Felix Baron - Look at Me!

Constance hollowed her back, tilting her bottom up at him.

‘Good girl! That’s right, just like that!’ Without releasing her, Jeff slithered back and lower, drawing his shaft down along the crease between her cheeks. He prodded. It wasn’t the right place, too low. Last time, he’d steered himself with a hand.

As if he’d heard her thought, he told her, ‘Hands free, this time.’

Constance grunted.

Jeff writhed an inch each way and up and down, probing.

Yes!

The wet hardness of his knob was nestled right against her trembling pucker, kissing it. He pushed. Constance pushed back. If she concentrated on relaxing back there …

Oh. Oh. He was stretching her. He was forcing his way into the narrow constriction. Constance felt herself expand. It didn’t hurt, not much, but it was such a violation of her tender flesh.

And he was inside her.

Just the head. Her muscular ring gripped his cock just behind its dome. The moment, the brief second of maximum stretching followed almost instantly by a partial relaxation, had been exquisite. It was like some sort of revelation.

Perhaps he read her thoughts again because Constance felt his thigh muscles tense and then the reverse pressure as he drew back, almost dragging the sleeve of her rectum with him, and ‘popped’ out …

And rammed back in.

This time there was no pause. His thrust went on and on, opening her depths, forcing her back passage to adapt to the shape and girth of his shaft. Jeff’s pubes were grinding on her as if he was desperate to gain every last possible inch of penetration. And he was pumping. Each stroke felt easier than the one before and yet her excitement grew and grew.

His big hands took hold of her hips. Jeff knew not to pull her up to all fours – she didn’t allow that, just in case it dislodged the bedclothes – but he heaved her up off the bed just a few inches before slamming back down on her. She was totally impaled .

He half-rolled, so that her weight was on her left side. His right hand worked under her. Its fingers found her button again, but toyed with it for just a second before they squirmed past it, inside her. Jeff must be able to feel his own shaft pistoning into her. That was so obscene.

It was the obscenity of it that drove her over the edge into the chaos of her second glorious climax.

It must have been three or four in the morning when Constance woke up. It might have been the dim light from the small lamp on the bedside table on Jeff’s side. It might have been him folding the bedclothes down to her waist and fumbling with the buttons at her throat.

Damn!

Constance sat up sharply, clutching the neck of her nightgown. ‘No!’

‘Please, Connie? Surely …’

She slapped his face and turned over to bury her face into her pillow. The bed creaked as Jeff got up. He’d be headed into her living room to finish the night on her lumpy couch. Well, she wasn’t going to be guilted into doing something she didn’t want to do. Let him suffer!

When Constance woke again, with the first light, Jeff still hadn’t come back to bed. Men! As if sulking solved anything. She decided that she’d take the moral high ground and simply pretend that nothing had happened. If he apologised, all to the good. If not, well, she’d just have to forgive him anyway. That was the way women were, forgiving and modest – sweet and modest – charitable and modest. Always modest. Modest. The damn word landed with a dull thud.

He wasn’t on the couch and it hadn’t been disturbed. There were no dishes in the sink. His shaving gear and toothbrush were missing from the bathroom. His spare suit wasn’t in the closet. There was a space on her bookshelves where his IT books had been.

Jeff had taken his things back to his own apartment.

She’d been dumped. Well, no. She’d dumped him, really. A slap across the face counts as that, right? He’d broken her rule. She’d slapped him. He’d left, taking his things. How did she feel about that? Crushed, for sure. Empty inside? Maybe. She’d thought he might have been the one. Angry? Yes, she was angry. How dare he! Look at all she’d done for him, the things she’d let him do to her. For him, she’d been a very bad girl. She’d enjoyed it all, but that was beside the point. When a girl does those forbidden things for a man she’s doing him a favour, no matter how good they feel. All she’d ever denied him was to let him look at her shameful nakedness. Could that be so important that it’d make him break up with her?

Couldn’t he have explained that?

Perhaps he’d tried, but not hard enough, obviously. The bastard!

What was it about the sight of a girl’s body, anyway? She’d let Jeff bugger her. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Bugger her. Fuck her up her bum. There! If he’d wanted a bad girl, she’d been the baddest, for him. He’d been ready to risk losing that , just for a chance to look at her naked? It made no sense at all.

Why were men so obsessed with looking at women’s bodies?

On a whim, very quickly, before the impulse fled, Connie sat down in front of her dressing table, slipped the top three buttons of her cotton nightdress and smoothed it down her right shoulder and breast – all the way, not just exposing its upper slope but baring it completely, nipple and all. By reflex, her eyes flinched away but she forced herself to actually look at her own smooth pink skin.

It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a breast before. When she’d first left the commune, it’d seemed that she couldn’t open a magazine or watch TV without them jumping out at her. Seeing and looking are two different things. Her mother had trained her to avert or close her eyes when they were exposed to immodest displays. It was hard. In the outside world, girls wore skimpy or transparent tops all the time, and not just in special places, like beaches, that could be avoided. They also displayed their legs in most unseemly ways. Her mother had allowed that exposed calves were acceptable. Not knees, though. Nor anything higher. Certainly not!

Well, there was her bare right breast, in the mirror, and she was looking at it.

In a way, it was a disappointment. Not because it wasn’t pretty. It was. Her skin was so pale a pink that it was almost translucent. She could just make out a delicate blue tracery below the surface. Her nipple was a crinkled berry, darker than its halo, but not by much. As for shape, she felt she could compete with the statues she’d seen when Jeff had dragged her to the museum to demonstrate that he was right and she was wrong.

How was it that she didn’t find the sight of her own flesh exciting?

Somehow, Connie had been sure that if she exposed herself that way, to herself, there’d be a forbidden thrill. There wasn’t. Not exactly. Maybe a twinge? How about if she imagined that it was someone else’s breast, Shirley’s, the office receptionist’s, for example?

Maybe she felt something. Just a pleasant little buzz?

Is that all there was to it? Why had Mother made such a fuss? Come to that, why had Jeff been so obsessed? It was his silliness that had broken them up. She’d like to … make him suffer! That’s what she’d like to do, and if she dared, she knew exactly how it was she could make him squirm.