Dirty Talk Read online

  He groaned, and pushed himself deeper into her throat, until the heavy swing of his balls pressed against her chin. Then he withdrew.

  Sally gasped, pulling in the air she needed, already seeking him again.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  I pause. I’m clutching the phone tightly, and for a moment, I wonder if Phil is still there. I half hope he isn’t, because I’m not sure I can read the next part. My pussy is throbbing insistently, aching with the need to be touched. I move my legs restlessly. My knickers are damp. He can’t see you, I remind myself. Not that it matters. I’m still not about to masturbate while he’s on the other end of the phone. But I’m so hot. I shove myself upright, pull up my skirt, and tug my knickers off. Cool air settles on my heated skin. Better. Much better. I tug my skirt back down.

  ‘Amy,’ he says. Just my name, that’s all. Just that one word.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Carry on.’

  I should stop this. What we’re doing is weird and wrong and inappropriate. But I don’t, because it might be all those things, but it’s also shockingly, undeniably exciting.

  ‘Amy,’ he says. ‘I’m waiting.’

  There’s something in his tone, something rough and demanding. I’ve never heard him speak that way before, not to me anyway, and it switches something on inside me.

  ‘Touch yourself,’ he ordered her. ‘I want to see you touch yourself, Sally. Show me what a wanton slut you are.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ Sally lifted her skirt. Underneath, she wore the smallest red satin panties that exposed almost everything. She slipped her fingers inside herself, frantic now, aroused almost to breaking point by the feel of his gaze on her.

  I pause for a moment, force myself to stay calm, because I know what happens next and I want Phil to know too. There is something deliciously erotic about what we’re doing. This is Phil, I think to myself. It doesn’t dampen my arousal. If anything, it makes it stronger. This is Phil. My friend, Phil. I know I shouldn’t think about him and sex together, but I do. I often wonder what he’s like in bed. I wonder what he likes, what he doesn’t. I wonder what his cock is like.

  I bet it’s big. I bet it’s really, really big.

  ‘Amy,’ he says.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why have you stopped?’

  God, his voice. ‘No reason,’ I say, the words spilling out too quickly. I make myself focus, start to read again, though I stutter and rush.

  Two fingers. Three. She leaned back, exposing herself to him, wanting him to see what she was doing, knowing he would appreciate it.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’

  His hand slid round the thick length of his cock, and his wrist began to pump. He held himself so tightly, squeezing until the head of his erection darkened. Sally had asked him once if it hurt, when he pleasured himself that way.

  ‘Yes,’ he had replied. ‘All pleasure is pain, don’t you think?’

  I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. This is wrong, this is so wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should stop, now, before things get any more out of hand. If I stop now, I can pretend this never happened.

  ‘Amy,’ he says. ‘Don’t stop.’

  His voice is rough and aroused. Is he touching himself? For a moment, the world seems to freeze as an image of Phil with his trousers unfastened and his cock in his hand flashes into my mind. I try to hold onto it, but it slips away from me, a fleeting, blurry thing.

  I sit upright on the bed, listening intently. I’m reading the words from the page but I’m not listening to them. I’m listening to Phil, desperate for any clue, trying to get that image back. Trying to see it clearly.

  ‘I want to see you come, Sally,’ he said. ‘I want to see your lovely breasts flush and your clit throb and you back arch as you get yourself off. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  His words aroused her even more. She rubbed at her clit, uncontrollable sounds of pleasure escaping from her as her excitement grew, as her heart pounded. She spread her legs wider, hips jerking, body crying out for the hard possession of his cock. And just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he moved closer, fist pumping.

  ‘Now, Sally,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  Hot strands of thick come coated her face, her lips, her tongue as her orgasm rushed through her. She cried out her pleasure as he spilled his seed all over her face.

  I stop reading. My pussy is wet and my back is slippery with perspiration. I’m so strung up and aroused and shocked that I can barely breathe. I always find that scene exciting. I always masturbate after I read it. It’s the only way I can persuade my body to calm, to settle. But that’s a private thing, a secret thing, and this isn’t private, or secret. ‘Phil?’

  A silence. A space. A pause. I force myself to breathe.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘Are you?’

  I don’t know. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you have a lot of books like that?’

  ‘A few,’ I admit, turning my hand over and looking at my nails. Even though he can’t see me, I’m blushing like mad. Because I’ve just realised something. The reason why I can’t get past paragraph three. The reason why everything I write sounds wrong. ‘Phil, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I think that…I think that the problem is that I can’t picture the male character. Every time I try to write something, that’s where I get stuck. And I think that if…if I had someone I could base him on, I’d be able to do it.’

  ‘Like a muse?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, clinging onto that word, because it makes it sound like something arty and serious, instead of kinky and weird. ‘Exactly like that. I need a muse.’

  ‘I could do that,’ he says, his tone thoughtful. ‘Shall I come round tomorrow, after work?’

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Yes. Fine. See you then.’

  And then I end the call. I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at it, my hands pressed against my cheeks like a real life version of The Scream. What have I done? When did I become the sort of person that does this sort of thing?

  And when did I start to like it?

  Chapter Three

  A little while later, reality hits me like a truck. I get my laptop and sit up in bed until three in the morning, typing, deleting, typing, deleting, trying to prove myself wrong. Trying to prove that I don’t need help, especially not from Phil. By the time I give up and surrender to exhaustion, I’ve got three sentences. It’s not much, but it’s more than I had, and I cling to that knowledge. At the bookshop, I keep a notepad on my desk, and scribble in it every chance I get. Every time someone comes in, I jump about three feet in the air and flip the notepad over. The last thing I want is for someone to ask me why I wrote ‘his cock was big and long’ and scribbled it out. Several times. By half four, I’ve written another three sentences. I’ve also drawn 78 cartoon penises. I’ve never been so relieved to have a day end.

  I grab my bag and my jacket and make my way home. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Six sentences is more than I had, but it’s not enough to win the bet. And I’m not even sure they’re good sentences. Several times, I take out my phone and think about calling Phil and telling him not to bother, but I don’t. Because those six sentences are all about a woman listening to a man masturbating on the other end of the phone. What happened last night changed something. I don’t just want to win the bet any more, I want to put these words on paper. I need to.

  Phil knocks on my door at half past six exactly, and I open it. ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ he says back. And for a moment, we just stand there and stare at each other.

  ‘Can I come in?’ he asks, eventually.

  I step back. ‘Sure.’

  He’s never looked out of place here before, but now he seems like a giant, all long legs and big hands. He drops his bag on the floor next to the sofa, and makes himself at home, resting his scruffy Che
lsea boots on my coffee table. ‘How was work?’ he asks, as he pulls off his tie and shoves it into his bag.

  ‘It was OK.’ I don’t sit down. I stand and fidget. ‘Want a drink?’ I hastily disappear into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I don’t know how to deal with him, or what to say. All I know is that I need a minute alone to sort through my disordered thoughts and get my head together. It would help if those thoughts didn’t keep pushing in Phil’s direction.

  He’s wearing a white shirt today, with a sleeveless jumper pulled over the top, and the swirls of coloured ink that cover his left arm are visible though the fabric, and that makes me feel strange. I’ve noticed all these things about him before, of course I have, but I’ve never been so aware of him, and I don’t know what to do with the way I’m feeling. It’s bound to spill out. He’s bound to notice. And then what will I do?

  When the kettle flicks off, I turn to find him lounging in the doorway. ‘So,’ he says. ‘How are we going to do this?’

  ‘I haven’t worked out the details yet.’ Other than a very vivid, very hot dream last night that involved asking him to strip off in the middle of my living room, and I’m not sure either of us is ready for that.

  ‘Have you written anything?’ he continues, taking mugs off the tree and setting them out.

  ‘Six sentences.’

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ I pull open the fridge, take out the milk. ‘I’m seriously thinking about just telling Dave he wins. It’s easier that way.’

  ‘Do you really want to do that?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But I don’t want to make a complete fool of myself either.’

  ‘You won’t,’ he says.

  ‘How do you know?’

  He reaches out, touches my shoulder. That’s all it is. He’s touched me that way a thousand times before. There’s nothing sexual in it, I’m sure there isn’t, but I couldn’t have felt it more if he’d put his hand down my top. ‘Because I won’t let you,’ he says.

  Milk slops onto the worktop. ‘Bloody hell.’ I set down the bottle, flap around for a cloth, clean it up. At least it stops me from having to look at him. But he doesn’t let me get away with it. He moves in, closer, and takes the cloth from me, and gently cleans up the mess. His hands are so big, so warm, and my gaze settles on that rose tattoo, and I can’t seem to make myself look away. I know he doesn’t see anything but a friend when he looks at me, and I don’t want to see anything other than that when I look at him, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  ‘These six sentences,’ he says. ‘Are they good sentences?’

  ‘They’re OK,’ I say. And something changes inside me. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what makes me say it. ‘I…I think reading to you helped.’

  His hands stop moving.

  We stand there like that, side by side, not moving. Neither of us speaks.

  ‘Would you like to read to me some more?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  I turn towards the doorway. He moves back, and I move past him. I go into my bedroom, pick up my iPad. I take it back through into the living room. I don’t tell him to take a seat. Instead, I curl myself up in my armchair, which is my favourite place to sit. I tuck my feet under myself, keeping my gaze on the screen as I turn it on and open up Spank Me Sir.

  The words swim a little before my eyes, then settle down. My heart doesn’t, though. My pulse feels strange, too fast. I swallow, as if I can eat my nerves, then I begin.

  ‘What do you want, Sally?’

  Such a simple question, and yet so complicated, so fraught with danger. ‘I’m not sure, Sir.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are,’ he said. ‘Shall we try that again? What do you want, Sally?’

  It was impossible. She couldn’t. She mustn’t. Her hands trembled, and she pressed them tightly between her thighs, trying to hide it. But she could hide nothing from him. He knew her, as no one else had.

  ‘Perhaps this will help you figure it out,’ he said. He put a large hand to her shoulder, pushed her back in her seat. Then he coaxed her thighs apart. It was almost tender, the way he touched her, and yet she instinctively knew he was not a tender man.

  His fingers sought the sensitive flesh of her pussy. She wasn’t wearing knickers. He had made it clear early on that he wouldn’t tolerate such things.

  ‘So pretty,’ he said. ‘You are always wet, aren’t you, Sally?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  I pause for breath. Saying these things out loud is almost more than I can manage. My mouth is parched, and I’m still trembling. I can’t look at Phil. He’s standing in the doorway, his hands tucked in his pockets.

  The silence expands between us. And then I risk a glance at him. I can’t seem to stop myself. He doesn’t make eye contact, and I’m grateful for that. There’s a distinct possibility that I might run into my bedroom and lock the door and refuse to come out if he does.

  He’s flushed, stripes of red highlighting both of his cheekbones, contouring his face. His mouth, with the bottom lip that doesn’t quite fit, is slightly open. He lifts a hand, ruffles it through his hair, making it stand up from his head. ‘I’ve been wondering what turns you on for a very long time. And now I know.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I let out some air. ‘You never said.’

  ‘You never asked.’

  No, I suppose I didn’t, because I never let myself think about him in that way. And then his gaze meets mine, and I think my heart stops. I drop my gaze to the floor, or at least I try. It seems to get stuck somewhere in the middle of his body.

  Somewhere in the vicinity of his groin.

  And the clear outline of what appears to be a very big erection pushing against the front of his trousers. The zip is straining, and he tugs on his jumper, as if trying to cover it up, but it doesn’t work. I stare and stare, and then I realise what I’m doing and I lower my gaze and read some more.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Did you masturbate today?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Did you want to?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Such restraint,’ he said. ‘I admire that. Unfortunately, I am not capable of such things.’ He pushed his fingers deep inside her. There was no slow tease, no waiting for permission. He didn’t need it. She was his to do with as he would. That was the promise she had made to herself.

  ‘You’re so tight,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure my cock will fit.’

  The chair is getting uncomfortable, and my feet are starting to go numb. I tolerate it for as long as I can, then it starts to hurt. I have to move. I swing my legs up, lower my feet to the floor. Movement catches my attention, and out of the corner of my eye I see Phil tug off his sleeveless sweater. He tosses it down on the arm of my sofa. And then I notice something else.

  He’s moved closer. He’s not standing in the doorway any more. He’s by my feet, and he’s looking down at me. I don’t ask him what he’s doing. I don’t look at him. I grip my iPad tighter, and I read the next word, and the next, even though my throat feels like it’s closing up and there’s no blood left in my head.

  Because it’s all dropped south.

  ‘No, Sir,’ Sally said, breathless with excitement. She squirmed against his fingers, against the thick, unyielding intrusion. He hadn’t fucked her with his cock, yet, though he had let her pleasure him.

  He…

  I stop. I have to.

  Because Phil has moved again. He’s not standing up any longer. Instead, he’s on his knees. He’s on his knees, in front of me. I don’t know what he’s doing, what it means, but I don’t stop him. He looks over at me, combs his fingers through his hair to push it back from his face again. Sometimes, I look at him and all I can see is the flaws. I make myself focus on these things, because it’s easier than dealing with the fact that I am hugely, desperately attracted to him and he is not in any way attracted to me. His bottom lip is too full, and his hair is just a shade too blond, and it wouldn’t hurt
him to be a bit shorter.

  But put all these things together, and they make something…more. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s always so nice to me. Maybe it’s the air of quiet determination that he seems to have about him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s sliding his fingers along my thighs.

  Oh my god. He’s sliding his fingers along my thighs. And they’re warm, and then his palms make contact too, and they’re sliding higher, higher, and they’re under my skirt, and I don’t know what to think, what to say, so I start reading again.

  Because if I don’t distract myself, I’ll tell him to stop. And I don’t want him to stop. Even though we’re friends, and if he keeps touching me like this we’re not going to be friends any more, we’re going to be something else. Because really, how can you be friends with a man who has put his fingers in your pussy? You’re not friends once he’s done that to you.

  He skated his thumb over her clit, teasing the stiff little nub. Sally bit her lip, desperate to cry out with pleasure, knowing that he might stop if she did. That was his only rule. That she had to follow his rules. And the more difficult to follow, the better. He enjoyed her discomfort, she knew he did. He enjoyed refusing to let her orgasm, teasing her over and over as he murmured to her in that soft, low voice, ‘Don’t come, Sally. Don’t come.’

  ‘It’s like a little cock,’ he whispered. ‘Did you know that, Sally? That when you’re aroused, your clit is as stiff as a cock?’

  He slid his finger and thumb around it, then lightly pinched the throbbing nub. Pleasure sang through her.

  Phil has moved closer. He’s right between my thighs now, the sleeves of his shirt brushing against the inside of my thighs. One hand is resting on my bare calf, stroking, stroking, and the other, well. It’s playing with my pussy.

  He looks at me again, and this time when our eyes meet we keep looking at each other, as he finds my clit, finds it so easily, and flicks his thumb over it. That’s all he does, that simple movement, but my entire body starts to heat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I manage eventually, because I have to say something, and I can’t seem to focus on the words on the screen.