I tease. I poke. I prod. We bicker. We bicker. We bicker. Friends for a while. Never made it to lovers, brief or otherwise. More adopted sibling than fuck buddy. But hugs that last a fraction too long. Bend at the waist to flash my knickers. Smack my arse as we pass on the stairs.
No blood shared. No awkward Christmases.
Early Saturday morning, wearing a T shirt, long socks, nothing else. Bend at the waist to flash my thighs. Head buried in the fridge, reaching for the last piece of chocolate cheesecake. His slice. His slice we all swore we would leave so he could enjoy it today. In my hands, melting slightly with the guilty heat. Heavenly sour sweetness on my tongue, crammed into my slutty mouth as I hear his footsteps on the staircase, in the hall, on the tiled kitchen floor.
“What are you doing?”
I whip round, smeared in cream and biscuit crumbs, swallowing down the last remnants of his treat. My stolen dessert.
“You ate my fucking cheesecake.”
I stare him out. Licking each one of my fingers individually, my tongue delicately forming spit bubbles.
“You ate my fucking cheesecake, Lucy.” He smooths his hand across the stubble on his jawline, silently counting to ten before going ballistic.
“It was delicious.” I say innocently.
“It was mine.”
“Tough luck.” I shrug, turning back to the fridge, maybe looking for something else to thieve. Now he’s close behind me, his erection rubbing against me through his thick pyjama bottoms.
“That wasn’t very nice, was it?”
His tone is considered, stern but maybe not angry.
I turn my head as much as I can.
“Are you going to dob me in?”
Too quickly he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head backwards.
“You’d probably enjoy that.”
His other hand is on my belly, between my thighs, pushing the lips of my cunt apart.
“Who gets wet from a fucking cheesecake?” He mocks, playing with my clit.
“Nigella Lawson?” I manage before he jerks my head back again and jams the fingers in my mouth. Sour and sweet. Creamy and cleansing.
He lets go of my hair and works his pyjama bottoms down to his knees.
I don’t have much choice – one of my hands is gripping the top of the refrigerator with the other on the door as he slides his cock inside me, his fingers digging into my hips as he fucks me. Fucking me isn’t much of a punishment, I think.
Fucking me isn’t much of a punishment, I think, as I hear him spit and seconds later, feel him slide his finger into my arse.
He knows me. He knows what this does to me – a million conversations that made him hard but were never intended as foreplay.
“No coming.” He grunts and that’s it. I don’t. I won’t.
He fucks me so hard, the shelf-liners rattle. A bottle of Tabasco threatens to dislodge from the cluster of condiments to my left. All I can smell is dairy and vinegar as I concentrate on folding my orgasm out of sight, but he withdraws and instead grabs my waist to turn me and push me down to my knees.
“Seeing as you like using your mouth so much.”
He’s so big. Not big in the way you think. Everything’s big when it’s being shoved in your mouth before you can register it – when it’s in your throat. He fucks my throat like he fucked my cunt and I feel the bile rise in my stomach.
“Are you choking? Are you choking because you’re a greedy bitch who couldn’t follow a simple instruction?”
With tear-stung eyes I stare up at him and nod. There isn’t much else to do. He pulls out; a long strand of spit connecting the tip of his cock to my pouting bottom lip. His smile is so wide as he gleefully wipes it over my face, then begins to jerk the shaft quickly; even though I keep my mouth open wide, my tongue lolling like an obedient puppy. He knows I’m a good swallower. He knows how good I’d sound as he came down my throat.
He comes in my hair, instead.
Then he sends me out in my t-shirt that covers my mid thigh, to buy another cheesecake for them to share.