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out as much as I can while he judders and gasps, forming a picture in my mind of his length. No wonder he sometimes walks funny, with something in front of him. It’s probably why he hunches. You couldn’t hide an erection like this.
    I wonder how many quick tight orgasms he’s jerked himself to, out of necessity. In the little toilet off the kitchen, perhaps, while I shop or book-keep. Muffling his cries of pleasure in the sleeve of his jumper or against the back of his hand.
    I thumb the slit at the head of his prick, and feel him buck against me.
    ‘Please,’ he groans. ‘Please –’
    I understand. I need it too. I’m rubbing my swollen nipples into his back, by the time I get around to tugging at his cock in rough little jerks.
    Of course, I don’t think it will take long. I squeeze and oil the way with all the slippery pre-come he seems to be producing. I twist my palm over all the good spots and work him nice and quickly. It shouldn’t take long at all.
    And yet it does. He grunts and rocks his hips into my hand, eventually giving in to leaning against the bookshelf. He rests his forehead on the arm he plants over the other copies of Passion’s Flame , and his body trembles and trembles like a live wire, but he doesn’t come.
    He only comes when his own hand snaps down over mine, whip quick, and guides me desperately in a different sort of motion. His gasps have turned frustrated and he’s practically whining, but as soon as his own strong hand squeezes mine almost painfully tight around his shaft, it’s clear that he’s getting what he needs.
    ‘Ah, that’s it,’ he blurts out, body tensing suddenly and his hand speeding up on his swelling cock. My hand speeding up on his swelling cock.
    It feels as though I am him. Bristling, shameful pleasure rocking through me, jerking at myself like a dirty little slut. More than likely about to spurt all over the books, and with thoughts of such only making the whole thing seedier, better, more.
    My legs are shaking, in almost exactly the same way as his. I can’t catch my breath, and I have to press myself right up against him to keep myself steady. Delicious urges thrill through me, and I give in to at least one of them – I turn my face against the bobbly wool of the little olive green tank top he’s wearing, and bite, hard. I bite material, and the jut of his shoulder blade, and flesh.
    My eyes open wide, when he cries out in a way that suggests he doesn’t hate a move like that. Not at all. In fact, he squeezes my hand tighter, around his cock. He jerks forward, as though pulled. And then his heavy prick leaps and spurts, thickly.
    I know it does, because he cups his free hand around himself in this strange little jerky move, and everything spatters into the hollow he’s made.
    My immediate urge, however, is not what it was when Andy came all over my face – to get a tissue. Instead I want to turn him around, and lick my fingers clean right in front of him. I want to make him watch, and then I want to make him clean himself up, too.
    Not that I get the opportunity to do either. Instead, he keeps his hand over mine – so that I have to sag forward, when he does. He presses his forehead into the wood of one of the shelves, this time, but the impression I’m left with is the same. Frustration, and a mild sort of despair.
    I don’t think this has made him happy. I might have realised something about myself, but I don’t think he’s quite there, yet. In fact, I’m not sure he’s even in the vicinity.
    I try to straighten and detach myself from him, but that’s a mistake. The moment I do, he lets me go and jerks around, as flustered and blustery as ever I’ve seen him. He goes to pick up the dropped book, but then seems to realise that he’s still exposed and covered in something that shouldn’t be on books – which only makes him more agitated.
    His hair is delightfully mussed. Or at least, it would be delightful if he weren’t so clearly