She rubbed at her clit, uncontrollable sounds of pleasure escaping from her as her excitement grew, as her heart pounded. She spread her legs wider, hips jerking, body crying out for the hard possession of his cock. And just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he moved closer, fist pumping.

‘Now, Sally,’ he said. ‘Now.’

Hot strands of thick come coated her face, her lips, her tongue as her orgasm rushed through her. She cried out her pleasure as he spilled his seed all over her face.

I stop reading. My pussy is wet and my back is slippery with perspiration. I’m so strung up and aroused and shocked that I can barely breathe. I always find that scene exciting. I always masturbate after I read it. It’s the only way I can persuade my body to calm, to settle. But that’s a private thing, a secret thing, and this isn’t private, or secret. ‘Phil?’

A silence. A space. A pause. I force myself to breathe.

‘Yeah?’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘Are you?’

I don’t know. ‘Of course.’

‘Do you have a lot of books like that?’

‘A few,’ I admit, turning my hand over and looking at my nails. Even though he can’t see me, I’m blushing like mad. Because I’ve just realised something. The reason why I can’t get past paragraph three. The reason why everything I write sounds wrong. ‘Phil, can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

‘I think that…I think that the problem is that I can’t picture the male character. Every time I try to write something, that’s where I get stuck. And I think that if…if I had someone I could base him on, I’d be able to do it.’

‘Like a muse?’

‘Yes,’ I say, clinging onto that word, because it makes it sound like something arty and serious, instead of kinky and weird. ‘Exactly like that. I need a muse.’

‘I could do that,’ he says, his tone thoughtful. ‘Shall I come round tomorrow, after work?’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Yes. Fine. See you then.’

And then I end the call. I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at it, my hands pressed against my cheeks like a real life version of The Scream. What have I done? When did I become the sort of person that does this sort of thing?

And when did I start to like it?