Intrusion by Charlotte Stein

honestly.”
    â€œI have no idea what to have emotions about first—that I said that without knowing it and you just kept quiet, or the fact that you just said fuck my pussy ,” I tell him, even though I do know, secretly. I want to ask him about that one word bright and beautiful word:
    Girlfriend . I am his girlfriend.
    And apparently, that lets him be a lot bolder.
    â€œThere are lewder things I could say,” he murmurs, a single eyebrow still lifted so lightly you could almost believe he wasn’t doing it at all. Or offering what he is definitely offering. Good God, he is definitely offering.
    Is it any wonder I sound so breathless when I speak?
    Or that I have no problems pushing?
    â€œThen say them. Say them to me,” I blurt out, but I don’t expect what I get.
    I could never imagine what I get in my wildest dreams.
    â€œI could tell you that I know how aroused you get when you sleep here next to me because I can smell it, and I can hear it. When you move all the slipperiness between your legs makes a kind of. . .soft slick sound. I try to pretend it’s something else, but I’ve never been very good at that.”
    I feel so silly for thinking arousing was a big deal when this is what he’s actually capable of. In the night he lies awake and listens to me, and is able to think of words like slick and slippery . More than that: he can say them out loud in this matter-of-fact tone that somehow makes it even more intense than it has any right to be.
    â€œOh my God,” I say, when what I really want to go with is some shocked word that hasn’t been invented yet. It has twelve exclamation points and three of them are right in the middle of it, and it ends on an angry gargle.
    â€œToo much?” he asks.
    â€œNot enough,” I answer.
    No hesitation. And no real hesitation from him, either.
    â€œAll right. . .all right. . .you like to masturbate underneath your clothes. One hand in your panties, the way you want to do it now. Am I close?”
    â€œI think you know you are.”
    â€œAnd you just stroke your clit in nice little circles—rarely fucking yourself with either your fingers or a toy. Though I imagine you sometimes fantasize about it.”
    â€œI do, I do. God, I do, yes, yes.”
    â€œYou wonder what it would be like to orgasm around something inside you. Something hard and thick and good in a way things never really are.”
    â€œThat—yeah, yeah,” I say, but only because my brain can no longer think up more coherent sentences. His ability to guess and interpret my behavior was dazzling before, when applied to mundane things. Now it damn near makes my mouth water. My clit swells to hear it; my face burns to know he knows it.
    And that’s before he adds the delightful little kicker:
    â€œSlide your fingers down.”
    Of course, I’m certain I’ve misheard.
    I even ask, despite how clear he was.
    â€œWhat?” I say, then wait for him to take it away.
    He must—he hates to push. He hates to force.
    Though does this really feel like forcing?
    â€œSlide them down, and just let them ease in a little,” he says, and his tone is so even and detached I can’t possibly say it does. Instead, it feels kind of like a lesson, with a really wonderful tutor. And though that seems insane, he goes on like that. He goes on so much I can’t think of anything but.
    Or be anything other than ridiculously aroused.
    â€œDon’t thrust or fuck yourself or any of the things most people do in ridiculous porn,” he tells me, while I die inside of being turned on. “Instead make a hook, like you want to lift your body up with two fingers. Don’t worry about finding anything—you won’t. Just sort of rock or tug at yourself right there, nice and hard. Do you understand?”
    I have no idea if I will ever understand anything again.
    But I do what he asks all the same. I slip my hand