Free Control by Charlotte Stein

calloused fingertips, though I couldn’t say why.
    ‘Is that what you want?’
    He doesn’t answer again, but his jaw tightens when I shimmy back on the bed and away from him. I lean against the headboard, smoothing my skirt and almost closing my shirt as I go. Prim, again. Neat.
    ‘Tell me you want me bare, and I’ll give it to you.’
    His eyes flash wide for the barest second, before he composes himself again. Though in all honesty, his composure is not what it should be. His hair has slanted sideways and his mouth can’t seem to close, and I can see the tension in his thighs and his shoulders. The tremble through every inch of him.
    And of course, he’s hard again – I can see the thick jut of his cock through his tweedy trousers. When he passes one hand over this obscene bulge, unconsciously, my sex swells against its cotton confines. I feel as though I’ve been straitjacketed, down there. I feel too full and uncomfortable, just aching all over to remove my clothes in ways my words belie.
    ‘You’re teasing me,’ he says, after a second – but he doesn’t sound upset. ‘Are you going to refuse if I ask?’
    I suppose he would seem very practical and ordered, like usual, if it were not for the tremor running through his voice. That cut of hoarseness, right at the back.
    ‘Is that what other girls did, on this prim little bed?’
    His face doesn’t darken, the way I expect it to. The question bounces right off him, not hitting the mark of offence that someone who’d been snubbed would certainly have.
    He just shakes his head. As though there haven’t been any girls to snub him.
    ‘If you want it, you have to ask,’ I say.
    His thick brows gather together, but not really in anger or frustration. Again, I can practically see him considering and struggling, attempting to plot out his next move.
    ‘Shouldn’t you just be telling me what to do?’ he asks, and though it’s true that a thick gush of pleasure goes through me when he says such a thing, I wonder what ideas about sex are floating around in that complicated brain of his.
    ‘No – I think I’d like this, instead. I think I’d like you to ask me. I think I’d like for you to come and get it.’
    His brow smoothes out, but he looks no less disconcerted.
    ‘Take –’ he begins. And then again: ‘Take …’
    I think about him looking at my shoes. My dirty, sharp little shoes on his beautiful polished floors.
    ‘What do you want, Gabe? Would you like to see my tits?’
    His eyes close briefly, on the word tits .
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then ask.’
    ‘Why do I have to –’
    He stops himself, before his words become a frustrated shout.
    ‘Because I say so. Go on, be dirty. Say I want to see your tits, Madison.’
    He shakes his head, almost amused.
    ‘I can’t say that.’
    ‘Then say Ms Morris. Ms Morris, I’d like to see your tits. You can make an appointment, if you like: Mr Kauffman to view the breasts of Ms Morris five seconds hence.’
    Of course he knows I’m mocking him – just a little, not enough to singe, I hope – but he goes for it anyway. All in a jumbled rush, as though the words are sharp and scour his insides as they go.
    ‘Take off your bra for me,’ he says.
    It’s close enough. Who am I to deny him, after an internal battle like that? And when he adds the word please on the end, well. I just want to shove my hand into my knickers and bring myself off, immediately.
    ‘Shirt first?’ I prompt, and his mouth almost makes a smile.
    ‘Yes,’ he replies, breathy and bashful.
    I kneel up on his uncomfortable bed, stockings almost making me lose my way, and then I take my time. I unbutton the cuffs of my shirt; I fold it neatly once it’s off. And all the while his impatience vibrates against me, a living, arousing thing, made worse by his inability to push through it. He doesn’t demand or ask anything further of me, though he shakes with the need to.
    When I unclip the bra and slide it down my arms, finally