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I know I should feel bad for this. I will at some point, that’s got to be something. But the reason I’m letting you do it is so I don’t have to feel bad, and my mind doesn’t have to keep worrying at the way I feel about her like it’s a squeaky hinge, so if I felt bad about this now, in a round-about sort of way, that would be worse.
You smile at me, on your knees, and I smile back. If she was here, that would be a connection, but with you it’s just a smile. You’ve unzipped me, and you pull me free. I’m already hard. Normally I’d have stopped thinking about her by this moment; that’s what this is for. I would feel your hand around me, and watch you lean forward, anticipating the way your wet, warm mouth is going to feel and just focus on that feeling.
I try. I think about the firm grip of your fingers, and the shunt, shunt, shunt of your wrist, up and down, my foreskin pulling back and up again with your palm. Is Robin doing this to Matt tonight? If she’s already pregnant maybe they are being careful about full sex now, and she kneels like this, and… no. Stop.
I look back at you. You moisten your lips and I refocus. You dip closer, and you rub your dampened lips over the head, lips slightly apart, just letting me feel your hot breath there. That’s right. There’s the feeling. That’s what I need, just pure sensation to drag my busy mind away, for a few minutes, from her. I reach out, put my hand in your hair. I close my eyes, and your hair is red-gold under my fingers just as you flick your tongue out, and my eyes fly open because your hair isn’t red-gold, of course it’s not.
You think you’ve hit a spot; you think that’s what my eyes flying open meant. You don’t know it’s because it suddenly wasn’t your mouth slowly beginning to descend on me. I can’t think about her. That’s not the point of this. That’s the opposite of what this is meant to be. I force myself to look at you. A strong visual should work hand in hand with the physical to drive her out of my mind, just for a little while.
I look at your lips, now sliding around the head and down the shaft, and then back up. You do it again, slightly quicker, and then still gripping the base, you hold your mouth closed around the top and I feel your tongue dancing against me inside. You’re very good at this bit. You make an appreciative noise. I enjoy the filthy chuckle you make as you open your mouth for a breath.
I imagine thick black kohl around eyes, ripped fishnets and a working class northern girl who likes The Cure, gets a bit lairy if you piss her off, and is quite proud of being really good at head. I press my mouth closed from where it’s fallen open imagining Becca where you are, and I think I can just about get away with that because Becca isn’t her, not really.
Come on, I think. Concentrate on right now, you stupid fuck.
Warm wet mouth, taking me all the way in, and then slipping up, tongue swirling flicks at the top, and then down again. And again, down you go, and your other hand reaches and kneads gently at my balls. I wonder where you learned to do this, because this is not a new skill. Some things are just instinct, though, I guess.
She does everything she does from natural talent, too. Bugging the Houses of Parliament, for fuck’s sake. Fucking magnificent. No, stop. Back to hands, mouth, tongue, please. You look up at me with brown eyes. Yours are natural. Hers were a clever mask, changing her face enough to make her a different person.
How would she do this? Venetia would sit more primly. She would look at me with a disapproving glare as she bobbed her head up and down as you are doing. She would not approve of this sort of thing, but it’s what men like, and she enjoys the challenge at least. I let out a shuddering breath at that thought, of her tidy hair, and sloaney outfit, little pearl studs in her ears, thinking how very unsuitable and uncouth I am as she lets me fuck her mouth.
I’m losing it. I can’t think about her, even as not-her, and normally the barreling roll of my orgasm thundering up, ready to release deep in your throat would have pushed all thought of her away for a few peaceful seconds, but she’s there again, not as naughty Becca, not haughty Venetia, she’s Robin, straddling me and that warm wetness is her around me, and oh god here it comes, my head flings back and my hips buck up deep into the slippery heat and I’m pulsing out everything, and oh fuck yes.
I catch my breath. You’ve swallowed and you pull away. I think I had maybe three seconds of peace there. It’s getting so much shorter now, this relief you give me. And now, here it comes, the feeling bad. I’ve just used you, even though I know you were willing. But you were only willing because you think I might change my mind and fall in love with you, and I know that’s never going to happen. It can’t. That ship has sailed away with someone else. This has to stop. The balance has shifted and I can’t justify this anymore. I never should have let it linger on so long. I’m better than this. I’m not very good at doing it well, but I know I have to relinquish this shiny penny that I’ve been using to distract me.
“You ok?” You ask me.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Thanks, that was helpful.”
You look faintly appalled at such a clinical compliment, but I have no will to tidy up after myself now. Decision made. But I still feel bad about this.