Megan Hart - Switch

and ass and even a little bely is okay if you have the rest

of it, too.

He unzips his jeans, too, while he watches. Soon his prick

is settled firmly in his fist and he pumps it slowly as he

watches me caress my body with my hands acting like his.

I have seen him do this before, stroke himself erect, give

himself a few quick pumps now and then. I've never

watched him finish this way. He's always done it in my

mouth, or my hand, or in my body.

"Take off your panties," he whispers in a voice rough-

edged with need.

I can't remember him ever saying that to me before.

They've always just…come off. But now I slide the cotton

and satin down to end up on the floor next to my jeans. I

try not to think about the couch under my bare flesh, or

wish we'd at least put down a blanket.

When he groans, I'm no longer distracted. I can't focus on

When he groans, I'm no longer distracted. I can't focus on

anything but my hand moving between my legs and his

moving on his cock. I'm wet and my fingers slip and slide.

I push two inside myself, echoing the motion he's making.

It's like my fingers are his prick, his fist my pussy. Our

bitten-back moans come at the same time.

My clitoris is hard. Rigid. When I brush it with my

fingertips I want to arch and squirm, thrust my hips. I want

to fil myself deep with something hard. I want to ride his

dick while my clit rubs his hard bely.

I want to come.

My hand moves faster between my legs. My other hand

finds my nipples, which I twist and tug in time to the

thrusting of my fingers. My knees fal open and my head

fals back. The arm of the couch is unyielding, but I push

against it anyway.

The couch dips as he moves closer to me. He's on his

knees, his jeans and boxers tangled on his ankles. He

stops just long enough to pul his shirt over his head, the

sleeves going inside out as it flutters to the floor. Then his

hand is back on his dick and his other is on my hip.

I stop rubbing my clit, thinking he's going to take over.

That he means to cover me with his body and push up

inside me. Every nerve is singing now, and I want that. I

want him to fuck me, but he doesn't.

"Don't stop, Paige," he says. "I want to watch you."

So my hand moves back between my legs and my fingers

stil, going slower even though he's hand-fucking himself

ever faster. I want to draw it out, make it last, build the

pleasure.

My breath is coming in short, harsh pants and my hips are

moving al on their own. I'm so close I could come only by

thinking about it. I take my clit between my thumb and first

finger and squeeze, just gently. Just softly. Just enough.

Everything contracts at once. My pussy, my ass, my clit.

My breath bursts out of me in a cry that's too loud but I

can't hold it back. This time when I bite my lip, I do taste

blood.

My orgasm has taken over. I am steamrolered by it and

left flat. I can't move, though my neck is kiling me from the

awkward angle and something sharp is poking me in the

ass.

ass.

"Ah, God," he cries. "Ah, Paige!"

Hot wetness spatters my chest and belly. It pumps out

of him in three hard spurts. The rest surges over his

hand as it cups the head of his cock and he strokes a

few last times. The scent of him fills me. The couch

beneath me dips again as he leans to put his hand on

the arm behind my head.

Crouching over me, his hand stil on his penis, his face is lit

by the television's moving shadows but I have no trouble

looking straight into his eyes. His jizz is going cold on my

skin and I'm afraid to move in case it drips off me onto the

cushions.

He leans to kiss me with an open mouth, but no tongue.

It's sweet and unexpected. I taste the salt of his sweat on

his upper lip.

He puls his shirt up from the floor and wipes me clean,

which is also unexpected and leaves me uncertain how to

react. He scrubs at the wetness on my bra with his sleeve,

but it's too late. I can wash it, but there wil always be a

stain.

stain.

"You are so beautiful," Austin says when he kisses me

again.

It's the first time he says it and this time, though later I

won't, I believe him.

My fingers had gone stiff from gripping the pen. I hadn't

thought about that night in a long time. Other memories

had crowded it out. Worse memories, actualy, that had

made me forget there'd once been a time when I'd been

young and in love.

"Discipline," I said aloud. I wasn't smoking, but the taste and scent of tobacco smoke filed my senses anyway.

What the hel was going on?

I gave in to the need to let my legs buckle under me then. I

let myself fal onto my couch, where I curled into a bal and

puled the knitted afghan over my head. Through the holes

the stark wals of my apartment glared at me until I closed

my eyes.

I'm no prude. When other kids were watching Aladdin ,

my mom was working third shift and leaving me alone in

my mom was working third shift and leaving me alone in

the house from ten-thirty at night until eight in the morning.

She thought I was asleep when she left, and it was true I

was in bed. I never told her how anxious I was when she

left, or how hard it was for me to sleep knowing I was

alone in the house al night. I'd creep downstairs and

console myself with hours of cable television. I saw a lot of

things I probably shouldn't have, but it also taught me a lot.

Even so, these notes. The commands. What had seemed

fairly innocuous at the start couldn't be confused for

anything innocent now.

The lists had been specific. Detailed. And now, explicit.

What sort of woman wanted someone to tel her how to

live her day? What sort of woman needed someone else to

tel her to be beautiful, to be strong? What sort of woman

craved the commands of someone else dictating her life?

I put my hand between my legs, on the damp cotton of my

panties, and felt my clit pulse.

What sort of woman?

I thought I knew.

I thought I knew.

Chapter 13

Here's a funny story made humorous by time, since it

wasn't funny when it happened. I was nineteen when my

mom had Arthur, which means that when she got pregnant,

I was eighteen. A senior in high school and screwing my

brains out with Mr. Popular Jock.

My mom had always been up front about sex and

protecting myself. Too up front, in my opinion, since my

sex life was the second-to-last topic of discussion I ever

wanted to share with her, the last being hers. Austin wasn't

the first boy I'd fooled around with. He wasn't even the

first boy I'd slept with, though the previous few times I'd

had sex had been so unremarkable and meaningless I

mostly forgot it had ever happened. I'd been on the pil for

a couple years already, but I made him use condoms, too.

There's nothing quite like being an ilegitimate child to

make a girl fear pregnancy. There was no way I was going

to end up the way my mother had.

Stil, when a condom broke I wasn't too worried. At least,

not until my period was late. Not even a warning cramp to

announce its pending arrival. I counted the days and when

we'd had sex—easy enough to do because it was pretty

we'd had sex—easy enough to do because it was pretty

much every time we were together, which by that point