"she wiped her mouth after every sip" it is those simple details that pull me in so deeply to your stories. For me, reading has always been difficult. In grade school I hated reading time and now as an adult I am still plagued with the inability to trudge through most books. I blame it on ADD, I can barely sit through a 30 minute TV show. But, on rare occasions, I find an author who can capture my seemingly elusive attention. I read your stories with laser like focus that astounds me. Thank you
It was the sound of her boots on the sidewalk that buckled me. God damn her. Coffee. Seemed innocent. “Let’s talk,” she said, as if we could manage that without the sudden swerve and crash. Big fucking joke. Every time I saw her face, I thought, “Too much damage,” and then fell right into the middle of it all again. Over and over. The swerve. The crash. All that damage.
We sat there. She stared at her coffee. Poured too much milk and too much sugar in. “Candy coffee,” I said, like I always said, and kicked my own goddamn shin under the table for saying something I always said. I drank my tea. Fuck her and her coffee. She mumbled. I had to ask her to repeat herself. She’d stare up at me, sad eyed, and mumble something about how things were good with her and her new girlfriend. And I’d think, “Fuck you and your fucking girlfriend,” and say, “That’s cool. I’m good too.” And then she’d stare back down at her coffee and maybe stir it and sip it a little and wipe her mouth. She wiped her mouth after every sip. Every bite. I used to think it was adorable. Now I wondered what the fuck was wrong with her.
We held our dialogue close to the script.
"How’s your job?"
"It’s stupid. It’s not my real job."
"Are you quitting?"
"Yeah, I need to quit."
"But are you looking?"
Silence. She looked out the window pretending that she recognized someone which I knew was just a bullshit way of avoiding the question.
"Fuck it. Find something else."
Silence. A sip of coffee and her napkin across her mouth.
"I’m serious. You hate that job. You should find something else." I kicked myself again. What the fuck do I care? I’m not her goddamn mother. I’m not her girlfriend.
"I’ll work it out."
It went like this. On and on. Pointless. Irritating. Me saying shit I didn’t really want to say. Her avoiding my stupid questions. Rubbing our raw wounds up against one another. Stupid. I got another cup of tea. We sat there mostly silent. I tried to remind myself why I was sitting here. “Let’s stay close,” we decided, “Let’s not be stupid and ignore each other and pretend this never happened or feel like we have to hate each other.” I was so sick of that bullshit. The scene was too small for that crap. So many people you had to call up before a party and tell them, “So and so, your ex, will be there,” and blah blah blah and then phone call after phone call about what a shit this or that person was and how they can’t stand her anymore and won’t be in the same room and fuck that fucking crap. Fuck it.
Right. Okay. That’s why I agreed to go sit down over coffee and watch her stare silently and mumble about her new girlfriend and pretend that we’re all casual with each other and it’s cool. I blew out my breath and ran my fingers through my hair. I leaned way back in my chair and spread my knees wide. Butch to butch. Here we are. We can be buddies, right?
I cleared our glasses and we headed out for a cigarette. I hate smoking but I always smoked with her. It seemed sexy. Still does. I liked the way we walked down the sidewalk together. Side by side. Boots hitting the pavement hard. Jeans slouched down resting on the curve of our asses. Her vintage shirts. Her perfect cuffed sleeves. I usually had my jacket on. Zipped up tight. Shoulders hunched. We walked in silence. Smoking. I crushed my cigarette out under my heel while she lit up another. I jammed my hands deep in my jeans pockets and nudged her with my hip. She laughed. I looked at her. “C’mon,” she said and jerked her head towards one of the dozens of bars open in the morning in the city. Our city. The city that felt like ours, together, because we met the first week we both lived here.
It felt so good, so right, to drink those beers together. It wasn’t 10 in the morning yet and I felt the buzz hit me half way into the bottle. We didn’t say anything. We drank and read all the words on the coasters, the labels on the bottles, the signs behind the bar. She turned around and leaned her back against the bar and looked at the empty tables and the one old man sitting there with his drink. She stared at him when she talked to me, saying, “Listen. I’m glad we’re going to do this. Stay friends, I mean. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” That felt like bullshit. She started fucking some other girl and dropped me without warning weeks ago. I’m pretty sure what she’d do without me is exactly what she was doing already. But I didn’t want to lose her either. “Yeah,” I said, “Me too.”
"You’re my best friend, you know," she said and I shoved her hard enough that she fell off the barstool and had to grab the spinning seat to keep from landing on her ass. "Fucking jerk," she said and we laughed. I ordered us two more beers and two whiskeys. Fuck it. We were going to get drunk enough, I guess. We deserved it. I didn’t think we’d fall out like we did. But we did. Fall out of line, I mean. Fall out of our senses. Maybe I should have known. I just didn’t think she was still into me in that way. So I didn’t look for it. Or maybe I did. Maybe it’s what I had planned the whole time. Sitting there with my knees wide and my hand resting between my legs. Sucking on the bottle good and hard. Looking stoned. Looking dead to everything. Hard and stiff. Just like she always liked me. Just like I wasn’t.
"I need to piss," I said and slid off the barstool, walking slow towards the bathroom, knowing my ass looked great in these jeans. I had a drunk smile on my face when I pushed the door open. I stood there to take it in. I love dirty bathrooms in bars. I love them. The sticky floor with wadded up toilet paper jammed into corners. The tiny porcelein sink that would pull right off of the wall any day now. The floor was tiled with square inch black and white tiles. Filthy. The toilet bowl permanently stained with a rust colored ring. I wanted to stand to pee but I’ve never been good at that and especially not when I’m drunk. I squatted over the toilet with my jeans held at my knees. "Maybe we’ll fuck in here before we go," I thought. Stupid idea. I shook my head to rattle the thought out of there. The water in the tap was hot. Really hot. I cupped my hands and splashed my face over and over again. I ran wet hands through my hair until it was all slicked down. I combed through it with my fingers and wiped my face on my shirt tails. I looked at my teeth. "I’m stalling," I said out loud and turned to go back.
"Rudolph Valentino," she whistled at me. I slicked my hair with a smile. "Errol Flynn," I answered. I never liked Valentino. She never remembered anything. Why was I sitting here strutting for her. Preening. Fuck her. Nothing was right between us when we were going out. Nothing. The fucking was great. It was everything else that was a total disaster. But when the fucking is great. When you hook up the way we did. Lost little puppies in a big new world. Well, the fucking can get you pretty far. The fucking was unlike anything I’d ever known before. Jerk my pants down, bend me over, spit covered fingers shoved into my holes. That kind of fucking. Nothing about sweet kisses and polite little pets. No more fawning about how soft each other’s cheeks were. This was fucking. Like boys. Our tiny little cocks. Ramrod stiff. Stiff jeans. Shiny boots. Thick belts. Slicked hair. Fall in line, little boy, because this is how you show it here. I fell in line for her. Or she fell in line for me. Or we both fell in line because that’s what you fucking do.
The fucking. The way we fucked. Tossing back and forth. You fuck me. No, you fuck me. We both wanted to be fucked. We both wanted someone stronger than either of us. Or weaker. We both wanted something that was more opposite. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think she knew. How could we know anything? How can you figure anything out when the fucking is so good and you’re both new? I remember the time she grabbed my stiff, black comb out of my back pocket and held it against my neck. It hurt like a knife. It felt dangerous. I didn’t feel like a kid playing dress up. I felt tough. Dangerous. How I wanted to feel. She cut my back with that comb. Raking it across my shoulders, she let it bite into me. Jagged red lines.
I felt the booze swirl around in my brain. The warm rush in my belly. I stared at her with my wet lower lip hanging open. A dog. She was telling me some story. Something dumb. She was shaking her head and laughing and telling me about some asshole on the bus. Something about makeup. Or maybe a pregnant lady. I wasn’t listening to her. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, too loud, in the middle of her story. She looked at her knees for a second and then grabbed my arm and we headed out the door.
She walked ahead of me, still gripping my arm, and led me to her place. She stumbled off the curb once and nearly took us both down, but she never looked at me. Not until we got inside her apartment. When the door closed she turned around and shoved me up against it. She grabbed my crotch and spat her words at me. “You want me to fuck you? You don’t hate me yet?” she hissed. The words stung. Prophetic. I am going to hate her after this, I knew. It didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. Maybe that’s why I wanted it.
I moved slowly as I turned around and put my palms flat on the door. My boots slid apart as I stuck my ass out for her. I closed my eyes and opened my throat when her arm snaked around me, her hand grabbed my belt. All the anger left me. All the frustration and hurt melted. I had her. Now. Right now. She wanted me and I was right here. Any thought of how she didn’t love me disappeared. All my tortured images of her fucking someone else vanished. Whatever pain I had would be made physical.
She punched at my clit through my jeans. Her head pushed into my back between my shoulder blades. I could hear her crying. “Shut up and fuck me,” I said. I needed her angry or desperate, not sad. She shoved my head against the door. Pain shot through my head. We were both suddenly struck as if by lightning. She unbuckled my belt but left my jeans buttoned as she scraped them down and off over my thighs. My underwear was pulled down too. She left them just below my ass. The elastic bit into my thighs. One hand held my head against the door and the other jerked my ass back against her. She slammed her hips against me. Slamming her jeans, her cunt up against my bared bottom. Without warning, her fingers jammed into me. Her other arm gripped me tight around my middle. Her head sunk against my back. I heard her boots scraping the wood. I heard her grunt. “Fuck me,” I spat out anytime I wanted to say something else.
I rolled my ass higher for her. I wanted her to see how I craved her fingers deep inside me. “Don’t you want to fuck this ass?” I snapped. She pulled her fingers out of my pussy and grabbed my neck, starting to drag me down the hall. I straightened up and stumbled toward her bedroom. Shuffling with my pants still around my knees. I crawled onto her bed without being led and pulled my jeans down to my ankles for her. “This,” I said and wagged my ass at her on all fours, rolling my back. I heard her open the closet. Her box. The glove snapping onto her hand. The wheezing sound of her nearly empty bottle of lube. “This?” she said hoarsely and I felt her in my ass. “Yes,” I said and now my own big fat tears rolled down my face. I buried my hot, shameful face in her blanket and brought my fists to my chin. I pounded my ass against her as much as she slammed into me. “Harder,” I spat through my teeth, “Harder. Harder. Harder.”
I wanted her to hurt me until I couldn’t feel anymore. None of the pleasure was there. Nothing left of the way it feels when you’re in love or think you’re in love or at least aren’t in that category of ex, lost, already used. That’s how I felt. Already used. The empty wrapper of something that tasted good a long time ago. I was crying. She was yelling. No words, but something animal. Something hurt.
This is what I needed. This last fuck where everything felt desperate and wrong. The one that would remind me not to do it again. This is what I wanted. I don’t know about her. I didn’t care.
She fucked me hard in the ass for a long time. I finally reached down between my legs and jerked my aching clit off for an orgasm that hurt like a pulled muscle, a deep cramp. I doubled over on my side and held my knees to my chest. I felt the snot dripping on my upper lip. I didn’t care. She was on her back in front of me. Her chest heaving up and down. I saw her smile. Her wide grin. Her eyes open and darting around. That clean look she gets after she fucks me.
I fucked her too. Her knees thrown up by her shoulders. All of my fingers and nearly my whole hand inside her. I leaned my weight onto her shins. She held her knees. I fucked her hard and fast. Nothing mattered but her feeling the ghost of me in her cunt after I left. The raw places on her skin.
She holds her breath just before she comes. The veins bulge in her neck. I watched her. I waited. It was time. She jerked her whole body and nearly knocked me off the bed. I slid off the mattress onto my feet, pulling up my pants. I didn’t say anything as I turned to go. “Wait,” she started to say but the word cut off halfway, “Yeah, nevermind,” she ended.
Walking home, I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag and very suddenly felt more drunk than I thought I was. My stomach pulled back into a tight ball and I knew what was coming. “Just get home,” I said to myself. A mantra I chanted block by block until I turned the key in my door and ran to the toilet to throw up. “Fuck,” I said to myself, my head in my hands, and let the tears cleanse my sweet face. I was okay. I really was. I knew it.
Hi. You read my blog. At least sometimes you do. And right now you are. Thank you.
I’m working on a few things off-blog. I’ve got some exciting ideas and something cool in the works. I’ll tell you about it all as soon as there’s a little more meat on the bone. But in the meantime, you might have noticed that I’m not posting new stories as often as usual.
But… is there something you’d like? I always love it when someone asks me for a particular fantasy. Some really sexy stories came from reader requests, including one of my personal favorites - Gone Daddy Gone.
Go ahead and ask me. I love it when you know what you want.
I want to touch her pussy every day. I want my fingers inside her. I want to sit down next to her and unbuckle my belt and see how quickly she slides to the floor between my knees, her fingers on the buttons of my fly. “Fuck me,” I say.
I want to see her bent over the bed in a short dress with white cotton panties peeking out. “Let me see how wet you are,” I say and push my fingers into the cotton, in between her lips, wetness soaking to the surface. “Let’s get you soaked,” I say and lift the hem of her dress up to her waist, her bottom exposed, before I swing the palm of my hand down onto her ass. I spank her, feeling the soft cotton of her panties.
"Come here," I say.
She asks me, “Where?”
I never answer.
I tug her panties down over her sweet, reddening ass. “Let me do what I want,” I say and she so readily, so sweetly nods her consent. I swat at her flesh. I kiss her curves. I watch. I watch for that arch of the back, for the thrusting hips. That moment. When I see it, I smack her several more times, staring at the red fingerprints that surface, and then I gently pull those sweet, cotton undies back up. “Let’s check,” I say and spread her thighs. I pull the cotton hard between her legs. I run the tip of my nose up and down the length of her pussy. “I want to smell you,” I say and reach my tongue deep into the cotton, between her folds of flesh, tasting her. I suck the cotton into my mouth. I stay like this for awhile.
"I’m going to jerk off on you," I say and stand up, lowering my pants to mid thigh. I rest one arm across her shoulders and let my hips fall against the backs of her thighs. My boots slide out from under me a little. I scramble against her. One hand moves under the elastic waistband of my underwear. I let her feel the back of my hand as it pulls on my clit. I can taste her pussy in my mouth mixed with the light scent of her detergent. I suck on her exposed skin. Her upper arm. Her neck. "Climb up," I say and she adjusts herself so she’s fully on the bed. I climb onto her back, rocking my hips against her. I’m too jacked up to come. I picture my cock inside her.
I pull my wet hand out of my pants and press my knuckles against her panties. I slide them up and down. The cotton is wet. Wetter. I keep pushing against the cotton. Feeling for her hole, hidden beneath. “Let me inside you, baby,” I say, pleading. I want to beg now. I want her to let me. I push these fingers, my cock, against her and let her feel my hips. All my weight leans into these fingers. This stiffening part of me. “Let me, baby,” I say and run a finger against the edge of fabric that’s cutting into her inner thigh, “I want to be inside your sweet, little pussy. Let me in.”
I push and rub. I beg. I plead. I whisper all the things. How much I want her. How good I know I’ll feel inside her. How I’m crazy for her. How I want to come. Want her to come. Want to feel it all.
She doesn’t lift a finger. She doesn’t move. Sweat stings my eyes. I need her. I can’t wait. I grab her wrist and pull it hard down between her legs. “Let me inside you, baby,” I say and finally, slowly, she pulls the cotton aside. I see her sweet hole. I linger, knuckles grazing her slick, swollen lips. Until, with a hand flat and pushing her deeper into the mattress, I jam my fingers into her. “Yes,” I hiss, my arm pumping hard. Nothing sweet. Everything ripe and being plucked. Taken. “Let me take everything,” I spit at her, wild and heartless now.
I roll her over onto her back. “Let me know you like it, baby,” I say and she sucks on one hooked finger and nods. Eyes wide. I pound my fingers inside her over and over. Her panties still held to the side, the elastic cutting into my hand. Tentatively, after what feels like so long a time, her hand crawls down to her clit. I see it, pink and waiting. She looks at me and I nod. We nod at each other. My hair sticks to my forehead. She jerks at her clit and I feel her body stiffen and stretch. Shaking. Shaking. The room trembles with us and her low, animal moan. Her howl. It crawls out of her throat with its belly close to the ground as we come. She comes. For me.
This is how it sometimes is. This is how I like it.
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"Meet me in the girl’s weight room after 6th period," she said.
This was a long time ago. Back when no high school had a proper girl’s weight room. Maybe you’re old enough to remember this fact. Maybe not. But when I was in high school, the girls got shit. My gym teacher installed a soda machine and saved up the quarters to buy us equipment. I hope it’s better now. Jesus.
The girl’s weight room was a large sized closet crammed with a bench and a rack of free weights and a chair squat and a leg press. That was it. No mirror. No window. No nothing.
We’d been paired up in gym class that day for the president’s fitness test. She’d been a senior last year too. She always had this look on her face with a slack jaw and half smile that made us all assume she was high. I’d heard she was, mostly. I’d never really talked to her and we didn’t talk now. We held each other’s ankles for sit ups. We worked the stop watch and watched each other shake as we tried to hold our chin above the bar. We were the only ones to push ourselves. The only ones breaking a sweat. Her name was April. She didn’t look like an April. I told her that. It was at lunch that she came up and told me to meet her. I managed a nod and she was gone. My palms started sweating.
I had a 7th period class. I’d never cut class in my life, but I was going to meet her, no doubt. I walked up to my biology teacher and told her I didn’t feel well. It was that easy. I headed down the hall and walked right by the nurse’s office to the stairwell and down to the gym. Empty. Echoing. All the basketballs lined up in a cage. My gym locker gave off a loud rattle as I grabbed my shorts and t-shirt. I got changed. I thought we were going to work out. Or that’s what I told myself.
She sat on the bench press in her jeans. I looked down at my shorts. “Good,” she said and stood up, motioning for me to get settled. I nodded, mute, and sat down, my knees straddling the end of the bench. My hands hung between my thighs. I looked up at her. I knew what this was, and then again, I didn’t. “Lean back,” she said, “Go ahead.” I leaned back, my elbows guiding me down until I was flat against the bench. I put my hands up on the bar above me. “Yeah,” she said, “That’s not what I want. I want to touch your dick.”
Time stopped. I couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in my head. Her words echoed inside me, “Your dick.” My face was hot. My cunt was heavy, flushed. “My dick,” I thought. I wasn’t confused. I knew what she meant. It’s just that no one had ever seen me that way. Like I saw me. “Yeah,” I said, “Okay.”
I stared at her hand moving towards my shorts. She leaned over me and slid her fingers under the elastic band around my waist and into my underwear. No set up. No pretense. Just her hand suddenly on my clit, rubbing me. I felt dry. Her fingers dragged across me with a jagged pull. I was wet, but she wasn’t interested in my pussy. I felt it, my dick, growing hard between her fingers.
My fingers were still wrapped around the bar above my shoulders. I gripped the cold metal and focused on my breathing. In. Out. “Fuck,” I heard myself say. April smiled at me. “I want to see your pretty little cock,” she said and tugged my shorts down to my knees in one quick movement. She spread my lips and held my clit between her fingers, stroking me. I felt it. Oh god, I felt it. I felt my cock grow between her thumb and forefinger. I felt her eyes on me. Everything changed. My quads tensed. My hips moved. “Stay quiet,” she said and pulled on my clit.
My shirt stuck to me. My chest was sweating. My low back. The bench was biting into my ass as my flesh stuck to it. I was grinding my cunt against her hand. “Look at you,” she said, smiling. I could see a white ball of gum in her teeth. “So sweet,” she said. I felt new. A shiny new girl. Wet and sweating on this bench below her. She was about to make me come. “I’m so hard,” I whispered, wondering if this was the right thing to say. “You are,” she smiled, “so hard, girl. Come for me now.”
I bucked and yelled out once before she clapped a hand over my mouth, looking around. I came. My stomach tightened. My leg muscles stiffened and lifted my ass up off the bench. My arms straightened and I lifted the bar a little before realizing what I was doing and set it back down. My hands fell off to the sides. My knuckles hit the floor.
"Next time, I’ll suck you off," she said and got up, wiping her fingers on a small towel that she threw into the laundry bag hanging on a hook by the door. It took me a few minutes after she left before I pulled my shorts up.
I wondered who did this to her? That was the first thing I thought as I stood up on shaky legs and made my way back to the locker room to change. I put my fingers to my lips, “April,” I whispered, feeling the shape of her name on my mouth.
Everything and nothing felt epic when I was in high school. It’s only years later, telling this story, that it catches in my chest. The first girl who reached into my pants and touch my dick. The first girl to jack me off.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been presented with the argument that fighting assimilation takes attention away from the ‘real’ battle, which is fighting anti-gay violence. This false dichotomy hides the fact that assimilation is violence, not just the violence of cultural erasure, but the violence of stepping on anyone more vulnerable than you in order to get ahead. Gay landlords evict people with AIDS to increase property values; gay bar owners arrest homeless queers so they don’t get in the way of business; and gay political consultants ensure the election of pro-development, anti-poor candidates who ensure that the ruling class not only remains in power but systematically sucks the poor dry.”—Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore (via projectqueer)
I don’t have time for the backseat. It’s now or never. I’m hunched over her, my tongue deep in her mouth. My hand slides up between her thighs and under her dress. No panties. She took them off earlier when we were on the highway. She gripped my thigh. Teased me with the tip of her finger. Spread her legs wide for me. Slowly. Drawing my eye. Waited until I was looking. Pulled her dress up high so I could see her shiny, caramel colored panties. She eased them down over her knees, lifting one leg and then the other. Taking them off over her heels.
My cheeks were red. I could tell from the look she gave me even if I hadn’t felt the hot blood creep up inside me. She gets me going. She gets me hard and fast. Fully flushed. I’m on fire the moment she wants it. We are driving to a friend’s party. Already late. And now her panties are sitting in my lap and her fingers are curled and jittery, in need of something to tug at, pull on. She’s so used to shoving her dirty little hand between her legs anytime she wants to get off. When she chooses to wait, like now, I see her shake with the need to feel something.
"Let me taste you," I mouth, the sound barely escapes my lips. My throat is dry, cracking. I hadn’t swallowed since the moment she spread her knees, "Let me taste you." She makes a show of it. Her hands move slowly between her thighs. She pulls her legs apart for me. Her fingers thread through her hair before teasing apart the lips of her pussy. My tongue rests on my lower front teeth. I want to breathe her in. She’s so damn slow about it. Her finger runs lightly along her slit, up and down, until her pussy eases open and I see the shine from her slick hole. She teases herself until her finger is sweetly wet and then slides it onto my waiting tongue.
I take the next exit and turn onto the first residential looking street. I turn left then right, winding my way deeper into the heart of wherever we are. Nowhere. Happy little homes. Front porches. Mallow. Sloppily trimmed lawns. Broken sidewalks. There are no mailboxes. I notice this and picture the mail carriers walking each little front walk to the door. This is where I want to fuck her. Here in this sweet little place. Find the shadow of a big shade tree. Side street. The sun’s gone down. There’s little moonlight. Let’s be lost and dark in this sweet place. I roll the car to the curb, cut the engine, pull the brake.
We’re back where we started now. You and I. In the telling. I wanted you to know how we got here. How sometimes we are doing one thing and there’s a flicker, a look, and then there is no stopping. How I love to fuck her. Unstoppable desire.
I’m hunched over her, my tongue deep in her mouth. I’ve just heard the loud snap of my seat belt as I unhook it. It flies across my shoulder and hits the door. My hand reaches deep under her dress, between her thighs. She opens for me. Opens her thighs. Invites me. Her fingers dig into me everywhere. She grabs at me. Clawing. There’s no time for the backseat. I’m on top of her. My arm reaches down low and moves her seat back as far as I can. She tilts it back. I shift and push my fingers between her legs. Feeling for her pussy. “Get in me, Daddy,” she says and I grab her jaw, twisting her face so she’s looking out the window. My fingers fly out from between her legs to my shirt buttons.
I hold her jaw tight and suck on her neck while my fingers slowly crawl from button to button on my shirt. I need it hanging open. I need the energy of it. I need her to stare at the yellowed ribs of my too old tank top. I need her to hear the scraping of the button on my pants as I push it through the button hole. I need to watch her face twitch as she hears my pants unzip. I loosen my grip on her jaw, just a little, and turn her again to face me. “You want me inside you?” I ask her. Quiet. My voice is raspy. Rubbed raw by this urgency I’m trying to contain in a slow heat. She looks at me and nods, not saying a word.
I let her feel my fingers against her thighs. I drag them across her skin. We stick together now. Her thighs are damp. My fingers feel swollen. I stick my tongue in her mouth as my fingers push deep inside her pussy. I bend my wrist and hold my hand against my cunt, using my hips to help me push my fingers deep and deeper into her. Letting my weight fall against her. Impossibly cramped. My legs are buckled up behind me, between her feet on the floor. The back of my head hits the top of the car. My body is twisted and uncomfortable, but nothing else matters. Just my fingers inside her. Just her breathing. The shine on her open lips.
I freeze for a few seconds when a pair of headlights suddenly beam into the car, but no one’s looking. No one looks. It’s a quiet night. A sleepy neighborhood. Perfect for a quick fuck. “Jerk off while I’m inside you,” I tell her. I press my forehead against hers. Her hair is wet against my sweating face. I can feel my shirt grow damp under my arms and down my back. Her pussy holds me. My fingers push in and out of her and she holds me. She pulses. I feel how she tightens and look down between us to watch her fingers pull at her clit. I feel her orgasm build inside her. “I love being inside you,” I whisper, “I love your pussy.” She’s getting loud. Moaning. I look around us. The car shakes. “Come for me, baby,” I tell her. My voice is serious. I mean it. She twists her fingers and I feel her rhythm as I push my fingers in, leaving them deep. Moving inside her. I’m in her. I need her. I kiss her cheek and hold her close to me. “I’m in you, baby,” I tell her, “I’m here.”
When she comes, she shakes against me with tiny, sputtering spasms. I hold her tight. We kiss. I move my fingers slower and slower inside her until I’m still and pull out. “We’re late,” I say, moving back to the driver’s seat. “You’re clothes are wrinkled,” she answers, “Let me fix you up.” I stare at her. My arms hang loose beside me. I watch her button each button, tuck my shirt, zip my fly, button my pants.
I wipe my fingers off on my handkerchief and start the car. “You’re sitting on my panties,” she laughs. I look at her, “You don’t need them, do you?” She doesn’t answer but tugs her dress a little lower. I unwind us out of these little streets, flipping on the head lights after realizing I’d driven us a few blocks without them. As we got back onto the highway and headed towards our friend’s house, I looked over at her, smiling, “Get in me, Daddy,” I said. She looked at me sweetly, smiling, “You liked that?” I nodded. I liked that. I did.
“When we define ourselves, when I define myself in which I am like you and the place in which I am not like you, I’m not excluding you from the joining— I”m broadening the joining.”—Audre Lorde (via butchbyproduct)
“So this is a call for each of you to remember herself and himself, to reach for new definitions of that self, and to live intensely. To not settle for the safety of pretended sameness and the false security that sameness seems to offer. To feel the consequences of who you wish to be, lest you bring nothing of lasting worth because you have withheld some piece of the essential, which is you.”—
Audre Lorde, “Difference and Survival: An Address at Hunter College” Undated address printed for the first time from the Audre Lorde Paper at Spelman College, in I am Your Sister: Collected and Unpublished Writings of Audre Lorde
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And then there she was on the floor in front of me. Her ass slightly lifted. Her hands covering her face. I had walked in the room and a sudden need to fuck her rushed through me. “Get on the floor,” was all I said.
I dropped to my knees. My hand pushing between her thigh and belly. Holding her. I lifted her dress up over her ass. I pet her bottom. I grabbed at her panties. Something ripped. A small tear in the elastic. I left her dress on but pulled the shoulders down to her elbows. Trapped. First one breast and then the other. In my mouth. My fingers slid through the spit on her nipples. Rubbed the slick saliva until it disappeared. Her nipples blushed a darker red, then nearly purple. Her quick breath. Oh god, is she shaking?
I needed her shoulders against the rough carpet. I kept her down on the floor, sometimes pulling her a few inches in one direction or another so it would burn. I wanted to see red marks on her skin. I wanted the heat of it.
I stared. Her dress pulled off her shoulders. The skirt lifted to expose her pussy. Panties pulled down but left to loosely shackle her left ankle. I stroked her pussy and slapped at her tits. Slapping lightly. Starting soft. I needed her to feel me. “Do you feel me?” I asked, “I need you to feel me.”
My fingers pushed inside her now. I held myself deep inside her. I pulsed deep within her. “Roll her over,” I told myself. I rocked her hip. I pushed her into the carpet and slowly rocked her on to her side. Her legs curled around me. Her ass exposed. Smacking. Redness. My tongue on her heated flesh. More fingers. Pinching. Slapping. The sting of it. Her upper thighs.
My god. How wet she became. I feel the slick warmth even now. So wet. I felt my spit pool on my tongue, useless. She was ready to be fucked. Twice. I fucked her twice. Once on her side like this. Her ass glowing red from my hand. The other on her back. Her legs spread wide.
It was this. Her legs opened in front of me. It was this that made me grab my belt. I needed to rub my own cunt. Pull on it like a hardening cock. Long, slow strokes. I kept one hand on her pussy and one in my pants. She stared, slack jawed, at my disappearing wrist. Stared at my pumping forearm. I felt her eyes on my chest. I stopped to pull my shirt over my head and tossed it aside. “Watch me,” I said, “look what you do to me.”
I stroked the both of us. One hand easy and soft on her pussy. The other rubbing my clit furious and fast. I watched her body convulse with her orgasm. Strong. The intensity visible in waves. I was barely hard. Turned on, but miles away from coming. I needed her ass against me. “Roll over on your belly,” I said. And she rolled over, waving her ass back and forth. I like to watch her move. Calling me.
I pulled her hips back against my cunt, making sure she could feel my hand moving under my jeans. I pulled her into me over and over. I opened up. Stiffened. My arm moving fast and hard. Circling. Pulling. I felt my muscles burn. Too fast. Too hard. I can’t come like this. I knew it. I needed to slow down.
I got up and grunted at her. Moved my desk chair around to face her. “I want to sit down,” I told her, “I want you on your knees in front of me.” I needed her to watch me. I pulled my jeans down to my ankles. I grabbed a fistful of her hair and held her against my thigh, her mouth an inch away from my clit. I wanted her to smell me, nearly taste me. I shifted my hips forward, let my knees drop wide. I jerked off with her so close I could feel her breath. I jerked off watching her open her mouth and push her tongue towards me. I looked at her knees underneath her on the floor. I looked at her shoulders. Her wrinkled dress. Her eyes staring up at me.
I shoved her face between my legs. She sucked me off for a few minutes before I pulled her off of me and made her watch again. “I can see how much you want to suck me,” I said. “I like how much you want it. So dirty,” I laughed. I pictured her name inked in the crevices of my fingers. I pictured her holding my zipper open. I pictured her sucking. Her mouth wrapped around me.
"Crawl up here on my lap," I asked. She climbed me. Towered above me. Her weight on my hips. My arm ran between her thighs. My hand on my own cunt. Pulling. Not close enough to coming. Frustrated. "Give me your fingers," she said and took two, then three of my fingers in her mouth. I stared at the dark hollow behind her lips. I felt her desire. The way she sucked me in. Deep. Knowing. I pictured her sucking on other women. Their fingers. Their cocks. Their clits. Some guy’s prick, deep in her throat. I pictured them all and stared. Loving her. Knowing who I was and what I want. I came so hard, almost knocking her to the floor. She pulled her mouth off my fingers and leaned over to kiss me so deep. So slow. Sucking the breath out of me.
I was high after we fucked. Stumbling. This is intoxication. The dizzy hit.
A few hours later, I closed my eyes and nearly came again remembering my feet on the floor and her cheek against my thigh. My grip in her hair. How I pulled her face against me and held her fast. “Right here, baby. I want you to watch. I want you to see how much I want you.”
It was a month before I graduated college and I hadn’t found a job in the city like I wanted. I’d do anything, I told myself. I was an art major. I hadn’t been a waitress or a bartender. There was no work for me. I’d tried for every single entry level job I could find in St. Louis. Every one. Nothing had hit. Nothing that paid enough for me to live on. I knew I had to go home and save up enough money to come back. I had a job back home. I had work. My granddad owned a lumber yard. My dad worked there. My brother had worked summers but I’d never done it. Dad never wanted me to, but now he’d let me. I needed the work. He’d provide.
My brother always worked in the yard. Loading and unloading lumber. Delivering to job sites. Manual labor. I remember him coming home at the end of the day with his t-shirt thinner on the shoulders from the wood rubbing the cotton away to nothing. I’d worn those tossed out shirts under sweaters and to sleep in. Thin cotton. Holes where his bony shoulders met the two-by-fours. Sweat stained and faded from the hot sun that beat down on that yard all day long every summer. You couldn’t see the images on the front anymore. A yellowing green t-shirt with a faded outline of The Allman Brothers Band. A stretched out, blotched red shirt with Rick’s Cafe Americain barely discernible in chipped paint across the chest. There were six of them. One for each day of the week the place was open. One summer he’d wear them and then they were dead. Mine.
I knew my brother smoked those summers. My parents knew too but never caught him. All the boys in the yard smoked; the “boys” being men. Most of them had started working there as boys but were now easily in their thirties, some of them looked as old as fifty. Gaunt men with rubbed out faces. Deep set eyes as if their faces had adapted to the harsh sun they faced every day. Shoulder blades that stuck out like fins under their t-shirts. Wiry arms looking like braided rope. They smoked generic menthol. Cheap and cooling.
I wanted to work the yard. I wanted to get all muscled and wiry. Deeply tanned. I wanted my t-shirts rubbed raw, nearly threadbare on my chest and shoulders. I wanted to smoke with the boys. Drive the old truck. Drip sweat all day long and suck on those shitty menthols until my lungs burned. But Dad put me in the office. The office. As if there was an office. There was a room with a stained, avocado green percolator and a ready box of donuts. A room with wadded up bbq sandwich wrappers scattered everywhere. It smelled like the worst combination of sweet bbq sauce, sour slaw, melted sugar and burnt coffee in that room. Always. That’s where I worked.
The yard boys coolly ignored me. The customers stared. I looked like a freak here with my shaved head. My tiny frame, always held tight by a button down shirt two sizes too small, squeezing my shoulders and arms. I wore dark, oily looking denim jeans slung low to make my hips look more squared. The jeans hung just on the curve of my ass, the one part of me that curved naturally in a way I never tried to hide. But everything else, I had always hidden. I had never fit in. I grew up here, but never belonged. This wasn’t my place. I never even bothered to learn the street names of my own hometown. I always knew I was leaving. Always. I was still leaving. I just had to save enough money to get out.
Randy came in for something every week. I knew him as the older brother of a high school friend. He inherited a small farm from his family and a broken down house. He fixed it up when he could. I’d seen the house. My senior year in high school there were parties out on that farm. Randy let us haul kegs out and would wander around making sure no one got too drunk or too rowdy. He’d make kids stay until they were sober enough to drive. I heard he had a high school buddy die on the blacktop. Passenger in car with a drunk driver. It seemed to happen every year. Every graduating class had that one memorial page in the yearbook. It shook everybody up, but never enough, I guess.
I’d nod at Randy from behind my ledger. The first day he squinted at me, not placing my face. I looked pretty different from back when he would have seen me in high school. The next day he grinned at me and made me smile wide, caught off guard. “Hi,” I mouthed. He laughed and paid for a tub of spackle and chicken wire, shaking his head. He was a good guy.
He had changed a lot too. Back when I knew him, he was scrawny, just a few years out of high school. Now he had a belly. A fuzzy beard. His hair was cropped short but thick as a pelt. He almost always had on overalls with his work boots and a t-shirt. His arms had thickened. His whole body took on a weight that hadn’t seemed likely a few years ago. We had both changed about as far as we could.
One week he came in and offered me some weekend work. He could see how bored I was, sitting at that desk doing nothing every day. I worked Saturdays until Noon but I could pick up work at his place for the afternoon and on Sunday. We agreed. I’d drive out that Saturday and he’d show me what needed doing. There was a lot. The farmhouse was up on the hill off the gravel road. A pretty little boxy house, two stories. The whole upstairs was basically gutted to the studs. Broken slats that had once held plaster barely covered the studs. “I’ve been finishing downstairs, but I’m thinking you could do the prep work up here to get it ready for me,” he said. I’d forgotten about his lisp. I smiled hearing it. He looked like such a big, burly guy now but he still sounded like a faggot. I don’t mean that as an insult. I loved it. It warmed me to hear the slight lilt in his voice. Soft. I loved the juxtaposition of it. I’m turned on by queerness itself. I always have been. And he seemed so queer to me now. Something I hadn’t noticed when I was in high school. I guess I didn’t know how to see it then.
I tried to ignore the swelling in my pants as he pointed out the work he needed me to do. I’m a dyke, I was thinking. This is fucked up. I told myself I was just hard up for a good fuck. I’ve only ever been attracted to soft girls, sweet smiles, that teasing blush. Here was a rounded, hairy man with gnarled looking fingers. I could smell the sour tang of his sweat. The cigarettes on his breath. He got down on one knee, showing me the baseboard that needed removing and I stared down at his broad shoulders, his bulging forearms. I felt a little weak. I pressed my confusion and lust down hard and worked even harder.
I put my back into the work at Randy’s house. After that first weekend, I got permission to leave work around 3 every day and headed over there to keep going. He couldn’t pay me for more than the weekends and even that was more of a token payment, but I didn’t care. I loved the manual labor, the aching muscles, the satisfaction. I just wanted to be around him. I would hear him come inside downstairs and listen for the sound of sanding, the smell of paint. We didn’t see each other much. We didn’t ever talk. But I listened to him work. I strained to hear him moving from room to room.
I knew there was something making me jittery, but I wasn’t sure what it really meant until one day when I heard his heavy frame hit the floor and I went running down to see what had happened. By the time I got to him, he was laughing, paint at his feet in a mess on the floor. He’d stepped in the pan and his legs slid out from under him. I laughed just to picture it. A vaudeville routine. The big guy in his overalls flying up into the air and landing on his ass. He pushed himself back against the wall, rubbed his ass, and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. He lit one and took one deep inhale, then looked at me, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth and turning it towards me. I grabbed it and everything went into slow motion. I caressed the wet filter, indented from his mouth, between my thumb and finger. I tongued the tip of it that rested against my teeth before deeply inhaling. I held his smoke in my lungs until I felt the nicotine rush through me. “It’s been a long time,” I sighed, exhaling. He laughed a little, but looked at me serious with his head tilted down, eyes up. “Like a bull,” I thought, sucking the cigarette one more time before leaning forward to slip it between his fingers.
I brushed his rough hand deliberately. Staring hard into his chest. He wasn’t wearing a t-shirt and one nipple was peeking out from behind the bib of his overalls. My mouth opened, wanting to suck it, and I blushed. He lit up two more cigarettes, handing me my own this time. We smoked them silently, staring at the floor. I was crouched, my ankles starting to ache, frozen in a pose for fear of reaching my arm out to stroke his thigh if I dared move. I felt my cunt, heavy between my legs. I wondered if he felt this too. If his dick was getting hard. I tilted my head so my chin was nearly touching my chest, hiding my mouth from him, and mouthed the word, “dick,” to myself. I wanted to suck him off. I finished my cigarette and got up to leave without offering to help him clean up the paint mess. I grabbed my things and went home without another word.
After only a few weeks, I was done prepping the upstair and we started working side by side. I had more passion to complete the work than he did. Sometimes he’d step into the middle of the room and smoke a cigarette while I worked. I’d shape my back for him. Arching it into a curve of muscle and bone. I’d push my ass up over the heels of my boots, higher than necessary, and reach one arm long up the wall. I wanted him to see me as his boy. I wanted him to come over and grab me. Pick me up and carry me into the hallway already nibbling on my neck and chin. I made my body move in pretty shapes for him. Taught and filled with desire. Filled so he’d see.
I had hoped we would finish his house that summer, but we’d only just moved upstairs. I knew we couldn’t even finish another full room before I would want to move on, get back to the city. I enjoyed this time and the work and Randy, but it wasn’t my life. I knew that. I needed to tell him that I only had a few more weeks. I worked one more week and then the next Saturday, when I drove over, I brought a case of beer. The work was fast that day, we were dry walling a small bedroom. We finished the walls and the taping and I called it quits. “Let’s crack open the beers,” I suggested and Randy nodded, clomping down the stairs to get them. He came back with two beers in one hand and steadied himself against the doorframe. “You’re leaving, ain’t you?” he said. I nodded. “I kind of liked this,” he said, and handed me a beer. “Yeah,” I said, taking a long pull off the bottle.
We sat in the middle of the floor not saying anything else. He went down for more beers and brought them up in a cooler this time. I bummed a cigarette off of him and hated the taste of it in my mouth for some reason. Acrid and too hot on my tongue. I washed it down with more beer. Already feeling dizzy. Knowing that my legs wouldn’t let me stand as well as I’d need to. The sun was going down and the room was a golden amber with the shadow of the big poplar tree in his yard spreading across the walls. When I reached for another beer, he grabbed me and pulled me down to the floor in a head lock. Neither of us laughed. We both knew what this was and it wasn’t a game.
I wrestled him with all my strength but even if I hadn’t been drinking, it was absurd. He flipped me around and I twisted my torso to get a hold of him. We were both heaving, hot with sweat, desperate, gripping each other. He was thick. I liked the feel of him in my fingers. His arms were covered in small, wiry hairs, but his beard was softer than I’d expected. He pinned me on my back and breathed heavily over me. He was looking at me but I felt him looking beyond me. I was someone else. It felt right to me. I did feel like someone else. Something else. His boy. He was staring down at me. Serious. Blinking. I smiled up at him and in a flash, grabbed his cock. He roared in my face. Pleasure. Acceptance. This was his, ‘yes.’ I rubbed hard against his cock, feeling it move under his clothes.
"You want something to suck on, boy?" he asked me. I nodded. I scrambled with my fingers at the straps on his overalls. I nuzzled him with my nose and lips, finding his nipples through the soft cotton. I sucked on his tits through the t shirt. "Suck it like you want something," he growled at me and I felt my head spin. I moved my hand off his cock and ran my fingers under his shirt. His belly felt swollen. My fingers pulled at the coarse hairs on his chest. I pulled on his tiny, hard nipples and he arched his back for me. Mine. I pushed him over onto his back and climbed on top. I sat up, keeping a grip on his chest and rubbed my ass against his bulge. Leaning over him and sucking hard on his nipples, I pressed myself down hard against him. I wanted to please him.
I pulled at his overalls, tugging them down. He pulled himself out from under me and scrambled over to the wall, leaning back against it and beckoning me. He reached one thick hand between his legs and pulled on his cock. It was darker, redder than the rest of him. His stark white belly and now his exposed thighs pale behind his growing shaft. I stared at him with an open mouth and gave him my hand. He wrapped my fingers around his cock and helped me pump it. My mouth went back to his nipples. My teeth, sucking, I felt his hair scratch my lips and chin. I’m not sure who I was in this moment. Not me. Someone else. Something else. His boy. My own boy. A dream. I felt my cock stir. I felt my pants tighten around it. I felt like I could reach down and grab it, but my hand was on him.
"Get on it, boy," he said and spat into his hand, slicking up his cock with his spit. I spat again and again and rubbed his cock hard, lathering it up. I bent over him and closed my mouth on his hard-on. His hand rested on the back of my head and I heard him moan with pleasure. He sounded so sweet. I choked on his cock for a minute, then adjusted myself and sucked him hard into my mouth. My hands pulled at his ass, trying to get underneath him. He shifted his weight for me. I turned my head to spit on my fingers and then felt for his ass as my mouth went back to working his cock. He tasted salty. His cock, thick in my mouth. I was in a strange dream. My boyhood. My faggot days. I saw myself a faggy schoolboy, and an even deeper rush of desire coarsed through me, making me shiver. I sucked him like this with one finger pulsing in his ass until we needed more.
I scrambled at my work pants, letting them fall to the floor and turned my ass to him, looking back. I wanted to watch him tug my underwear down. He stared at my round bottom. His eyes looked glazed. We were both so confused. Horny. Drunk. Not giving a fuck. Wanting everything and knowing what it was. And wasn’t. He spread my ass in his fingers and spat on my asshole, touching it lightly with his thumb. Pressing against my hole. “On it,” he said, “Come on, boy.” I stared back at him, lowering my ass. “Ride it like you mean to,” he whispered at me. I heard his voice shake.
I backed my ass onto his cock. He eased himself inside me. I was facing away from him, staring at the crumpled overalls bunched at his calves. Staring at his boots. Staring at the walls we made. Smelling the sawdust and the dry wall and the dirty fields outside. Smelling the stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer. Smelling his sweat. Smelling his spit. Mine. Sex. He held my hips firm but lightly in his hands. “That’s right,” he said with his voice in his throat. His beautiful faggot voice, deep and soft all at once. I wanted to be watching his face. I wanted my fingers in his hair. But this was right. He could watch my flat back, my shoulder blades, my ass and forget who I was right now. He ran one hand over and around my shaved head. My tiny, cropped hairs bristled under his fingers. I pumped my ass up and down on his cock, waiting to feel him come inside me. I wanted him filling me. Dripping out of me. Dirty down my leg as I pulled my underwear and pants back up. I wanted to feel all of it. Just this once. I wanted to be the little faggot for him. For me. For us both.
BD, It's my birthday today. I'm finally 18. I was hopping you could tell me the best way to spend my big day :)
I might be a day late, but Happy Birthday!
My birthdays are always about gathering people around me who make me feel loved and doing what makes me happy. Some years that means I’m at a bar with a group of fabulously dirty friends. Sometimes I’m in a cabin in the woods with a banjo and one or two people. It doesn’t matter what. It’s who and how you feel, right?
I remember 18. Not the actual birthday, but 18, yeah. If you’re anything like me, you’ve got a hell of a journey ahead to find out who you are and what you want. And if I could tell my 18 year old self something, I’d shake her hard and tell her to never settle on either account. Be who you know you are deep down inside. And get out there to figure what you want. There’s no rush to be done and settled.
And, if you’re like me, it might take a long, long time. But it’s worth it. I swear.
I met her on a Wednesday. We kissed that night. I didn’t hesitate. I kissed her the way I wanted to kiss her. I wanted her to know that I was turned on. That I wanted to fuck her. That I might decide to follow her home. She kissed me back the same. Her hands ran up and down my back, under my open jacket. We held each other like lovers.
The next time I saw her, we fucked. All night. We fucked hard those first several weeks. There was a lot to get out. It felt like catching up. It felt like a race we were both running together. Keep moving. Harder. She was covered in bruises. I was sore between my legs. My nipples raw against soft cotton tank tops. Hours of talking. Hours of fucking. Amazement. Eating. Drinking. Smoking. Fucking. A rubbed red rash on my knee from her floorboards. Stiff muscles. Marks under my clothes. Exhaustion.
This isn’t any kind of revelation in story telling. This is the same story, repeated and repeated. But this one is mine. Hers and mine.
She would hold my head in her hands. Unconsciously lifting and lightly tapping my cheekbones. Her eyes filled with such sweetness. “I can’t believe I found you,” she would say. And I’d nod. My fingers still inside her, slicked and moving. We’d shake our heads at each other. Disbelief. I would smile at her and say, “Yes,” before pushing my fingers deep inside her. Deeper. Picking up the pace. Fucking her again. My fingers curved over her mouth like a cage. “Shut up,” I’d whisper but she wouldn’t hear me. It didn’t matter. She knew.
When I feel my luck so deep, when I realize what she means to me, I’m filled with an angry need to fuck. I like to look back over my shoulder and watch my elbow jerk up behind me. Thrusting hard into her again and again. Over and over. “I love fucking you, baby,” I snarl between clenched teeth. I slam my fingers into her, spitting my words into her ear with each thrust: “I fucking love you, baby. Look what you do to me. You see it, don’t you?” Hissing, “God damn,” and her name.
Her name. The girl in the story. What’s her name? I don’t like to say. I don’t want you to be distracted. Names distract me when I read. When I’m getting off on porn. I want to know the story. I want to know details. But I need to fill in the blanks for myself. I need room to wander. But I love to say her name. I love to say her name to her. For her to hear me say her name. Think of that girl you love. That girl you want. Say her name. Say it into the pillow if you have to. Say it into your shoulder. But say her name out loud. Feel it on your tongue and in your mouth. Feel your breath wrap around it. Get used to her name. Whisper it to her when you can.
I don’t ever want to get bored.That’s true about life in general, but I mean sexually. I can’t stay in one mood for long. We moved from pounding, bruising, tossed around fucking to slow, wet, crazy romantic sex. In between, I wanted her to hold me down. I’d lie on my belly with my ass in the air. She tugged her fingers hard on my little boy cock, my clit. I cried and bit the edge of the mattress while she spanked me with quick, bright slaps.
Now, again, I want to hold her down. I want her limbs restricted. Feet bound at the ankles. Wrists secured under her chin. I want to push her chest down with both palms and feel her struggle beneath me. A strap cinched just above her knees. I want to struggle to push my fingers between her thighs. To feel her.
"Roll over on to your side," I am quiet as I say it, issuing instructions. I lift her back and her ass, helping her shift. I walk around to the foot of the bed. Her feet lay stacked. Her ankles wrapped up tight. I nibble on her toes as I push her feet slowly, bending her knees. I want her knees up high. I want to look at her pussy between her thighs. I crawl onto the bed behind her. My knees sit behind her ass. My thighs spread open. I lean back on my feet. I push my hands hard against her hip and slowly drag one hand up her side, one down her thigh, until I am bowed down low over her body. Fingers in her hair. A hand cupped under her calf. I push against her. Rocking her back and forth. Grinding. I lift myself up to position my cunt against her hip. Slowly nudging her as I rub myself against her. Can you see her? Can you see us? She’s curved like a cropped letter h in front of me. Like a sideways chair. I’m curved over her. My rounded back. My ass loose in my jeans. Pumping. I want you to see us.
This is what she likes, she tells me. Whatever I want. What I want is to wrap my arms around her and pull her harder against me. This is when I sweat. I inch my thumb up the back of her thigh until I reach her pussy. Open. I fuck her deeply with my thumb. Rocking her body. Still nudging her with my cunt. I don’t want her to come. Not now. I fuck her. Pull her to me. I pet her body. I pull out of her and spank her ass and thighs. Just a little. Just to see a spark of color. Just to watch her pull her knees up a little higher.
My face is hot now. My hair is starting to get wet. I feel my clit twitch. I can tell how wet I am. She hears my fingers on my belt. She looks at me as I unzip my pants. She nods. “Jerk off against my ass,” she whispers, “I want to feel you come on me.” I reach one arm long and push her head so that she’s staring at the wall. I keep her held down. She makes the most beautiful noise. I want to hear it over and over again. It’s not a whimper. It’s something more powerful than that. It’s bottled up. Explosive. It’s the sound you hear just before someone comes so hard they throw you off of them. Compressed. Undiluted.
My hand slides easily between my legs. So wet. Swollen. Tight. I pull downwards on the shaft of my clit, secure between my fingers. She needs to feel me against her ass. I bump against her. Nudge her like an animal. With each downward pull of my clit, I rock her forward and let her fall backwards again, bumping me. I shove her head when I think of it. Give her another nudge. Remind her that I don’t want her to move or look back at me. I want her to listen to my voice. I tell her everything. I tell her how my cock feels. My clit. This little swelling in my pants. I tell her that my fingers were still wet from her pussy when I grabbed myself. I tell her how I love to see my hand print on her ass. The dull red shapes of my fingers wrap like tendrils over her curves. I tell her that I can smell her pussy. Tell her how I’m going to fuck her again and again and not stop. I tell her I want to lose count as she comes in my hands, my mouth, against my thigh.
I come and come again in my own hand. I jerk her head back and turn it to look at me as I do. I stare at her and feel the spit sliding down my chin. I come with my mouth open. I drool. My lower lip pouts. I throw one leg over her hip and press my cunt against her as I calm down. Still spasming. Feeling my cunt drip and soak my underpants. The cotton useless now, and wet. I tell her.
I do lose count. I do. I fuck her with my thumb, one finger sliding against her clit. I fuck her with my fingers and squeeze her thighs tight together. I suck her off, shaving the edges of my teeth against her clit. Reaching both hands up to pull and squeeze her nipples. I unbind her and ask her to lie face down. I spread her legs wide and pull one arm at a time out beside her. I spread myself on top of her. I hold her wrists and sink into her. Sink down. Slow my breathing to match hers. Rise and fall with her lungs.
I need to come again. She hears me. Lifting my thighs. Tugging my pants down to my knees. She feels my hand move against her ass. “I love it when you come on me,” she says. She’s smiling. Her voice sounds drunk. Thick. “Uh huh,” is all I manage to say and then I’m coming. Fast and hard and slamming against her. I lift myself up and lean one arm across her shoulders to brace myself, pushing her deeper into the bed. I can see her smile. Her lit expression.
We fuck and fuck again until we’re falling asleep. I whisper her name. I taste it.
I can imagine everything except the way we kiss. I close my eyes and remember her hands on me. Her fingers inside me. I feel the weight of her body on top of me. I feel her ass, smooth under the palm of my hand. My tongue moves in my mouth, traveling the folds of her pussy in detail. I feel her. I taste her. But her kiss is lost to me. I cannot remember how her tongue feels in my mouth. I can’t touch the softness of her lips. Our wet kisses. Lost.
One week. Less. Five days.
Five days gone. I am five days gone and then I see her again. She writes to tell me that she isn’t jerking off. She writes to tell me that she tried to jerk off but stopped in frustration. I am jerking off every day, I tell her. I am desperate to touch her, I tell her. I need to bury my face between her legs. I need to press her down with all my weight.
I imagine myself on top of her. My cock tucked inside my briefs. Jeans unbuttoned. My worn, brown belt hanging loose. I imagine lifting her skirt above her hip bones. I feel her wet panties under my fingers. I rub her with my hand while my hips hover just above. I let my knuckles press the cotton of her panties between her wet lips. I crook my index finger and press deeper. I feel her wetness. I feel her hole open up for me. I feel her clit begin to swell. “Oh baby,” I whisper to her like I do, “Oh baby.” I close my eyes and see her underneath me.
I lower my hips so that my palm cradles the still tucked away cock between my legs. My cock presses into my hand which presses against her pussy. I rub my cock and her pussy at the same time. I see her there. The sweat surfacing on her face. I see her flushed red chest. Her eyes widen as she waits for me. “This, baby,” I tell her, “Slow like this.” I can’t imagine kissing her. I can never feel it. So I keep myself raised above her. Slow. My hips moving against her. My hand between my cock and her pussy. Pushing the base of the cock against my clit. Feeling how wet I am now.
I move my hand and let the bulge of my cock push against her panties. My legs lie just inside her thighs. I feel the way she squeezes me. Holds me there. My hand meanders slowly over her curves. Her hips. Her soft, smooth belly. I can feel the way her shirt grazes the back of my hand. My fingers push up under her clothes. I pull her bra down low off her tits. I brush the full length of my hand across her nipples. One, then the other. I know how her body reacts. I can see her head tilt back. Her strong jaw. She glows. She writhes. We are getting hotter. Her belly burns hot against my own. I feel her heat against me when I put my lips on her neck. I grab a fistful of hair and my fingers are immediately wet with her sweat. We are hot. Sweating.
I realize that I’m drenched. I need this. I need her. Now. I rub my own clit so softly as I picture us. I want to come slow and hard. I want my clit as swollen as she gets me. I hold my swell between my thumb and forefinger. I push one finger inside and then drag it up, pulling my own slick wetness with it. I breathe deeply. I bury myself under the blankets. I soak the sheets with my sweat. Hot. Slow. Wet. I miss her like this. I miss her breath in my ear. I miss the burn I feel when I’m with her. When I can touch her and feel her fingers on me. I pull softly on my clit. I rub my swelling shaft. I can feel her. I whisper her name out loud. In my mind, my hand pushes her panties aside, now soaked. She reaches her hand between my legs and frees my cock. I pull myself up, kneeling, and move her hand away as I guide the tip of my cock inside. “Here,” I say, “Here baby.”
I bend over her, propped up on one arm. One hand stays wrapped around the base of my cock. I want to guide it slowly into her pussy. Just the tip. Just barely there. I want to watch her reach for me. I want to see how she shifts to feel my cock move more deeply inside. Her hands pull at her skin. I watch her fingers on her neck. “Yes,” I say as she cups her breasts in her hands, “I want to see you touch yourself.” She looks up at me. Mouth open, eyes wide. A quick nod of her head. She’s so good. “You’re so good,” I whisper. Everything is hot. Logy. Thudding and dull. My clit so swollen. I want to feel her need. I pull my cock out and push two fingers inside her. Hooked and pulling. I feel the way she grips me tighter. I feel her need to keep me there. I feel it and I want to make her come. Now. Right now.
My cock slips back inside her. I push a little deeper, still gripping my cock. Moving sluggishly. Lazy in love. My thick tongue. Spicy. Liquored. We are wet. Our skin, a shade darker. Fucking through a thickness. Ropey muscles. “I want you to touch yourself, baby,” I tell her, “I want to watch you come.” I say this and open my mouth. I reach my tongue so long that the root of it aches. She slips her fingers into my mouth and my spit pools around them. Wet and dripping, she reaches her hand down between her legs. My eyes follow. “Touch yourself,” I say again but she is already rubbing her clit. I follow her rhythm with my cock. Up and down. In and out. I adjust and push so that my cock presses upwards inside her. “Come,” I beg her. I feel her staring at my face. I am staring at her fingers. At my cock inside her. At our bellies, so shiny and close. Sweat drips down my thighs. Sweat drips inside the crook of my arm. “Come,” I whisper with tears welling up in my eyes.
I feel my own clit in my fingers again. I feel it swollen beyond belief. I come and clench my stomach. I double over. My mouth opens wide. Gasping. Silent.
I roll on top of her and squeeze her with my thighs. I pin her arms to her side. I rub my cunt against her. I run my tongue across her mouth. She opens to me. She whispers, “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything you ask.”
I am salivating, drooling over my lower lip. She lifts her mouth to mine and sucks my spit. Keeping her arms pinned with my elbows, I push my fingers into her hair. I pet and pull at her tangles, her ears. I hold her head tight between my palms. I kiss her. I turn her head and lick behind her ear. I bite at the cartilage. I start to wildly hump her. My hips jerk forward. My back sways in a deep curve as I lift, arches as I thrust against her. Fast and faster. I’m panting. My heart pounds. “Show me what you want,” she says. I can’t reply. I can’t speak. My fingers dig into the base of her skull. I hold her down.
I need to feel her tits. I lift my chest high enough to run my hands across her chest, down her sides, under her ass. I watch the veins bulge across the backs of my hands. I am filled with a raging need. Desire. Want. Impatience. The friction of my cunt in my jeans, rubbing hard against her. Bones. I’m exploding. Not coming. A brittle explosion. A mixture of my panting breath and grief and love and sleepy desire. I feel a clock ticking inside me. A countdown. Grab everything you want. Right now. Love her with all your might. Every goddamn second. Mark this down. Permanent.
I stop. Heaving chest. Loud breathing. I roll off of her, onto my back. She lays her ear against my breastbone. I ask her to slide my jeans down. I touch her lips with the tips of my fingers. “Your mouth,” I tell her, “This mouth.” She smiles at me. “Now?” she asks. I nod.
She sucks my clit and pumps it in and out of her lips. She strokes me with her tongue. I pull my shoulders up off the mattress, holding my head with one hand. This makes me feel butch. And absurd. She calls me her heartthrob. She calls me baby. She calls me handsome. She calls me her girl. Sometimes we wrestle and bruise each other. Today we are too tender. Too soft and warm.
Thank you. You're writing is the one thing that holds me in deep enough. Without reading this my mind starts flashbacks when I play, but when I read your words my concentration is unbreakable, I can actually enjoy myself, finally, and it's healing.
Your words mean so much to me. Thank you. I think we are all learning and healing, all the time. Isn’t it wonderful?
I have become a woman who cries. When we fuck, I cry. When I wake up and feel her pressed against me, I cry. When I try to tell someone what she means to me, I cry. I’m so filled with these emotions that I can’t contain them. I was never like this. This has never been true. I cry now.
When we fuck, I like to stare into her eyes. She stares at my mouth. I whisper to her. Soundless. She nods her head. I mouth simple words, “This. Yes. Right here. Now. Yours.” I love her.
I hold her all the time. Suddenly. We walk down the sidewalk and I stop to hold her tight against me. At the gas station. Waiting in line. I need to feel her. She lays on top of me. Her back pressed against my belly. Her ass sinks into my hips. Her head rests next to mine. We stare at the ceiling.
I wrap my arms around her. I slide my hand under the hem of her dress. I rub against her panties, pulling them tight. She moves. Her body moves. It’s immediate. Fast breathing. Wet panties. A deep sigh. Her hand in her hair. I shove my hand under her bra and squeeze her nipple hard between my fingers. I push my hand under the damp cotton and slide two fingers into her pussy. She grabs my wrist and thrusts me deeper inside her. Her weight on me is everything. “This is what I wanted,” I groan, “This is what I need.” I let my thighs fall open and hold her between them. She’s mine. I tell her this. “You’re mine.”
I love to get her off like this. Lying on top of me. Back to belly. I rub her the way I’d rub my own clit. I feel it intensely. I feel the way it builds inside her. I talk her through it. “Here,” I tell her, “This. Like this.” She turns her face into my cheek. I feel her lips moving against me. She’s telling me something I can’t hear. I don’t need to hear her. This. Like this. I know this.
I hold her so tight. I rub her off with my fingers slow. Intent. I’m talking in her ear. I’m telling her everything. Tears run into my hair, over my temples. I cry for her. I cry for this. “I’m ready for this,” she said to me, “I’m so ready for you.”
It’s the end of the year. Everything feels easy. Everything unfolds in front of us. We turn over one card at a time. I want the slow reveal. Persistence. A lazy river.
I will fuck her again tonight. A cock with just the tip inside her. My chest lifted up above her. Slow. She’ll see my eyes grow wet. She’ll see me. I want to be on that edge with her. Right on the edge. I like to sit up on my knees with my cock held in my hands and move so slowly in and out of her pussy. I pet her thighs. I kiss her belly. I drag my fingers up to her breasts. Tears roll wet and fat down my cheeks. My tongue finds the crease behind her knee. Still slowly moving inside her. The knuckle of my first finger strokes her clit. This. Yes. Now.
My name is BD Swain. I have so many stories to tell you. I can’t fucking wait.
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I love it when you fuck me. I crave your fingers jammed inside me. We wrestle for control. I only win when you let me. I know this. You know I know this. And when you win, my breathing slows. I stare at you. You pin my shoulders down. You look up at me with your mouth sucking on my nipple. I grab a fistful of your hair, holding it out of the way so I can watch your lips curve around me. You grab my cunt through my jeans, pinching me. I wince. I need you to fuck me. I need to be fucked.
You like to talk. You tell me I can’t stop you. And I can’t. I can’t stop you. I won’t stop you. I arch my back off the mattress. I feel my face turn red. I get so hot. Burning. My cunt is still in your grip. I reach down and try to unbuckle my belt but you shove my hands away. You grab my belt and lift me, shake me a little, and drop me back down. You tug my jeans low and the denim scrapes my hip bones. “Fuck me,” I whine. You’ve made me whine. I’m panting. Gulping the air. Desperate to take you in. “Fuck me.” All I hear is your laugh. You taunt me. You throw my desire back in my face. You sneer and twist my nipples in your fingers before you roll me over onto my belly.
I clench my fists, grabbing the sheet. I know. I know this. You reach beneath me and unbuckle my belt. You whip the worn leather strap out of the belt loops and jerk my jeans down, exposing my ass. You wrap the belt back around me and pull it tight just below the curve of my ass. My thighs are smashed together. Everything stings. Quick stinging slaps on my ass. The leather of the belt stings as it cuts into me. You slap, sting, rub. You blow cool air on my hot skin. You tell me I’m so good. You tell me I’m growing so red. You tell me I’m glowing. You tug my jeans down further to expose more flesh. My upper thighs are yours. I’m yours. I tell you this, “I’m yours.” You answer, “Yes.”
I tell myself I won’t cry. I won’t ask you to stop. It’s not the stinging. It’s not the pain. It’s the submission. It’s giving this to you. It’s the letting go. It’s knowing that I love you. Knowing that I’ll let you give me this, take care of me, love me. That’s what breaks me. That’s why I cry when you fuck me. "I won’t cry this time. I won’t," I tell myself. But of course I will. I know that I will. You know that I will. You look for it. I will cry because it overwhelms me how you love me. How I let you love me. How I want it.
I try to get away when you pull the belt between my legs, against my clit. It hurts. The pain is almost too much. The leather feels like it’s cutting me. I can’t get away. You ask me if I want you to stop and the question only makes me angry. “Fuck you,” I yell. “Poor baby,” you coo. I feel the tears well up in my eyes. I spit the words softly into the sheets, “Fuck you.” I go limp. You feel it. Or maybe you see it. Roll me over. Do what you want.
What you want is to wake me up again. Your fingers shoot into my cunt and I double over, grabbing for your head. You move away from me quickly and shove me back against the mattress. You fuck me so hard it’s beyond pleasure. This is pain. It hurts. I’m fighting it. I grit my teeth. I’m yelling. You don’t relent. Pounding into me over and over again. Repeating the words you last said, “Poor baby.” Again, harder, you don’t let up. “My poor, poor baby. Don’t you want it? Yeah. I see you, baby. I see what you want.”
My whole body resists until the moment your spit hits my clit. I feel it drip. Then your finger or your thumb. Everything, everything, all of me, suddenly on fire. So warm. My head is fuzzy. I feel so good. I couldn’t possibly stand up steady. I’m crying now. Crying hard. I’m staring at your lips. They hang open above my bent knees. You look at me now and again. You shake your hair out of your eyes. We nod at each other. Whispered yeses. Uh huh. I don’t care about coming. This is everything. But I do come. I come and I scream and I shake. I pull you to my face and hold you. You press down on top of me. I cry into your neck.
I won’t fuck you tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight I’ll just take and take. I’ll open my thighs for you. I’ll pet your head as you suck me off later when I’m sleepy and drunk. I’ll tell you over and over again how much I love you. How you have me. “Fuck me, baby,” I’ll plead and roll over on my belly. “Here, baby. Come here,” I’ll say and pray that you’ll take me again.
I’m thankful for my fingers dragging against her wet lips. For the tender little button of her clit and the way it swells under my thumb. I’m thankful for the sounds she makes, leading me moment by moment, when I tenderly lick her thighs and flick at the stiffer hairs that climb her hips.
I’m thankful for her ready attention. How she spreads her legs every time I ask. I am thankful to be met, pound by pound, in my unending desire.
I am thankful for the broad window and bright interior lights of my living room where she bends over a chair and watches our reflection as I work up a sweat with my fingers slamming into her. I am thankful for my grip in her hair and the stream of words coming out of my mouth.
"Yes. Yes, baby. Like this, girl. See how much I love to fuck you? See how much I want you to feel it? I know how much you think about it. Show me how you need it. Show me right now. Yes. Like this. Be my girl. I am yours. If I slow down like this, what do you do? Show me. Show me, baby. Yes. Yes. Like this."
Her back bucks, arches, sways. Her hips wriggle around my fingers. My pumping fist and forearm. I am thankful. We turn the chair around and she climbs into my lap, her legs spread in a wide V. I thank her for showing me. I thank her for opening for me. “Wide. Wider. Yes, baby. Touch yourself. Show me. Let me see it. I like your fingers. Your little hands. I like to watch you.”
I am thankful for the sound as I spit into my hand. I am thankful for her eyes. Her tears. The way she shakes. I am thankful for her loud yell. Her clenched body, racked with the rippling impact of her orgasm. The way she comes. Such force. The way she can break me with it sometimes. “Break me,” I whisper when she can’t hear me.
I am thankful as she sleeps next to me. Thankful how she wakes when I roll her onto her back and pet her arms, her chest, her belly. Wake her with my hands between her thighs. Wake her, pulling my belt off the floor and strapping it across her shoulders. We can do anything next.
I am thankful for the rare afternoons when we get to roll around in her bed on top of the covers. “Keep your clothes on,” I tell her. I go slow. Grinding against her. My thigh between her legs. I pull her bra off her shoulders. Unbutton two buttons. Ease her tits out of her clothes. Rub my rough palms on her nipples. My fingers, scratched and cracked, calloused, pull a jagged path around her swelling nipple. I am thankful for the darkening purple as I pinch, squeeze, slap.
More words. My words. I am so thankful for my words. For the way I can tell her. I am thankful for these words that pour out of me and in a moment transport us somewhere. Fully clothed, hot and sweaty. Thankful for her tight jeans. Unbuttoning. Unzipping. Watching my fingers crawl under the denim. Her wet hole. The way her chest rises up so fast when my fingertips brush her clit. The words that rush out of me. Immediate. Like this.
"I like to think of you, after school, in your bedroom. Is this what we would do? Is this how I would touch you?" She nods her head. Stays silent. Squeezes her eyes shut. "I like to think how you ran home and closed your door. How your fingers knew where to go. How you learned what felt so good. Did you slow down sometimes and let it burn? Like this? I like to think how you imagined what this would be like. How you imagined someone pressed against you. Someone else’s fingers making you feel this way. Do you remember? Do you remember how quiet you had to be? Hush. Shhhhh. So quiet. They won’t know. Shhh. Stay still so the bed doesn’t squeak. Listen to how quiet and heavy your room is. Feel how ready your clit is to explode. How can you keep still like this? Don’t move, baby. I can feel the way you build. Let me feel it. Slow."
I am thankful for the light mist of sweat on her face just before she comes. For our soft tongues.
Let me give this to her. Let me love her like this every day. Help me take it from her. Let me take what she gives me. This is what I want. This is just what I want.
I let her push my thighs open. I watch her drag my jeans down to the floor and pull my underwear back into place. I watch her smile as she pushes me back onto the couch. I look at her fingers on my clit. I watch how I grow for her. I watch her mouth, hovering. My arms lay quiet near my thighs. I lean back against the couch. She pulls my hips forward. She sucks me off. I push her hair behind her ear. I watch. I see my chest shine with sweat. Her hands pull my underwear out of the way. Her cheeks suck in. I feel my clit in her mouth. I feel big inside her. Her soft mouth on me. She stares up at me. I don’t recognize this look. We are somewhere. At the movies? In the back of my car? Behind the gym? I can feel it. I want them watching us. “You’re so good. Jesus.” I yell. Air forced out of my lungs. A rush. My body wraps around her. I pull her head against me and come for longer than I thought possible. For several minutes, I hold myself against her soft lips. I come so hard in her mouth. My body moves in slow motion. My shoulders stretch. My foot presses against the coffee table. I am thankful for the way she gets me off. I am thankful for what she teaches me about myself. For what I learn. For how I can do this now. This. Now. For her.
I am thankful to be yours today. Right now. To hear you breathing next to me, wrapped in my sheets. You fell asleep wearing my necklace.
“I’m a witch woman; high on tobacco and holy water. I’m a woman delighted with her disasters. They give me something to do. A profession of sorts. I have the magic of words.”—Sandra Cisneros (via swanfucker)