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It’s an odd one.
Because, yeah, upon reflection, Colin had thought Penelope was acting a little strangely over the phone, all bleaty and quiet, sort of breathless. He'd been regaling her with his latest news: the mediocre fuck he just had with Meg from the gym.
God, it was worse than mediocre, actually. Mediocre is what he'd say if he was being generous; Colin does like to be generous. It was bland at best. And he's going to have to find a new gym now. A bit cowardly, maybe, but he cannot stomach the thought of having to give her the slip by the leg press for the rest of the year (he is such a prick, isn't he?).
"Yeah," Penelope had answered when he told her. "Mmh. And was it… good?"
Some people might think it a bit odd for a bloke to ring his girl best mate after getting laid, but he and Pen have always talked about sex. The good, the bad, the mind blowing – all of it. It became habit (nay, ritual) right after that first time he told her one of his stories. Penelope had giggled and smirked, and scooted close enough that her thigh pressed up against his. Her eyes went all wide too, pretty like an auburn fawn, and she'd demanded to hear more.
Fuck, had that made Colin feel good, like he'd leapt into one of those weird wind tunnels Gregory dragged them all to for his ninth birthday, just without the flappy-faced instructor holding his hands so he couldn't go shooting up into the roof. Flying free!
He still feels that exact way when he watches, or listens to Penelope reacting to his sordid tales now. Sometimes, it's even better than having the sex (probably most times, to be honest, but who's counting?), and if he has a contrite wank most times afterwards, well, that's between him and the god he doesn't believe in, isn't it?
So, when her voice had floated through his receiver in that peculiar tone, he'd sort of just assumed she was distracted by something else – unusual, but no matter, he'd tell her properly when he got home in about ninety seconds. Colin does prefer to be able to see Pen in such instances anyway.
Only, now he's home, and Penelope has come bounding out of her room to greet him in her cute little pyjamas – arms winding around his neck to let him lift her off the ground – Colin is certain he's getting a… whiff of something.
It's musky with a little tang; he recognises it because his mouth starts to fucking water.
That's pussy he's smelling, isn't it?
At first, he wonders if it's him – he has just been quite up close and personal with one, so it's not out of the question. But, Colin showered after they finished (the sex was in the shower, if one cares for semantics. But that's by the by – he's washed his hands!). So, like, purely by a process of elimination…
That's Penelope's pussy he's smelling, isn't it?
His mind takes him back. Bleaty and quiet, sort of breathless. "Yeah," and "Mmh," and "Was it good?"
Could she have been… touching herself while they were on the phone? Surely not. He was barely even around the corner two minutes ago, surely she'd be– well, he doesn't know, does he? He's never seen Penelope post-orgasm, but he imagines she wouldn't be this… lively.
Yeah – right? She'd be all dazed and mellow, splayed out on her bed with her hair in a copper riot, not rushing up to cuddle him.
Colin tries to shake himself out of it. He gives her a giant squeeze and a kiss on the head (Penelope uses this banana shampoo that reminds him of the foamy sweets he used to fight Daphne over when they were kids), then lets her slide slowly down his front until her toes touch the ground.
"Is it weird for us to hug like this so soon after you've fucked someone?" Penelope asks sweetly, her ocean eyes sparkling.
Take a look at your own bloody hands, Lady Macbeth, he'd like to tell her. He doesn't.
"Probably, you tiny little freak." Is what Colin says instead, and Penelope seems to like it, because she beams and gives him one of her faux punches in the gut. "Oof!" he pretends.
The slightly less sensible parts of his brain can't help but wonder a bit, though, what she'd do if he grabbed her by the wrist and pushed her up against the door, dragged her fingers to his nose and took a deep breath, crooning:
"Did you have your fingers stuffed in your cunt while I was on the phone to you, Penelope?"
Would she look at him startled, would those lovely fawn eyes come back? Would she let him suck a finger or two into his mouth for a little taste? He is just a man at the end of the day, isn't he, and she is so pretty.
Penelope's prettiness has always existed as a sort of objective truth to Colin. Everyone knows it – any denial would simply make one a contrarian. All the same, he's extremely careful to behave himself around her, especially now they live in the same flat. There are some lines one should not cross, and little-sister's-best-friend feels quite staunchly like one.
If Penelope wasn't Penelope, he suspects he'd have had her bent over the arm of the sofa on move in day, before he’d even brought in the last of his boxes. But she is Penelope. So, despite how fantastic he thinks her tits are, how beautiful she is, something like that could only happen if Colin was minded to propose to her the second he pulled out. Which, you know, certainly isn’t a horrible thing to think about – because as well as being such a beauty, Penelope is also bright and funny and quick, she keeps everybody on their toes. She'd make a brilliant wife. But, at the end of the day, she is still his little sister's best friend, isn't she?
However, if she is going to touch herself while he talks to her about sex (alright, maybe he's not as careful with her as he likes to think), shouldn't a smattering of natural curiosity on Colin’s part be allowed?
Obviously, he won't actually ask her. He won't! That would be madness. And she probably wasn't even doing it, anyway. He's just horny and disappointed after the lacklustre sex. Poor Pen, that's not her fault.
"I made a lemon drizzle cake earlier," she tells him, shuffling down the hall and into the kitchen. "Though," she says over her shoulder. "I'm not going to lie to you, Colin, I've eaten about three quarters of it already, and I don't even know if I'm minded to share the rest."
Cute. She's such a tease; Colin bets there's at least half a cake left.
When she serves him a slice, he cannot stop watching the way her little hands dart around, cutting and scooping and depositing it onto a plate for him. The porcelain is a crackly butter yellow, with lavender sprigs twining around the edges. He thinks she got it in Provence that year she came on holiday with the family, it's one of Colin's all-time favourites.
"Here." Penelope's curls fall into her face, and her tits squeeze together as she leans over the island with a little morsel of lemon drizzle between her thumb and forefinger. "Open wide."
Colin thinks today must be his lucky day. His favourite cake on his favourite plate, made by his favourite girl. And he doesn't even have to get all weird and press her up against the door to lick her fingers clean, Penelope is going to put them in his mouth herself! How the hell did he get this sublime gig? Why does she want him as her roommate?
His mouth parts for her, and, God, it's there – under the sugar and the butter and the lemon – that musky earth he knew he'd taste.
Colin thinks it's quite possible that he could go soaring into space any second now, jet off like he’s got little rockets attached to his trainers. He was right – he was right! Penelope played with herself while she listened to him talk about fucking Meg. She played with herself, and now she's feeding him cake with her pussy fingers!
She's such a gorgeous little pervert. He ought to be horrified, probably, but the discovery just makes Colin bubble and glow. He feels amazing, like his body is made up of those big globs of wax that float around in lava lamps.
Maybe he's a pervert too, then; maybe Penelope is perfect for him, and he actually should be bending her over the arm of the sofa, and proposing.
So, Colin can't really help what he does next, the jubilation sort of overwhelms him. He sucks her fingers in so they glide against his tongue, until Penelope has had enough and pulls free to giggle at his wolfish grin.
"Gross," she mutters, pushing the plate closer to him and wiping her wet hand on his t-shirt.
His first thought is that she's just smeared her arousal – or what's left of it anyway – all over him, marked him up like he's hers. His second, is that it's mixed with his own spit. Colin is no mathematician, but he's pretty certain that all this, plus the finger sucking, basically amounts to Penelope's pussy having been in his mouth.
And, with that thought, he bubbles and he glows all night – even as he lays his head down on the pillow to sleep, even as he wakes the next morning.
He spends the next twenty four hours thoroughly fixed on every little press of Penelope's fingers to her mouth, her cheeks, her hair. He watches the way she touches everything, makes her his study and his muse.
If she notices him following her around, she doesn’t say anything, and Colin is glad of it. He feels like a man obsessed – imagining the soft, wet squelch he’d hear if he got to watch her pressing into her cunt.
And, he's not really sure why, but he starts to get this sense he needs to confirm it all – evidence his findings and show workings – as if, somehow, he could have imagined the heavenly smell and taste of little Penelope Featherington.
It's more than a sense, really, it's a need. It snarls at him from the corner of the shower when he tries to deter it with an icy spray; it nips at his toes when he pads around the kitchen for something to eat; it scratches and claws until he can't ignore it any longer.
After two days, Colin can admit, he has begun to go a bit loopy. It’s near-fucking impossible for him to do anything except think about Penelope now.
It’s like she’s given him a dose of love potion, or something (she has, in a way, he supposes). He’s even stopped pretending he’s not fantasising about her every time he slips off to have a guilty wank – what’s the point, it’s always Penelope’s tits and thighs and hips he’s drooling over anyway, his fist stuffed into his mouth so she won’t hear him whimpering through the wall.
Even so, Colin's next choice is not one he thinks he'll ever feel hugely proud of.
Penelope goes to work in the city on Wednesdays, it's the one day of the week Colin has the place to himself. He has a pretty firm routine for Wednesdays.
For a large portion of the day he does just mope about waiting for her to come home, but he'll always do a load of extra chores, make her something more complicated than normal for dinner. She loathes going into the office, so Colin does nice stuff for Penelope on Wednesdays – that's their little thing. It's also how he gets the idea he's going to do a load of laundry for her today.
But doing her laundry isn't really nice, is it? It's no innocent act, no generous roommate wanting to lend a helping hand. Colin knows exactly what he's looking for, and because Penelope is such a scruffy darling, he spots them near enough the second he nudges the door to her room open.
Her bedroom is so nice. It's all pinks and oranges and reds, kind of sexy without being too boudoir-ish. Colin thinks he would quite happily curl up at the foot of her bed and go to sleep, if she'd let him – reckons he might even sleep better for it. He's heard her snoring now and then. Penelope sounds like a snuffy little dormouse; she would be a perfect white noise machine for someone like Colin.
As he creeps further in, he starts to feel monstrous – like he's Jack the Ripper, or something even worse. Pervert was definitely right. Christ.
"Sorry," he whispers to the air, as he crouches beside her haphazardly-made bed to pick a scrap of raspberry lace out of her pyjama bottoms. If he wasn't being so gross, he'd probably take a good few moments to laugh at the way they've pooled in two perfect circles, as if she'd dropped them like a petticoat this morning, and stepped daintily out with her arse bare.
Colin lets out a shaky breath, then pockets his treasure – Penelope's knickers balled up and stuffed away deep. Afterwards, he gathers up an armful of her clothes from the laundry basket in the corner; if he's going to be a fucking panty sniffer (and he is, isn’t he? Despite everything he’d like to tell himself, that is what he’s going to do), the least he can do is actually stick a wash load on for her. He'll even use those funny little scent beads Penelope loves, but doesn't think she can really afford. And he'll go out and buy her a new tube when he's done too, one of the jumbo ones.
Except, Colin doesn't do that, because the machine's cycle hasn't even whirred to life before he's got the gusset of her knickers pushed firm against his nose and mouth, sucking the heady scent of Penelope's cunt deep into his lungs. Fuck it, he'll have to go later.
The smell is just as he remembers, only better somehow, deeper and dirtier. He huffs it in with his nose, then his mouth – one then the other, one then the other. Colin actually curses his stupid airways for not being able to do both at the same time. He wants it all, the most he can get – more, more, more.
God, it's amazing. He'd never understood the compulsion to sniff underwear before. But, as ever, it seems he just needed to wait for the right pair to come along for him to sniff. Never say never, Colin has always believed.
Before he knows it, he's stumbling back into her lovely sunset room. He flops onto her bed, back laid flat out, and is reaching into the soft waistband of his joggers to pull out his stiff, aching cock.
He shouldn't wank in Penelope's bed. He shouldn't, he shouldn't–
He is.
Colin groans as he pumps the length of himself in time with another jagged breath, her pink lace crushed to his face like it's his fucking life support. He feels his face turning red and sweaty, feels the pressure of breath in his neck. He hears too, wrecked grunts that push themselves out from his lungs pathetically, and he tugs and tugs at his cock until it almost hurts.
He comes embarrassingly fast and shouts Penelope's name, wrapping her dirty knickers around the head of his dick to catch the hot spurt before it ends up on her nice, soft duvet cover.
"Fuck," he breathes. And he can't help it. Her knickers around his cock make for such an erotic sight, that Colin fumbles for his phone in his pocket and snaps a quick picture.
This is… not good.
Once his breathing has returned somewhat to normal, they go back into the depths of his joggers and he grimaces, shaking out the duvet so it doesn't look– well, like a giant man has been lying on top of it. That would probably freak her out, he thinks.
It's bizarre. Colin has always felt drawn to the riskier sides of sex. He favours fucking in public (although, that's mostly just because he doesn't love the idea of bringing some stranger into his space, especially not a space he shares with Pen), and has never shied away from trying anything much. This feels different, though – dirty and wrong. For the first time in his life, he feels like a degenerate; he doesn't know what the hell has come over him.
And, as the day stretches on, Colin's guilt morphs messily into blind panic. Because what if Penelope had just been masturbating before he called, like a normal person. Why did he assume she touched herself on the phone to him? That was probably kind of insane for him to have decided, wasn't it? Just because she was a bit breathless? Maybe she'd been changing her bedding, or something.
Colin can feel the waxy globs inside him coming to the surface. There's no glow to them anymore. The lamp is switched off and they're sickly pale; a ghostly sheen over his skin that no amount of wiping or dabbing can seem to get rid of.
Feeling sick to his stomach, he does what he can to keep himself busy. Three more loads of laundry go on, one including the pair of knickers made sticky with his cum. Those, he washes by hand in the sink first, just to be sure he gets rid of the evidence. He orders six packs of Pen's scent beads on Deliveroo (which costs an absolute fortune – maybe she was right about not being able to afford them) and all the ingredients to make a stupidly rich and indulgent laksa for tea.
When her key finally turns in the lock that night, the flat smells of shallots and garlic and lemongrass. He thinks, too, that the heat from the flame should serve as a reasonable enough excuse for why he’s sweating so much.
No, Penelope, these aren't nerves – I'm just warm. Here, eat your noodles and please don't ask any more questions.
"Helloooooo," she trills from the hallway. "Oh my god is that laksa? How did you know I needed something warm and soupy? Did you read my mind through the electromagnetic waves on the tube?"
"Not a thing," he calls back. Colin wipes his hands on his jeans and looks at himself in the blurry reflection made by the extractor hood. He'd wager he's got about thirty seconds before she's in here, and what if he's accidentally ended up with her pants around his head, or something?
"Wouldn't it be fun, though?" Penelope's echo-ey voice answers. "If we could read each other's minds."
No, Colin thinks.
He watches her sidle into the kitchen and slip into one of the chairs dotted around the island. Penelope’s brows furrow, and Colin almost whips around to check his warped head in the metal again.
"Why are you leaning like that?" she asks.
"Like what?"
"I don't know," she giggles. "Like someone's shoved a stick up your arse, then perched you on a wonk. Can you get down, Colin? Do you need some help?" Penelope pretends at getting out of her chair.
Colin straightens, then turns back to stir the broth, ignoring her. "Good day at work?"
"Oh, you know," she sighs. "The usual. Julia couldn't ever imagine eating more than half a yoghurt for lunch, and Anna guilt tripped me into giving up my Friday off next week, so she can go and watch her kid jump into the school swimming pool."
Colin spins on his heel "Penelope," he admonishes softly. "You didn't give it to her did you?"
She chews her lip. "I did. And I know, I know," she says. "Our little trip to Dorset. I'm so sorry."
He hates this, how easily manipulated Penelope is by women over a certain age. She'll tread herself down and tread herself down, until she's got nothing left for her, and none of the people she puts herself out for actually care about anything beyond their own interests. Colin wouldn't be surprised if Anna didn't even say thank you properly.
They both know why she does it, too – she's looking for the approval her mother refuses to give her. Colin really wishes he could make Portia see the harm she’s done sometimes.
"It's alright," he tells her softly. Because another thing about Penelope is that she’s prone to shutting down very quickly, and Colin really doesn’t want to be locked out tonight. He cannot think about where his thoughts might take him, if left to their own devices. "We'll just leave at five when you finish." Along with every other fucker in the country.
"Maybe I can get off at four. And I'll pull a sicky on the Monday to make up for it."
She won't, but that's alright. If he’s gentle enough with her, Colin is sure that, one of these days, Penelope will learn how to tell deserving people to fuck off.
He puts his arm around her and kisses the crown of her head. It's an odd feeling, how sentimental and warm his body has started to turn: Colin’s bubbly insides all melty and sweet again, because Penelope needed reassurance. Five minutes ago, he was certain he wouldn't be able to act normally around her; five minutes ago, he still had a stick up his arse.
Life is a funny thing, he thinks, friendships and relationships are too. Maybe the rules about them can be bent here and there.
He's not writing his actions off. Obviously, he knows it's not super cool that he snuck into Penelope's room to steal a pair of her underwear, but if he keeps his mouth shut and never does it again, maybe it can be just a little footnote in the great history of their friendship. His burden to carry alone – people just do weird things sometimes, don’t they?
He drowns rice noodles in sunny-golden broth, and they slurp them up, before collapsing onto the sofa to watch tv. It’s some crap about the porn industry on ITV that probably shouldn't ever have been made, all pretty harmless, though. Until–
"What kind of porn do you watch, Colin?"
Why does she have to have that sweet little voice, if she's going to ask him such stirring questions? Colin half-thinks she does it on purpose.
"Uh– just all the normal stuff, I reckon," he croaks, gently shifting her legs so her heel isn't so directly over his crotch – you know, just in case. "Why?"
"Just curious," she says, eyes still on the telly. Then, Penelope is turning her face up to him like a cat looking to be fussed over. "The normal stuff is a bit of a cop out, though, I think. Do you just not want to tell me? It's okay if you don't, I would understand."
"It's not that–" Colin rushes to say. Why, he does not know. He’s never liked disappointing Penelope, but surely there’s no need for him to be such a simp over this. She's right, he is allowed to tell her no. Isn't he?
"I bet it's some really weird shit, isn't it," she giggles. "That's why you won't tell me."
He tugs on her ankle. "Is not. Anyway, stop trying to kink shame me, you little brat."
"Me? Never," Penelope tells him earnestly.
He narrows his eyes. "What are you into then, Mother Theresa, romantic missionary with the lights dimmed?"
Colin tries hard to look cool and composed after he says that; he doesn't really know why he said it, honestly. Because, sure, it's not the most imaginative thing one can do in bed, but, actually, he thinks it can be really romantic to look directly into someone's eyes when you fuck them. He bets Penelope would be–
No. Nope. Dangerous train of thought. He drops a cushion into his lap for good measure.
Penelope pretends to yawn and stretch. "Oh sorry," she says. "That question almost made me fall asleep."
Colin bites back a grin. “So tell me what you watch, and I'll tell you what I watch." Discussing their porn preferences is not that different, is it, than talking to her about the girls he sleeps with? If anything, it's probably a little less eyebrow raising.
"I can't believe you want to do sandbox rules for porn," she laughs.
"You asked first."
"True," Penelope admits. "You won't like my answer, though."
He doubts that. Actually, Colin is trying very hard not to sink to his knees and perch in front of her like a puppy panting for a treat. He thinks he'll like any and all words that are about to come out of Penelope’s mouth.
"I don't really watch it," she says.
Except those.
Colin frowns. “You’re lying.”
Penelope laughs. "I'm not," she says, sticking her fingers up in a funny little salute – what is that, Girl Guides? He thinks she and Eloise used to do that when they were kids – often when they were fibbing to his Mum about something. “God’s honest truth.”
"But–” he protests lamely. “Sorry, there’s just no way Penelope Featherington isn’t getting off like the rest of us." There's not, he can prove it! "You don’t have to be prim and proper for me, you know. I’m not going to get all weird about the fact you touch yourself.” God, he is such a liar.
"Well I didn't say that, did I?" Penelope scoffs. "I'm just– not so much of a visual learner."
A smile tugs at Colin’s mouth “Oh?” He leans in closer.
Penelope tells him she likes to listen, and read. She's got a nice little collection on her Kindle that does the trick, and it's quite common among women, apparently.
"I don't not watch porn," she says. "Like, if it's there and I–"
"You're turned on," he finishes for her.
"Yes, thank you, Colin." She rolls her eyes. "If I'm turned on, then I will partake. But, generally, the visual medium isn't my preference."
Colin hums. "Interesting."
"Your turn,” she tells him.
Colin explains that he likes to mix things up – sometimes he'll just look at what's new on the homepage and choose from there. The truth is, he starts to feel a bit shit about himself if he watches too many videos of the same people, better to keep it disconnected and impersonal, he thinks.
His answer makes Penelope snort and titter for some reason.
"Trending media," she says. "Oh, you're so cool and current, Colin. It must be exhausting keeping your finger on the pulse like that."
"It is," he says. “Thank you for recognising my porny plight.”
She laughs again, and the bubbles in him glow back to life.
They go to bed not long after their porn conversation, but Colin lies awake all night. Part of him thinks he might be hooked up to some sort of weird experiment. Maybe Penelope is in cahoots with a team of scientists behind a two way mirror, and they’re testing how far they can push a man until he cracks completely.
For years he’s toed this line really well, he thinks he probably ought to be given a medal or something, actually. Colin has ignored Pen prancing about in her little shorts, turned a blind eye to nipples pebbling under silky tops. He even stood firm when Penelope left her vibrator in the bathroom that time. He’s been so good up until now, he has. So really, there’s nothing more for him to say than for fuck’s sake!
Because how, actually, is it fair that Penelope is saying things like "the visual medium isn't my preference", after she stuck her fingers in his mouth and sighed hotly down the phone at him. How is that fair?
It's not, is it? It's like some specially designed punishment. Colin must have been really awful in a past life to have deserved this, he thinks.
Unless–
Maybe she is fucking doing it on purpose, maybe she's doing all of this on purpose and has been the entire time.
There is only one way for Colin to find out. And they're going away in a week, so if he's going to act, he needs to act fast.
On Friday he tells her he has a date (he doesn't), and watches for her response.
She's like a glacial lake, not one bubble comes to the surface. As much as Penelope is at odds with her mother, she reminds him so much of Portia at times. It's creepy how much of that regal coolness she can muster at the drop of a hat.
It makes Colin feel sort of disgusting. He wants, more than anything, to get on his knees and beg her to lift her skirt, so he can nose at another pair of her pretty knickers and listen to her promise him he's good.
Again, though, Colin is not completely nuts. So he does not do that.
"Nice," she tells him. "Hope it goes well."
So, when he leaves for his evening at the pub with Ben, he feels quite flattened by the whole encounter. Still, he’s got a job to do.
Colin was careful to choose a venue just a few streets away from the flat, so he'd be able to get back quickly. It's a nice old Victorian place with a huge green awning and brassy-coloured tables. The pints are eleven quid each, and Benedict looks at him like he's lost his mind when he comes back from the bar.
"You literally have a painting up in the National Gallery," Colin says. "Why are we acting like Ebeneezer Scrooge?"
His brother rolls his eyes and pushes his pint towards him. Then a second, a third, a fourth. So, when Colin decides it's time to put phase one of his plan into action, he is perhaps a bit sloppier than he'd have liked.
"Yeah, Pen," he slurs on the walk home, phone pressed up to his ear so he doesn't miss a thing this time. "She was amazing."
"Wow," Penelope replies. "What was her name?"
Shit, he hasn't thought of a name.
"Didn't– don't know. I didn't catch her name, the chemistry was just there straight away. You know how it goes,” Colin mumbles.
He hears Penelope hum. "I thought you said you met on Tinder?"
"Oh, yeah." God, he's fucking bad at thinking when he's had a drink.
"And you can't remember her name?”
“I–”
“That's a bit shit of you, Colin."
She sounds cross with him. This isn’t what was supposed to happen. And why does he feel so guilty, as if he really is the kind of guy who goes on dates with people then forgets their names?
"Yeah," Colin agrees morosely. "Sorry."
She huffs a little bit. "I'll see you when you're home."
The next time, he thinks he’ll try his luck in person. They're eating dinner on Sunday night, and Colin pretends he ran into Meg at the gym again. Penelope doesn't know he's changed gyms yet, so it's pretty plausible. Name, backstory, setting. He's got all three, he can't fail this time.
And it seems to work. Penelope gets a pink flush high in her cheeks and her whole body relaxes into her chair with a soft little thud. Fucking hell she’s pretty, he hadn’t thought this part through properly. His cock twitches in his lap.
Penelope leans in, her elbows planted on the table. "Really?” she breathes. “Her again?"
"All the endorphins. They take over me, Pen and I just need– well, you know." He sounds like such a dick. Is this the sort of thing Colin really says? Why is she nodding as if it all makes sense?
"Sure," she agrees, and Colin hears the swish swish of nylon.
He wants to slip out of his chair – crawl under the table and push her knees apart to check – but that would be weird, not to mention the fact she hasn’t asked him to.
But when Penelope gets up to "check on a work email" (she never looks at her work emails on the weekends), he is fairly certain she was rubbing her thighs together in her seat.
Colin creeps over to her bedroom door and presses his head against the wood. He’s certain he's got her this time, he saw the way her little mouth dropped open when he lied about fucking Meg – lights dimmed in the Pilates studio, just before the next class of yummy mummies came in.
He slows his breath, and his ears adjust. Then Colin almost kicks a hole through the wall. Penelope has switched on her speaker. There's noisy music floating out of it, and he cannot fucking hear anything else.
She is too good for him. He's going to have to up the ante.
Colin doesn’t greatly want to do it, but he feels like he’s been left without another choice. A couple of days later, he goes out to the bar and lets a pretty girl attach herself to his mouth.
The kissing is fine, and it’s fine when he slides his hands up her skirt and whispers filth into her ear. But leaving the bar to bring her home feels sort of like he’s walking up to the execution block.
Penelope is sitting on the sofa when he opens the door and ushers his guest into the flat. He watches her eyes widen, then track his every movement. He’s hardly even paying attention as he herds his catch towards his bedroom door. Has she noticed, he wonders, that the guy she’s gone home with is in a staring standoff with his roommate? Does she care?
Colin pushes the door closed, still looking at Penelope, then smirks when he hears her shuffle to her own bedroom, the door closing softly.
It doesn’t take long for him to stroke himself hard (thinking about Penelope listening, fuck), so Colin rolls a condom on and gets to work, one hand clamped over the poor girl’s mouth, muffling her sighs so he can hear what’s happening in the next room more clearly. He is such an awful human being; he’ll order her an Uber Exec home and send flowers tomorrow, or something.
He puts on a bit of a show for Pen, he can admit. Grunting and swearing, and beating his fist into the wall behind the headboard. It’s sort of humiliating, really. He’d much rather be in the living room with her, laughing at some ridiculous shit on her phone. But he’s got to know.
And then he fucking hears her, he does. And it’s such a weird relief that his entire body wants to sink into the mattress. Sweet like music, a choked off, breathy little whine travels through the wall – through his entire body – like an electric shock.
“Fuck,” he curses.
“Yeah.” The girl underneath him moans, canting her hips up.
“Shh,” he hisses, movements slowing until he’s basically got his ear pressed up against the wall to listen.
Penelope is moaning so prettily that he feels himself get harder inside this stranger’s pussy.
“Move,” she urges. “Please.” And, when it comes down to it, he is just a man, so he does.
Colin finishes fast to the tune of Penelope’s sighs, he stutters and moans, imagining it's her underneath him as he fills up the condom. He sees his guest out (Livia, he'll remember this time in case Penelope asks) and goes to sleep with a smile on his face.
The next evening is when he decides to act on his knowledge.
They're set to go to Dorset in a couple of days, and Colin has been put to work. Penelope wants him to use up the ingredients in the fridge before they go.
He can't quite tell if she knows that he knows. She's a little more timid than normal, but that could just be because she feels bad they can't leave Friday morning as planned. No matter, Colin feels lighter than air now, anyway.
The dinner he puts in front of her is, he thinks, pretty good all things considered. A spring vegetable lasagna with the odds and ends of about six different cheeses left over from their last charcuterie night.
"Thanks," Penelope smiles, digging in. "Smells amazing."
Colin agrees. And, ideally, he'd like to be able to give her a bit of time to enjoy it, but if he doesn't tell Penelope he knows she touches herself thinking about his sex life, he'll probably explode. And then no one will be able to eat the lasagna, will they?
"So, shall we talk about it?" Colin asks plainly.
"About what?" she returns quietly, sweet little fawn.
He leans back in his chair and watches Penelope put her fork down. She swallows thickly, eyes darting between him and the door to her bedroom. It sort of excites him, must call up some long-lost hunter’s instinct that he’s never needed, living such a pampered life.
He feels like a bit of a shit, but he can’t deny it; Colin likes watching Penelope squirm.
“You, of course," he explains.
“Colin,” she says sharply.
“What?” Colin answers softly, voice honeyed.
“You know what. Stop being mean.”
It winds Colin a bit, how can it not? It reminds him he doesn’t actually want Penelope to be upset. Teasing her is all well and good, but making her sad would not be fun. He sits up straight and slides his palm along the surface of the table, reaches out to her to show her he's sincere.
“Last night, Pen,” he says. “I heard you through the wall.”
“Yeah, I heard you through the bloody wall too, Colin.” She wrinkles her nose. “Thanks for the heads up on that, by the way.”
Colin snorts. “Would you have preferred to make yourself scarce, then?”
Penelope bites her lip, and he can’t help but think how supple it looks. “Probably would have done.”
“Liar,” he smirks. “You liked it. You like it, don’t you, Penelope?”
Her cheeks start to splotch red and she curls her mouth down. She looks caught.
But Penelope doesn’t say anything more, doesn't even deny it. She only gets up from her chair and deposits her untouched dinner back onto the kitchen counter. Colin stands to follow her.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from you, you weirdo. I'll go and eat in my room if I have to."
“Penelope,” Colin sings.
She’s got her back to him, hands fussing over some dishes in the sink.
“I’ll do those.”
“You cooked.”
“So? I'm a lady of leisure.” He tugs at the little belt loops on her skirt, pulling her back until she’s lined up nice and snug against his chest. She sinks back against him with a little sigh, and Colin takes his chance to wind his arms around her middle. “Talk to me about it. I think it's really hot, I promise.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Frosty," Colin clicks his tongue. "Is it because of that girl? I only brought her back here to check, you know,” he tells her – perhaps she’ll think he’s crazy, and maybe he is, but he wants her to know he fucked Livia for them. “I thought– I suspected it, but you kept evading me, clever girl. Needed to be sure. And it worked, didn't it?" He's breathing down her neck, he knows – he feels a bit like Nosferatu – but it's so thrilling to watch her shift and tremble that he can't stop himself. "You played with your little pussy listening to me fuck her, didn't you?"
Gooseflesh erupts all over her skin and he hums.
"I did it for you, Pen."
"You're ridiculous," she says, and he can tell she means it to bite, but her voice is all shivery and light.
Colin brushes her hair away from her neck. "I know, I fucking feel it," he laughs. "But just tell me. Tell me that you touched yourself."
"And so what if I did?" Penelope throws back. She stiffens and steps away from him. "Shock horror. Painfully single woman gets a bit turned on by hearing noisy sex one night. Alert watchdog."
"Only a bit?" His hand slides up to her neck, cupping her gently. Colin swears he can feel her pulse fluttering in her throat.
"Colin," she croaks out.
He chuckles and backs away from her, lounging against the sink. "No, you're right," he agrees. "It's not that crazy, really. Kind of makes me feel proud, in a twisted sort of way."
Penelope grumbles something about his ego, then ducks down to get a box out of the cupboard for her leftovers. He swallows watching the way her arse expands underneath her skirt. He wishes he could put his hands on it.
"Except–"
She turns and gives him this look Colin assumes she means to be threatening, it's adorable. "Except?" she parrots.
"Except that you've done it before, haven't you? One night I came home... I could smell it on you, Pen. I could taste it."
She scoffs, then looks around the kitchen frantically. "No you could not."
"Could. And I've been desperate for it ever since, you know."
Penelope's eyes darken, and her tongue darts out to wet her mouth, pink and pointy. "Really?" she squeaks.
"Really," he says, the breath shaking out of him. Is it relief? He's not sure. Colin doesn't think you should be relieved to tell your best friend what he tells Penelope next. “I went into your bedroom to steal your fucking knickers, Penelope.”
Her mouth falls into a little circle and he can see her tongue again. Colin smirks. He feels a little like he's in a trance. He's never been so forward with anybody in his life, he thinks. But this is Penelope, and he knows her to the bone – loves her, actually, doesn't he? And so none of it feels as terrifying as it probably ought.
"Yeah," he says. "You've been driving me wild. Did you do it on purpose?"
Her frizzy red curls bob when she nods, and he grins. That's it, he's decided – he is going to end up marrying her.
"Dirty girl," Colin says proudly, glowing bubbles in his lungs and heart and stomach. "Are you going to give me another try, then? Come on, angel, I’m starving.”
“Now?” she asks quietly, and he raises an eyebrow at her expectantly.
Colin watches Penelope’s palm smooth over her skirt and fiddle with the button at her waist. Her eyes on his, she sinks her hand into her tights and down. When her fingers come out glistening, he moans and beckons her nearer, feeling his trousers tighten around his crotch.
"Come on, baby," he coos. "Let me have it."
Something very strange is happening to Colin's body. His heart beats hard, like it's going to come thumping out of his throat. His chest is tight and his nerves are absolutely frayed, yet he feels calm and floaty somehow – he's a little paper boat, bobbing merrily towards the drop of a waterfall.
Penelope is close now, enough that he can reach out and wrap his hand around her wrist, drawing her fingers towards his face, his mouth.
"Open wide," Penelope says, just as she had that night with the cake.
Colin laughs through his nose and shakes his head. He closes his lips around her two fingers and sucks them in greedily.
God, she's like honey and salt. He doesn't think he'll ever get enough of her, wants to eat her morning, noon and night.
Penelope is starry-eyed and frozen as she watches him lick her clean. The soft, sweet protrude of her rosy mouth, lips all wet and shiny, makes him groan.
"Good girl. So sweet," he praises, her fingers still pressed into his mouth.
"What happens now?" Penelope whispers, when he eases her wrist back down.
"Impatient," he reprimands, but his voice is all indulgence.
"I've waited years, Colin."
He thinks he sees stars then, and it's like his body goes on autopilot. There's something animal about the way he needs her.
"Now," Colin instructs. "You're going to lift your little skirt up, put your hands on the counter and stay nice and still while I taste you properly. Okay?"
He watches Penelope's throat move as she swallows and says, "Okay."
She drags her skirt up past her hips, and she moves over to the kitchen counter, looking back at him over her shoulder.
"Should I?" Penelope's hands dance around the waistband of her tights and he shakes his head.
"I'm going to do that," Colin tells her. "Palms on the counter and knees apart."
God, he's so bossy. When did this happen?
Penelope seems to like it, though. She shuffles her legs wider and her body bends over the top of the kitchen surface. Colin can't believe his luck.
He sinks to his knees behind her and drags his fingers up and down her soft thighs. One day, he thinks he's going to put his cock between them and make her squeeze him tight. He'll have it between her tits too, in her mouth to see that pretty tongue at work, and against the slick folds of her cunt. The options with Penelope feel endless, really.
Tonight, though, there is one thing he wants more than any other.
Colin takes her tights in his fists and strips Penelope bare from the waist down. Fuck, she's gorgeous. Dimpled arse and thighs, and cute little knees that shake for him a little. He sinks his fingers into the spread of her flesh and she whimpers beautifully.
"So lovely, Pen. A little wider for me," he says, hands clamped around her ankles, pushing her legs farther apart until her pussy opens for him, pretty like a flower. "You're so wet," he breathes. Penelope just wiggles her hips, feeling the chilled air against herself when his hands push her arse cheeks apart to look at all of her.
"Colin," she mewls.
"Just a second, I don't want to rush my meal."
"Colin."
"Okay, okay," he chuckles. "Head down for me."
She complies, and her pussy spreads open wider – pink inside and shining. Colin feels insane. His cock is so hard already, he reaches into his jeans to stroke it a little, then flips it up into his waistband. This is about Penelope.
Colin leans in and drags a finger through her wetness, swallowing when he hears the filthy squelch he's been dreaming of since that first night. Then his mouth follows. His tongue swipes along Penelope's cunt once, slowly, and he groans against the expanse of her skin, resting his cheek against her.
"You're perfect," he croons.
"Please," she whimpers, pushing herself back against him.
He eats her properly then, because she asked so sweetly, clamps his mouth over her pussy and swallows down every drop of her. His arms wind around her middle and press into the pout of her belly. It makes his them dig harsh into the counter top but Colin doesn't care – it's saving her the discomfort, isn't it?
When he pulls back, mouth wet, she's moaning and trembling, sounds so out of it that Colin thinks he could do anything he likes to her. So, he does. He spreads her further apart and spits onto her pussy, dragging it from her clit, all the way up.
Penelope yelps and looks over her shoulder at him, eyes all hazy.
"Let me," he begs. "Please, you'll like it, I promise." When she nods, he grins.
Colin stuffs her with two fingers and curls them until she keens, then he leans in to lap at her furled little hole, tongue dipping in until she lets go of this guttural whine that makes him want to punch the air.
He reaches around to grind his palm against her clit, and Penelope thrashes and shakes against him. Colin licks relentlessly at her, fingers thrusting in and out of her pussy, until she comes with a cry and soaks him.
"Fuck," he says against her, pulling back to press kisses all over her skin. "You fucking squirted, baby."
Bubbles in his heart, his stomach, his chest.
Colin laps at her gently until she stops twitching and shaking, then lets his wobbly-legged doe collapse onto him in a heap. He sways her gently, and hushes her.
"I've never come that hard in my life," Penelope whispers. "Not fucking fair."
"You squirted," he says again.
Her hands cover her face, and he can't help but giggle. Penelope joins him soon, twisting her neck so she can look at him properly.
"Kiss me?" she asks, so Colin does.
Their mouths come together and his tongue dances with hers. He knows she's tasting herself when she moans and grinds back in his lap.
He feels like a horny teenager, thrusting his hips into her arse as they kiss for what feels like hours. Until Penelope gets impatient and takes his jaw in her hand to ask,
"You gonna fuck me, then?"
And what is he supposed to say to that?
"My room or yours?" Colin rushes out.
Her eyes dart in the direction of their bedrooms. "Did you change your sheets yet?" she asks.
Guilt claws at Colin's belly. "Not yet," he tells her sheepishly.
"Yours, then," Penelope says.
And– oh.
Colin grins and pulls Penelope up to her feet. He leads her by the arm to his bedroom, where they peel their clothes off and he crawls up her body. He fucks her hard, until his vision starts to go, and his mind is foggy, and the only things he feels are the heavenly grip of her cunt and her fingers dragging through his hair.
He collapses over her, sweaty and breathless, but when Penelope starts to sink against his pillows, he pulls out and clambers off the bed.
"What are you–" Penelope's brows furrow as he leans over her and bundles her into his arms. "Colin, put me down."
He carries her into the next room and deposits her on her bed with a little thump, then crawls in next to her and pulls her to his chest. She feels so good naked in his arms, really right, Colin thinks.
"That was really hot, angel, but I can't actually have my girlfriend laid out on sheets someone else has been in. Makes me feel like a real dirtbag."
Penelope's forehead creases. "Girlfriend?" she echoes softly.
Oh yeah.
It's strange, all these years he's spent fucking people in public loos and showers, and in alleyways behind bars. Colin never wanted to bring any of them home, never wanted them to see his space – see him, he supposes.
He feels torn wide open for Penelope, almost wants to reach into his body and start pulling organs out, see if there's any she likes, any she wants to have. He'd give them to her – heart, lungs, kidneys – anything she wants. Colin wants to be seen by Penelope, wants to be owned by her, a little bit.
He wants to wrap her up in cotton, and do filthy, awful things to her. He wants to whisper that he loves her while she's half-asleep. He wants her fingers digging around in his brain. He wants her bent over the arm of the sofa with his ring on her finger. He wants everything.
"Right," he clears his throat. He casts his eyes down and draws his finger up and down Penelope's bare arm. "I mean, if you'll have me, obviously."
"You're such an idiot, do you know that?" she tells him, smiling prettily. "I'd have you in every fucking lifetime, Colin. What took you so long?"
"I'm an idiot, remember," he replies, pulling her nearer.
"No," Penelope says softly, her fingers cradling his skull. "No you're not. You've just been a little bit lost, haven't you?"
Colin feels a lump in his throat. "Think I have," he says wetly. "Home now, though."