Dirty Talk. Jane O'Reilly
something in his tone, something rough and demanding. I’ve never heard him speak that way before, not to me anyway, and it switches something on inside me.
‘Touch yourself,’ he ordered her. ‘I want to see you touch yourself, Sally. Show me what a wanton slut you are.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Sally lifted her skirt. Underneath, she wore the smallest red satin panties that exposed almost everything. She slipped her fingers inside herself, frantic now, aroused almost to breaking point by the feel of his gaze on her.
I pause for a moment, force myself to stay calm, because I know what happens next and I want Phil to know too. There is something deliciously erotic about what we’re doing. This is Phil, I think to myself. It doesn’t dampen my arousal. If anything, it makes it stronger. This is Phil. My friend, Phil. I know I shouldn’t think about him and sex together, but I do. I often wonder what he’s like in bed. I wonder what he likes, what he doesn’t. I wonder what his cock is like.
I bet it’s big. I bet it’s really, really big.
‘Amy,’ he says.
‘Yes?’
‘Why have you stopped?’
God, his voice. ‘No reason,’ I say, the words spilling out too quickly. I make myself focus, start to read again, though I stutter and rush.
Two fingers. Three. She leaned back, exposing herself to him, wanting him to see what she was doing, knowing he would appreciate it.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
His hand slid round the thick length of his cock, and his wrist began to pump. He held himself so tightly, squeezing until the head of his erection darkened. Sally had asked him once if it hurt, when he pleasured himself that way.
‘Yes,’ he had replied. ‘All pleasure is pain, don’t you think?’
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. This is wrong, this is so wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should stop, now, before things get any more out of hand. If I stop now, I can pretend this never happened.
‘Amy,’ he says. ‘Don’t stop.’
His voice is rough and aroused. Is he touching himself? For a moment, the world seems to freeze as an image of Phil with his trousers unfastened and his cock in his hand flashes into my mind. I try to hold onto it, but it slips away from me, a fleeting, blurry thing.
I sit upright on the bed, listening intently. I’m reading the words from the page but I’m not listening to them. I’m listening to Phil, desperate for any clue, trying to get that image back. Trying to see it clearly.
‘I want to see you come, Sally,’ he said. ‘I want to see your lovely breasts flush and your clit throb and you back arch as you get yourself off. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
His words aroused her even more. She rubbed at her clit, uncontrollable sounds of pleasure escaping from her as her excitement grew, as her heart pounded. She spread her legs wider, hips jerking, body crying out for the hard possession of his cock. And just when she thought she could stand it no longer, he moved closer, fist pumping.
‘Now, Sally,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Hot strands of thick come coated her face, her lips, her tongue as her orgasm rushed through her. She cried out her pleasure as he spilled his seed all over her face.
I stop reading. My pussy is wet and my back is slippery with perspiration. I’m so strung up and aroused and shocked that I can barely breathe. I always find that scene exciting. I always masturbate after I read it. It’s the only way I can persuade my body to calm, to settle. But that’s a private thing, a secret thing, and this isn’t private, or secret. ‘Phil?’
A silence. A space. A pause. I force myself to breathe.
‘Yeah?’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘Are you?’
I don’t know. ‘Of course.’
‘Do you have a lot of books like that?’
‘A few,’ I admit, turning my hand over and looking at my nails. Even though he can’t see me, I’m blushing like mad. Because I’ve just realised something. The reason why I can’t get past paragraph three. The reason why everything I write sounds wrong. ‘Phil, can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘I think that…I think that the problem is that I can’t picture the male character. Every time I try to write something, that’s where I get stuck. And I think that if…if I had someone I could base him on, I’d be able to do it.’
‘Like a muse?’
‘Yes,’ I say, clinging onto that word, because it makes it sound like something arty and serious, instead of kinky and weird. ‘Exactly like that. I need a muse.’
‘I could do that,’ he says, his tone thoughtful. ‘Shall I come round tomorrow, after work?’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Yes. Fine. See you then.’
And then I end the call. I toss the phone onto the bed and stare at it, my hands pressed against my cheeks like a real life version of The Scream. What have I done? When did I become the sort of person that does this sort of thing?
And when did I start to like it?
A little while later, reality hits me like a truck. I get my laptop and sit up in bed until three in the morning, typing, deleting, typing, deleting, trying to prove myself wrong. Trying to prove that I don’t need help, especially not from Phil. By the time I give up and surrender to exhaustion, I’ve got three sentences. It’s not much, but it’s more than I had, and I cling to that knowledge. At the bookshop, I keep a notepad on my desk, and scribble in it every chance I get. Every time someone comes in, I jump about three feet in the air and flip the notepad over. The last thing I want is for someone to ask me why I wrote ‘his cock was big and long’ and scribbled it out. Several times. By half four, I’ve written another three sentences. I’ve also drawn 78 cartoon penises. I’ve never been so relieved to have a day end.
I grab my bag and my jacket and make my way home. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Six sentences is more than I had, but it’s not enough to win the bet. And I’m not even sure they’re good sentences. Several times, I take out my phone and think about calling Phil and telling him not to bother, but I don’t. Because those six sentences are all about a woman listening to a man masturbating on the other end of the phone. What happened last night changed something. I don’t just want to win the bet any more, I want to put these words on paper. I need to.
Phil knocks on my door at half past six exactly, and I open it. ‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Hi,’ he says back. And for a moment, we just stand there and stare at each other.
‘Can I come in?’ he asks, eventually.
I step back. ‘Sure.’
He’s never looked out of place here before, but now he seems like a giant, all long legs and big hands. He drops his bag on the floor next to the sofa, and makes himself at home, resting his scruffy Chelsea boots on my coffee table. ‘How was work?’ he asks, as he pulls off his tie and shoves it into his bag.
‘It was OK.’ I don’t sit down. I stand and fidget. ‘Want a drink?’ I hastily disappear into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I don’t know how to deal with him, or what to say. All I know is that I need a minute alone to sort through