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And so something about conversation makes us suddenly need to fuck. I’m not at home and I can’t, I say. I’m surrounded by people and I cannot answer him properly. Yes, he says, yes you can. I need to. please. I’m hard now, he says.
I just had this image, he whispers to me. I can see you over me, leaning back. I can see you slowly taking my cock in your ass.
My hands are on your hips holding you up, you lean back and show me your cunt, spreading it open for me.
I can see this too now. I can’t stop. I can’t talk with so many around me. —Fuck!, I whisper. I hate this. I hate him for this: reducing me to words of one syllable like that.
Go into the bathroom, he says, please come for me.
I need to hear you.
Yes, I say, surrendering, 5 minutes.
In the bathroom with the door locked I pull down my jeans and my panties are caught around my knees. I’m leaning back, sitting on the toilet. My legs are spread as wide as they can be, but the panties and the jeans trapping them make it feel like I’m tied up, restrained in some way. I want to be spread open, this restraint is hard, but I know I will come harder because of it.
Touch your clit for me, he says. Tell me.