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

briefly of my husband’s cock. The sad softness of it,and its texture – like the crisp packet seats. Burring against me, clinging to me, never so smooth and fine.
    ‘We
cannot
have sex here,’ I hiss back at Colin, but it’s too late for that now. He has his nimble little fingers twisted in the elastic of my knickers, and they’re making their descent to my ankles. The train rocks, and I rock with it. I close my eyes. I close my eyes and keep on protesting, words all run together like the clackety-clack of wheels on rails below us: ‘No don’t you can’t stop please oh why oh you disgusting little beast.’
    He laughs at the word ‘beast’, while his fingers make a slippery path through the folds of my pussy. He just flicks the underside of my aching clit, and then backs away when I wriggle. Then repeats the whole thing, when I tell him that all my husband’s colleagues are here, someone will see us, the train’s packed, clackety-clack.
    I’m sure I feel his Cheshire-cat grin against my feeling-every-detail, oh-so-swollen pussy lips. From behind, too, for extra lewdness. My heels pointed at the carriage door, dress around my hips, sprawled across the seats like a doll of the real me.
    The real me smiles serenely and poses with her hands pressed neatly to her lap and a headband keeping all of her hair in. Golden husband sits beside her, as primped and perfect as she is.
    I press back into Colin’s mouth. Sounds that usually never escape the covers over my face spurt out, sounding like the agitated mewls of a cat. That is me, after all. I am a cat in heat, rubbing myself against Cheshire’s face. Soon he’s going to mount me, and what on earth am I going to do then? I don’t have anything to hide my face and this time, God, this time I might really need it.
    There’s not just myself to hide from, though – they could all catch us here.
    ‘You ready?’ he says. I never thought anyone would ever ask me that. I certainly never thought it would come out of a mouth covered in my cream.
    I don’t even have to look to know it’s there. I know what he does and how he does it, and I’ve seen him sitting on his haunches before, mouth gleaming and completely unselfconscious about it. Sometimes he will lick his lips, as though I taste wonderful.
    How filthy and dirty and disgusting.
    ‘Yeah, you’re ready all right,’ he says.
    Now his cock is greasy rather than smooth, greasy and rubbery. He always has a condom and he never seems tired of using one, which I suppose should be a rather practical thought.
    I have no idea why his practicalities excite me even more. When I feel the rubber I stop pretending that I’m wriggling and rut back against him, waiting for that gorgeous way his big filthy cock spreads me. I look at the lacquered walls and picture all those perfect, primped businessmen at the little window in the door, gawping down at us. At my gash, swimming in liquid and pink enough to mistake for sugar-candy.
    And then his big thick thing stretching me.
    They all wish they were him, of course. They all want to ream my pussy with their equally massive cocks, shoving my face down into the crisp packet seat and gripping my arse the way Colin does. There’s nothing cheeky and impish about the way he digs his fingers in and drags me back on him, hard enough to make me whine and complain.
    But my imagination isn’t complaining. The lewdness tether is off and I can see them all lined up at the door to take me, to fill me up with their thick come and ease the way for their mates – yes yes yes.
    Yes, God, yes, Colin, fuck me, fuck me dirty.
    Of course I say all this. But I guess I don’t really believe in it or don’t really want it – I’m not dirty at all. Because when he tells me to do something – something tame in comparison to being fucked by any number of my husband’s colleagues – I can’t quite do it.
    I lie, in fact. I can’t do it
at all.
I whine ‘no no no’ as his cock lurches and