Free Control by Charlotte Stein Page A

exposing my breasts to his heavy gaze, his passes one hand over the bulge in his trousers, again. This time, it lingers there. It really rubs, and his tongue flickers out to lick his firm lips.
    The cool air feels wonderful on my tense nipples, but I bet that tongue would feel even better. Not that I think he’s going to do anything like that, of course. No, instead he says in this blank, strange voice, ‘Turn around.’
    At first I’m sure I’ve misheard. Not only because it’s Gabe actually telling me to do something off his own bat, but because the request itself is so … odd. I thought he wanted to see my tits. The back view’s not half so interesting.
    And yet he’s waiting, he’s just waiting for me to obey.
    So I do. I turn slowly, on my knees. Consider putting my hands on the headboard – even though that seems much more like an Andy sort of request. It seems like an Andy thing to do, too, when he puts one firm hand on my back, and bends me forward.
    Somehow I end up on my hands and knees, facing the giant cross that isn’t over his bed. And though I adore many deliciously naive and awkward things about Gabe, I won’t lie. The newness and unexpectedness of this act prickles delightfully along the length of my spine.
    For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to fuck me. His hands even go to my thighs, and he pushes my skirt up until I know most of me’s exposed to him. Just a strip of white knickers between his gaze and my cunt, and that’s got to be see-through by now. I can feel the sodden material trying to merge with my flesh, in some sort of awful shameful fashion.
    Even though it’s Gabe that should be ashamed. He’s the one with all that baggage on him. And yet when I imagine his precise eyes assessing me, his carefully measured repression, doling out his slight, sighing reactions – my cheeks heat. I clench his perfect bedspread into white-knuckled fists, expecting maybe disapproving words: you little slut. Look at that soaking wet pussy. You know what you need? You need a big fat dick in that whore’s cunt .
    Of course, no such words come. Instead I hear and feel him move off the bed, and I bark it out before I can stop myself:
    ‘Don’t you fucking go anywhere, boy.’
    He hiccups around his response, but that’s OK. I hiccupped inside, while saying those words.
    ‘I won’t – don’t worry, I’m not.’ A pause, full with heat and tension. ‘Come closer to the end of the bed.’
    I do, without looking – looking would spoil the surprise. Maybe he’s going to fuck me, long and hard. Maybe he’s going to tease and torment me. Maybe he’s going to play the sudden authoritarian, and spank me. How dare I toy with him, like this!
    And it could be that’s what I want. Or what I deserve, at the very least.
    However, I know what he’s actually doing, when I hear it – and it makes me thrill more deeply than any shame-based fantasy. He’s kneeling on the ground.
    ‘Gabe,’ I say, but he just tells me, in this breathless sort of voice, ‘It’s OK. It’s fine – I know what I’m doing. I know how to work this out.’
    And then he just presses that gorgeous mouth to the tense strip of material between my legs, without having to be asked.
    I have to hold in the sob of relief and pleasure because there’s no way I want him to hear it. It seems that I don’t want to do anything, apart from focus on the sudden slow drag of what must be his tongue, over that wet material.
    His hands skate over the backs of my thighs and then up, beneath the folds of my skirt – and I think I know what he’s going for, even if the way he lets himself squeeze and fondle my arse – even daring to explore the cleft between – makes me doubt his intentions. I get a sense of being uncovered, or being detailed and mapped out like a science experiment …
    And then his hands slide further up, and find the elastic of my knickers.
    Most of which would be just as excruciatingly pleasurable even if he