The Things That Make Me Give In by Charlotte Stein Page A

wrapped bunny rabbit, all of my own.
    I didn’t tell him that I’d never dared to buy one myself. Or that I’d never dared to buy any of the things I pretended I never liked – steamy books and
Playboys
like the ones I’d once foundin my father’s shed. All those filthy stories and pictures that had made my teenage insides squirm, now reduced to just memories of what that felt like.
    I don’t know why I stopped wanting to feel like that.
    But it seemed easier than I could ever have imagined when I finally got down to it.
    At first I couldn’t. I drank two glasses of wine and let him massage my shoulders with oils. I still couldn’t. He blindfolded me and whispered in my ear that he loved fucking me and fucking me and having me smother him with my soft wet pussy and, oh, how wet I got when he licked me, that it barely took anything at all – maybe just his cock in my mouth in a dark cinema . . .
    Then I could.
    He has to be filthy first – getting his cock out in a public place like a dirty old man. Then I can get on my knees and swallow his cock, and after that I can fuck myself with whatever toys he’s bought me, and then after that I can let him go down on me.
    He forces me not to cover my face with the sheets when he does it. But it’s not really like forcing, because he’s been dirty first, you see.
    ‘You’re not really mad, are you?’ I ask him, because he sort of looks it. His kind of mad, though – the type that’s not quite holding on. And he bears this out by sliding me a sideways glance and almost grinning.
    ‘Right, knickers off so’s I can spank you,’ he says, after a minute of this Cheshire-cat expression.
    Naturally I laugh. He’s a funny creature – why wouldn’t I laugh? But then he just keeps on staring at me with his big twinkling eyes and I start to go hot all over. My skin gets really prickly, like that time my husband took me to the South of France and I lay out too long on the beach. I didn’t burn, exactly – I’m always careful with the suntan lotion. Instead I just prickled.
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say to him, but he just laughs as though, yes, it
is
ridiculous.
    ‘Only get your knickers off, just the same.’
    That’s what he actually says to me! I look back at him as sour as can be, but this only seems to make him more impish and cheeky – now he’s got a hand up my skirt, and I don’t seem to be stopping him.
    He strokes the material that’s pulled taut over my pussy, making it tighter yet. It feels as though it’s strangling all my soft tender sweet spots, and I protest. I squirm. I manage to get out: ‘You first! You’re first!’
    ‘So it’s to be gentlemen before ladies,’ he says, but he knows what I mean. Anyone could know what I mean, by now. Doesn’t he understand what I need?
    Of course he does. My husband would stare blankly at me and keep his trousers on, but even as Colin manhandles me on to my knees I can see he’s taking his off. Shoving them down, rudely, while my unstockinged skin burns against the horrid rough material covering the seats.
    I think there are little flowers stitched into it. It feels like crumpled crisp packets. My legs are apart.
    ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ he says, as cool air fondles my almost bare bottom. I see what he sees and my face flashes as red as the lacquered walls of this carriage: my pouting pussy lips, trying to escape their cloth prison. Before he even says it, I suspect that my wetness is quite evident.
    ‘What’s all this, then?’ he asks, before pressing his finger to the place I’ve made the wettest. It’s almost at my arsehole, and I cringe away, thinking of what he’s done to me there.
    But I relax a little, when something soft and hard at the same time rubs against my thighs. How silky it is, as though the skin has been stretched fine enough to see through. And you can see, really – his cock is big enough and gets hard enough to let me see the blue tracery of veins clearly.
    I think