Page 39 of Cohen's Control

It’s thick and spreads me, even more than anticipated since it’s been a while.

Burning halos my opening as I push the bottle deeper and deeper, until my stomach whirrs and my groin tightens, and I’m to the hilt. My eyes close as I imagine Cohen’s hand on my foot, his knuckles sweetly grazing my leg, imparting security and closeness, and confidence, too.

He makes me feel protected without feeling babied or pitied, he turns me on without really even handling me at all—oh god. I move the bottle in and out, panting, orgasm already building.

He doesn’t even look at me when I’m on set. He treats me—and the other actresses—like professionals, speaking to us while maintaining eye contact and never turning a casual conversation into anything overtly sexual. It’s a stark contrast since every man at Jizz did.

I fuck myself faster and harder with the weighty bottle, my cunt hungrily gripping it. My breasts jiggle as I pick up my pace, and I imagine Cohen bringing his mouth to my nipple for the first time. Guiding him to taste and touch me just the way I like—making sure he traced my areola and the hardened nub with the tip of his tongue.

I can almost feel the soft swish of his hair between my fingers as I thread them through, holding his head to me as he licks and worships everything that brings me pleasure.

My knees snap shut as I twist my torso, rolling onto my side as hot, abundant pleasure wraps my entire body, my pussy shuddering around the bottle as my orgasm grabs hold.

“Oh my god,” I whine, “holy shit,oh my god,” I breathe, over and over, my vision dark, mind spinning with pleasure a hundred miles an hour. I push the bottle in and pull it out slowly now, my wrist practically pinned between my knees. Still, I imagine him inside me as I shatter to a million pieces in the best way possible.

Lying on my side, catching my breath, late afternoon painting pinks and purples on my old carpet, I pull the bottle from between my legs and set it on the nightstand adjacent to me.

Glistening and sticky, I stare at that bottle. I don’t think even the people who made the damn rainfall body wash have gotten to know it as intimately as I just did. But I think about how, a year ago, after Pete and I had sex—or, rather, after Pete had sex with me—I tried to find pleasure in it. I tried to tell myself that even though I couldn’t orgasm during the act, maybe I could finish after and make myself believe that was okay.

Only, my brain stopped allowing me to experience that kind of pleasure. And then work became impossible, and my body hadn’t reverted until this morning.

He’s the reason I can do this now. The reason my mind can even go anywhere but panic when I’m aroused. Cohen, it’s all because of him.

I close my eyes, tired of staring at the bottle, tired of thinking. We’re having dinner tonight, and I’d like to cook him a nice meal.

Feeling excited for the first time in a long time, I forgo the post-therapy nap and instead get to my feet, putting away my groceries and wiping down the kitchen. I have energy unlike I’ve had in months, and I’m eager to have a perfect night with Cohen,my new friend.

fourteen

cohen

She sees through the veil

I hit the gym after moving my stuff over. Swam laps. Lots and lots of laps.

I went much, much later than my normal time and in turn, was met with a pretty populated pool.

I don’t know if it was the group of elderly women with floral swim caps huddled near the stairs. I don’t know if it was the twenty-something guy doing the breaststroke, or the two women in the spa adjacent to the pool. Maybe it was all of them, the crowd of people inadvertently steering me away from my bad habits.

But for whatever reason, I didn’t hold myself under. I didn’t test the strain of my lungs, the limits of my mind—not even once. I swam beneath the surface, from one end to the other, rising up to collect air before dunking down, turning and doing it over and over again.

Probably just the crowd.

After my swim, I stop by a small deli, eat a sandwich and pick up sweets for Scarlett. By the time I get home to receive my mattress and box spring delivery, I’m ready for a nice shower. I check my phone as I turn the water on, grabbing a towel from my open suitcase. I only own two, and suddenly that seems… nomadic.

Scarlett

Shit. I forgot to ask—do you have a pan? Cast iron ideally but anything would do. I got steaks.

No. Do you want me to run out and buy one?

I glance at the time at the top of my phone, realizing if I have to drive to a department store in the city at nearly 6pm, we won’t be eating until well after 9. Closer to ten if she likes her steak well done.

No! Shit. I’ll be over in ten, if that works?

I stick my hand under the falling water, which is now pretty hot.

Perfect.

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