Think Of It – by J Shelbourne

His name was Liam and he had a gift.

Think of it as a kind of telepathy, or empathy. It wasn’t; there was nothing psychic about it–the actual explanation had to do with pheromones and smell and vomeronasal cavities and suchlike–but what you need to know is that he knew when women were horny.

Sometimes he couldn’t resist acting on that. He tried; every time, he tried. Prison had taught him this wasn’t an unmixed gift. But– Don’t think of the telepathy as a telephone; think of it as a radio receiver. Without a volume control, without an off-switch, and no choice of channels.

She was walking ahead of him in the corridor, her perfume–and other things–wafting over him for ten paces, fifteen, and he lengthened his stride to catch up because he wasn’t thinking much any more, the phone was ringing, ringing, and he touched her on the shoulder, the warm shoulder, fingertip dipping into the heat that surrounded her and she turned to look at him.

He knew he had that vaguely familiar look about him; he had spent years hearing, “Aren’t you so-and-so?” or “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Yes?” She was polite but vaguely distracted. The way she held her lower lip between white teeth and the slight stain of lipstick on those teeth made him even more urgent.

“May I talk with you for a moment.” Oh, his mouth said “talk” but his limbic system said “fuck.” And it wasn’t a request; his voice was huskier than it ought to be and he had his hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the nearest door.

She probably knew something was going on–it was a broom closet with a bare incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling, apple-green paint on concrete walls, overripe with the smell of lemon cleaning solutions– but she went in anyway, and she turned to face him as he shut the door.

“Yes?” she asked again, and he didn’t hear the question–her horniness was his, and he slid one palm up her hot soft naked thigh, under her short skirt, as he pressed his body against hers and kissed her, hard. His only concession to politeness was to keep his tongue to himself.

This was the cusp, the point at which they called “rape” or hit him or ran when their forebrains caught up to what their emotions had led them to. And it was rape: he knew that, and disliked it, but his every attempt to control it had failed.

She made a noise and he took it into his open mouth and swallowed it, and she reached down to where his cock was hard and evident and cupped her hand over it, heel against the base and fingertips not reaching the end, and she made another noise, and a third one, and her tongue slid into his mouth, tasting of tea and minty toothpaste.

His hand slid farther up her leg, to the swell of her buttock, without finding panties, and the excitement of that made him grunt. She sucked his tongue into her mouth, tried to grab his cock but couldn’t. She pulled him closer with her other arm and rubbed her mons against him, the hiss of rubbing cloth almost inaudible over their breathing.

He held her tightly against the wall, the concrete cool against his knuckles as his thumbs touched the swells of her breasts, and pushed up with his hips, lifting her against the wall.

Her kisses were so hard his lips tingled on the edge of numbness. She held him captive by his tongue even as she scratched his back, even as her other hand snaked between their bellies and found his belt. She pushed his hips away then, just a little, and undid his belt, his pants, let them fall. Her knees buckled just a bit, rubbing her chest against him as she found his long hard cock. He had to look down now as she pulled on him and it was almost painful, and he thought this was some trick, some way of punishing him, but she squeezed the shaft of his cock and made the head swell and then she rubbed herself against his cock.

He put his hand over hers, his knuckles against her shaven mound. She felt slick and wet, and she jerked and moaned when he brushed her clit.

She let go of his tongue to whisper, “Now, now, now, oh fuck, now.” He straightened up: his cock bent for a second and then slid into her easily, slid deeply inside her until his pelvis was pressed against her, straightened until she was on her toe-tips and groaning.

She pushed on his shoulders and then reached down for his ass, and she pushed again and pulled to show him the rhythm she wanted, fast and hard and blunt, all force and heat and sweat.

He knew when she was close to coming; he always knew, and it was always good for him whether he wanted it to be or not because their pleasure was his pleasure. Whether he wanted it to be or not.

She bit his neck trying to hold on and he smelled the blood with everything else she smelled, and it made him faster, harder, bigger. His forehead rested against the wall as he moved his cock in and out of her, just the last inch of his cock slamming into her the way he could tell she liked and rocking against her clit every stroke.

He didn’t come the first time she did, because the first orgasm was small and he was able to wait but she came again almost immediately and that one was bigger and he didn’t expect it either so he came inside her, a long dizzying climax that emptied him and purged him of need for the moment.

Slowly he realized what he had done again. Her fingers were tight on his ass as she cooed, her slick pussy still moving on his cock, and he was afraid to look in her eyes.

“Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, that was *exactly* what I needed.” She smiled at him. The lipstick was gone from her lips now.

“I know,” he said.

“It was rape,” she told him. “You know that.”

“I know,” he said. “I have a criminal record,” he confessed. “Sometimes I just…respond to a woman’s need.”

“So you’ve done this before.” She slowly settled down onto her heels and his cock popped out of her. She cupped it in her hand and looked at it, all slick with come. “Yum.”

And as her hand moved back and forth along the length of his cock, he started to respond. She smiled and then caught her lower lip between her teeth again. Her eyes sparkled brightly.

“Then let’s do it again,” she said. “And again.”

Her name was Anna and she had a gift. Think of her as the far end of the distribution curve. Think of it as a happy ending.