Page 5 of Two Wrongs
‘And my personal favourite.’His tone is laced with promise and feels like a hundred fingertips dancing across my skin. ‘Fuck my mouth, Dylan.’
‘Is that what we’re doing now,’ I ask, my voice tinged with need.
‘How did I get to be so lucky,’ he asks, the words low in his throat. ‘Where did I find you?’
‘On the strip,’ I say with a sultry giggle. ‘I was waiting for you.’
‘Waiting for my cock? Because you love it, don’t you?’
His murmurs were often a mixture of satisfaction and malevolence, but it worked for us. His taunts and the teasing always preceded mind-blowing orgasms.For us both.And sex wasn’t always like this. Sometimes, it was slow and sensual, and sometimes, fast and rough.
But it was always good.
I watch Dylan slide his fingers under my tiny bikini bottoms, grabbing the fabric and pulling it away from my body until it’s stretched tight and outlining the space between my legs. The friction caused by the action is enough to make me moan.
‘Good?’My response is just a garbled noise; his responding chuckle dangerously edged as he pulls the fabric higher still.‘Where’s it good? Where you feelin’ that?’
The camera focusses between my thighs, specifically where the blue material is pulled tight and dampening. I recall I’d shaken my head, refusing to answer; not that anyone watching would know because the camera had other places to watch. Especially as Dylan loosens his grip, bringing his hand down hard and fast.
In the kitchen, my body jolts, the same as it does against the bed, and my face grows as red as the handprint on the screen.
‘I asked you a question. Don’t make me ask again.’
‘My clit,’ I moan softly, right before the hand comes down once more. ‘Feels so good,’ I groan.Then he asks me where. More explicitly. And who it belongs to.
‘My pussy,’ I moan out, libidinously. ‘My pussy belongs to you.’
Whispers of praise and sounds of pleasure play through the audio as Dylan makes a show of smacking my flesh—grabbing it—making it pink, and pulling the bikini bottoms against me until they’re visibly damp and I’m writhing beneath him.
And all the while, I say the words—words and phrases no one would ever believe I could say.
Fuck me. Make me come. Fuck my pussy. Touch my clit.
All the words I maintain make me uncomfortable, I use here with him.
Moments later, his free hand slides my bottoms down and off, slipping two fingers down the cleft, trailing them further to where I’m wet. He pushes them inside my body, and I cry out, arching my back and impaling myself on his hand. He twists his wrist, plunging those fingers inside again and again. I’m writhing and whimpering as his fingers work—and I’m close—and to my present mortification, I know what comes next.
His fingers slip wetly away.
‘Fuck, baby, you’re wet. So wet.’His voice is part groan, part wonder as he rubs the evidence between his glistening fingers and thumb. My hips just about collapse under his observations; so much so, he hooks his forearm under me, adjusting my position and lifting me onto my knees. A rustle, a slide of fabric as his shorts come off, and then he’s lining up his hard length between my legs.
The camera pans, the result of a fumble; a flash of fingernails as pink as my cheeks. Why is it I still remember the name of the colour?Pink to Make You Blink.Natasha has the same shade downstairs sitting on a shelf in the treatment room. Silly, but I sometimes catch myself staring at it. Picturing my fingernails clutching Dylan’s tanned shoulders. Hearing his rumbling breath in my ear.
‘You want this, darlin’?’
The camera righted, and his hard, sleek length fills the shot.Hard. Vulgar. Beautiful. Veins straining and wrapped tight in his tanned fist.
I answer with a breathyyesssas his cock disappears inside my body, inch by very slow inch.
I almost can’t watch anymore. I really shouldn’t have begun and not because of any sense of shame. I have no hang-ups about watching sex. In fact, my attitude to porn is somewhat ambivalent, not that anyone would believe. Ambivalent, that is, unless I’m starring in it. And no one wouldeverbelieve that, even if this isn’t the only recording we ever made. And right now, it’s not the actual sex I have difficulty watching. Two bodies giving into pleasure; enjoying each other.
No. It’s the intimacy.
The way he twines our fingers together, his body covering mine. The way he kisses my shoulder. Licks my spine. The way, the whole time he films himself sliding in and out of my body, he’s whispering my name, like a catechism of soft whispered praise.
I can’t watch it, yet I am. My toes curl—both then and now—as the pressure builds between my thighs like a dam about to break.
I wished I’d never asked Natasha to send me the link. I wished I never had to think of him again because each tiny fragment of memory knocks me off balance. Takes me back a million steps in my recovery.I don’t need to face what I’ve lost. Not over and over again.
