I FUCKED RENNER LAST NIGHT. I shouldn’t have, but I did. Up to that point, it’s fair to say he’s fucked me. You know, up against the wall in the supply closet with my legs round his waist and his fingers digging fat bruises into my arse, or face down over the arm of that big sofa in his office. Fingers, bruises, arse, ditto. But last night? I. Was. On. Fire.
Packing up after the grad wrap party, and I pulled out the bottom drawer of my desk and looked at the wholesome dress and the nice underwear I’d put there, ready to go home. But I didn’t want to change back into Cecilia, the Librarian Next Door. See, I was wearing some kind of outfit. Black heels, silk hold-ups. A black dress I’d made myself. Scalloped neck, no bra required. The bodice fit me like a lightly clasped hand. Hips also. Knickers spoil its lines. So just the black dress, silk stockings, heels. I. Was. On. Fire.
I knew Costello was back in Alaska that weekend, and I could feel the hot throb of Renner just there, upstairs, two floors and a hundred yards off. Feel it in the tremble in my thighs. All day long with my bare cunt rubbing itself and the secret hiss of silken thigh and the airflow and the gentle clasp of that dress and all the admiring glances. You know those days when you can feel the tiny whispers of everyone’s eyelashes? Little distant butterfly kisses on you, your cheeks, your tits, your ass? And it’s good? On fire, see?
There was nobody there then, but me and Renner and a handful of other idiots who didn’t know when to go home. An hour til the cleaners came in and the janitors locked up.
So I put up my hair in a big severe twist, fixed with two black lacquered chopsticks and I took up the nice knickers and shut the wholesome drawer with a slap of my foot and I headed upstairs on tick-tocking murderous heels. I could feel my face glowing fierce and my scalp tightening and my nipples twisting and pressing hard into the seams of the dress. Light under his door, pale through frosted glass.
RENNER, J. SAC
I waltzed in without a word and he glanced up shocked, with that just-grown-out jarhead haircut with the fans of thick hair you just want to pull and those stormy grey eyes and the half laugh in those, those cruelly sweet lips. All boyish and teasing. You’d feel it, too. Right there in your hip pocket. I don’t care who you are, ocelot, tea-tray, presbyterian.
He was wearing a black suit and a snow-white shirt, tie gone, two buttons open. A little tired and flushed maybe and he opened his mouth as I came round the desk and that’s where I put them. The wholesome clean knickers. I stuffed them in his mouth and shoved his chair back from the desk til it banged into the bookcase and a vase fell right off. Dry sticks of dead flowers flying over the floor.
I put my finger to his lips bruisingly hard and yanked on his belt and his buttons and zip and hauled out his fast rising cock. Circumcised, shading pink down to brown among those tight-nested curls and already bright with his sudden arousal. I breathed right out so I wouldn’t gag and still swelling I took all of it right into my mouth and drew on it til my nose was buried in his musky hair and the head of it was nudging at the gate of my throat. With the buzz rising high in my ears and a hint of heat lightning behind my closed eyes, I ran my thumb and forefinger round under his balls and squeezed and tugged wanting him bigger, swollen, rock hard and huge.
And with every tug and my fist clutching his root he grew steadily fatter and harder and he eased into my throat. And I swallowed and sucked and just as the dark began to crowd into my skull I let him go. He popped out of my mouth on a slick of my spit and it stood there, twitching in the clutch of my fist. He was dark now, and throbbing with heat, and curved and eager and I growled with delight.
I stood then and he sat, flushed and shocked and watched as I slid the dress up over my thighs and he took in the long climb from stocking top to belly and the nakedness between. From behind the spit-soaked gag of my sweet knickers there came a harsh moan. So I turned away and bent slightly and taking his cock in my hand I settled onto it. It went in slowly this time, as I parted around it, stretched and groaned. The half-dozen times I’d taken his cock? Never as big. Not as this. This tusk. I sank onto it in one long shuddering gasp. Looked down as I parted, as it pushed me apart. And then. Then I began to move. With feet braced I forced the chair against the bookcase, jammed it there, rode him.
Back, forth, up, down. Grasped his cock where I could, rubbed and played myself with my hands, my fingers, pulling and spreading and rubbing and riding and then, with his hands – though tonight awestruck and gentle – holding onto my hips, I felt the sun in all splendour rise behind my stretched lips. I sagged slightly and hunched and gave a long groan and open-mouthed rose from his cock, forcing it out with the power of my pulse. Involuntarily standing, shuddering and making animal noises, hands on his desk and legs scissored and pressing, I came. God I came, and kept coming, and bit my lip, and something hot and slick rushed down my clenched thighs as my vision swirled and music sang in the muscles of my trembling legs.
Without turning back, I slid down my dress. On the uncertain legs of a newborn foal, I picked an uncertain path to the door and, as I opened it, heard him come. The long guttural moan and the sound from his cock, the rip of his come flying through it and out. The slap of it hitting the desk. I shut the door behind me, and turning away nearly walked right into the cleaner. Blue denim pinafore. Wash cart and vacuum. With an impassive face, an arch of eyebrow and a slow, warm voice she bade me good evening. I was inclined to agree.