WORDLESS BY CHARLOTTE

STEIN CONT

Wordless by Charlotte Stein

I swear to God, he keeps staring at me. I dont know why

Ted is staring at me, but there it is. I feel as though Im
being turned inside out by his gaze. His gaze is like a ten ton
weight strapped to my body, and Im being pulled down,
down, down. Down to the centre of myself. Or maybe just
down to some horrible place he wants to put me in.
Hes definitely trying to send me a message with all of his
staring. I just dont know what the message is. I cant
translate his eyes. I havent got the secret code that would
help me crack it. Jeanie would know, but then shes Jeanie.
She has the supreme confidence of the stupid.
I wish I was stupid.
Even though that isnt true at all. Im glad that I know
things. Im just aware that theyre sometimes the wrong
things. I know what subtext means, but I dont know the
subtext of real life. I understand metaphor, but I have no
idea what he is a metaphor for, or what metaphor I can
make out of his gaze.
His gaze is a
His gaze is a...

His gaze makes me want to hide.

I want to hide in the plain and boring subtexts of my own
life, instead of whatever levels hes operating on. His levels
are big and masculine and laidback and handsome. My levels
are uneven, and I keep sliding down them into nonsense and
mess.
I cant keep things straight. I keep them even less straight
when he touches his trainer to my shin underneath the
table.
At first its easy to ignore. Maybe he thinks Im the table leg.
Maybe he thinks my leg is Jeanies, even though Jeanie is
obviously going to sleep with Derek tonight. Maybe hes had
too much to drink.
But then his trainer slides up my leg to my knee, and I wish
that I had had too much to drink. If I was drunk, I wouldnt
have to over-think this. I could just ignore it. I could crack
the code.
But I havent and I dont and now his trainer is resting on
the chair between my thighs. At this point, I am aware that
he has very long legs, and could, conceivably, get his foot
right up to some interesting places.
I glance at him, but his staring eyes dont tell me anything
new. It could be that hes just horny, and knows he isnt
going to get anything from Jeanie. Sometimes I get stuck
with the friend who Jeanie is less interested in. Sometimes I
dont mind. I wont deny that Im a horny girl myself.
But this is still odd. I think hes too handsome. Weve known
him a long time, and he never previously expressed an
interest. Plus theres this: why doesnt he just say? Why
cant he just get it all out in the open? Why cant he just
ask, if thats what he wants?

Cant he see that Im floundering in uncertainty?

Want some more wine, Cal? he asks, and the rough burr of
canvas disappears from my inner thigh. He leans forward
and snags the bottle, pouring before Ive said a word.
Maybe he wants me to have no words. Drunk and silent,
thats his type.
I drink, anyway.

Our holiday in the country passes, and he does not become

clearer. I drink as much as he gives me on the third night,
and come close to being unconscious. But being devoid of all
of my thoughts and faculties doesnt help matters. I dont
think its about over-thinking. He just carries me over his
shoulder up to bed, and sprawls me out for what should be
his delectation.
I feel his hands on me, briefly. Warm hands, skimming over
my hips and my waist. They leave a little memory of
themselves behind, for later. For in the morning, when I
wake up. I liked the feeling of his hands on my hips. I liked
the feeling of his shoulder pressing into my stomach.
Hes so...big.
I notice his...size later, when I stumble down for breakfast
and find him stood in front of the open fridge in just his
underpants. Its weird I think I notice everything, even
though my mind goes blank. My mind goes all blank and
fuzzy, and then I see him really clear. He has these long
arms and long legs and this low winter light skin,

everywhere. He is the colour of December. He is the colour

of something that needs to be spread on top of something
else.
I like his shoulders, as broad as beams, and the tattoo he
mysteriously has. On his back, right above the band of the
jockeys, there is a tramp stamp. Its so much a tramp stamp
that it actually seems to be pointing down towards his ass.
My mind does not un-blank or un-fuzz, not even when he
turns around and sees me there.
All right, Cal? he says.
In fact, I think him turning around makes it worse. I try to
remember that Im a Professor of Literature, but I cant
remember anything. The text is his completely casual and
amiable near-nakedness, and the sub is me.
I am sublimated by the stripe of fur right down through the
centre of his chest and the straight arrow-ness of his body,
not quite muscular but not quite flabby, either, as though he
cant be bothered to work-out. Maybe he just works out by
fucking millions of women senseless. Im sure they lose their
senses when he gets out whatever animal hes storing in
those underpants.
Cal? he repeats, but I dont say anything again. Hes
walking towards me now, thats why. I cant speak if hes
walking towards me.
Ive never had this reaction to someone before. I dont even
know what this reaction is. Blank Mind, I shall call it.
Bit hungover, are you? he says. Now hes stood inches
away from me. I could just reach out and touch his like-asky skin. When he bends slightly I can see the faint bumps
of his ribcage, though this sight doesnt make him seem
skinny at all. The bones make him look even bigger instead,

as though hes composed of dinosaur skeletons inside.

Angular but thick at the same time, heavy and slight, square
and masculine but with those cheekbones. Girls
cheekbones.
I bet he could crush me with just one of his dinosaur hands.
I want to reach out and make him my archaeology project.
But then he takes on the strangest expression, and I cant
touch him. Its like all the consternation sinks from his face,
all the frown goes, and theres something like the staring left
behind. Those intense dark eyes, sliding up and down me.
I expect him to say do you like what you see, but he
doesnt.
Instead he goes with:
Thats a really cute pair of shorts.
Shortly before putting his hand over the hem of one side of
them.
Of course, in order to do this he has to cup my ass. But to
his credit, he really makes it seem like hes just feeling the
material. Its not his fault that theres so little of my shorts
to work with. Its not his fault that my ass is quite big.
Things just conspire against him.
Or against me, I cant tell.
It definitely seems like its against me when he goes back to
the fridge, however.

He gets worse. Or better, depending on the way you look at

things. I knock on the bathroom door, he tells me to come
in. I do, and hes naked and in the tub. Of course he is!
What reasonable person doesnt let people come in and see
them in the bath?
I think I am a reasonable person, but I cant make myself go
right into the bathroom. Not until he asks me to pass him
the soap, at least. Then I do, but I dont look. I dont look. I
dont look until all my thoughts fall away and then I do.
Hes just staring at me, waiting for me to. But thats okay,
because he looks great all slickered up and soapy. I watch
him stroke himself with a handful of creamy foam, and that
isnt bad at all.
Its bad that hes tormenting me, but I can cope with that.
My blank and fuzzy mind says I can. It lets me watch as he
slides his big hand down, down, to whats waiting ju-u-st
below the waterline.
He does it so slowly, so deliberately, that I suppose I could
take it as a joke. And true enough, hes kind of smirking. But
then again, maybe it isnt a smirk. Maybe its a dare, and he
just wants me to plunge into the bathtub with him and take
over with the soap. I bet he feels good all soapy like that, as
smooth as butter and yet hard in various places. I bet I
could make him close his eyes and put his head back, and
then I could just do whatever I wanted to.
Lick the tip of his cock, rub my clit against all the angular
places on his body, soap him by sliding my body the length
of his. I can imagine well what that soap barrier would feel
like my T-shirt is tickling against my nipples even now, and
the rough seam of my jeans is stirring my clit into something
so good its like pain.
Soap would feel amazing. He looks as though it feels
amazing. He strokes his chest lightly, almost innocently, only

brushing those tight little nipples when it looks the least

incriminating.
Again, I expect him to say something like: do you like what
you see? Thats what his expression says. Too bad for me
that its starting to also make me want to say something
back. Something like: I do.

I think were living in the nineteenth century. Thats what

this is: nineteenth century lust. I drop a glove. He sniffs it.
We exchange meaningful glances over afternoon tea. I get a
flash of his ankle.
Only, you know, more than an ankle.
He seems to have absolutely no problem being as nude as a
person can be without forcing you to call the police. Hes
almost naked now, sprawled on the couch, eating cheese
puffs by the handful.
I bet his mouth tastes all cheesy and tangy. I bet his fingers
do, too, and Id find out for sure if he just leaned across to
my chair and stuck one in my mouth. And then I could lick
it, and lick it, and lick up his wrist and over his forearm and
biceps to those big square shoulders. And then it really
wouldnt be that far to his mouth.
Cheese puff? he asks, but Im beyond cheese puffs. Im in
his mouth. Weve had sex and were smoking the cigarettes.
Im imagining the bed linen we buy for our apartment when
he actually gets around to saying something that might be
construed as sexual.

Can I construe all of this? Can I construe him until his eyes
rolls back in his head?
Why dont you come for a cuddle, Cal? he asks, which I
suppose isnt sexual at all. I mean, underneath it might be. I
could analyse it in class: deconstruct the word cuddle in this
context for homework, everyone. But I doubt it really needs
a context. Or deconstruction. Cuddles mean arms and hands
and flesh pressed together, and hes not even wearing a
shirt. There isnt even a soap barrier.
I lie down obediently, in his ginormous arms. The context is
this: I need words and he knows I need words and if there
arent any, then what does lying down in someones arms
mean?
It means that I fall asleep before Jeanie and Derek get back,
all my tension and contexts and deconstructions bored to
death by the evening news.

I wake warm and confused. At first I think hes no longer

there because the back of me is cold, where before it was
warm. I think thats what I fell asleep thinking of, how nice it
is to be warmed by someone. It was nice of him, really, to
ask me to cuddle with him.
As though were best friends forever. As though hes sexless
and all of this is just my fevered brain working overtime on
problems it is unable to solve.
I suppose this theory would be more convincing if he werent
jerking off against the backs of my legs.

I know he is. Its not as though hes making it unclear. The

couch is trembling. I can feel his shaky breath fluttering over
the back of my neck. Hes moved his body away from mine,
but his fist or his hand or the tip of his cock or whatever
keeps bumping against my bare legs.
Before my mind goes blank, it wanders to whether or not
this is what nineteenth century lust was really like. Men
tugging their cocks into a ladys skirts, surreptitiously. Her
trying to fend him off just as he clutches at her and spurts
amongst all those secret folds.
My mind is definitely blank, now, because the non-thought
excites me. I could wake up and be outraged and confused.
I could turn over and fuck him. But instead I want to lay
here trembling with excitement, desperately wanting to
stroke myself too but unwilling to stop whatever this is.
Im sure I feel a lick of something wet against my skin, and
thats as much as if I had turned around and taken hold of
him. His breathing grows heavier and its as good as a groan
all these little up and down noises that could almost be
nothing.
He could just lift my skirt while Im not really asleep, pull my
knickers aside. Urge that big stiff thing into where Im
wettest. He could fuck me, and I could just lie here,
pretending. Pretending that Im asleep and even if I wasnt,
I wouldnt know anything anyway.
I arch my body as though Im just stirring, when really Im
imagining his cock pushing into my slippery cunt and the
whole of me responding by stretching like a cat. My pussy
clenches around nothing, just as he freezes in position.
But I dont want him to stop, so I dont move anything else
and I dont turn around. Despite the fact that I want to see
what hes doing. I want to know exactly what it looks like
has he got those sweat pants around his thighs, all pushed

rudely down with everything out and pointed at me? Or did I

just imagine the slippery tip of his cock against my skin?
Maybe hes just got his hand inside, jerking at himself within
the hot confines of pants so thin and worn Id probably be
able to see everything anyway. Its not as though hes small.
His hand alone would make a heavy pattern beneath the
material the rails of his knuckles, those long fingers that
would feel so good spreading me open.
Its weird that such thoughts send waves of heat through
me. Its weird that they swell and spread my pussy open
without him having to touch me at all. But they do. When I
hear him unable to suppress a groan and feel hot cum stripe
the backs of my thighs, I get so worked up I almost go over
with him. My clit aches and pulses in sympathy. My hips
circle, minutely.
Its agonising. The shaking of the couch stops but what hes
doing doesnt. I can still feel him rubbing himself, still hear
his muted groans dialling down into nothing, and all the way
through I keep on pretending that Im sleeping. Even when
he oh-so-thoughtfully cleans me up, I still pretend Im
sleeping.
Well, class? Who got wants to mark his territory as the
subtext of cuddle?

I cant stop touching the back of my legs, where he marked

me. I touch them as though I expect to find his slippery
liquid there, running down to my shins. Little flutters of heat
run through me when I do, but I havent yet given in to any
of them.

I wanted to touch myself after hed carried me up to bed

and left me there alone, but instead I jolted in and out of
sleep and dreams about men sneaking up behind me, to put
a blindfold over my eyes.
When I see him next, I blush. We meet on the stairshim
going up and me coming downand he smiles at me, lazily.
Theres something of a blush on his cheeks, too, and I
wonder if he really knew.
I suppose its not as much fun if you dont secretly know.
Which I think is a theory worthy of dissection. Class:
discuss.
Of course theyd ask me for more evidence, but fortunately I
find I can supply it. He gives me ample material in the
kitchen over dinner, when were all talking about favourite
recipes. Everyone else tells boring tales of their crappy
brownies and their rubbish cake, but he fixes me with his
chocolate stare and says:My favourite thing to make is
honey cream pie.
Who could fail to fall for that? Apart from Jeanie and Derek,
of course. It seems its just me who understands that honey
cream pie is really a euphemism for a pussy slick with the
stuff he striped the backs of my thighs with.
Oh God, what if he had pulled my knickers down and
Okay so first, I stir the cream.
Jeanie tells him that stirring the cream sounds yummy.
Derek murmurs his approval. Im trapped in hot dirty
euphemism land. Not even my class and their dissections
could help me now.
I stir it with my fingers, because that makes it lovely
and...warm.

I pretend that Im not lovely and warm right now. I glance

out of the window. I fold my arms over my chest.
But then if I carry on like this, maybe he wont continue.
Last night was about pretending. Maybe today is about being
really really interested until the actual proper words just
explode right out of him.
Yes! Of course thats it!
I lean forward and laser my gaze right back at him.
Go on, I say, but he doesnt smile. I think smiling would
cut into the smoulder he seems to have going on. Eyelids
lowered, voice deep and drawling, almost touching a parody
of seduction but not quite.
I pour in the honey.
That sounds soooo good, I say. I can drawl too. I can play
this game, even though Ive got no idea what game it is.
And then what happens?
Then, you work the honey around and around until
everything is sticky and slippery.
I see. I bet it gets everywhere.
It does.
I bet its a real mess.
All over my hands. Right up to my elbows. And its so
delicious that I just have suck and lick it all up and my
mouth gets so...
Dirty.
Exactly. Dirty...dirty and shiny. But I keep going, because
then comes the best part.

Do you...pound the...pastry?
I get out my big rolling pin, and pound it. But dont get me
wrong Im gentle, too.
Oh yes, gentle...
I work all of the soft but firm mixture slow, real slow, nice
and easy. I work at it until it gives under my hands and
my...rolling pin.
How does it feel when it...gives?
Oh so good. So good to work at something until I ache.
Im no longer noticing Jeanie and Dereks little twitters of
approval. They must be as insensible as blocks not to notice
what hes actually talking about. Nobody aches over pie.
Im aching, however. Im rubbing my spiky nipples through
my jersey while everyones busy not paying attention, and
Im practically fucking the chair. I should really have
masturbated last night. Now everythings rolled over into
today and Im standing right on the edge. One more bristle
of the hairs on the back of my neck, one more sizzle of heat
over every inch of my skin...Im going to have to go over.
I think Ill start by removing all of my clothes before I boil to
death inside them.
I think he knows that this is the case. He keeps on talking
and talking about how hes going to slip his big pie into the
over-heated oven, how when he slides his knife into its
creamy depths, all the honey just...oozes.
Im not even sure that I like the word ooze in an erotic
context, but he makes it work. I can practically feel his
tongue against my skin, licking my cream and honey. Easing

and slipping and working and all of those words that on the
face of it dont seem that naughty.
But they are right now. They are when theyre secretly.
Oh Lord kiss me, I think. But he doesnt. He just finishes
describing pie-making and takes his dishes to the sink.

Things get worse. Or better, depending on your view.

Everyone decides to go swimming and I know its going to
be a disaster before weve even taken off our clothes, but I
could not have predicted how much of a disaster.
Because of course the sun is shining, and we need lotion.
Everyone needs lotion. Lets all get greased up with lotion,
everybody!
Why in Gods name didnt I masturbate last night? I could
have done it fifty timesno-one would have known! Im very
quiet and I dont use a lot of bells and whistles. Just my
finger on my clit oh Lord I want to touch my clit. I even start
rubbing my bikini bottoms against my plump lips as I pull
them up, nice and tight. Tighter.
When Ted bursts into my roomprobably accidentally on
purposehe almost catches me doing myself with the
material of my bikini bottoms. Though Im sure that was his
aimor if not that, then at least to see me naked. I try to
look shocked, but Blank Mind wont let me. Him in his teenytiny trunks wont let me. He looks ridiculous and fantastic all
at the same time.

God I want that cock inside me. I want to ride him right
now, right here, but instead I just follow him and the others
down to the lake, all the while wondering what terrible mass
of frustration awaits me this time.This time its lotion. He
cuts a sideways glance at me as we lay sprawled on blankets
before the silver disc of the lake, and then says just as
innocent as you please, We should oil ourselves up with
suntan lotion.Oh, yes! Jeanie cries.
Good idea! Derek cries.
Please someone, let me die.
Of course no-one is that kind. Instead I have to watch as he
greases his hands, before slowly reaching them towards me
like the haunting claws in some Hammer horror.
When he finally gets to me, it almost feels like Im being
stung. Its that intense. Of course, Jeanie and Derek dont
notice my stung reaction, but Ted does. He spreads the sting
all over me, stroking and rubbing first over my shoulders,
and then down my back. And then my thighs.
Though none of this really describes what hes doing. Like
he gets right to the top of my thigh, and then doesnt stop.
Instead, he tugs them gently apart and gets his slippery
hands right into the tender groove that separates my
nethers from places that are allowed.
My clit pulses and swells. Something trickles between the
cheeks of my ass. Im practically arching on the blanket,
almost desperate enough to stroke myself with Jeanie and
Derek right there.
I go beyond almost when he blatantly starts groping my tits.
At one point, his hand even slides inside the cup and teases
my stiff nipple.
I whimper. Does there still need to be words?

Now you do me, he says, and I really think I dont need

them anymore. Lets just go back to my bedroom and fuck
until we pass out.
But no, no. I have to do this, instead.
I try to tease him as he did me, but its so hard to walk that
line the one between teasing and giving in. Im not as
good at it as he is, and I keep actually skimming my hands
over the ever-growing bulge in his trunks. I make him close
his eyes and squirm on the blanketwhich pleases me, I
wont deny.
But its hardly keeping things secret and subtext.
Unfortunately, its just as Im realising that I could probably
push things right out of that realm all by myself, this minute,
that he decides to leap up and run, laughing, towards the
lake.
Because this is all just one great big joke, probably. Its all
just a joke.
Laugh, Cal. Laugh.

But he doesnt laugh again. He spells out rude words when

we play Scrabble and suggests that we all watch sexy
movies together and sometimes when we are in the pantry
together, I feel him come up right behind me and rub
something hard into the groove between my butt cheeks.
But he doesnt laugh while doing any of those things.

He doesnt elaborate, either, but I guess he doesnt need to.

Not when were having sex through the wall between our
rooms. He gasps and then I have to gasp back, even though
Im not actually touching myself. And then he moans, and I
moan back, until were both groaning and humping
wallpaper, using whatever we can to simulate the other
person.
Im no more sure why we have to simulate anything than
why this all began, however.
Its probably why I get up before Ive even put my hand
inside my shorts, and cross the hall to his room. Tell me if
this is the right thing to do, class. Is my dissection of the
situation solid? What is the meaning behind his laughter, the
Scrabble, the sex we almost just had whilst separated by a
wall?
Theyd stare at me, blankly. Oh, what do they know?
Nothing, thats what. When I open his bedroom door and slip
inside, hes just laid on his bed. Not touching himself, not
worked up, not anything. He has one hand beneath his head
and looks as casual as a handshake.
Someone raises their hand in the back and says: he knew
you would come in here, all along.
I go to tell him that very thing, but he puts a finger to his
lips.
Shhh, he says, and then he cocks his head as though
considering. Before finally going with: Theyll hear us.
I want to ask him who, but of course I know exactly what he
means. He means Jeanie and Derek, who he must have
heard fucking about seventy thousand times by now. They
do it all the time they did it in the lake while we were busy
greasing each other up and trying to unravel each others
meanings.

But he wants us to be quiet?

He wants us to be quiet. And secret. Forbidden, I think, and
my class all nod their heads.
I press the heel of my palm to my swollen pussy, to stop
myself dying of arousal. Shortly before I fall on him like a
starving cannibal woman, desperate to cram her mouth full
of his flesh.
I can feel that Ive soaked through the material of my shorts
and the pulse in my clit is like a drumbeat, but all of this
pushes up higher when he immediately puts a hand over my
mouth. Every shushing sound he makes seems to provoke
me, until Ive somehow got my legs around his thigh and am
rutting against whatever I can find, easing the ache in my
clit with the delicious pressure of another person.
If I was allowed to speak, Id tell him to lay on me, heavily.
Right nowswamp me with himself. Instead I squirm and
work myself to the point of orgasm, already gagging for
another before Ive even got to the first. He moans and runs
his heavy-lidded eyes all over me, and bizarrely I find myself
doing the same thing to him as he did to me: I cover his
mouth with my hand. Now were linked that way, shutting
each others noises and words down while we buck and
hump like animals.
He pumps his cock against my stomach through the sheets,
the feel of it enough to make my clit twitch and send
pleasure messages to every part of me. And then I come,
just like that. I come in great wrenching heaves, creaming
against his thigh, biting and licking at his fingers to keep
myself silent.
He doesnt quite so successfully manage silence. He grunts
thickly against my hand and I tear the sheets away so that I
can see hes as swollen and tense as I still feel, and when

the cool air hits his cock shortly followed by the clasp of my
free hand, he spurts.
Its as I imagined it was, when he jerked himself against the
backs of my thighs. Thick gleaming strands that reach too
far, making a mess of both him and me. He gets free of my
hand and cries out, louder than I had thought I wanted to.
Jeanie and Derek will have definitely heard that. But I kind
of think things are beyond secrets and the forbidden, now.
Its all just too exciting anywaythat lovely first uncovering
of someone elses desire, that seems to have been going on
forever for us. Weve uncovered and uncovered and guessed
and danced, and now its the pay off.
I pull my hand away from his mouth, so that I can kiss him
until my jaw aches. I lay over him and slip and slide through
all the liquid that coats him. I cant stop touching him all
over.
We end up twisted around, my mouth on his cock and his on
my pussy, and then we lick and suck each other to new
fullness, new arousal, exploring every little crease and
stretch of skin. I tell him, loudly, that his cock feels so good
in my mouth, that he tastes like salted honey and is too big
for me to take. He tells me, loudly, that my pussy is
drowning in cream, while his fingers fuck into me roughly.
Do me, I say. Do me.
You want me to fuck you?
Oh yes. Look at how wet I am. Go on, just slide into my
wet pussy.
Louder, he says, and I obey.
Im so wet for you, baby. I need your cock in me. Come on
and give it to me.

And then I close my mouth around his swollen prick, while

he returns the favour over my clit.
Ah yes, suck me off. Suck me, baby, yes! he cries.
I shouldnt have needed words to get to this place, but they
sure are nice to hear now. Theyre probably nice for Jeanie
and Derek to hear, too they didnt go into such lurid detail.
They just moaned and grunted, while we revel in all these
new things we get to say.
I want you, I tell him. I want you.
And that takes me apart. Him saying that he wants me too
puts me back together again.
Before we suck and lick each other into something deeper,
harder, faster, more. He fucks me on my hands and knees,
then fucks me with my face and body pressed more firmly
into the mattress. He fucks me until I want to merge with
the mattress, always so thick and swollen in my equally
tender pussy.
Every thrust feels like hes slapping me with sensation so
intense I cant get it down, made worse by his hands, his
endless instructions and orders and the details of his
pleasure. He gives me essays on my pussy, on the way my
slickness feels, and answers questions Ive always wanted to
know about, like what is it like to ride someone in reverse?
He makes me sit on his cock with my back to him, hands
forward on his thighs and his cock touching some new
places, just because he wants to look at my ass as we fuck.
He wants to look at everything on me, while we fuck. I didnt
think a man could fuck so much in one night, but he proves
me wrong.
By morning, were both exhausted. I can hardly move, and
every muscle in my body makes itself known. He tells me

that Im trembling, but Im too wiped to let him know that

isnt because hes rocked my world. It isnt because Im
buzzing with raw feeling, still running the slide show of the
night before in my head. Its because Im exhausted. Im
exhausted, right?
And I dont mind if he wants to read something into me, that
Im pretending isnt there.