Erototropía

As you stood outside the building, its faded paint chipped with age, rain pouring onto the corrugated iron roof of the porch above you, there was only one thought in your mind - did that really just happen?

Actually, you were also wondering how in the hell you were going to get home. You had definitely missed the 4pm bus - as it was now 17:30 - and the next one wasn’t due until 19:00 at least. On a good day, you would have walked home, but the weather was determined to ruin your day (although you weren’t sure if anything could have spoiled the feeling of Otto’s arm around your waist as he fumbled in his bag for his car keys).

“Are you alright, darling?” he kissed the top of your head softly.

“Yeah, I’m great,” you smiled up at him, “just figuring out how to get home.”

“Do you want a lift?”

There was a beat.

Despite literally just having sex in his office, you were still hesitant about being in a confined space with your professor - boss - and especially in a car where people could easily see you together (although that was mildly exciting, too). However, the idea of him driving you home, along with the protective way he was leaning over you, was tempting.

“I, um..” you thought about protesting, until you saw the look on his face.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, (Y/N), I’ll drive you home. There’s no way you can walk home in this rain.” Otto grabbed your hand, pulling you into the warmth of his greatcoat, wrapping the leather around the two of you, “And this way I can make sure you get home safe.”

You laughed, secretly pleased with his protectiveness, “I’ve been living here for 6 years, I’m sure I can find my way home without your help, professor.” You nudged him, “But thank you, I’d love a lift.”

Otto leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips, and even though you had been kissing for the last hour or so, the way he seemed to drown in your touch made your chest constrict almost painfully. His coat flapped around the two of you in the wind, and it seemed like a scene out of a movie, like that famous Alfred Eisenstaedt V-J Day photograph. Despite your best efforts, you found yourself tugging at his sweater, eyes fluttering closed when he deepened the kiss, quiet moans escaping at his ministrations. You could feel him smiling, knowing the effect he was having on you.

With a soft groan, he pulled away, and it felt as if he took a part of you with him.

“Neither of us are going to get home until we stop kissing,” he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, “now come on.”

The two of you braced yourselves against the rain, using Otto’s coat as a shield to sprint across the car park and almost fall into his car. Otto shook himself like a wet dog, a smattering of water droplets darkening the faded interior of the car and snagging on your hair and eyelashes which had been previously unscathed.

At your disgruntled, “Otto!” he shot a look at you, seeming like a chided infant. His slightly remorseful expression combined with sopping wet clothes made you burst into laughter, pealing out through the empty car park. Confused for a moment, he took in the now much wetter car interior and you, the blushing sunset sending out amber hues that sunk into your skin and raised a halo above your head. There was an eerie ethereality about your presence, the sun crowning you with its dying breath, the rain in your hair illuminated like a cold sea on a bright winter’s day.

Taken aback by his silence, your laughter died out, echoing back at you from the pillars of the asphalt car park.

“Otto?” you repeated, “You ok?”

The sun was behind you, your profile casting a shadow on his face, yet his eyes seemed to burn in the darkness. The two of you sat in the dusk, as if spiderwebs held you together, careful not to snap them with a sudden movement.

And as the sun dipped below the rise of the buildings, Otto seemed to shake himself, waking from the half-moment he had been drowning in.

“Yes, sorry, I was distracted,” he murmured, “now where am I going?”

You pulled out your phone, fumbling with Google Maps, as his car was much too old to have SatNav (you weren’t even sure his phone could have managed a simple journey like this).

“Just exit at the South side, and then the phone will take over,” you rested your mobile in the space between his radio and gear stick, “it’s a pretty easy journey, maybe seven or eight miles.”

He nodded his assent. “Would you like some music on? I have a couple of CDs..” Otto reversed out of the space and began to drive towards the southern exit, “Unless my music taste is too old for you?”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you winked at him, “where are they?”

He gestured to the glove compartment, and you obligingly dug through the layers of CDs until you landed on one you recognised.

“Duran Duran?”

He sighed. “Too old?”

“God no! I fucking love Duran Duran, and this is probably their best album.” you grinned at him, “Good music taste, sir!”

Laughing, he swatted at you and the car swerved slightly, “Stop bloody swearing!”

You dodged him, giggling, “What are you gonna do?” The CD slotted in nicely with a click, the intro to ‘All She Wants Is’ filling up the car, “...and keep your eyes on the road!” you chided.

“Interesting song choice,” Otto eyed you, “lots of moaning.” He raised an eyebrow, which did strange things to your breathing, which he probably noticed.

“Hey, don’t judge me! Plus the stereo’s on random, it just came on, I’m not in control.”

“I’m glad we agree on something.”

That made your breathing hitch again, remembering the stuttering moans and gasps, the creaking desk, discarded clothes. Just remembering Otto.

He sneaked a look at your startled face, the way your knuckles turned white as you gripped the edge of the seat, and especially your complete refusal to meet his eyes, made him crack up, almost losing grip of the steering wheel in his mirth.

“I’m only teasing, yakiri, no need to look so distressed,” he rested a hand on your thigh in what was meant to be a comforting manner, but instead sent spikes of excitement up your leg, “we’re nearly back anyway. Just a couple of miles to go.”

He removed his hand to shift gear, and you unconsciously whined at the loss of contact, clapping a hand over your mouth once you realised what you had done.

You were sure the temperature in the car had just been cranked up another notch.

“I, uh, sorry?”

“No need to apologise, darling,” he winked at you, “always nice to be appreciated.” There was a pause, “A simple hand on the leg, though?

Unwilling to respond, you muttered something intelligible and slunk further down into your seat, a blush settling deep into your cheeks.

“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t quite catch that.” Otto’s hand was suddenly back on your thigh, thumb rubbing little circles into the thin material of your trousers. “What did you say?”

Leaning into his touch as his hand traced dangerously further up your leg, you sighed softly, allowing yourself to be lost in the music and the soft warmth of Otto’s touch. Distant lights misted behind the curtain of rain that hung over the city, the low horns of swerving cars were dulled by humming water that strummed throughout New York. The dusk felt like an embrace, the rain a gentle accompaniment to the sonorous baritone of Otto’s voice, fingers dancing around the line of your trousers, threateningly close to the zipper.

“Darling,” he murmured, “are you going to answer me?”

The stereo crunched, song switching to ‘Come Undone’, and with it, Otto’s hand dipped below the fabric, the rain drowning out your gasping breathing as you shivered against him.

Touch phantom on your skin, languid fingers pulled down the zipper and without a moment’s notice, one was inside you, pulling moans and gasps from your lungs with practised ease.

For a second, you wondered where your underwear was, before realising you had never put your thong back on after the chaos of being railed on Otto’s desk. Not one to complain, though, you realised the benefits of going commando while your professor was around. Easy access being one.

“No,” you groaned out, vertebrae arching as you stretched on the seat, allowing Otto’s hand deeper into your trousers, “I’m going to keep perfectly silent if that elicits this kind of response from you.”

Otto’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, eyes fighting to keep focused on the road as your hands slipped under your shirt to bring some relief to your aching breasts, bra pinging satisfyingly as it was flung onto the dashboard. The older man’s fingers were making short work of you, adding another finger - to your delight and pleasure - and gently circling his thumb over your clit. Your lids grew heavy, eyes glossing over. There was no way of knowing what you were saying as you clutched at Otto’s arm, crying out his name into the night, moaning incoherently at the constant pressure on your clit. Before long you were reduced to a panting mess, moulded in his hands like soft clay with every tweak and twitch of his hand.

“Shhh..”

You supposed that was supposed to be comforting, but you were so overly sensitive from your previous two orgasms that his hand felt like it was full of sparking embers that sunk into the soft flesh of your sex.

He added a third finger, and the stretch was heavenly.

“Yakiri,” he whispered, “look at me.”

Streetlights hovering at the edge of your vision, you managed to meet his gaze as you writhed in your seat, muscles spasming desperately at his ministrations.

Just as you were about to abandon yourself to pleasure and the feeling of Otto’s fingers inside you, the grating voice of your phone announced that you had arrived home, yet you were amazed that Otto had managed to multitask so efficiently.

“Driving and fingering?” you laughed, “quite the feat.”

But there was no mirth in his eyes, only lust, and you wondered for a second what you had got yourself into.