After a couple of chapters of Yukio, Cathy opens the door slightly and slips through the narrow gap like a spy for no reason. “Oh, you’re reading it?” she asks.
“It’s pretty good.” It’s fucking amazing.
“I knew you’d love it. You know you need to wear a mask when you’re on set?” She moves over to the vanity table and throws a few disposable face nappies down. Her own mask is hanging below her nose making it useless. No doubt she’s doing that to stop her thick-framed glasses steaming up. She is wearing a pair of loose, black slacks and a brown, oversized, knitted jumper. Her sleeves are pushed up her wrist-less forearms revealing a bunch of tacky, plastic bracelets. Her bangs are pinned back with an assortment of different clips. Despite the dry, winter weather her face is pimpled and greased like a teenager’s in summer. She’s a shapeless, mottled mess.
When I first met Cathy, I thought her dishevelled appearance was an act of rebellion against the beauty standards of the industry. But when I reached into her thoughts I found no unrequited desire for fame. No angry principles. Just shy confidence.
Cathy perches her wide arse on my vanity table and spins my chair with her dirty pump so that I’m facing her. “You’ve got about an hour until make-up arrives,” she says. “What are you gonna do?” She cocks her head.
“Well,” I say, standing “I’m going to fuck you. But it’s a good job I have this book because I don’t know what I’d do with the other fifty minutes.” She snorts. I tilt up her chin and kiss her, then lift her onto the vanity table properly. She wraps her thick calves around the back of my hips and pull me closer. Her pumps slip off and land on the floor with a soft thud. She leans back, making me dip down to kiss her and grinds her crotch against mine.
I pull down her slacks and underwear to her ankles with one hand and try to undo my jeans with the other. I wrestle my cock out of my jeans. Her arse squeaks on the shiny vinyl table as she tries to position herself. That makes us both laugh. She leans back and bumps her head on one of the hot mirror lights. I try to help her but I stumble backwards over my own trousers and fall to the floor.
Cathy bursts into laughter before I can ask her if she’s OK. She steps out of her slacks and knickers and dumps them in a tangle on the table. “Come here,” she says, helping me up then pushing me onto the couch. “Sit there.” She puts my arms on the shoulders of the couch and sits in my lap. She shifts her hips inelegantly until she finds my cock and slides herself onto it. She’s always drenched and her vagina hardly offers any resistance. She pulls off the oversized jumper, smashing my face clumsily with an elbow and getting her glasses tangled in the knit. Under the unflatteringly large top she is wearing a soft, navy bralette with thin shoulder straps that offers no support for her sugar bag sized breasts.
She starts to take it off. “Leave it on,” I say. Cathy always wears pretty and impractical underwear that strains under the pressure of her curves, usually half-trapped in her arse or spilling her tits.
She holds down my arms at the elbows and rides me rhythmlessly. She pushes her tongue violently into my mouth and sucks on my neck and shoulders. Her enlaced breasts smack against my chest.
“Go inside me,” she breathes into my ear.
“I am inside you.”
“No, go inside me.”
“Do you have enough left?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Keep moving.”
I let my mind slide into hers. It’s always easier when someone wants it. Our pleasures are layered on top of each other. I adjust my hips, feeling arousal slip around in her mind until I find the right position. Her movements get slower and harder. Her breathing deeper and off beat. Her vaginal canal closes on my cock. The vortex of her orgasm grows in my mind, obliterating my pleasure. I come when she does. My mind folds in on itself, breaking the entanglement. She sits in my lap a while, letting me drip out of her as my cock softens to a useless cork.
“You were quite quick,” she says, without judgement.
“So were you.”
“I’m always quick.”
“I told you I quit Porn.”
She snorts, “No fap, red pill cliché.”
“If you say so,” I say sleepily.
Once we dress she asks me, “Did it make your power any better?”
“No. It’s still fading away.”
“How long do you think you have left?”
“Maybe six months,” I lie.