Free Sweet Agony by Charlotte Stein

on super-intelligent texts from the nineteenth century. I think it is bound in leather with embossed lettering, and the paper is thick and expensive.
    Yet the words are filth itself. They are so filthy my cheeks are blazing. I think I might be just as embarrassed as I am electrified by it, though it’s a close thing. One emotion seems to bleed into another and then the other attacks the first with a hammer until finally I just have to accept it. He was right about knowing his stuff.
    He knows his stuff just fine.
    In fact he knows it so well I’m starting to suspect there may be some other motive in here somewhere. He seems calm, on the outside. And, when I react in any way, he barely appears to notice. Or so I think. But it must be hard for him to keep doing so, when I know there are so many signs of my excitement. My nipples are pressing against my dress, so stiff and spiky that not even a layer of lining and support can conceal them. And, though the room is as cold as a tomb, I can tell my cheeks are flushed. I can almost feel them blazing, like a neon beacon saying, ‘Molly is really fucking turned on.’

    But even if they weren’t, the fact that I just started rocking in my chair would be something of a giveaway. He starts talking about working a slick finger into tight arseholes and coming in great, pulsing spurts, and I have to do something. I have to rub myself a little, and then maybe a little gives way to a lot, and finally I think I might be just humping the chair – so really he has to know something.
    He must, and yet he keeps going.
    Now he’s talking about some guy who just came in, as the first one finishes filling her mouth. And though I think I can safely say that one man makes for a simple story to illustrate his point, I’m not sure what to make of it when a second joins in. The second one fucks her pussy while the first licks her clit, and then, just in case that wasn’t bad enough, just in case I wasn’t almost wild with lust, he tells me in that gorgeous voice that ‘he slid out of her still shivering cunt, to spill all over the still lapping tongue of this handsome stranger.’
    After which, I feel it must be OK to go further. He just described a guy coming all over and inside another guy’s mouth. You just don’t do that unless you expect someone to get excited – though to be honest I’m way past that point. I’m so turned on that I could slip a hand into my knickers. I could tug at my stiff nipples and stroke my slippery pussy. And when he talks about them both kissing her come-soaked sex I get really close. One of my hands almost makes it to mid-thigh and the other is somewhere around the middle of my chest.
    But, thank God, it stays there. Thank God, I hold on to some of my senses, because just as sexual certainty has me in its bright-red and burning hot grip, just as I think there’s no way this is anything but a come-on – that’s when he chooses to suddenly snap the book closed, so sharply that I know what’s coming, but all the same, by God, I will it not to.

    Just give me some small sign that you meant it to feel so sweet, I think at him.
    And then he glances up at me, as impassive and cool as a pane of glass, and tells me what I should have understood from the moment he started speaking. I should have done, but I didn’t, and oh, God, I will regret that until the day I die.
    ‘So you see it’s quite simple to be aware of sex,’ he says, swiftly followed by the crushing kicker: ‘Without ever feeling anything at all.’

Chapter Seven
    I try to pretend none of it affected me in the least. The only trouble is, he makes pretending almost impossible. It would have been easy before, when he spent his days hiding behind doors and darting away into rooms whenever I was around. But, unfortunately for me, he doesn’t need to do any of that now. He no longer has anything to hide.
    He can just fly around the house whenever he feels like it, suddenly barging into rooms when I