Hidden Inside

 by Ashley Hind

      Sometimes when I see you I can’t even breathe. I feel the air sticking in my throat and it never quite manages to escape before my chest flutters and sucks it back down. As the joy and adrenalin rushes to build, the flutter becomes a kind of spasm that perpetuates as I fail to draw another breath. I am left wondering if my self-preservation mechanism will ever kick in and force my lungs back into action. Fortunately it always has which is just as well as it would be a pitiful way to die: goggle-eyed and choking on an empty goldfish-gulp for oxygen, my big tits jiggling up and down and me looking for all the world like I have a cattle-prod stuck up my arse, the whole office witnessing my graceless descent into a besotted heap at your feet, all watching me struggle for one last longing look at you before my lights finally go out... You probably wouldn’t even bat an eyelid. You would be thinking: what is this very plain and slightly chubby (if sweetly perfumed) heap of nonsense doing wheezing and turning blue? Why is she spluttering saliva all over my very sexy Italian shoes? Too bad: I will die and never get to tell you that you are the most beautiful man that I have ever seen, and you will never learn that, despite my relative plainness alongside others that you favour, I am quietly gifted in ways that would literally blow your socks off. I am, as it happens, the very best cock-sucker in, well- if not the whole world then at least in this office. And that, my lovely man-who-apparently-loves-to-be-fellated, is no idle boast but a fact.

      If I was Hannah then you would have found out about my talent by now, that’s for sure. But I am not her. All I am is a face that you recognise though hardly register. I know so much about you and yet nothing of me dents your conscious thoughts. To you I am merely a barely acknowledged shape that used to accompany Hannah to the staff canteen or to the pub, a splodge in your periphery as you filled your vision with her. I was the one who sat there silently while you two giggled at each other’s suggestive remarks and nudged each other, shoulder to shoulder, in the only contact you would allow yourself in public. In private it is a different matter I’m sure. Despite Hannah’s denials that there is nothing between you but friendship there is no way you would keep your hands off her if you got her alone because she is gorgeous and irresistible and I would eat her up myself given half the chance. You remember that night you went to the movies with her? You remember the other person, the one you steadfastly ignored in the bar before and afterwards the whole night, the one who had to sit with your best friend and not blurt out that he had a haircut like a fuzzy dog’s arse and a terrible line in Steven Seagal: Lawman anecdotes? That was me! And I saw your face as you gazed upon her and I know it spoke of more than mere friendship.

     It’s the way my tongue flickers, or so I’m told. That’s the secret of my penis-blowing gift. I can waggle the tip at a blurring speed and keep this up for ages. I have a good grip too, apparently: somehow I innately know how hard and exactly where along each shaft to grasp and precisely how fast to wank it at any given time during my performance. I don’t know how or why I am blessed with such knowledge, I just am. I take a good hold and lap with blinding speed and leg-shaking titillation at the very tip of the penis, giving it a teasing, wet butterfly kiss that goes on and on. Then I engulf the whole head, ensuring my mouth is full of saliva, and I suck; neither too hard which might hurt, nor too soft which just torments; but just right. As I suck I glide my hand swiftly up and down the shaft, urging the spunk from its hairy hidey-hole. As he starts to breath harder and faster I’m off again with my flickering tongue, teasing some more but allowing his danger moment to recede. I keep this up for as long as he can, knowing each time I stop sucking that the sperm will not retreat as far as before, so it gradually builds and builds until it blows uncontrollably. I also know that while my flickering tongue is exquisite the real joy comes from having this tease interrupted by the warm bath of my mouth wrapping around his straining glans, and the bliss of my hand flashing up and down at such a rate on his hard shaft. It is all about timing: knowing when to lap and when to suck, about doing it exactly as he would beg you to do it.

     And I will drink his spunk too, all of it, no matter how much. It’s not that I like the taste, it’s just that the whole rudeness of it turns me on. Not like our Hannah, eh? She screws her face up and spits it out like it was poison; like it was some hideous gloopy, acrid concoction tinged with salt and last night’s curry, rather than the purest demonstration of your lust for her. You give her that reward and she nearly vomits on it. What a disappointing way to end such a vulgar but intense act- and you should know! I know because I have seen her do it. In fact it was her that first declared me such a blow-job expert. I never thought I was doing anything out of the ordinary; I sucked cocks in a way that I liked and drank the come like I thought I was supposed to. The boys seemed to like it but they would say anything to get you back on your knees behind the hedges to drain their balls. The guys I got to blow weren’t A-listers like Hannah’s conquests and they were glad to get any female attention; I believe there is a phrase about not looking or fucking a gift horse in the mouth, or something like that. Anyway, it was Hannah herself that told me I did it so well, I shocked her into admitting that- to use her very words- I did it so much better than her.

     “Christ! You kept that quiet, didn’t you?” she spluttered some time afterwards, still unable to believe the extent of my prowess. She looked at me for ages, gazing into my eyes, trying to fathom me. In the end she just shook her head and shrugged.

     “Everything about you is hidden inside,” she said. “Why won’t you ever let people see?”

     She was wrong; it is not hidden, it is all there if only you would look for it. But with me, no-one is ever looking. She should have known this more than anyone. If she gave me more than just a cursory glance then she would have realised that I was besotted by her.

     It pains me that you know nothing about my life. I have a little catalogue of stored thoughts about you; snippets that I glean from any source possible to build up a picture of your ways and habits. I keep them in my brain in a file named Infatuation. I know it sounds a bit spooky but don’t get freaked out! I am no stalker; I’m just lost in you and can’t help myself. Do you know how agonizing it is to want someone and yet fail to even register on their radar? That’s when I hate “Love”: when it hits you with its full force, slams into you and seeps into your cells, burns your heart and flips your stomach with its conniving chemicals that turn you to mush. Love shouldn’t be able to touch you unless your target’s feelings are reciprocal but, in Nature’s cruellest twist, it can actually hit you doubly hard when you are open and vulnerable like this. It almost stands to reason that the apple of your eye will love someone else instead, and I guess it is life’s final dagger in the heart to ensure that that someone turns out to be your own best friend.

     Do you know I have been Hannah’s best friend for twelve years- nearly half my life? No, of course you don’t. Do you know that she was the first girl I kissed, the first girl to   suck my tits? Has she told you that we used to masturbate in my bedroom and that one time, as we were both about to come, she scissored me and squashed our little cunt lips together in the warmest, wettest, most sublime kiss that I have ever had? I still think this was my most intense orgasm to date- or maybe it was the one straight after, when she silently watched me wank furiously with the thoughts and feeling of what she had just done to me fresh in my mind. I can never quite attain the same intensity now, although the memory is only a little fuzzed at the edges.

     I recall the episode so often when I am alone with my hand between my legs, wishing she had let something happen between us again. Nothing ever did, though. We still masturbated together a few more times but as she approached her climax she would turn away from me. The second time she did this I left my own pussy alone, shuffled across to her and slid one wet finger up her bum to help her on her way. I bet she never told you this as you were worming your way inside her pretty little bottom? She came very hard but never said a word to me after. I did it to her the next time too and I’m sure she pushed her arse out for me. She left me straight afterwards, without saying much. I actually needed her to go. Once she couldn’t see me I fucked myself like mad, the finger that had been inside her squashed under my nose. Even worse, when I was about to come I put that same finger right in my mouth and sucked it! Actually, maybe that was the most intense orgasm I have ever had.

     We never masturbated together again. If I suggested it she would just shrug and say that she didn’t feel like it and bounced off the bed to leave me alone and torn in two. I loved her long before she stopped our wanky sessions but the agony of her refusal to let me touch her just cemented my infatuation. I have wanted her more than anyone ever since- until you, of course. I was desperate to be in her bum again, to kiss her, to lick her lovely pussy. What tortures me most is the new-found knowledge that I am also one of the best exponents of cunnilingus on earth and that if I ever had or could give her just one sample of my gift then I am sure she would want more and make me hers forever. All I ever seem to need is one go with my tongue on the right people, and all my dreams would come true! It’s mad isn’t it? I could make you fall in love with me if you could just see through my plainness and let me do the most personal thing to you that you could imagine! It’s a shame my skills are not transferred some other, less illicit way- through a handshake, for instance. Perhaps I should become a Freemason.  

     We are all the same with the lights out is a saying, but it isn’t true. With the lights on I am almost invisible; the less attractive one of the pair or group, the one who doesn’t say much but is actually quite sweet and funny if you gave her the time of day. Turn the lights off and I don’t become an equal, I soar above all, leaving the rest stranded in a heap of mediocrity as my tongue plays its heavenly tune upon you. Just don’t turn the lights back on and your imagination need never fade. I’m not ugly, by any means. I just don’t shine as brightly as others and that makes me irrelevant to most eyes. I should stick to the dark, and I’m not talking about the gloomy corners of nightclubs where romance is snuffed out and leering drunks slur their desire to ‘fuck you up your sexy fat arse’. I should be an owl, or a vampire perhaps- which, come to think of it, is actually way sexier than something that hoots in trees and turns its head backwards. All this would be lost on you though, because you are a creature of the light, someone to be seen and adored, illuminated by the sunlight just like you were today, when I saw you and had one of my can’t-breathe-eyes-googly-please-take-that-electrode-out-of-my-arse moments.

     You were standing at the open window behind your desk, one arm up resting on the frame. It was so hot but as always you wore one of your smart shirts with the cufflinks. The cotton clung to you but it still seemed fresh and immaculate, and there was only one faint trace of sweat in the drops soaking little darker spots around your ribs. The light was shining right through the material and I could see the outline of your arm and the definition of your muscles. I could see the flaring behind your armpit, that little wing that connects the limb to the body below the shoulder; in most men unnoticeable but in you so proud and taut. This particular muscle is called the Latissimus dorsi. I know this because I have looked it up; you would know its name because you have worked on it, sweating pints as you repeated the particular exercise that would increase its size and power, just as you have done with every muscle in your body. The beauty is that you could never be described as a ‘body-builder’; your brawn doesn’t bulge narcissistically from your clothes and your sinew doesn’t strain at your neck. No, you are just right- powerful and firm without being inflated or ridiculous.

     I know you work hard at perfecting your shape. I know that you need to exercise without fail on a daily basis and that as soon as you get home you go into your garage to pump some iron, kissing your wife before disappearing for three-quarters of an hour whilst she makes your tea. I know that you then shower and come down, kiss her again and devote the rest of the evening to her and your two young children. I assume she is more than happy to lose you for this short time and why in heaven’s name wouldn’t she be? In fact I know she is happy because while you are busy making yourself look even more wonderful, she not only makes your tea but hangs your suit up, gives your shoes a quick shine before tidying them away, and then unpacks your briefcase and washes out your plastic lunchbox, ready for the next day. Such devotion! Presumably she then gazes lovingly upon you and wishes away the hours until you come naked to her, your beautiful prick sticking out hard towards her. You will let her cuff your hands behind your back in an odd mixture of your narcissism and desire to be at the complete mercy of an adoring mouth and tongue. Because that’s what you like more than anything, isn’t it? More than fucking even, you love to be sucked dry.

     Of course it was Hannah that told me this, because she tells me everything. You regale her with tales of your secrets and she passes them all on to me! Strange then that she should lie about the fact that nothing has happened between the two of you. According to her you told her about your infatuation with all things blow-jobby one evening when you were a little tiddly and frisky, perhaps because you thought it might encourage her to have a quick go on your stiffy, although she claims (as she always does) that she just laughed it off.  Rubbish! She sucked you off and probably more besides- I’m absolutely sure of it! Why she lies I do not know. It certainly isn’t to spare my pain; she has no idea of my feelings towards you and is far too busy looking your way to witness my pathetic doting face. And you, you are too busy doing your puppy dog expression back at her to notice me at all.

     Sometimes it rips me to pieces to watch the two of you together. There is such poetry between people who are desperately attracted to each other; a body-language which shouts their need even if the face is pretending like mad that nothing out of the ordinary is occurring. There is a correspondence of speech and looks and laughter that has been automatically tailored in those moments together, an assimilation of each other’s character that occurs from the very start, so that you do not offend or repel what you most want to grab hold of. It then forms and evolves, so that you create your own special traits between you that define you in your private moments and convince you that you were made for each other, even if you are actually married to someone else and have produced two children. And everything you tell her she promptly relays to me. She talks about you as if it’s just idle chit-chat; mere office observations. But I know that when you really like someone all you want to do is talk about them, to say their name out loud because the simple hearing of it is so exhilarating. I should hate her for spouting on eternally about you but perversely I do not. She is my window on your world and the fact that she knows your every privacy allows me to know you too. I will settle for any scraps I can get, even if the manner of receiving them breaks my heart. 

        Hannah was never the same with me once she ceased our masturbation sessions. She still loved me but more like a younger sister than as a girlfriend. She saw me as some kind of pitiable side-kick that needed looking after. She spoke up for me, made my decisions and ensured that I did not get overlooked by boys. In essence this meant that when she went out with some handsome hunk, I got to go out with one of his less attractive friends, often the ones with a face like a pizza dropped on the kitchen floor. One time I was even honoured with one of her own conquests. It was my 19th birthday and my so-called boyfriend had dumped me rather than buy me a present. Hannah had been seeing some lanky floppy-blond Irish chap called Rory for a week or so and had spent most of that time delightedly telling me how long his cock was. I was dragging around after them both and rather than palming me off on another of his friends she bestowed me with the dubious gift of letting me stick around gooseberry-fashion whilst the two of them made out. She suddenly got a surge of impishness and whipped out his long prick and then, giggling away, she proceeded to get to her knees and suck him. When she came up for air she was taken by a sudden moment of generosity. Remembering that it was my birthday after all, she offered me a go on this most delectable of lengths.

       “You don’t mind do you, Rory?” she asked, just in case he didn’t want someone as plain as me gobbling away on his tool. Indeed, no- Rory didn’t mind at all, at all. In fact he minded even less once I had got down and commenced my routine. He liked it very much, actually. I could feel her stiffening beside me, the first time I had felt anything like jealousy coming off her, although at that stage I didn’t know why she should feel such a thing. Rory was quite obviously having the time of his life, gasping and panting away, so much so that Hannah decided it was time to ease me aside and get back into action herself. But Rory was more than a little disappointed by her efforts and would you believe it, he held her still and jovially requested that I be given another go! Well, it was my birthday so back into action I came, although I sensed Hannah was less happy to oblige me this time. She stayed silent as I went back to teasing her boyfriend and making him screw his eyes tight shut, wringing from him the yelps and sighs that she could not.

     She couldn't bear to force her way back onto him and suffer another embarrassment of being second best and so she staved of her jealousy until the point of no return, elbowing me aside just as young Rory was ready to pop, sinking her mouth onto him to steal the glory, before remembering way too late that she had no stomach for spunk. I allowed myself a sly smile as she spluttered on his bubbling seed and retched it back out onto his balls and belly. My smugness did me no good. I have never had the chance to shout to the world that in one way at least I am better than her. I have kept this knowledge hidden inside. I never advertised my talent and neither did she on my behalf. After that she stopped looking out for me as she once did. She gave her begrudging verdict of my skills afterwards and opened my eyes to the fact that I was genuinely and surprisingly expert at this dirty act, but she never shared her boyfriends with me again and all I got to blow on were her cast-offs and second-rate bastards who did not deserve or even understand me, let alone love me.

     So I have been standing in her shadow all of these years, wanting her, wanting what and who she had. It’s not about hiding my light under a bushel; it’s simply about the crises of confidence that prevents me from speaking out and being noticed. You get noticed, they get to see how plain you are. A lack of self-belief renders you mute. It scrambles your senses and freezes your tongue and by the time you have thought of what you should say it is way, way too late. Every now and then I get a surge of desperation and try to assert myself, try to seize the initiative. Earlier this year, with the two of us at a club and her staggeringly drunk after a fight and split with her boyfriend, I sat Hannah down and patiently explained to her how much I care for her and needed her. I told her I wasn’t gay but I loved her more than anything and couldn’t think of anyone I would rather be with. I thought she understood me but when I tried to kiss her she suddenly came back to her senses and told me in no uncertain terms to fuck off and leave her alone, and to find somewhere else to stick my dirty lezzie tongue.

     That ‘somewhere else’ found me, as it happened- abandoned outside the toilets, distraught and crying; a woman of maybe forty-five, brash and tarty, but too horny to let me escape her clutches once she had comforted me and I had told her what I’d done. And thus I shared another detached night with one of life’s cast-offs, learning this time, after a whole night of wet writhing, that I was in fact as blessed in the pussy-licking department as I was at cock sucking. That woman still calls me up now, unable to resist my talents and safe in the knowledge that I am too weak to refuse her. She summons me to her dingy flat to spank me hard and fill me with her fingers, and then to make me lick her pussy and her arse. This is my only experience of ‘loving’ another female, despite my longings for Hannah, and all I can ever think of while my tongue is flicking over that fat pink clit and the juice is pouring out over my chin, are these same words: if I could just find a way to lick Hannah, I would surely make her mine.

     Buoyed by the knowledge that I was the World Rug-Munching Champion, and by the fact that Hannah seemed to have no recollection of the nightclub incident, I made another play for her just recently, this time waiting until she was as equally drunk as before and twice as horny. I got as far as her room, got as far as seeing her lying on the bed frigging herself over her skimpy panties until they were soaked, I even got to see them coming off. I just caught the briefest glimpse of her shaven puss before she came to, saw me gawping at her and once more sent me packing in her foul-mouthed, aggressive-drunk way. I slunk off, sneaking her soiled panties with me as a prize to breathe in as I lay sobbing and frigging on her sofa. I know it’s pathetic but you would understand if you loved her as desperately as I do. Or did, at any rate, because now, of course, all I can really think about is you. I’m not a bad person, I am quite the opposite. I am deep and sensitive, caring and funny. All I want is someone who can see past face value and search for the real me. All I want is someone beautiful for a change.

     I guess it was obvious that you would fall for Hannah and never even see me. You must feel the waves of longing that radiate from me; I am conscious that they must fill the room they are so strong. Perhaps you mistakenly believe they are emitted by her. Maybe nothing of me features on your frequency. She should never have homed in on you, but she is such a flirt that she simply couldn’t help but reel you in. The fact that I have to stand by and watch the two of you basking in each other is what withers me most. I see her and know that if she had just opened up to me that one time then she would still be addicted to me now and would never let me go. I know that if she ever let me watch the two of you together, if just once more she deigned to allow me to drop to my knees and give my gift to her boyfriend, then you would choose me over her forever. Victory is constantly dangled before me but I am always light years from grasping it. I tell you I am not a bad person- in fact I am beautiful in so many ways, if for once people would just pause to allow a consideration of aesthetics. I didn’t set out to destroy anyone and I'm still not quite sure of my reasons for doing it now. She says there is nothing between the two of you; well, if she is telling the truth then innocent people are going to get very hurt. If she is right then you won’t even recognise the offending item when your wife holds it before you, the tears already bursting from her eyes. You won’t recognise the fabric or the scent that is still so faintly noticeable if you just press them to your nose and breathe them in deeply.

     But Hannah is not telling the truth. I see the looks between you; the indisputable signs of covert intimacy. The first time I witnessed it I was shocked to the core. The two people I most wanted and adored and suddenly there was this big secret between them, this tell-tale intense familiarity. I am used to having to wait in line but, you know, this time it hurt, it really did. It wasn’t just a little bang but a bazooka-shot to the heart, a crushing jolt that scattered my insides out. It just seemed like one too many defeats, one loss I could not absorb like all the others. So this morning I took my greatest treasure and gave them one last sniff in the washroom as I played with myself. I wanted to push them inside me but I didn’t want to leave any clues. I went back out and watched you as you stood by the window, lit up by the sun and by everything that you are. Then, once you went out of the office, I snuck over to your desk and stuffed Hannah’s stolen cum-tainted panties into your briefcase. And there they still are now; hidden inside your lunchbox where you won’t find them but your wife certainly will, going about her loving evening rituals on your behalf, just as she does every night, right about now, in fact. Hearts are going to get ripped open and worlds are about to tumble down, but I’m just so fucking sick of coming last all the time. This time I get to make my statement, even if it is a silent one. This time I get to shine, and no-one gets to stop me.

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