Stockholm Syndrome 2- 17 Black and 29 Red by Richard Rider Page B

asks, but he suddenly remembers asking Valentine that very same question the first time they got each other's cocks out in that ridiculous stolen car and then he doesn't want to know. "No. Don't tell me, it doesn't matter, I don't care."
"I kinda told you already," she says anyway, a whispery whimper against the corner of his mouth. "Mary Jane."
    "Pleased to meet you." She's so wet there's barely any friction at all slipping a finger down between her legs to stroke her in gentle circles. She makes a noise, half a gasp and half a laugh and holds his wrist until he's got two fingers inside her; he forces a third in and the noise she makes is so shocked and hungry he nearly falls apart.
    "Do it ," she says, fierce and urgent. She starts laughing again when he can't unwrap a condom quickly enough, but somehow it's alright now, it's not at him, she doesn't seem bothered he's so much older than her or anything else. She's flushed and glowing and looking at him the way Valentine always used to look at him, like he was something amazing.
He kneels between her parted legs and takes a moment to calm down, just breathe . It's better after that.
     
"Hi," she says, quiet and smiling and shining. "So what's your real name?"
     
"You'll laugh." He starts moving, slow and deep, and she closes her eyes and sighs raggedly.
     
"You seriously think Mary Jane Blunt makes fun of other people's names?"
     
"Lindsay."
     
"Oh my god, that's so British ."
    "Not when you have to grow up in Bradford." He's holding her hand against the pillow, he didn't even realise he'd done it - fingers woven together, her small hand in his huge one. It's how he used to hold Valentine, even if they weren't playing rough. He always had to hold him there, pin him down like a butterfly so he couldn't fly away. He lets go hastily, but Mary Jane finds his hand again where he's pressed it against the mattress beside the pillow to prop himself up, stroking across his knuckles until he relents and goes back to how they were. She's got the other hand clenched tight in the hair at the back of his head, kissing insistently and not letting him move away, shifting her hips under his weight to ask for more , and when she comes it's with her mouth on Lindsay's neck muffling a guttural cry he might think she'd faked if he couldn't feel the pulsing waves of her orgasm right up and down the length of his cock.
    "Don't stop," she says, laughing again, helpless and breathless. "Change places with me, don't stop." She comes again only a few minutes later, riding him hard and rubbing herself with two slick fingertips. That's enough to send him toppling over the edge as well, the shameless disgusting incredible view of this girl straddling him, fucking him, fucking her own fingers, arching her back, whining his name.
    He feels drained after, completely exhausted like he could fall asleep in two seconds flat and never wake up again, but it's a good sort of feeling he's not had in ages. Empty fucks with anonymous women just don't work any more. Maybe he really is getting old, maybe he was spoiled by years of monogamy, but it's so much better being with somebody with a name , a face he'll still remember tomorrow, a sense of humour. The most unlikely friend in the world, some American kid with a pierced lip and pretty laugh who studies law and gives him coke.
    Of course in the morning she's gone, with all the cash from his wallet and all the gear she sold him over the last few weeks that hasn't already disappeared up his nose. Lindsay packs his bags and flies to Japan in the afternoon. He always hated America anyway.

7.
June 2011
    Waking up after a night out is always a struggle, but Pip drank even more than usual this time so he feels rougher than ever, dry mouth and the threat of a blinding headache thrumming just behind his skull. He kicked the sheet down in the night but he's still too hot - fighting sluggishly closer to consciousness, he realises there's another body pressed up close to