Power Play. Charlotte Stein

know. To lure people in.

      ‘Say it again,’ he says, and then I have to cut him off. Have to. Of course I do it with words that have absolutely nothing to do with how I feel, but in truth I’m just glad I manage to speak at all.

      ‘I think you have the wrong idea, Benjamin,’ I say, while molten lava makes its way down my body to settle in the pit of my stomach. Strange, really, that my voice comes out quite steely. ‘You don’t tell me what to do, I tell you. Of course, you can decide not to do it. But here’s the thing: I rather think you won’t.’

      His eyes flash in a way I can’t quite reach with the outer edges of my imagination.

      ‘You’re right,’ he tells me, all low and steady. ‘I won’t.’

      I don’t know what happens inside my body after that. If I tried to stand, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t make it. My sex is so swollen, so full of that sweet ache, that the idea of moving so much just makes me want to pass out at my desk.

      And he’s definitely starting to know it now. He takes a step forward without my say-so, that wicked tongue of his just ever so slightly flickering out to wet his bottom lip. Gaze now as bright as it is heavy, eager and mischievous in a way I don’t want to quite face.

      So instead, I say the first put him off kind of thing I can think of.

      ‘So if, for example, I told you to lick my arsehole – you would?’

      It’s like I’m suddenly playing chicken, I think, and this is my first daring play. The lewdest thing I can think of on such short notice, and one that’s bound to put a man off. Bound to.

      ‘Do you want me to do that? I could, if you wanted me to.’

      Or you know. Maybe it only puts men who aren’t Benjamin Tate off. Because Lord, I swear, I’ve never heard anyone sound so eager to do anything. I’ve told children they can have ice cream, and not had them respond with such breathless anticipation.

      He starts unbuttoning that grotesque cardigan, as though a prerequisite for an ass-licking is nakedness from both parties – though naturally I stop him. I mean, I can’t actually have him lick between the cheeks of my arse, in my open office in the middle of the day. That would be ridiculous.

      Even if he doesn’t seem to think so in the slightest.

      ‘I mean, I’ve thought about doing it,’ he says, before I’ve got past the hand I’ve held up to halt him in his immense, ridiculous tracks.

      And then said hand is the thing that feels ridiculous, in all honesty. He’s actually thinking about ass-licking while I’m the goddamn lollipop lady stood in the middle of our road.

      ‘I see,’ I say, because it’s just noncommittal enough. It’s just enough without going all the way into yes, go ahead, do whatever the fuck you like. Instead it hovers on the edges of explain yourself to me, as cool and detached as my face nearly feels.

      ‘Though obviously, you know. Not in a lot of detail.’

      ‘You haven’t thought about licking my ass in a lot of detail? Well, how comforting.’

      ‘No – I mean … I mean I try not to think about you that way. Most of the time.’

      ‘And the rest of the time you’re spreading my arse cheeks and going to town, in your head?’

      One of his hands pauses, mid-gesture. Finger half-uncurled from the loose fist he’s made, as though he was just about to make an absolutely fascinating point, and now has no idea what it was. Even his mouth seems caught in this feedback loop, that soft shape suddenly tense around words he’s now failing to get out.

      ‘You need to answer me, Benjamin – and quickly. I really don’t have a lot of time to watch you standing in front of me unable to speak.’

      He wets his lips. Closes his eyes, briefly, before continuing.

      ‘Pretty much.’

      ‘Describe it to me, then.’

      ‘Wait – what? What do you want me –’

      ‘Describe what you do to me, in all of these fevered imaginings,’ I say, though I don’t do it because I really want to. I do it because I can’t not.

      And apparently, he feels exactly the same. It’s like he wants to stop, really he does. He wants to have control over himself, and maybe laugh all of this off. But instead he just takes a big breath, and goes right ahead with it all.

      ‘Sometimes … sometimes you tell me to do it. Like this – only fiercer. But other times I’m in the hallway or your office and I drop something, the way I always do when you pass by. And while I’m down there, on my knees, I just kind of … get my face between your legs.’

      He doesn’t look away as he tells me this, which I think is to his credit. After all, I have to look away the second he’s said it. I simply can’t keep staring at him, with all of these newly framed thoughts about his clumsiness rattling around inside my head.

      He doesn’t drop everything because he’s just like that. He drops everything because of me. I mean, that’s what he’s saying, right? And if I ask, will that startling and too foggy fact become clearer? Will I be able to look at it head on?

      ‘So you drop the papers on purpose?’

      He shakes his head, wrinkles his brow. Glances sideways, as though he’s trying to map out his fantasy exactly for me but is struggling to do so.

      ‘No, no. I just do it because I can’t help myself. And then I can’t help pushing my face between your legs.’

      ‘And after that …?’

      ‘After that I lick you until you let me do it. Until you’re all wet there and turned on, you know, and I guess sometimes other stuff happens – like you rub your clit while I lick between your ass cheeks. Or maybe the other way around.’

      I’m loath to interrupt him, because I can see he’s getting to that place. The one where he’ll say just about anything and doesn’t really seem sensible of it – though of course this is somewhat more revealing than ‘and one time a shark almost ate me while I was surfing’.

      And if he doesn’t seem to see the difference, well. That’s fine. He can carry on not seeing the difference all the way into the most arousing tale I’ve ever heard anybody tell.

      ‘The other way around?’ I ask, and sure enough, he just slides on into the rest of it.

      ‘With me licking your clit and you …’ he says, and for a second I’m sure he’s just going to leave that last part trailing. I mean, it’s obvious what he’s suggesting. He’s already labelled the two body parts, and it’s not as though we’re talking about hands and feet here. He doesn’t need to go into detail.

      Even if he just takes a second to wind himself up to it – one hand actually twirling in front of him, like a goad to his confidence – and then absolutely says the real live words.

      ‘… fingering your ass. Or maybe just rubbing over it, I don’t know. I guess I just understand that you’re doing something there, while I lick your clit and stroke your pussy.’

      ‘And that’s all you do?’ I ask, as though none of that’s enough on its own. He has fantasies about eating my cunt in office hallways, for God’s sake. How did I ever think I would shame him by bringing up a little light masturbation? ‘You just stroke me?’

      He lets out a little flustered breath.

      ‘Well, no. Obviously not.’

      ‘Do I actually have to prompt you, Benjamin?’

      He spreads his hands again, but this time it’s like he’s trying to hit a reset button. It’s like he’s trying to rewind everything and go back and be better.

      ‘No, no