Since the point of all this enterprise is to give Emilia writing material, she’s definitely getting the bang for her buck, as they say in American telly series. Or should we say, the bounce for an ounce? The man is built – and endowed – accordingly, and the feeling of his cock sliding into her is palpable. And then he starts to move. He’s supporting himself on his elbows, and each motion is long and deep.
Emilia arrives at a staggering realisation: she likes shag.
Bewildering, innit? Now that she’s experiencing sex in its pure form – just the physical sensations, unobscured by the any sort of an emotional narrative – she can definitely say, she’s into it. Oates is heavy, his body is scorching, and he, as the cliché goes, knows what he’s doing. He’s also somehow guessing what feels good to her – maybe, by her breathing or by the noises she makes – and he adjusts his angle accordingly. There’s also some sort of a delicious twist to the smooth, rolling movements of his hips. And then he shifts forward, thrusting deeper and rougher, pushing her backside up, making her arch her back – and she can’t hold back a loud moan, and then about a dozen more. She slides her hands on the bed, and then grips fistfuls of his sheet, steadying herself – and perks her bottom up. He growls. This isn’t a platitude from one of her books. He – probably – bares his teeth, and emits a long rumbly sound, born in his throat, and then vibrating in his mouth.
“More?” he grits out. “More?”
Emilia is too far gone to wonder if it’s dirty talk or something else, and what it is she’s supposed to answer.
“Yes,” she breathes out. “”Please, yes…”
She feels him shift, bending down, and then his breath brushes at her ear.
“What?” she asks, confused.
His large palm strokes her waist. “Tell me what to do.”
What can surely serve as an indication of how much Emilia is enjoying this is the fact that she decides any sort of analysis, considerations, and insecurities can get on their bike! She’s willing to try pretty much anything to ensure that he continues creating this pelvic magic of his!
She squeezes her eyes closed, and exhales, “Move.”
He rocks his hips, ever so slightly, and his lips skim her shoulder.
“More?” he asks again.
She’d properly start questioning it – she’s clearly missing something – but the thing is, Emilia has been a good student and has been diligent with her homework. She’s bought the toys Mistress Eva suggested; she’s been watching videos; she read articles – and she practiced. She’s familiarised herself with her body; she’s tried to figure out what works for her – and about ten minutes ago, she found out that the penis of one Daniel Oates, in a lowered doggy style position, hits exactly the spot Emilia has discovered with the help of her new friend of the rabbit variety. And it turns out that Oates does it better. Emilia inhales and gathers her courage.
“Move more,” she whispers.
He obliges – and it’s brilliant! And then he pauses again. Emilia makes a distressed noise. As skeptical as she was, even she can’t deny anymore that she might have been heading towards her first orgasm with a real human male – and she might even prefer a cock to a bunny, all innuendos intended.
And just before he rises on his straight arms – Emilia sasses out that that’s why he’s stopped, just a second too late – she barks, “Do it!”
He chuckles behind her, before her embarrassment kicks in, and runs the tips of his fingers from her waist, along her spine, and into the hair at the back of her head. Emilia shudders – and incidentally squeezes his cock inside her. He rumbles low in his throat.
That’s a different tone, she notices right away. He sounds playful now. The intensity of his previous questions is gone. Emilia didn’t know that apparently there could be some sort of an emotional dynamic that changes and fluctuates during sex – but she’ll think about it later. Right now, his sudden lighter mood is contagious.
“Me?” She mimics his tone.
“With pleasure,” he murmurs.
Blimey! The man delivers on his promises. The new position is so much more gratifying, too. That sweet, sweet coil of impending crisis is starting to tighten between her legs – and just because he seems to be enjoying it too – and he did ask, didn’t he? – and because the repetition of such a venture for Emilia isn’t a given – Emilia goes all in. It’s not a conscientious decision. It’s just hormones, really.
She pushes off the bed, meeting his thrust, and whimpers, “More…”
It doesn’t seem to have much effect, but Emilia’s nitrogen oxide and noradrenaline filled brain, spurred by her excited amygdala, tells her to try… harder.
“Do it–” She raises her voice. “Harder!”
His rhythm stutters – and then he does. There’s no other word but ‘pounding’ to describe what he’s doing – and Emilia is all for it! It takes him only six strokes – and Emilia cries out in her first ever climax during penetrative heterosexual sex.
The above description isn’t what’s rushing through her mind, while she’s shaking and thrashing under him, without a single clear thought, all her being flooded by absolute and utter ecstasy.
“Hell’s bloody bells!” Emilia’s voice is ringing. “Sweet Mother of Jesus! Oh…” The second wave of the crisis makes her writhe on the bed, and she mewls. “Oh… Bloody hell… Sodding bloody hell…”
Oates starts laughing, but even that doesn’t tarnish Emilia’s bliss. He can laugh, he can pull out and kick her out of his bed – again, there must be some sort of an etiquette regarding cumming before the other person, and it most definitely doesn’t include hollering a string of obscenities – but Emilia doesn’t give a toss. It was all worth it.
She feels him carefully lower himself onto his elbows again, and he kisses her neck. She’s probably sweaty, she can feel the small curls stuck to her temples and her nape – but again, there’s just too much oxytocin jollily coursing her blood for her to bother with anything.
“Do you want to stop?” he asks, his voice again mellow and warm.
“I don’t know,” Emilia mumbles and clears her throat. “I can’t–” She lifts her hand – her fingers are visibly trembling – and twirls her index finger near her forehead. “Too fuzzy…”
He emits another soft chortle, and then withdraws in one fluid motion. Emilia moans, and the bed dips under his weight near her.
“Is it OK?” she asks, struggling to open her eyes. “Is it OK if we don’t–”
“Of course,” he says.
The barney is that one properly can’t tell with him, because he’s unwaveringly affable and courteous. Emilia gives her body several minutes of being a beached whale. For a moment, she thinks that he moved closer, she seems to feel more heat, and she opens one eye. He’s stretched his hand to her shoulder, and he jerks it back. There’s an odd expression on his face.
“Is everything alright?” she asks, immediately tensing up.
He looks like he’s got a toothache. He even cringes a bit – and then says, “Emilia, I– Please, don’t misunderstand me. I don’t want to be rude, but–”
It’s as if the proverbial bucket of cold water hits Emilia’s back and shoulders – the mental blow is supported by the instantaneous realisation that she’s naked and the feeling of being actually physically cold – and she pulls her head down into her shoulders.
“I know it sounds awful,” he continues, “but I promise, it has nothing to do with you personally. And I’d hate for you to misinterpret it, but– Do you mind–” Another pained grimace runs his face. Emilia can’t breathe. “Leaving right now?” he finishes quietly.
She’s never actually been hit in her life – but she’s a hundred percent sure a punch in the stomach doesn’t hurt that much.
She scampers away from him and off the bed, hurriedly picking up her clothes from the floor.
“Of course, of course!” She’s mumbling and backing off to the door. Somehow, she can neither look at him – she’s cowardly pretending to scan the floor for more pieces of her wardrobe – nor to turn her back to him. It’s because he complimented your arse – and now it just doesn’t feel like he was sincere. “I’ll just use your bathroom! To get dressed, you know, and then I’ll–”
“Emilia, could you, please–”
She doesn’t hear what he’s asking for because she rushes down the corridor, closes the door behind her, and stops in the middle of his bathroom. Her heart is beating so hard that it seems that she can hear her own pulse drumming in her ears. A half-hiccup, half-sob bursts out of her, but she manages to press her hand over her mouth just in time to silence it. She needs to get dressed. She’s a cry-baby. She needs to at least make it out of his flat, even better if out of his building as well, because she tends to be a loud bawler.
He knocks on the bathroom door, and Emilia flounders.
“Yes, yes, just a second!”
For some reason she sounds deliriously jolly. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and prohibits herself to acknowledge a single sensation in her body right now. She suddenly thinks that the clothes she’s pulling on – meaning, the ones he took off her just an hour ago – will probably need to be burnt.
“Emilia, could we, please, talk?” He stumbles over the word ‘talk’
Of course, he does. He feels bad. He’s not a complete tosser. Except, he definitely doesn’t want to talk. Why would he?
Fully dressed at the record speed, Emilia opens the door. Stop smiling, Milly! You look like a lunatic. He’s put on some sort of soft bottoms and a tee. They are just as expensive looking and stylish – and faceless – as everything in his life. Except Emilia – but she’ll be out of it in about two minutes.
He peers into her face, opens his mouth, and then closes.
“Well, this was lovely,” Emilia says in a screechy, unpleasantly loud voice, still grinning from ear to ear. It probably looks rather scary. “Thank you! And for the pudding. And–”
“And– yeah, thank you. I mean, you were ace! And–”
She’s edging around him, like a crab, and once her back is aligned with the entrance door, she starts walking backwards.
“Honestly, don’t worry about it! I get it.” A mental shrieky laugh erupts out of her. “You have stuff to do. I mean, I basically kidnapped you at lunch. And I have work to do anyroad, and–”
She’s reached the door and grabs her coat and her handbag.
“And I’m sorry you didn’t– You know– And it was awfully decent of you to offer to stop after I was done, and–”
“I can’t have anyone in my flat!” he roars.
Emilia freezes, her mouth half-open, her belongings pressed to her chest. He’s breathing heavily, his nostrils flare, and his chest is heaving. Like an enraged buccaneer or a passionate oil tycoon in her book – except… what? He’s also not making eye contact. There’s some sort of a disconnect between his statement – he did ask her to leave and she’s almost gone – and his reaction.
“Yeah, right, sure,” Emilia mumbles. “Like I said, it’s no problem. I’ll just go, OK?”
He closes his eyes momentarily and makes a quiet noise in his throat. When he looks at her, he frowns deeply and swallows with difficulty.
“Are you sure it’s OK?” he asks. “Because it is rude. To ask you to leave. And I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but–”
He seems to be searching for words, but Emilia has run out of time. Either she leaves now, or he’ll face the eruption of geyser Emilia.
“No, no, of course not! You didn’t– hurt my feelings–” She batters her hand behind her, pushes the handle, and stumbles into the hallway outside his flat. “I’ll call you, OK?” she squeaks, twirls on one spot, and flees.
Surprisingly, she only starts crying in the cab. Her body and her mind are in such a disarray, and she’s feeling so many things at once, that she doesn’t even berate herself for that last ‘I’ll call you, OK?’ of hers. After all, it didn’t make the situation any worse. He’ll probably worry that she’ll start stalking him, but since she will never, ever, ever see him again, he’ll forget all about her soon enough. The above is the thought that pops the cork – and she folds in half in the backseat of a cab and bites into her curled index finger to stay quiet, boiling tears burning her cheeks, a heave after another convulsing through her body.