Playing Out by Paul Magrs (free biff chip and kipper ebooks TXT) 📗

complied and found himself concentrating only on fucking harder. There was nothing sexy in it any more, he was just fucking harder because he’d been told to. He was putting his back into it. Her back was rigid beneath him and each time he fucked their bellies clashed, then came apart with a fat sucking noise. Her rough hands were on his arse cheeks, stretching and pulling him, making him go harder, and his balls, he realised with a shock, were almost senseless and cool with nonchalance.

Fucking, he thought (and the thought was an old one he’d not had since his first time) was like being ironed. As if you’re a crumpled white shirt. Imagine being ironed immaculately but someone leaves the collar bent up and rumpled. The shirt is taken down from its hanger and although mostly neat it feels vaguely dissatisfied and will do so until that collar is sorted. Now imagine the collar set upon by a scalding iron; crushing down on the errant spot, drenching the fibres with steam. This hotness plied around his cock, the focus of her body as a means to slip his foreskin wetly back and forth, trawling him closer to orgasm, all that was just like doing the ironing. And when he came it was with a brief, shuddering sigh like that given by the upended finished-with iron.

As he settled back, withdrawn, tugging the condom away and fiddling with himself, she stole one kiss. With the smoking she tasted like iron, like earth, and the used condom was cold on his shin.

She locked his office door from the inside and, sure enough, found him face down on his expansive, empty desk.

‘I don’t know how to turn the sound up on the bloody tellies!’ he sobbed. ‘It’s usually automatic!’

‘That’s all right.’ Trish sat down opposite him, patting his hands. ‘We’ll get someone in.’

‘But Helen was looking at me like I was meant to know! Like I needed to know!’

‘Never mind her. She never knew either.’

‘But I should know! I should know how to turn up the volume on my own tellies in my own gym!’

‘That’s what you employ others for, Andrew. You’re becoming a mogul. Especially with Sedgefield underway and everything. It’s time for you to relax.’

He raised his head from the desk, his eyes gone puffy, to see Trish putting on her rubber gloves. Time for… ?’ Andrew’s body was what he liked to call the male-model look. He used himself as an advert for prospective members: this is the look we can aim to give you if it’s the male model you’re after. There was no spare fat on him. He had the sucked-in stomach and pendulous wide tits everyone was after these days. He looked alert, almost rodenty with alertness, and his streaked, thinning hair was slicked back for ease.

Every couple of days Trish would lay this cultivated form out naked on his empty desk. He would trust no one else with the job. From a small locker she produced unlabelled bottles of exotic muds and unguents that smelled foul but were packed with marvellous nutrients. And rolls and rolls of clingfilm. They were testing out this treatment for members, they told themselves. As the weeks had gone by, however, they’d decided that it was much too good for all and sundry.

She was very used to his body by now. Working here together, they were bound to get used to the sight of each other. The final revelation, flushed pink, toned up and still embarrassed, hadn’t fazed her much. Still she hadn’t touched him directly. She let him smear the first layer of greenish mud on himself. She was no masseuse. It was with that taut, squeaking winding sheet of clingfilm that Trish really came into her own. Lifting one limb at a time, she wound and wound the plastic about him, tighter and tighter. She could feel the heat trapped inside, squirming in his lathering of jellies. Andrew remained silent throughout the operation. There was the odd soft moan, maybe a supressed curse when she tweaked a leg hair.

Slowly, slowly, every inch was covered and he was a good 25 per cent bigger all over, layered like a lasagne. When he was immobile in the glistening, shifting crust of plastic and gels, Trish would examine her handiwork. His head stuck out at one end of the package wearing a curious expression. His face was scarlet but the inches-thick overcoat was a dull silver.

‘My Cyberman!’ She smiled at him, allowing them both their first show of affection this whole session.

Only once had she tried to persuade him. ‘You might as well. You’d get it all for free.’

Dave supposed his eyes were beseeching. His Bambi look, she called it. He loathed it because he couldn’t help himself.

‘I can’t do it,’ he said. And he knew she thought he’d let himself go.

‘We might as well take advantage of a free offer.’

Still nagging on, she came up behind him as he swabbed down the kitchen sink and the draining board. Dave threw down the rag. ‘Look, I can’t do it. I just can’t.’

Later, calmer, he offered the excuse that he’d find it difficult, working out among other men who were eyeing up his wife.

‘It’s not like that—’

I know it’s not like that, he told her, but even so, I’d be looking at you and that’d be no good for you working or me working out, now would it?

Trish shrugged. She only wanted him to get out of the house a bit. She thought he looked cooped up. He always looked as if he’d just woken up. She had suggested training as an alternative because that was what she knew. That’s how you got out of a rut, and she knew that because it was her job. He resented her bringing this work home.

‘I’ll take the bairn up to bed.’

‘Right. Dave?’

He looked at her. Laura’s head lay curled over his shoulder as he hoisted her up asleep.

‘You don’t have to shape up for