Page 107 of Unstitch

‘It’s so good.’ I can’t. ‘So good—fuuuck. So?—’

I’m rocking on all fours, meeting him thrust for thrust, even though my wrists are burning and my biceps are quivering and my thighs are shaking. It’s nothing compared to the slide of his body against mine, and the sweeping, glorious heat inside me as he works my cock with strokes that are deliberately way too shallow for what I need and his thick head shunts against the gland that has, until now, been so deeply buried I barely knew it existed.

But he found it.

He found me.

Of course he did.

‘This is what I’ve wanted since I saw that fucking photo,’ he grunts. ‘I knew you’d be like this—I fucking knew I could get you to this state. I wish you could see what you look like, taking me. You could drive a man to do dangerous, dangerous things, sweetheart.’

I repeat what I told him in his flat when he had me up against his fridge, only now I say the words far more brokenly. ‘I told you, I want you dangerous.’

More like I need him dangerous. In this moment, I want to be the sole outlet for the extraordinary power he wields. I want him to unleash every ounce of frustration and hunger and venom and might. I want him trigger-happy and sadistically omnipotent.

‘And you’ll get it,’ he grits out. ‘You have no idea, you perfect thing, how easy I’m going on you tonight.’

It seems the idea of abusing me more thoroughly sends him over the edge, his thrusts turning unfathomably more ferocious, his huge blunt instrument wreaking havoc on my body with the unlikely precision of a laser, the movements of his hand switching from teasing to purposeful as he prepares to milk my orgasm from me in every way he can.

The Max I first saw at Alchemy, with his perfectly long merino socks and knowing smile and incisive stare is now a grunting, sweating beast pumping into me from behind, and it’s that as much as the riot of stimulation against my glands and along my shaft that has me hurtling towards orgasm like a skier who’s gone right off the side of a mountain.

I submit to the feeling and the emotion and the raw, filthy exhilaration of being fucked in the arse and the rhythmic slap of his hips against my cheeks I fucking yield to it with every starved, deprived, denied atom in this miracle of nature we call the human body.

The swollen gland Max is hitting so mercilessly releases the most profound, violent climax imaginable, and I don’t recognise myself in the guttural roar that bursts from my mouth as my cock surges in his fist and I come with violent convulsions, urgent spurts of ejaculate lashing the sheets.

The sound he makes at my orgasm is almost a laugh, a sound full of surprised delight. I thrash my head as I spend myself, but he’s right behind me, rubbing his face in my hair and nipping at my earlobe as he fucks me through it, wringing me dry.

And then he’s going rigid behind me, my clever, articulate Max a muddle of grunts and unintelligible curses as he swells and bucks and erupts hotly in the deep, marvellous nook of my body that now belongs irrevocably to him.

When he’s eked out every drop of his own orgasm, I lower myself unsteadily to the bed. Before, I was afraid to move with him inside me in case it hurt or tore; now I’m afraid to move in case he slips out, because I’m not ready for that. I want us here, like this, with his dick plugging his cum inside me and his heaving, spent body a reassuring mass on top of me and my stomach plastered to the cooling, gluey wetness of my cum that now soils the crisp white sheets I purchased one recent Saturday at Peter Jones in Chelsea.

The Dex who stalked disinterestedly around that department store, beloved by middle-aged women and the epitome of all that is wholesome, who bought sensible, decent quality sheets and never for a moment imagined a dangerous, beautiful man would fuck the cum out of him and all over them, was a different man to the one who lies here, prostrate and immovable under Max like a flower to be pressed.

I never want to be that man again.

75

DARCY

Having two boyfriends is pretty cool. Not just for the sex, which is so incredible I’m not sure I could ever go back to only one guy, but for the variety. The fullness of experience. They’re so similar in many ways: terrifyingly smart; ambitious; successful… but their energies are so different.

Max is all Daddy vibes and cutting jokes. He relishes being in control, and it definitely feels like he’s the grownup in the relationship, whereas Dex is a lot softer, more easy-going, with his impeccable manners and far goofier sense of humour than I would have guessed at first glance. When he feels at ease, he’s hilarious.

I’m getting the best of both worlds, no doubt about it. But if I had to sum up the difference between them both, Taylor Swift is it in a nutshell. They’re both fascinated by the success of the Eras Tour. They can crunch those numbers together for hours and marvel at the tangible proof of her effect.

When it comes to her actual music, though, their reactions have been so different. They’re well aware of my obsession with her—luckily they have no clue quite how many 1989 and Midnights rides I’ve done on Max’s Peloton when they’re at work.

But when I played Champagne Problems to Max and tried to explain why it was such an important song, he just laughed and asked why the fuck she mispronounced Dom Perignon. He said he couldn’t un-hear it. Rude.

Whereas Dex not only listened the whole way through the ten-minute version of All Too Well with me, but he read the Genius lyrics while he listened and we had a heartfelt discussion afterwards about how the stuff with her dad and at her twenty-first felt like the biggest betrayal of all.

See what I mean???

The only downside to having two boyfriends, as far as I can see, is that trying to agree on what to watch on TV goes from painful to downright brutal.

Especially since I’m outnumbered.

Maybe I should have considered trading Dex in for another woman—at least we could have cast a majority vote and spent our evenings watching The Eras Tour or Bridgerton for the millionth time.

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