#tower block

There's an urgent, heavy pounding at your flat’s front door. Suddenly, all boredom dissipates, the pump of adrenaline jolting you into an alert state. The thumping continues, rattling the entire sitting room, as you rush to answer it.

You only have to crack the door a few inches to see who’s causing the racket. He sees it fit to grab the edge of the door and fling it all the way open, wearing a devious grin all the while.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Kurtis says. His shirt collar is popped up around his sturdy neck and the cocky sleaze drips from his words as you shrink back. “All dolled up, just for me?”

You're decidedly not, dressed in nothing but a short skirt and a vest. It's positively scorching today, and you've been hidden away inside, curtains drawn and windows shut tight, in an effort to keep cool in front of a tower fan.

“Looking like that, you'll need to be extra careful ‘round these parts,” he goes on, peering around him like the trouble might show up at any second. “Lucky you've got me watching over you. Got my 30 quid, love?”

Your hands shake as you reach for your wallet, retrieving a single tenner to hand to him.

“You're 20 short.”

“It's all I’ve got,” you answer, barely audible, before swallowing hard.

“Well,” he says, eyebrows raised, “my usual offer’s always on the table, innit? Happy to settle this via an alternative payment method…”

“You're a pig,” you spit, trembling.

He gasps with false disdain, his true meaning betrayed by his smile.

“Is that a yes?”

You remain silent, and the smirk on his face grows even wider.

“Y’know, that mouth is looking particularly lovely today…”

“Fuck,” you hiss. “Inside. Before someone sees.”

You drag him through the door, slamming it behind him, before shoving him against the wall. The next thing you know, you're on your knees, fumbling with his loudly jingling belt buckle and unzipping his jeans.

Your unsteady hands pull them down around his thighs, followed by his boxers, letting free his cock, which stands fully erect. It's strongly veined, thick, and already leaking for you.

Before he's even had the chance to react, you've taken its head in your mouth, tongue lolling over the spongey tissue, paying particular attention to the slit and the bitter liquid already pooling there.

All the while you gaze up at Kurtis, who sniggers between gasps and groans. You watch his eyes roll back and the muscles in his square jaw contract. He's quite beautiful, now you've got him in such a compromised position

“Oh, fuck.” He exhales forcefully. “You're really earning this, you are. Oh yeah, yeah…”

His muttering shifts once your lips form a tight ring around his girth, and you bob back and forth along his last few inches before taking him even deeper. He can't help but respond with a blissful cry, his hips twitching to feel more of you. You gag on him, but that doesn't stop you for even a moment.

Kurtis’s hand brushes your cheek.

“You all right, love?” he murmurs.

You shoot him a sharp glare.

“I mean… that's right,” he corrects, clearing his throat. “Choke on it. Too much for you? You've never sucked on a big one like this, have you? Yeah, that's it…”

He grabs a fistful of your hair, his grip loose so his hand follows along with each movement of your head, rather than guiding you.

That’s more like it. You continue to pleasure him—more depth, more tension—with your tongue suctioned tight to the underside of his cock.

“Shit, wait,” Kurtis whispers. “Fuck, I'm gonna come already…”

His unspoken request for you to stop goes ignored. He’ll have to use his big boy words if he wants to communicate. Plus, what would be the fun in that?

So you keep on just as you have, lifting a hand to gently cradle his sweaty bollocks, and he immediately buckles, unloading hot, salty streams of come in your mouth while he whimpers pitifully for you.

His most pathetic sounds are your favourites.

You swallow it all down without a second thought, and when his orgasm has passed, he gazes down at you, wide-eyed and jaw slack, panting. In an instant, the sharp, toothy smile on his face shifts from something devilish to sweet.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. “You're far too good at that. We were supposed to…”

“How long until you can go again?” you interrupt.

“Jesus.” He considers the question, scratching his head. “Erm, maybe 15 minutes?”

“Then we reset in 15 minutes,” you say, pulling his pants and trousers back where they belong and zipping him up.

You rise, taking Kurtis’s hand and guiding him to sit beside you on the sofa.

He follows, hobbling over on his cast. Your inscription on it—both your and his initials in a heart pierced by an arrow—is the only one that's not crudely drawn genitals or a curse word. Once sat, he turns to prop his immobilised leg in your lap. It's good to keep it elevated when he can.

“How’re you healing?” you enquire gently.

“Coming along. The pain's mostly gone, and I get the cast off in another couple weeks.”

“And your head?”

“It's good,” he insists. “I'm good.”

You didn't know Kurtis before the tower block incident. When he brings up his past, you can hardly believe he's talking about himself and not a complete stranger.

He's been open with you like no man ever has been. Says it's important to have someone he cares about he can share these things with.

You've learned of his lengthy stay in hospital, where he received treatment not just for the compound fracture in his leg, but for concussive symptoms from the gunman’s blows, and other scrapes and bruises he'd suffered over the length of the ordeal in his attempt to survive. But the physical care was only the half of it.

A psych evaluation revealed obvious PTSD, which went back much farther than the harrowing events he'd just overcome. With a substantial amount of professional help, he was able to confront and unpack his childhood for the first time, reflecting on the neglect and abuse he'd endured at the hands of the adults in his life.

It didn't excuse how he'd acted, of course, but it did help elucidate those behaviours—and motivate him to do something about them.

He's on meds now. Seeing a therapist. And he still struggles on occasion, prone to moments of panic, and guilt, and impassioned outbursts, but you know he's a good man, working on making amends.

It makes you ache to see the depths of his gratitude when you're patient and gentle with him. He seems so unused to it, but you've never had to work at caring for him. You may love him, even.

He's also ready and willing to play these games with you. You hope it helps him work at some of the mental noise he's still got tangled. And you both know the word to utter if anything ever gets taken too far.

“I'm glad to hear it,” you answer, before adding, “And it’ll be so nice to finally get you out of this thing.”

As you poke at the cast with your index finger, he hands you back your money, and then some.

“What's all this for?” you wonder.

“To get yourself something nice,” he says. “You deserve it, and I'm not wanting for cash.”

He's received a sizable payout via criminal injuries compensation, and another pending suit means a lot more money may be in his future. He won't be able to rely on this amount forever, but at least now, while he continues his recovery, he's quite comfortable.

And with the new bills from Kurtis, your wallet is thoroughly stuffed. He's been spoiling you for a while now.

“I'm just leaving this here the next time,” you say. “It's breaking my immersion. I couldn't pull this out and say I'm skint with a straight face.”

“Good.”

He leans over and kisses you. The gentler he is with you, the more your head spins. You can save the rough stuff for when you're playing.

“And you?” he wonders.

“Was suffering in the heat,” you answer. “But then you showed up and made me forget all about it.”

He smiles, appearing almost bashful as he looks away.

“Did you really use to make girls shag you in exchange for ‘protection’?” you ask.

“No, no, no,” he baulks. “It were all a game, yeah? No one ever took me up on it.”

It doesn't change the fact he'd demand a collection from every flat on his floor. Not that you need to bring that up. He wasn't well. He regrets it now. Reminding him what he did won't help.

“And if one had said yes?” you wonder.

“Well, I would’ve made sure she had a good time of it,” he says simply.

“You always do, lovey. But don't treat me too well, all right? This time, I want you to make me really believe I'm in danger.”

“In danger of screaming my name…”

“Kurtis isn't the sexiest name to shout, is it?” you tease.

“I think you sound pretty fucking hot saying it.”

“Oh, Kurtis, Kurtis, Kurtis!” you moan convincingly, contorting your face with orgasmic delight.

“The fuck? I'm not even touching you…”

“You've never seen acting?”

Kurtis’s mouth hangs open.

“You don't do that with me, do you?” he marvels, his concern evident.

“I’d never,” you say. “In fact, I conceal my climaxes so you don't half-arse the job.”

He bursts out laughing.

“Do you really?”

“Hmm.” You think. “Maybe it's best I don't say.”

“Well,” he says, “I think that little act of yours did the trick. I can already feel all the blood rushing back to my cock, so…”

“Out you go,” you insist. “And don't forget to use the knife this time.”

He pauses a moment, wearing a solemn expression, before nodding his agreement.

As you eagerly anticipate the reset, each of his actions feels agonisingly slow. He carefully steps away on his broken foot to the kitchen, running the tap to wash his hands and splash his face and neck with cool water. Finally, he makes his way to the front door, closing it behind him.

It feels like forever before he finally pounds on the door again, and you can rise to open up for him, just a crack.

“It's collection time, princess,” he says through the open sliver. “Fork it over.”

“I… I don't have your money for you today,” you stammer, “but if you'll just give me a week…”

“I don't have a week,” he interrupts you, pulling the door open to remove the space between you, getting right in your face. “How can I be expected to keep you safe if you keep letting me down like this?”

He grabs you by the chin, the thumb and forefinger of one strong hand squeezing as he tilts your face to the side.

“Please don't hurt me…” you mutter. “I'll do anything.”

“That's all I've ever wanted to hear.”

He smirks, his look more dangerous than ever, as he lets himself inside, shutting the door behind him. The moment it's closed, he manhandles you, dragging you across the room by the arm to throw you down on the sofa.

Next, he gets you sat upright, binding your hands behind your back with your own silk scarf. The knot isn't particularly tight and you know you could get out easily if you wanted, but you don't.

And then he’s straddling one of your thighs, practically on top of you, and brandishing a black flick knife. With the push of a button, the sharp, shining steel blade extends. He holds it inches from your neck in his right hand.

“So you don't try anything smart,” he threatens, even as his hand quivers.

With his left hand, he adjusts your skirt, revealing the lacy knickers you're wearing beneath it. He runs a finger up the dampened cloth, along the line of your cunt, making you gasp when he grazes your sensitive clit.

“Fuck, you're so wet for me already,” he whispers. “Your eyes might say ‘no’ but your body’s saying ‘fuck me now.’ Don't pretend this isn't what you want.”

He pulls the gusset aside and slides two thick fingers inside of you. He's right—you're plenty wet and your body accepts the intrusion easily as you clench around him, gasping. He works his fingers inside of you, the sensation delicious despite the clumsiness of his non-dominant hand, with the mound of his palm pressed to your clit, creating a full circuit of pleasure.

“See? You love this,” he says under his breath as you sound out the pleasure he's rattling out of you. “You've been dying to be my little finger puppet, just waiting for this…”

Meanwhile, you eye the blade in his other hand. For the full effect, you should feel its bite against your flesh. It's too far from you to really get off on the danger here, and he knows it.

You try to tell him with your eyes—that you trust him and that he should trust himself, that he should hold the knife on you like he means it. Eventually, he relents, edging slightly closer, to the detriment of his delicate handiwork inside you. It seems he's using every bit of his concentration on his knife hand, striving not to cut you.

Finally, what you've been begging for. The blade's edge makes contact, a brief, cold press against your tender skin.

But Kurtis immediately draws away, pulling back the knife in one hand and his kneading fingers on the other. He stands, tucking both hands behind his back and yelping the word “pomegranate.”

You snap to attention at its sound, watching as Kurtis's quivering hands close the knife and set it upon the coffee table.

“I'm sorry,” he apologises, panting.

“No, Kurtis, it's all right,” you insist. “Whatever you need.”

“I just can't do that to you… it's…”

He falters.

“You don't owe me an explanation. Really,” you say. “Would you like to stop?”

“No,” he asserts. “No. I want to keep going.”

“We can drop the game.”

“I'd still like to play the game.”

“All right,” you answer. “Well, I'm right here for you. Ready to resume whenever you are.”

“You know I'd never do anything to hurt you?” he asks.

“I know, Kurtis.”

“Yeah. Good.”

He turns, shaking out his arms and rotating his neck, working out the jittery nerves in them before returning to the basin. He washes again and takes a drink of cool water before applying more to his neck.

And then he's back, kneeling over you again, his dreamy gaze locked on you.

“You all right?” he asks.

“Yes. I'm ready. Please.”

This time, when he presses the fingers of his right hand inside you, there are no distractions.

“God, I can feel how much you need this,” he coos. “How ready your pussy is for me. Fuck, you're so wet and soft it makes me mental…”

He's got himself hooked into you just right, coaxing the sensation out of you at just the right angle like second nature, until you're close, letting your noises carry precisely how you feel as you moan and plead with him to set it free.

“Kurtis, please…”

“You're gonna have to tell me what you want, love.”

“Make me come, just make me come…”

“Well why didn't you say so?” he teases, knowing the way to get you there is by continuing to do precisely what he's doing now.

Slowly but surely, he works you closer and closer, until you're right on get precipice.

“Oh there you are, baby,” Kurtis groans. “I can feel you. Fuck...”

And he's right. It hits in mighty waves, the tingling bliss radiating out from your centre as your hips seize and you repeatedly cry out his name. His fingers don't stop until you're well on the other side of it.

“Will… will you fuck me now?” you ask, your voice lustful and terrified at once.

“That desperate for this cock?” he says. “Well, you're gonna have to wait for me to decide if you deserve it. Help me to help you come as many times as I see fit.”

He laughs aloud when you pout.

“And no faking,” he adds. “Apparently that’s one of your wicked little talents. Not with me. If I even suspect it's not the real thing, there will be consequences.”

You nod your agreement as he pulls something out of his pocket. A little black cylinder on a key ring. He twists the base and it begins to buzz, and several clicks of a button have it whirring at a dizzying pace.

“You… you always carry that around?” you squeak out.

“No,” he says. “Never. And this particular toy is virgin. Never touched a woman. Never made her squirm. It's so, so excited to torment you.”

He doesn't hesitate to press it to your clit. It's too much, almost painful in its intensity, making your entire body clench and a scream escape your lips as you immediately climax.

“Hmm, that one was real,” he says, pulling it away. “But I had it on too high, didn't I? Let's try this.”

With more clicks of the button, he lowers the speed. With another button, he changes the setting so it pulses like morse code—short, short, short, long—and brings the vibrator back against you.

You're at no risk of finishing immediately this way. In fact, you struggle to settle into its rhythm at all.

You give it a couple of minutes, concentrating hard on the sensation, before you voice your concern.

“I don't think…” you begin, strained, “I don't think this is working…”

“It better,” he says, “or I'm never letting you out of it.”

“You're hardly helping,” you whine. “I thought you we're going to make me finish over and over. Not rely on toys.”

“You're right,” he says. “Selfish, really. Let's see if anything can be done to speed this along…”

He leans in for a kiss, invading your gasping mouth with his curious tongue. His free hand gropes your chest through the thin material of your top, no bra underneath so the pressure of his fingers teases your hard nipples.

“Stronger now?” he asks. “Yeah, I think that's right.”

He clicks it up a speed, then another. It's precisely what you've been needing, making your cries grow louder, closer.

“There you go,” he says. “Good girl. You're feeling it now.”

He imitates the stilted pace of the vibrator with his lips and his caresses against your breasts, and the next orgasm seems to hit you all at once.

“Beautiful,” he says as you your hips jerk, your cunt tensing around nothing. He twists the vibe again to turn it off, standing it on the table before turning his desirous gaze back to you.

“Now?” you urge him. “Have I shown you enough?”

Instead of answering, he gets on his knees on the ground beneath the sofa, bending to take your clit between his lips. You're so sensitised he only has to suck on it a few times, his contact intense and direct, to wring yet another blissful spasm from you.

“No, no, no,” he tuts with you still in his mouth. “That was too fast, doesn't count.”

“Fuck,” you groan. He only smiles as he runs his fingertips along your thighs and across your venus mound, giving you a moment to rest before he continues.

You yearn for him to go on, despite the tenderness of your aching bud, so you sigh with relief when he's on you again.

Kurtis paces himself this time, going slowly. He licks up the stickiness leaking from you, the flat of his tongue teasing everywhere but your clit, tasting around and inside of you. Finally, he presses carefully against you, purposefully slow and lingering. He needs only draw a few circles with his tongue tip before you're there again, coming so many times you've lost count, exhausted in the best way.

“There you go, love,” he praises you. “You've given me everything you've got. You deserve this.”

He rises, collecting a condom wrapper from his pocket before undoing his belt and undressing, jeans pulled down as far as they'll easily slide with his cast in the way. His engorged prick looks as impatient and voracious as you feel, and you watch longingly as he tears the foil package and rolls the thin sheath carefully over his thick length.

“I didn't think you'd bring protection,” you say.

It's not that you're not usually careful. You're just not sure whether it fits into the fantasy.

“Course,” he answers. “I don't know where you've been, princess.”

The cheeky fuck.

He repositions you on the sofa, manoeuvring himself carefully so the cast won't be an impediment as he finally presses his thickness inside of you with a sharp exhale. He begins, wasting no time with his rapid, violent, endlessly pleasing strokes.

“God, it feels so good to finally give you this,” he murmurs. “I see how bad you want me. How bad you need me. How's it feel to get everything you've been begging for? Fuck…”

He goes on that way for a long while, fucking you rough and deep, but as he finally slows, his expression softens. He's not losing stamina, but forgetting the game. He's no longer the criminal taking you against your will because he can, but your partner, making sweet love to you.

“Oh, sweetheart, you feel so fucking good,” he moans. “This is all I've been thinking about. This is all I want.”

And as he gets close, you encourage him, enjoying seeing him lose control, pumping hard into you and wailing out as his breaths are cut short with his pleasure. You're not sure, but you think the unintelligible refrain he's repeating under his breath is “I love you.”

Finally, he relaxes with a long sigh and a joyful giggle.

He undoes the tie binding your hands with one gentle tug before he pulls out of you.

He settles beside you on the sofa and you wrap him in your arms, planting chaste kisses on his cheeks and forehead as you play with his hair with gentle fingertips.

“How’d I do?” Kurtis asks after a long silence.

“You were spectacular,” you tell him. “Brave. Keen. And no one’s ever come close to making me finish that many times. Was it all right for you?”

“I mean, it all felt amazing,” he says. “And I loved watching you. But I think…”

He pauses, carefully considering his next words.

“I think seeing it play out, that’s not what I want,” he admits. “I can't stand to see you scared, even if it's fake. I couldn’t deal with the possibility of you getting hurt. Maybe I don't want to be in charge after all.”

“You're thinking a role reversal?”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “I think I'd like for you to boss me around a little. Not a dangerous situation, necessarily. But worship? Make me do your bidding, maybe?”

“I'd very much like to try that next time. In a safe way, of course.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you answer.

You scratch his scalp a little more deeply, and he embraces you back, squeezing you to him, before your hands find each other, your fingers and his interlaced. You spend a long while tangled up in each other that way, enjoying the comfortable silence.

Kurtis is the one to break it again.

“I think I'm done with dark shit, y’know?” he announces. “I'm too grateful to linger on all that. ‘Cos I'm glad I'm here. Glad I made it out. Lived to tell the tale. Glad I met you.”

“You're a survivor, Kurtis,” you tell him. “And you deserve to let the past go.”

“That okay with you?”

“More than okay,” you answer.

You kiss again, deep and understanding and sweet, and just as thrilling as the first time.

“From now on,” you say, “no more pretending I don't love every little thing you do to delight me. Just realness and pleasure and communication and telling you exactly what I want from you. Deal?”

“Deal,” he agrees.