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She always said he had an enquiring mind. That’s why he let her do the things she’s done to him– even the ones he thought were weird and terrifying. Like the dressing up in women’s underwear, and the dancing, and the rubbing himself all over with slippery stuff for her.
Yeah, she likes that all right.
She likes a bunch of other stuff too, and it’s always his curiosity that makes him do it. Will lace feel scratchy against his skin, or smooth? And if it’s scratchy, then why do women wear underwear made out of that material?
Because they want to please somebody, he guesses– the way that he pleases Sapphire. Or at least, he thinks he pleases her. She always tells him about his enquiring mind in a curling, pleased sort of voice.
They’re always the best sort of men, she says. The ones with open, inquisitive minds.
Though he knows there’s a certain sort of problem with the way he is, and one day it’s definitely going to get him into trouble with her. Because Sapphire is a very private person, a very closed person, and though she’ll do all sorts of naughty things with him – things none of his other girlfriends would ever even think of – there are certain places he can’t go.
Like the attic.
At the very top of her many floored house, past a narrow, crooked staircase layered with cobwebs, there is a door. He knows there is, because once he got all his guts up and climbed those rickety stairs. He put his hand on the dusty, painted wood.
And now that blue door beats inside him like a second heart.
He tries to pretend otherwise. She had said to him that he isn’t permitted to go up there, that the door is locked and will always remain so, if she found him trying to sneak inside they would cease to be lovers immediately. And he had responded with that pretence in mind, uncaring and playful, not bothered about her silly little blue door. The attic of secrets beyond.
Even though she must know his blitheness is a lie. He is as eager as a puppy dog, always straining at his leash. When she says come, he comes. When she says stay, he stays. When she says never go through the blue door into the attic, he obeys.
But she must know that his curious head is always turning.
It’s turning now, while she licks a path down his long, strong body. He keeps it really nice for her – toned and tan all over – and she appreciates that, he’s sure. She likes it when he wears tight, clingy things– and even more so if he feels ridiculous while doing it.
Tonight she has him wearing this strange stretchy skirt thing and nothing else, and when her tongue gets to its waistband, she slaps his curvy bottom through the material. The way a guy might slap a girl, if he found her wearing a slutty item of clothing. She even says the right words to match the actions:
‘You naughty boy,’ she says.
He can feel himself stiffening beneath the rubbing, twisting material. Parting his legs or otherwise finding some relief is difficult, because the skirt cages him in so effectively. He squirms and tests its boundaries, and she laughs when he does.
‘I’ve got you now, boy,’ she says, and he tries his best to turn onto his back so that he can look into her sharp, dark eyes. She’s very beautiful, he knows, but it’s in a way that some men could never appreciate. Her shoulders are a little too broad, and her eyes burn right into you like heated fingertips, and her skin looks like untouched snow beside his tanned flesh.