Unfurl: Chapter 28

Rafe has me at the edge of his mattress in his impeccably decorated bachelor pad—a mattress so large I wonder how many bodies he’s tried fitting on this bed before. Right now, I’m oblivious to the midnight-blue walls and the sparse but perfectly appointed furniture and the jaw-dropping collection of contemporary art, because my field of consciousness has narrowed to one particular point, and that’s the touch of Rafe’s fingers and tongue on my desperately swollen flesh.

I’m naked on all fours, a couple of ties—Rafe’s actual neckties—lying inches from me and ready for use if I squirm or misbehave. For someone who hasn’t yet lost her virginity, I’ve certainly been getting up to some kinky stuff recently.

Rafe has decided I need a lesson in, as he puts it, Listening to your Pussy and not your Convent-Indoctrinated Brain.

I know.

No wonder they needed an external branding agency to help them with Unfurl. I’m not convinced this one rolls off the tongue… but he knows how to make a point effectively. I’ll give him that much.

The main, er, thrust of the lesson is that he talks dirty to me while getting me more and more aroused with his touch. If my body responds positively, I can take it as a sign that the things he mentions are true kinks. If not, we’ll look into what parts of my subconscious are trying to protect me in whatever weird ways they’ve been taught.

And yes, he’s already referred to it as a pussy polygraph.

So predictable.

It’s astounding that I can already think of him in this fond, familiar way after only a few days and nights. It’s Tuesday, and since our Unfurl session on Friday we’ve spent every night together. The man who last week was banging different women every night at the club has been curled around me this week, most definitely not getting himself laid.

Although I’ve been refining my blowjob technique every night. So there’s that.

Rafe is standing behind me, barefoot and topless, in only a pair of soft grey jogging bottoms that hang low on the vee of his hips and do nothing to conceal his monster hard-on. The view is so excellent that I keep looking backwards and nearly falling off the bed in delight.

He’s told me the view is even better from where he’s standing, and I’ll have to take his word for it, because I am wide open to him. Everything’s on display. Everything. And that’s deliberate on his part. He wants me exposed. He wants me to feel shamed and shameless and to own that feeling, to dig into it, to let it wash over me and enhance my arousal instead of spoiling it.

He also wants me to believe him when he tells me that the sight of my holes on display for him is the biggest turn-on there is, even if I find the thought excruciating.

I’ve been alternately licked, sucked, kissed and fingered so far in this ‘polygraph’, and Rafe’s worked me up into a mess as he gets onto and off his knees. The flesh between my legs is soaked and throbbing. I need release so badly, but it seems he’s not finished with me.

The only comfort is that he must be suffering as much as I am, if that suspicious wet spot on the front of his jogging bottoms is anything to go by.

‘Get down on your elbows,’ he says in a rough voice, and I obey, rolling out my tired wrists as I do and trying not to think about the view he’s got now my bum is in the air.

He brushes a fingertip over my swollen sex. ‘How does it make you feel when I order you around like that?’

God. That’s good. I push against his finger, and he removes it. Dammit. ‘It makes me feel like I’m your plaything,’ I tell him, staring at the sheets. ‘Like you can do whatever you like with me.’

‘And does that turn you on?’

‘God, yes,’ I say, and I’m rewarded with a thick finger sliding inside me. It’s not enough, not without him touching my clit too, but it’s the most delicious form of torture, and I push against him again.

‘Good girl,’ he says in a strangled voice. He slides his finger back out and I sense and hear him getting back down onto his knees behind me. My body has a Pavlovian response; my flesh strains for the relief of his mouth on it.

‘And what about when you’re playing an innocent little postulant who knows that what she’s letting the bad priests do to her is very, very sinful? What about then—does that make it feel better? Or worse?’

His breath is warm on my flesh. ‘Better,’ I say. ‘So much hotter.’

‘Fuck you’re dirty.’ He licks me in one long slide, and it’s so exactly what I need that I jolt. ‘So dirty. So fucking amazing. What if the priests brought more of their friends along because they’d heard you were actually a dirty little whore? Would you like it if they all played with you? Tied you up and took turns with you? Came all over you?’

Even without his touch, I moan, because being outnumbered and used and fondled and played with and adored by any number of hot, hungry, faceless men is my ultimate fantasy, and the mere thought of it makes me so crazy with lust that I can’t tell where the shame ends and the arousal begins. I can’t decipher what part of me revels in this, what part of me hungers to be both the object of their collective desires and the afterthought, the nameless plaything who’s almost incidental because it’s all about them and their selfish desires, and I’m just the channel through which they sate themselves.

I’m shaking. I’m shaking so hard, and I’m so far gone I can barely speak.

‘Use your words,’ Rafe says, the merest tip of his finger hovering at my entrance, ready to push in hard and reward me if my answer pleases him.

‘I want that so badly,’ I admit. ‘I want them to plunder me and take what they need. I want them to touch every inch of me at the same time.’

He sucks in a sharp breath. ‘Good, baby. That’s very fucking good. See, I told you everything you felt the other night with your priests was right, didn’t I?’

I swallow, trying to pull myself together enough to answer.

He reaches under me and pinches my nipple, hard, and the sensation shoots straight to my clit.

‘Didn’t I?’

‘Yes.’

Rafe’s tongue swirls around my clit in lavish spirals. ‘That’s it,’ he mumbles against me. ‘That’s it. You’re such a good girl. So fucking desperate for my tongue. This hole is so needy.’ He breaches it with his finger and I screw my eyes shut.

I just need him to hit the spot with his tongue.

I need his licks as hard and rough as he can make them.

‘One more question,’ he says, ‘and then you can come. What if the priests were teasing you, and licking your sweet, wet cunt and your nipples, and shoving their hard cocks in your mouth because they were so desperate to blow, and then the bishop came in, because he’d heard his priests had the most beautiful plaything in the whole diocese and he wanted a piece of the action?’

He pushes my knees further apart. ‘What if he had them continue to touch you, to hold you wide open for him so he could see you and inspect you and taste you, and then he kicked them all out so he could claim you for himself as his own secret little whore?’

The words he’s just uttered, the picture he’s just painted, have me hurtling towards an orgasm even without his touch, but it won’t be enough. He won’t finish me off till I’ve admitted what he wants me to admit—that this scenario is perfect and beautiful and everything I’ve dreamed of in my darkest fantasies, and it’s even better than the shower foursome I concocted, and the mere thought of this powerful man of the church unburdening himself within me, roughly and urgently and selfishly, is so, so provocative for me that I can think of nothing else.

He has me. In my mind, I’m lying on a bed in some seminary the priests have smuggled me into, and the bishop is pounding into me.

‘Exactly—that’s exactly—’ I gasp. ‘Just like that, yes.’

And with that, my teacher’s beautiful mouth is on my clit, his tongue taut and flat and hard and lapping at me with the precise amount of pressure I’ve been hungering for, and his finger is pushing in and out of me, intensifying the sensation so perfectly that I could scream, but instead I moan and claw at the sheets and dig my forehead into the mattress as I push my bottom against Rafe’s face, against his tongue, against that finger, as hard as I can.

And the intolerable heat that’s been coursing through me ignites and transforms into a fire so powerful it sucks the oxygen out of this room in a single blaze.

Holy crap.

I buck and jolt and shudder against his mouth. I take every touch greedily; I eat it all up. I allow myself to go under to a place where noise roars in my ears and stars flare and burn behind my eyelids. And as I come down, humbled and awed by my body’s abilities to respond to this man, I’m aware of him pulling away from me and standing, and of the hot, wet head of his dick dragging, swiping through my flesh, and of the fevered groans he’s making.

I wipe my cheek against the sheet, because I’ve actually drooled, before twisting around and getting up onto my knees and clambering to the end of the bed where he stands, holding that beautiful, weeping dick in a chokehold so tight it looks painful.

But it’s his eyes that arrest me. He’s looking at me like a man who’s seen a vision. Reverent. Mesmerised.

‘Allow me,’ I say.