Page 53 of Devil

“The way you feel when you think about being used for sex. When you think about the studio at Evelyn with your face against the chalkboard and your skirt shoved up around your hips.”

She goes rigid and breathless in my arms and then releases with a series of gasping shudders, her hands clawing for the arm wrapped around her ribs and then clinging to keep herself upright. I slide my fingers into her tight hole to feel it squeeze around me, grunting at the feeling, my entire body tense and straining. I sink my teeth into her shoulder in a desperate attempt to make myself wait, just fuckingwait. But oh my God, this is so hot, she’s so fucking perfect, so wet and soft around my fingers, holy shit?—

“Ry,” she breathes, and that’s it—that’s as much as I can take. Hand still between her legs, I nudge her forward, and we walk in tandem to the workbench. When we get there, I pull my hand free and then press her hands flat on the surface.

“You can saynoorstopif it makes you feel better, if it makes you feel like you tried so hard not to be bad,” I tell her. “But if you say you want to leave, I’ll stop that very moment. Got it?”

She nods, dazed.

A nod isn’t good enough for this first time. “What do you say if you want me to stop?”

“That I want to leave.” Her voice is breathy. I wish I could see her face and see what she looks like cum drunk, but it’s too good having her like this in front of me: hands braced, ass out.

“And what will happen if you sayno? Ordon’t?”

“You’ll keep going.”

“Why?”

“Because you won’t stop unless I say that I want to leave.”

“Smart girl.” I move my mouth over her shoulder to her neck, putting my hands over hers. I press my erection into her cute, denim-clad bottom and breathe in the smell of apples and wood. “So you see, it’s not your fault. You’re not to blame. The devil made you do it, and there was no angel to save you, was there?”

And then I pull her pants down.

24

BIRDIE

My jeans are yankeddown to my knees, and so are my panties, and for a minute, I only hear the heaviness of his breathing and the blood whooshing in my ears. Hot hands slide up my thighs to my rear and then squeeze. They release and then squeeze, again and again, and on the fourth time, I come to realize that my anus must be visible like this, and my vulva too, glistening and swollen enough to display my opening.

I try to straighten up, the embarrassment powerful and instinctive, but he shoves me back to where I was, with my hands on the workbench and my body bent forward. A finger comes to press against the tight ring of muscle and taps it almost scoldingly. “I like looking at this. I like thinking about fucking it one day. You wouldn’t want to take away something I like, would you?”

There it is again—that charm, that sly persuasion. I felt the easy strength of him holding me upright as I climaxed just a minute ago, of his hand on my back bending me over—he could easily overcome me with only his body, but I don’t think that’s enough for him. I think he likes the challenge of… What had he called it in the barn?Pushing?Transgressing?

He likes using that lovely voice to persuade me that up is down and wrong is right, making me complicit.

And yet, antithetically, he’s happy to bear the weight of my conscience and blame, happy to be labeled the evildoer after the fact. It’s strange.

His voice is rough when he says, “I think I need—yes, I need this right now.”

I tense as he pulls off my shoes and then my jeans and panties all the way off, thinking he means the place he’d just been touching, but somehow it’s more horrifying when he gets to his knees behind me and uses his thumbs to expose the wet center of me. I feel his breath there, and the embarrassed panic comes again. I haven’t showered since last night; I was sweating earlier.

“Ry…you can’t?—”

But he ignores me, and when I try to move away, I get a smack on the bottom for my trouble. I squeak—more in surprise than anything; it doesn’t truly hurt—and then suck in a breath when I feel his mouth brush against me.

The touch is shocking, and so is the idea of it, because if I’d known, if I’d been able to shower first?—

His tongue is hot and slick and strong, and my arms nearly buckle on the table.

“God, that’s good,” he mumbles from behind me. “Wanted this for so long.”

His nose presses into me as he licks my clit, and I squirm away again. I get another smack, and then his tongue goes right inside, plunging, unlike anything I could have imagined. I hear rustling, the fumble of fabric, and I can’t see much when I try to look back over my shoulder, but I do see his arm moving in a fast, jerky rhythm. He grunts against my skin, grunts again, and…he’s masturbating. He’s stroking himself with his mouth on me, his tongue against my clitoris, sliding into my entrance.

Oh… The idea of that is…it’s making me forget everything else. I want to watch him do it. I want to know what he thinks about when he does. I want him to do it and then finish on my naked backside, and I don’t even know where I got that image, but I suddenly want it so badly.

Then Bell’s standing up, and I can see a little more now. His penis—his cock, that’s what he would say, there’s no need to be prim when I’m silently begging him to ejaculate on me—is freed from his trousers, his belt hanging open at either side. It’s thick and ruddier than the rest of him, and it juts stiffly between his hips as he tears open a foil packet with his teeth.