Sometimes you just fuck. You meet. You talk for a bit. You like her accent.
It was late for supper. I sat at the bar. She was nearly done eating. I smiled at her. We struck up a conversation. That accent. I love an accent. It doesn’t matter from where. Hers was clearly southern, but from where? A little backwater. Creole. Raspy. She looked like she had always been wild and always gotten away with it. I got her talking about back home. Her father. Her crazy mother. An aunt somewhere in the picture. Fishing. What the sunsets were like and how she’d lay on her belly in the wet grass and watch the sky light up. We smiled at each other. This fit.
Easy. Straightforward. This is about fucking. Yes or no. I finished my burger and she grabbed my thigh and ducked her head down to look me right in the eye, close. “I can’t read you,” she said, “Are we getting a drink?” I nodded, “Sure,” I said, “That seems about right.” She slapped me hard on the back and spoke a little too loudly, “Good! But not here. I know a great little bar a few blocks towards the water.”
We walked side by side. The energy buzzing. A fast pace. Loud laughs. She grabbed my neck and squeezed it. “You’re good,” she said, “This feels good.” I laughed. I wasn’t talking much. Usually, I’m the one telling stories but she had plenty. I wasn’t used to her level of energy. I’d been out with a lot of shy girls, reserved girls, the girls who wait for a kiss. She was not one of those. Tall and lanky. A shadow of a mustache. Eyes the color of ice water.
The bar was perfect. Dark. Sticky. Stiff drinks. No one looking. She held my thigh hard between her fingers and told me more small town stories. I kissed her in the middle of a sentence. I was feeling done with the pretense. I liked her energy. I wanted to fuck. She wanted another drink. I had a bitters and soda and shook my head clean.
She had a small studio down there. Near the water. Everything changes near the water. The air. The smells. The sounds. It’s softer and cleaner but somehow, also, so dirty. Dirty gutters. More piss on the pavement. Broken meters. You can smell rotting things. The fish, the algae, the dumpsters. Brown banana peels and thrown away leftovers strewn in fields of weeds behind chain link fences. Dirty blankets. Tarps. A shoe.
She didn’t live here. Just shared a small studio space with some other artists. We didn’t talk about her art. I don’t know what she did there. Painting maybe. Everything was covered by sheets. There was a broken down couch covered in a brownish red corduroy with wide stripes. The couch was covered in sharp dried bits of things. Paint, clay, ketchup.
We fucked there. I sat on her lap. She opened her knees wide and let her hands fall next to her hips. She guided me gently with the tips of her fingers until I sat close, so close to her. My face above hers. Her head resting on the back of the couch. I touched the buttons of her shirt but she grinned and grabbed me quick, moving my hands to my own clothes. Button by button. I watched her eyes move down my chest. I pulled my shirt off, slowly eased my arms out of the sleeves and listened to it fall. She lifted one arm and tugged at the neck of my undershirt. I grabbed her head and pulled her mouth onto my tit and she sucked on my nipple through the thin cotton, letting her head fall back when the fabric was soaked. I could smell the sweet booze and sour cigarettes in her spit. I pulled my shirt tight against my skin and a small breeze made my nipple flinch cold and wet. Hard. I squeezed it tightly in my fingers and winced.
A slow show. I touched my neck for her. Lifted my shirt over my head but left it on like a harness, holding my shoulders back. I traced the outline of my belt under a finger and reached down to scratch at the seam of her jeans, wanting to feel her clit before I unlatched my belt buckle and slid it off with a hiss. I draped the belt around her shoulders. I scratched at her tits through her shirt with the rough edge of leather. She took my hands in hers and pressed them into my belly, nodding at me. Prodding me to keep going.
I grabbed the buckle of my belt hanging next to her ribs and tugged on it, pulling the strap off her shoulders until I could slip it into my pants. I had to suck in my belly to make room for my hand, pushing the belt buckle lower until it slid against my cunt. Her mouth fell open for a moment. Her smile lost. Eyes wide as if she was straining to see that buckle pressed against my clit under my clothes. I took the belt in my hands and pulled the tail of it over to me, gripping it low and holding it flat against my belly and between my tits. The thick leather felt so good in my hands. I could move it slowly up and down against my clit. We fell into this together. The slow movement. My ass lifted off of her thighs and pumping up and down with the tiniest sway. I felt her fingers on my hips.
Her small room was hot but a chilling breeze rushed in from time to time through a crack at the bottom of one window that couldn’t properly close. The metal on my clit felt so good. I was rubbing it so slow, so slow I could feel it swelling. I stared at her face. The way her eyes took me in made me shake. Made me sweat. My armpits were wet, the hair getting slicked against my skin. My pants were starting to stick to the backs of my thighs. “Keep it slow like this,” she whispered with a crack in her voice. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t move my lips or blink or nod. I just stayed in this slow movement and shuddered.
This is how we fucked. I came against the slow back and forth of warm metal against my clit. My pants still buttoned up tight. My hands holding my belt strap. Her eyes on me. Her legs open wide beneath me. Sweat beading on her upper lip. A few strands of her dark hair sticking to her forehead. I came with a jerk that shoved my chest into her face. She twisted her head away from me right before my sternum hit her hard. I thought about her sharp, thin nose and how I might have bloodied it if she hadn’t turned. I would have liked to see that. The blood on her face.
She let me open her jeans. She left her hands at her sides as I pushed my fingers inside her pants. The same slow sway in her lap. Her cunt was so wet. Thick and wet. My fingers easily slid against her, into her. Slow. Slow and burning. I got a lump in my throat. She stared into my eyes. This stranger I was fucking. This woman who’s name I wasn’t sure I knew. But I knew something about her childhood. Her dad. The yard she grew up in. Her love of soft grass and warm air and a wide sky. She took my belt and bit into the leather, holding it in her mouth, clamped down on it while the heat in her cunt built. She growled when she came and didn’t jerk or pull like I do. She opened and flattened and clenched her jaw. I saw her teeth sink deeper into the leather strap. I felt her clit throb. And then she sank a little lower and smiled.
It’s a dull warm day. A light breeze through the trees and across my exposed face and forearms. The heat from the sun hits my thighs and you rush through me. You. Your body. I want my fingers in you.
It’s too bright to keep my eyes open. My cat wanders in and out of the house through the open doors off the porch. You are gone. Working. Sliding in and out of cramped rows. Sweating in this heat. Smiling. Being sweet. I miss you.
It’s a hot day. I hear the highway. I dream of the white lines and speeding trees while I doze. I wake with a hot chest. Sweat on my neck and belly. I want my tongue in the salty creases of you. I want slick wet sweat between us. I’ll pour you a drink over ice in a minute but first let me take this in. The heat. Your curves. I bury my hands between your legs.
These are my dog eared memories and panting desires. You are always in my lonely haze. Like now. In this heat. While I miss you.
I am a drunk and a whore. I will fuck anyone who wants me to fuck them. I am your mother or your father. I’m that boy in the back seat. That girl in the locker room. I’m anyone you want. And you trust me. Maybe you love me. I love you.
This is who I am. This is who we all are. Some of us hide it. Some of us shiver and shake and bury our faces in the corner pretending we don’t know it. But this is who we are. Come on.
I am yours. Right now. My hand in my pants.
Kiss me and grab my ass. I will push you up against the railing. Here. On the balcony. Where are we? My hotel? Yours? A bar? Were we walking home? Kiss me. Let me grab you. Let me pinch your thigh. This meat in my fingers. I want it.
Sex is where we go to be lost. Sex is where we are ancient. Language, no language. The raw root of desire buried in all of us. Every one. We roll our tongues and purse our lips to suckle. We feed. You are mine now. I will be yours. I am. I am yours. Right now.
I will fuck you for asking. I will stick my fingers in your mouth for shaking that ass. Bend over the way I like. Let me see your hands on the backs of your thighs. Hold your legs open for me. Let me see your pussy. Let me see it drip. This is how it has always been. Don’t pretend we’re civilized.
When I’m drunk like this, I don’t care. Buttons fly. Zippers break and scrape my skin. None of it matters. Rip this off of me. Be angry. Impatient. Hit me when I can’t come. Scream at me. Pull your hair and cry. And I will make you take it. I will hit your cheek with my open palm. I will punch your chest and pinch your breasts. I will bite your hips and spank you hard. Open your legs. Now. You want this. I want this. Let it hurt or feel good or who cares right now.
My fingers are inside you and I cannot close my mouth. Not now. Breathing onto your face. Sucking your lips. Your tongue thick in my teeth. This is how I find out who you are. Who you are to me. This is how I show you myself.
Before you come, I grind against your thigh. I spit at you. My cunt hurts inside my jeans. I watch your thigh grow dark red. Streaked purple. Little spots of blood, popped capillaries under your skin. Here we go. I fuck you.
You asked for this when you stared. You asked when you looked down to see how well your tits look in that shirt. You asked when you touched my forearm. You asked. And I answered. I always answer. I’m right here. Right where you want me. Whenever you ask. But you need to ask. I won’t demand this. I won’t take it on my own. Ask me. Go ahead.
One night there was this girl. She burst into my house. I’d left the door open, knowing she was following me home. I told her I’d drive slow. I’m easy to follow. She ran in and fell to her knees, her hands on the bulge in my jeans. She slicked back her hair and sucked my cock through the denim. She tugged at my belt. “Fuck me,” she said and I fucked her on the carpet. Her knees thrown over my shoulders. I shoved her up the stairs and fucked her again on the edge of my bed. She flipped over onto her belly and I fucked her harder, my thighs wet with sweat. She yowled, there in my small room. She reached her long arms behind her and pulled on my hips. She wanted more. We fucked for hours. If either of us came, I didn’t noticed. I fucked her until my eyes were bleary and my legs shook. She left in the thick morning fog. Wet and spent. We fucked until we collapsed. No sleep. She found all her clothes and said goodbye with a kiss that was more tender than either of us wanted and asked if I was free that Wednesday. I was. I told her. I never saw her again. She fell in love. Or back in love. Or pretended she wasn’t this animal. This animal.
I am the one who will fuck you whenever you ask. Wake me up in the middle of the night. Follow me into the bathroom. Touch me just around that corner. Get in my car. Give me your number. It’s that easy. I’m a drunk and a whore. Buy me a drink. Your place or mine?
Let me suck your pussy through those sweet little panties. Do you want bruises? Where. Show me. Point that pretty little finger and my mouth will follow. Hold your thighs wide for me. Suck on your fingers like I like. Turn your head away, my fingers splayed on your cheek. I like to hold you down while we fuck. Just let go. I’m right here.
I blame you for everything. My sour mood. My jangled nerves. This chipped button on my shirt. I blame you for the piece of chicken stuck in my teeth. The pinch of my glasses behind my ears. I blame you for the sweat on my back. The fruit flies in the kitchen. The stench of my t-shirt, balled up on the floor. I blame you for this longing. The desire that crawls on its belly inside me. It tells me to shove my fingers inside your holes.
I blame you for everything because you are mine. Mine. I want you. I take you. I fall asleep with your head on my chest, your arm resting on my ribcage. I wake with your body curled next to me, warm in the blankets. I trace your outline with my fingers. I kiss your forehead.
There are nights when I only want to pet you and be soft. When I drag my fingertips lightly across your shoulders, up the back of your neck, down your arms. I slide across every crease where your skin finds itself. Inside your elbows, under your arms, your back when your shoulders pinch together, your twisted neck. I like to trace your sweat on hot nights when the booze and the heat swirl together in our heads and in our bed. Our bed. Ours. Mine and yours. This night. Most nights. Many nights.
Press your hand against the wall above the headboard. I want to imagine it there always. An imprint. A heat map. Your fingers splayed out. Your palm hot and flat on the plaster. Hold it there and let me lick your fingers. Sink my teeth into your knuckles. These are the nights when I want you in my mouth. I suck on your neck and nibble at the base of your skull. My fingers in your hair. My tongue snakes behind your ear. I want you in the middle of the bed, bent over your knees, arms out to the side. I bite the flesh on your ass, over and over again, then watch as my dripping wet finger slides around the puckered rim of your asshole. My eyes take it in, how my teeth have marked your ass, my circling finger. I mark you as mine. My own. I will have you and hold you.
I sleep deeply and wake up wet, imagining us fucking. Your wrists tied behind your back, I bend over and let you watch as my fingers slide in and out of my pussy. My face buried in the blanket, my pants pulled down. I love to fuck like this. Not even touching, or barely so. You sitting there staring. Me on my back with my legs pulled wide. Maybe my foot rests on your thigh. Watch me jerk off. Let me rub my cock against your chest, slicked up with lube. Open your mouth so I can look inside that soft, dark hole. Mine. You are mine. Tonight and tomorrow. I want more. More of you. More of this.
Fuck me with your cock, your fingers, your tongue. Let me climb on top of you and come again and again. I’m your boy. Your good, sweet girl. Call me anything you want. Because you are mine and I’ll give you anything for it. All this. More. I blame you. I’m in love.
To the anonymous person who commented on my most recent story -
If you had criticized my writing, I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have been thrilled. I mean, this isn’t Yelp. But I might have considered what you had to say. Your comment, though, had nothing to do with the writing. You criticized the sexual fantasy itself.
If you’re a reader of mine, I think you’ve missed one of my core beliefs. I wasn’t sure what to say at first, but I’m glad to be able to speak to this. It’s something I’ve said before and it bears repeating.
I don’t judge anyone’s sexual fantasy. I don’t accept judgement of sexual fantasies. There are so many personal queer history lessons about the bad road that can lead you down.
I hope no one has ever done that to you.
Here’s the thing. And this is so important. It’s damaging to shame someone’s sexual fantasy. It’s damaging and confining. Not just to them but to you as well. I hope you never do that to a lover. I certainly hope you never do that to yourself.
She wanted to fuck a woman. He wanted to watch. Her boyfriend, maybe he was her husband, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter to me, right? It’s an old story anyway. I’d never gone in for that. But somehow, this time, it sounded good. I caught myself thinking about it. A lot.
I was at a friend’s wedding when I met her. Them. Met them. I was there alone. They were both a little drunk. Smiling. Flushed cheeks from the booze and the dancing. They looked beautiful together. In love. Good dancers. We talked a little. Not too much. We danced near each other on the dance floor. All of us. Laughing. I didn’t think we were flirting. Maybe we were. She would turn to me and lift her hair. I watched her hips. I smiled, maybe a little too long. I left late. We walked out of the place together and I got in a cab watching her wave goodbye over his shoulder as he held her tight. I saw her kiss his ear. That was it.
I ran into them again over the next few months. Once, at the bagel place, I came in and they waved me to their table. I couldn’t remember who they were at first. I’m terrible with faces. We laughed and chatted a bit, but I left them alone and sat by myself at the counter by the window. They’re straight. I’m not. I liked them, but I don’t really have straight friends. They waved goodbye through the window when they left.
The next time I saw them, we were at another party. More drinking. Laughing. Dancing. I talked about sex. I always talk about sex. I saw it happen. The looks back and forth. The laughter changed to something slower, more telling. We hugged goodbye that night, exchanging numbers. At home, I took their phone number out of my pocket and put it on the dresser in front of me. “This isn’t a friendship,” I thought, staring at her handwriting, “I know what this is.”
I looked down at my fingers, letting them crawl over each button one at a time. I slid my hand under my shirt, dragging my open palm hard over my chest and feeling my nipples burn. I stood there at my dresser, unbuckling my belt. I felt my clit press against my underwear. I stared down at myself. My boy’s briefs. My pants hanging open. I could feel how wet I was getting thinking about her. Has she done this before? I looked at the number on the jagged white slip of paper and jerked myself off while I stood there, one hand gripping my open sock drawer. I came quickly. Too fast. I kept jerking off through the whole night of restless sleep from the party, the drinking, the energy. I woke up cranky and annoyed with myself. Feeling the day lost after such a sleepless night.
Several weeks had gone by since I had put her number in my phone. Their number. I stared at the phone when it rang. It was her on the line. Her voice shook.
This is awkward… Was I interested… She had always thought about it… He had always wanted to…
I let her talk. I didn’t fill in her silences. She needed to ask for this. I needed to hear her say it. Her words. Her suggestion. Her desire. I let her explain. I listened. I waited for her to stop and then I said, “I’ve been thinking about it, too. I want to fuck you.” I could hear her breathing. I could feel my heart pounding. This was hot. Hotter than I expected it to feel. Such an old story, but there’s a reason it’s still told. He wanted to watch. Of course. I wanted him to watch. It’s only half the story without that, really. I needed him to watch. She needed that. It made all the difference.
We met at a bar near their house. A few drinks. I asked him to kiss her. I watched. I dipped a finger into my glass of whiskey and slid the tip between her lips.
We left. He drove slowly. We were all in the car. I would pick my bike up later. I’d walk, I told them. I would want to walk, I thought.
We didn’t talk in the car. I rode in the back, sitting in the middle with my knees wide. Looking at her in the rearview mirror. Watching her stare at him, smiling. We were all a little buzzed with excitement. Everything glowed with the street lamps. The night air was cool and damp and wet. It muffled the thud of my boots on their wooden front steps. They led me into a bedroom. It looked like a guest room, a bit empty and sterile.
I didn’t want him to say anything. “I don’t want you to talk,” I said, leading him to a chair in the corner that seemed to be there for this. Just for him. He sat down, looking up at me, his mouth stiff. “Do you want a drink?” I asked. He shook his head no. “You can jerk off,” I said. He nodded. He had pretty eyes. He was a beautiful man, really. He sat there so still. “We’re all in this,” I thought.
She stood by the bed, looking fantastic. I don’t think I’d really noticed before. Maybe this was the moment I needed, to see it. Her hair was pulled back. She wore a low cut, wrap dress with boots. She had small tits and I could see her nipples under the fabric. I like that. I moved behind her and slid both hands under her dress. A breast in each hand, her nipples under my thumbs. I held her body towards him. I saw his hands resting on his thighs.
I licked her neck with my tongue just barely poking out beyond my lips, letting her feel my mouth right there, my breath. My hips pushed against her ass and I felt her body move, softening, her weight shifted against me. I squeezed her tits, rubbing my hands roughly under her dress. I moved a little to one side, half of her still leaning against my chest, and grabbed the back of her neck. I brought my other hand up to her face. My thumb under her chin. “I want him to see your mouth,” I said to her, loudly enough for him to hear me, “I want him to watch how you suck his dick. Let him see it.”
She turned around, her eyes searching my face for a second and dropped to her knees with her hands on my belt buckle. “No,” I laughed, pulling her back up and turning her around to face him, “I don’t have a cock.” I held my thumb against her lips until she opened for me. “This,” I said, “Show him.” Her tongue stiffened against my thumb. She tilted her head back, opening her throat for me. I pushed inside her. “You’re so wet inside, so soft,” I told her, “Let me feel your tongue. Show me.”
I saw his hand shift. He gripped his cock, now stiff in his pants. I watched him hold the stiff bulge between his thumb and forefinger, stroking himself. My cunt was so hot and tight. I felt it throb and hang heavy between my legs. I wanted to flip her over and fuck her hard. I felt myself held back. I needed this slow. I needed this to build. I wanted her so hot, burning, gripping my fingers tight as soon as I entered her. I pulled my thumb out of her mouth and pushed two fingers in instead. My wet thumb stroking her cheek with every thrust. “So soft inside,” I said, “So good.”
I let her suck my fingers for a long time. Long enough to get lost in a trance, staring at her mouth. My leg had shifted between her thighs and she rubbed herself slowly against me. I pulled my fingers out of her mouth and moved them, wet, to her nipples. I grabbed the back of her head, my fingers tight in her hair. “You want him to see this,” I said roughly, jerking her dress off each shoulder, “That’s right, isn’t it?” I pulled her dress down, exposing her tits, and went back to rolling each nipple between my thumb and finger, one at a time. I looked back at him. He stared at her tits. He was rubbing his dick through his pants with a hard, flat palm.
I imagined my own stiff, throbbing cock jamming into my thigh and swallowed hard. “Do you feel a little guilty about this?” I asked and moved to face her. I gripped her hair more tightly and gave her a quick slap across the cheek. “Do you feel bad?” I taunted, “Do you feel dirty?” I slapped her again twice, each harder than the last. Her eyes were wide now. Staring at me. Waiting. She nodded. “I understand,” I said and took her hand in mine, leading it to my belt. “Would you like to feel this?” I whispered into her neck, “It’s so thick and heavy.” She didn’t say anything. “I wore it just for you,” I said and gripped her fingers, running them along the edge of the leather, “Is this what you want?” She nodded. “What?” I whispered. “Yes,” she said, softly.
I pulled my face away from her and turned to look at him. He was watching her fingers. We put our hands on our belt buckles at the same time. I mirrored his movements as he slowly unbuckled his belt. I slid mine out of the belt loops as he struggled with the buttons of his fly. His hard on pushing against his pants. “Bend over,” I told her. Her hands were wide on the edge of the bed. I looped the belt in my hand and buckled it before running it across her low back. I pet her ass while I ran the edge of the thick leather slowly up the backs of her legs. Petting her sweetly. Whispering to her. “I know you’re good,” I called to her as I lifted her dress.
She wore peach colored panties. Cotton briefs so simple and sweet, the sight took my breath away. Unexpected. My hands trembled and I felt sweat on my palms. “I like these,” I said, letting the belt fall against her ass. I took the belt in both hands, pulling the loop tight, and ran the rough edge of leather just below her panties on the back of her thighs. This belt smacks with a loud, crisp sound. Harder than it feels. I raised my arm and swung. She shifted her legs. I hit her ass with the belt, only her ass, several times, slowly drawing back my arm before a quick swing and a smack. A dozen times or more before I stopped and pet her with my hand. I ran my fingers through her hair and felt the sweat on her scalp and the back of her neck. The room felt hot now. Muggy.
"Pull your panties down for me," I said. I stared at her rounded, red cheeks as the cotton slid down. I stopped her hands mid-thigh. "Good enough," I told her, moving onto my knees for a moment. I dropped the belt and reached my hand between her legs when I kissed her. This first kiss with a finger curved between the wet lips of her pussy and my tongue reaching deep inside her mouth. I wanted her to struggle for breath. "I like this," I said with my mouth against hers, "Spreading your lips like this with my finger." And dragged my finger deeper, feeling her hole open up for me. "So wet inside," I said, "So good," and kissed her hard again, gripping her jaw. "I want you wetter," I said, pulling my mouth off hers and grabbing the belt again.
On all fours, I moved behind her, licking my way up her leg until I stood crouched with my tongue just above her knee where her panties were drawn tight between her thighs. I ran my teeth against the elastic edge. I licked at the cotton. “I don’t even have to stick my face in your pussy to taste you,” I said, “Your panties are so wet.” I sucked loudly on the cotton and heard him groan behind me. Back on my feet, I pulled the belt across her bare ass. She sucked in her breath and I took that as my cue to quickly pull back my arm and swing. The effect is beautiful. The leather. The swing. The bright red striped flesh. But it’s the sound I love best. A sharp smack. I was soon done spanking her. I wanted too much to fuck her.
I didn’t want to lie on the bed. I didn’t want to get on top of her. I didn’t want to pump her with a cock. I sat on the edge of that bed and pulled her onto my lap, her back against my chest. I adjusted her dress to keep her tits pulled out and her pussy exposed. My hands squeezed her hips and then dragged slowly up the sides of her ribcage, jerking here and there on the fabric of her dress. “Put your hands behind my head,” I told her. Her arms reached high and long behind her. Her head rested against my shoulder. I was breathing in her ear. I rubbed her body. I clawed my fingers on her thighs. I held her tight, sometimes nibbling at her ear. I pushed my hips against her and pulled her down hard into my lap. “I want you to feel me,” I said.
I looked across the room. His cock was out in his hand. He rubbed his palm in a circle around and around the tip, sometimes pulling at it. He sat so still. His face was calm. I watched the curving movement of his forearm and slid my hand to her pussy. I stroked her slowly with my the tip of my finger from her hole up to her clit, hovered just above her clit for a moment, and started over. I rocked my hips, rocking her with me, as I repeated this again and again. I held her to me with my hand on her chest.
"This is how I’d fuck you if I had a cock," I told her. "I’d rub it against your pussy like this. I’d rub it so softly between your lips. I’d come on your belly and your thighs," I slid my wet hand under her dress, rubbing her belly, feeling the soft strip of hair that ran below her belly button. "Like this," I said. Her arms gripped my head. I moved two fingers between her lips now, stroking her clit in circles. "I like how wet you got for me," I said and licked her neck. I rubbed harder now and held her with my arm wrapped tightly around her, just under her tits. I spread my legs a little wider, moving hers open with me. I felt myself get so hot. My body tensed and I felt myself humping against her ass, pulling her to me. "I want you to come," I said and she exploded against my hand. Her arms squeezed me hard and then went limp. She drew one hand down between her legs and held mine hard against her throbbing clit.
"There’s more," I told her and she laughed. We fucked more that night. I wanted her on her back with her knees up. I wanted to lean into the backs of her thighs with my fingers inside her and watch her jerk herself off. I pushed my hips against her with my fingers slamming into her hole. She was naked at that point. I was fully dressed. My pants were wet from her pussy.
I don’t know if he came or not up to that point. I had stopped paying attention to him. I didn’t want to look at him when she sucked me off. I kneeled on the bed while she undid my shirt. Ran her hands over me. I unbuttoned my pants for her. Unzipped my fly. I took my pants off and told her to suck on my clit through my briefs. Her fingers were splayed wide on my inner thighs and her face was buried between my legs.
She teased her fingers under the edge of my underwear and looked up at me when she reached my wet cunt. So fucking wet. I nodded at her and pulled my underwear down, spreading my legs wide. “Suck me off,” I told her, “I want your mouth right here.” I pulled her head towards me and lifted my hips. She sucked hard with her teeth against me. I felt myself pushing into her mouth. So turned on. I didn’t want to know why. Why was this so hot to me? I squeezed my eyes shut. Trying not to think of him watching. Trying not to imagine a cock, my cock, in her mouth. Shutting away this or that image that came into my head. Finally I stopped thinking and opened my eyes, looking down at her. I squeezed her head in my hands, “I want to come in your mouth,” I said. She nodded and slid her arms around me, holding my ass in her hands, looking up at me. I came. So hard. Bucking against her with such force it hurt. When I pulled her face off of me, her chin looked rubbed raw.
I kissed her. A kind of closure. I got dressed pretty quickly and let myself out. I’m not sure how I’d imagined it ending, but this seemed right in the moment. Let me disappear. Leave my ghost in the room. Something unreal, ethereal. Let this slip away for now.
I walked to my bike, thankful it was still chained up outside the bar. I walked it home, not wanting to ride. Needing to wind my way home at a slow pace in the night air. I felt good. I didn’t question it.
So many thoughts. They get lost in my head. Turn up at awkward moments when I’m not prepared. In the middle of a conversation, I suddenly remember my plan to tie her wrists to the chair back and make her hold herself off the seat while I press my hand against her pussy and slowly drag my palm back and forth.
Notes. Scribbles on wadded up bits of paper I find in my pockets. Stuffed into jars on the kitchen counter. Tucked away in books. They’re everywhere, these thoughts. Waiting for their moment.
A butch striptease. Fingers slow on buttons. Straddle her knees as my jeans ease down my thighs. She kisses the bulge of my cock. Lipstick rubs off on my white briefs.
Blindfold her while I jerk off on her bed.
Surprise her at home mid-day and bend her over the kitchen sink for a quick fuck with my fingers.
Tie her down and lick her with my tongue held hard and stiff. Her neck. Behind her ears. High on her chest. Shoulders. Armpits. Inner thighs. All over. Soft places and hard bone. Hover over her pussy. Breathe on her clit.
Fuck her in a crowded bar. My hand under her skirt while she sits on a barstool. I stand close beside her.
Grab her in the alley near her apartment.
Pull the straps of her slip and bra down, pinning her shoulders, exposing her tits. Shove her up against the wall. Tie her wrists together, held low at her waist. Go slow.
Take my shirt off. Undo my belt and hand it to her. Turn to face the wall.
Let me tell you something true (everything is true). There was a long time in my life when all I had were thoughts. When everything had to be written because it was the only way for it to pulse and be raw and alive. All that has changed.
Know what you want. You can’t find anything until you know what you want.
Now I walk down the street and I’m alive. She catches me staring. She sees it in me. She sees me thinking all the time. She touches me and sees me blush fast and hot. I have a constant desire that burns under my skin and surfaces so quick and with such a thick demand.
We reek of it. The sharing of this. Knowing what it is we want for ourselves. Knowing how to ask for it and get it.
“Baby,” I whisper and press myself up against her ass while we wait for a table. She squeezes my hand in hers. I bring her fingers to the thick leather of my belt. I’m thinking. I want her to feel it on her ass later. Bend her over my knee and pet her through the soft cotton of her skirt. Tap her with my belt. Lift her skirt and drag the strap across her silky little exposed panties. Tell her to pull them down. Make her show me her ass. Loop my belt and thwack. I’m picturing the red mark. The shaking flesh. I’m feeling her muscles clench across my thighs. I’m imaging what I’ll say to her. All of it.
"I think you’re dirty. I know you are. I know how you used to hide up in your bedroom and think about boys. Their stiff cocks in your grubby little fingers. Did you picture them shoving their cocks in your mouth? Could you taste it? Did you stick your own fingers in your mouth and slide them in and out to see what it might feel like?"
I’ll hold her neck. Petting her ass now. Soothing her. Dropping the belt to the floor. Leaving her bent over me, I’ll slip my fingers into her mouth. “Like this?” I ask. My words still pouring out, “Do I taste salty like those first cocks? Stale and sour? Dirty. You’re so dirty. Did you want to be held down? Did you want them to tell their friends? Want everyone to know? Did you imagine walking down the halls and seeing heads turn? Would they whisper about you? Did they?”
My hand on her ass. I know how wet she’ll be when I slide my fingers between her legs. I’ll tell her.
This. All of this in my head. All before we get our table for dinner.
I’m like a teenage boy tonight. If she touches it, I’ll explode. Come all over her fingers. In my pants. I can’t keep still. My thighs shifting. Opening. Lifting my ass off this folding chair and sitting back down, adjusted.
Keep an eye on her fingers. Let her see you blush. Let her catch you looking. Looking at her. Her mouth. Her neck. Her tits. The hem of her skirt. Her boots. Your thighs. The buttons of your shirt. Your belt. Your own crawling, clawing fingers.
"Baby," I want to say, but she’s not my baby. "Hey," I say, thinking that maybe I can keep her talking a minute or two longer. Maybe there’s something more to say. Something more she wants to hear. Something that will make her smile a little and look down. Make her think about it.
My ass is sore from sitting on this metal chair. People were yawning and nodding off all around us. I was nervous. Picking at the stitching on my jeans. Scratching the back of my head. Craning my neck a little lower just to see how her shirt pulled between the buttons across her tits. “Jesus,” I thought, this woman looks so fucking good. She caught me staring at her all night. I saw her smile and blush. I felt the energy of it jump around inside me. Boost my swagger.
"Hey," I said, "Come on, let’s get out of here." She looked over her shoulder like there was someone who needed to give permission, then turned around with a smile that looked good on her and said, "Sure." We nodded at each other, scraping our chairs loudly against the linoleum as we stood up.
Outside, I smoked a cigarette and she wrinkled up her nose at the drifting smoke. Not what I expected. The night was cool. She talked about Mexico. Wanted to know if I’d been. I hadn’t. Wanted to tell me about it. Why she loves it. We talked about all the people who go but never see Mexico. People who go and stay at some fancy spa with salt water pools and breezy drapes and generically fancy meals. “Why the fuck do I want to travel all that way to stay in some nondescript hotel?” I shook my head. “People are stupid,” she said. “Fucking idiots,” I agreed.
We didn’t have much to say after Mexico. My fingers were fumbling for a place to land. In and out of my pockets. Touching my lighter. Feeling the wadded up bits of paper and change. We looked in every window that we passed, indiscriminately. The cleaners. The eyeglass place. An empty shell of what was a decent bar once. The coffee shop was still open. Two americanos. She sat with me outside on a bench, leaning a little against my shoulder as we watched people walk by. It felt okay. Quiet and peaceful. Like we knew each other better than we did.
I slid my arm over her shoulder and she gave me a funny look. “I don’t know,” I said, smiling shrugging, like I was trying to figure something out, “I like you.” She smiled at me, “Yeah,” she said, “Me too.” I kissed her then. I kissed her soft. I rested my fingers lightly on her knee, letting them slip just between her legs a little. She touched my cheek. She ran her fingers from my neck up the back of my head, through my hair, and gripped my head. Electric. The fuzzed out thick cords of energy shot through my arms and legs. I needed her hand on me.
I grabbed her wrist and pulled her off the bench. “We gotta go,” I said and led the way to my little apartment a few blocks away. I had to battle with my bike inside the door - shoving it halfway into my closet to give us room to move. “Damn,” I said and squeezed her knuckles. I kissed her up against the bathroom door and tugged at her hand. “I want it so bad,” I whispered.
We weren’t drunk. Not even tipsy. Buzzed a little, I guess, from meeting someone new, the night air, the coffee. But it’s not as easy like this. It’s not sloppy like when your drunk and just slip into it, wondering later who started something. This was clear. I started it. And she was right there with me.
She tensed against my grabbing hands. Her arm jerking upwards as I tried to push her hand between my legs, my eyes pleading with her. She smiled with a playful look, her tongue on her teeth, as she jerked her hand out of my grip. I circled her waist with a quick grip and slapped her forearm, seeing the sting of it in her scowl for a split second. We struggled for a minute. She slapped my hands away several times before I had her wrist tight in my fingers again. She laughed from deep in her throat. “I want it,” I said, and felt my muscles strain to shove her hand between my legs. I had to hold it there, rubbing her closed fist against me. I felt myself twitch and throb.
I had to hold on tight. She bucked. I felt my neck get hot and wet with sweat. My chest, my back, my thighs burning with a stiff tension. I held her tight around her middle and flipped the both of us around so her back was up against the door. Now I could lean into her. Get the heels of my boots up off the ground and drive myself hard against her. I held onto the closed doorknob to keep from being pushed away. I felt her heart pound. I smashed my mouth against hers and let go long enough to move my hands around to her ass, pulling her harder against me. “Come on,” I groaned, my spit hitting her lips.
I pulled us harder against each other. I gripped her thigh between mine and dragged myself up and down. “Feel me,” I said, “I want you to touch it.” My voice shook. I gave myself away. She touched me, lightly, on the small of my back. “I like this,” she said and grabbed my hips, “Come on.” She pulled me harder up and down against her thigh. She moaned and coo’d her encouragement. I tensed up, sweating through my clothes, breathing hot and hard. “Damn it,” I said, jerking my head and slapped the palms of my hands against the door. The boom shook us. I grabbed her face and pulled her over to the bed. I sat down and patted the mattress beside me, “Sit.”
Leaning back on my arms, I let my knees fall wide and looked at her. I looked at her hands. Looked at my jeans. “I want you to touch it,” I said, shifting my hips.
She leaned against me and started slow with her hand just above my knee. She pet me, squeezed my leg, rubbed her hand harder and harder up and down my thigh. She stroked me with her fingers, just inside my thighs, until I thought I was going to pass out. “Please,” I whimpered and her fingers traced the seam of my jeans right up and over my clit. The ripples shot through me as her nails dragged between my legs, catching on the thick denim. She teased me like this until I felt dizzy and closed my eyes, breathing deep.
She slid my belt buckle open and pulled my belt off slowly, making the leather hiss through the loops. Her hand slid under my jeans after she took her time unbuttoning my fly. Her fingers rested for a moment on my soaked briefs before pushing them aside and running her fingers on either side of my stiffening cock. Wet and hard. I felt it grow between her knuckles. She tugged and pulled. “You’re getting so big,” she whispered and stroked me in a slow, lazy fashion.
I sat leaning back on my arms and watched her wrist bend with each pull. I stared as the base of her thumb circled and slid in and out of my pants. Up and down. Teasing me bigger. So swollen. So hot.
She heard my breath change. She heard where I was and put her head against my chest. “I want you to come in my hand like this,” she said, “Let me see it.” Her head bent further down, resting against my stomach. “Come right here,” she said, “Come in my face like this,” and moved herself between my legs, letting me see her cheek, the hair falling over her eyes, her parted lips. My hips jerked up again and again. She pulled so hard on my clit. I lifted my ass for a second to pull my pants down to my thighs and crashed back down, jerking hard into her hand. Watching her stroke me. Feeling that rush.
I came so hard. I came in slow, lengthy, shuddering waves. Coming and coming in a way I didn’t recognize. She kept stroking me and it felt so damn good. I held her hand against me until I stilled. She kissed my wet inner thigh. We flopped back on the bed and I tried to roll over on top of her but she hushed me with a “There there now, sweet boy.” “Save it for next time,” she said and kissed my neck with her fingers on my shirt buttons. I lay there feeling her scratch at my chest, taking her in.
“Hey,” I said, “We should go to Mexico.” She looked up at me. She laughed and bit my rib, “What?” “Yeah, I don’t know,” I said, “It sounds like fun though.”
Thank you for writing again. Your thoughts are alive and mingle in my imagination and every drop of it is perfect. My partner and I are just starting on the kink learning curve and it feels so good to have your stories to come back to when in real life I get flustered and frustrated.
Thank you for writing to me. I love that my stories feel good to you.
We all get flustered and frustrated, right? I like to write about those moments because I think it’s hot to push yourself to that point where you get all knotted up and have to work it out. Recalibrate. Sometimes it’s hard to put what’s in your head out there in the real world. That’s true for me anyway.
I’m writing a new small story today although I have plans to go out and don’t think there’s time to finish. But I’ll post it soon and I hope you’ll enjoy it.
She likes to see what comes over me. How it hits me. I can do anything. “I can do whatever I want to you,” I say. She nods.
This isn’t my thought. It’s hers. She tells me all the time. She whispers it when I grab her hips, “You can do whatever you want to me, you know.” She says it when she grabs my thighs and lowers herself between my knees to the floor, her fingers moving to my belt. “What do you want me to do?” she asks, “I’ll do whatever you want.”
I’m silent. Mostly silent. I stare at her. My mouth hangs open. I caress her face, running my fingers along her jaw. I pull her towards me.
I loop the rope around her wrists. I want her arms above her head. I want her on her back with her knees bent. I want her to watch me. I straddle her chest and unbutton my pants. My belt hangs open next to her cheek. She watches my hand. I start to sweat. My cunt tightens and relaxes. I’m thinking about her. I’m thinking how wet she’s getting. Thinking about what her pussy will feel like when I reach back between her legs and rub her panties. I feel my fingers on my own swollen clit. One hand reaches behind me between her legs. I ride her, leaned back against her thighs, and get myself off, listening to her whimper and moan underneath me.
I like her in my hands. Under my fingers. When I jack off on top of her, I like to feel her tits smashed underneath my chest. I like to feel her belly, soft and slick with sweat. I reach my arm up to her hands. My fingers scratch at the rope around her wrists. “Stay put,” I whisper, “I like it when you stay put.” I pull my pants down lower and lift her skirt. I push my thighs between hers and smile at how slippery we are. Wet with sweat. I slide inside her open hips and let her feel the back of my hand between her legs. “Baby,” I whisper. I can’t come again. I know it’s useless. But I ride her hard. Trying. Desperate.
When I give up, eventually, I sit up and stare at her. One hand feeling around the edges of her panties. One hand crawling over her chin. I push my fingers inside her. Fingers everywhere I can fit them. Fingers in her mouth. Fingers under the elastic that circles her hip. I’m inside her pussy. Wet. Dragging the wetness between her lips. Finding her clit. Feeling it swell. Watching her belly quiver as she sucks in her breath. Pulling spit covered fingers out of her mouth and across her neck.
My lips touch her knee. My teeth pull against her skin. I can do anything and I choose this, my fingers, everywhere.
Someone’s singing. Somewhere in the background there is singing. Do you hear it? Sometimes I hear it. Like now.
I’m walking down the sidewalk. Stepped off the bus maybe ten minutes ago. Walking hard. My heels ache. My boots feel tight. My jeans grip my ass just right. My thighs feel hard and clenched. I beat my fist on my hip bone as I walk. I feel my joints, my bones. I cut through these city streets, hard and sharp.
Earlier, in my apartment, I opened all the windows. My hands shook. There are nights when you are so fucking close to losing everything. When you know it. You see how you nearly blew it. There are nights when you look back and know that you were lost. Nights when you thank god she’s been through enough to tell you the truth.
Shaking, I splashed cold water on my face.
Shaking, I poured myself a drink.
Shaking, I stood at the window and felt the breeze on my skin.
Where does this story begin?
I mouth the words to a song playing in the background. I run my fingers over my chest. I touch the wiry hairs on my upper lip. I slide my fingers over my mouth and turn around to open my dresser.
I feel broken. I feel so wrong.
What I need is to walk.
I get dressed. Slowly. Articulating each infinitessimal moment and breaking it apart. The tight waistband on my underwear biting into my soft belly. The lift and sag of my jeans on my hips. Here’s the tight, ribbed tank top that rubs my nipples when I shift to look over my shoulder. Here’s the soft cotton shirt.
Run my fingers through my hair. Walk to the bus. Anonymous. Shoot through the veins of the city. Put my hand against the cold window. See my reflection scratched with graffiti. Listen to the whispers, the laughter, the drunken mumbling.
I spread my knees wide in the curved plastic seat. I look down at the bulge in my pants. The balled up pair of socks I shoved into place. Like old times. I’m standing in my childhood bedroom in front of the mirror staring at myself, rubbing my cock. I rest my hand loosely against the bulge between my legs. I crook my index finger and press against it. I feel the blood rush into my face and down my neck. My red cheeks betray me. Where am I? When will I get to her?
Out on the sidewalk, walking to her place, my mind is blank. This is what I need. Energy. A rush of lust. Get me inside the door, inside her shirt, behind her teeth. I use my key. I back her up against the wall. My tongue in her mouth. My hand on her neck. I search her body with my fingers. I bend my knees and press my thighs into her. I find her ass and pull her to me. We’ve already fucked. When it feels like this - it’s over before it starts. We’ve fucked and I need more. Always more.
Tie me to the kitchen chair and still I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you with my hands tied behind my back. I’ll fuck you with my hips thrust high and my tongue reaching deep inside you. Draw me out.
This is my hymn. I hear it softly in the background. Muddled words with the clearest meaning. This is what I need. This is what I walk towards. What I desire. What I will break down for. This is where I’m stripped bare.
I have her pressed against the mirror on the back of her bathroom door. I pull her dress down over her shoulders. I pull her bra down, exposing her tits. I am angry. Full of spit. “This is how you like me best,” I say and grab her face to nod her head for her, “This is how I like me, too.” I pull her hand down my chest, down to the bulge in my pants, “Here,” I say, “Feel me.”
I pull her to me. Smashing my body against her. “Do you need proof?” I asked, biting into her ear, “Do I?”
I push the palms of my hands against her shoulders and drag them, burning, to her tits. “I need to hurt you, maybe,” I whisper, starting to cry a little. I feel her hair brush against my forehead as she nods her head. The room spins. Gravity shifts for me, as if pressing her against this door is really pressing her flat against the floor. I slide one leg out a few inches behind me and press my knee between her legs. I spread the fingers of my left hand wide and shove her face to the side. I slap her tits. Hard.
"Is someone singing?" I hear myself ask. She doesn’t answer. I hear the sweet voice reverberating in the room around us. Big. Grand. Shaking the furniture. I clench my teeth against it. Sweating. Still swinging my arm and hitting her. Red welts. Wondering how black her tits will be later and for how long. I feel her lips under my hand. Drool on my wrist. I need her down. Down on the ground.
We fall on our knees to the cool, tiled floor. Ripping her tights. Lifting her skirt. Pushing her face into the damp towel that fell off the hook. “Feel this,” I say and climb on top of her, rubbing the sock in my pants. My cock. Rubbing. Humping her like a runaway. Dirty with sweat and tears. Clean with anger. Balled up and combustible. “Fuck,” I hear myself say. My voice echoes off the porcelain tub. I hold her down. One hand still covering her face, one above her elbow. I need to come like this. Hard and desperate. Rubbing against her.
I’m shaking when I feel her free hand wrap around my head, her fingers digging into my scalp. I feel her lips against my ear. “You know what I like, baby,” she says, pulling everything out of me, “You know I like it dirty like this.”
"Yes," I say. "Yes," I repeat. Again and again. "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes."
Someone’s singing it. Somewhere. Someone’s praying - however they do it. Someone’s lost. Someone’s taking the bus. That ride. Walking that walk. Someone’s figuring it all out. Seeing everything so clearly. Feeling like they know what to do now. Where to go. Who they are.
Shove your hand into your pants, boy. Pull on that cock. Smell what happens to you. Dig your nose into the soured sheets. Open your mouth. Squeeze your eyes tight before you come and then open them new. It’s cold and it’s broken. It’s yours. It’s right here.
I love your writing. I've never read erotica that actually conveys the type of thoughts and feelings I have. The kind of sex I want to have. The way I identify. Thank you for writing, please never stop.
Thank you. My god. Thank you so much.
Please do have this kind of sex. Find what makes you happy.
I haven’t written in several weeks, but I am writing tonight.
The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #59? Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
We fucked a lot. Especially in the early days. We fucked every day we saw each other. Sometimes more than once a day. “I like to fuck,” I told her. She just smiled. We were a good match. She challenged everything I’d known up to that point. Everything I’d known about myself, thought I’d known. Turns out I hadn’t figured out as much as I thought I had.
I was stone. Or nearly stone. Very rarely could I let some girl touch me down there. I didn’t quite know what to call it. I hated the word pussy for myself. I couldn’t say cunt. Dick sounded too much like pretending. Cock had the same problem. And the moment some girl said one of those words, I closed up. I left the building emotionally, physically. Everything broke down. I wasn’t one or the other. I was a little lost. This is me. Not you. Everyone goes through there own thing.
With her, somehow, I opened.
I remember the first time she fucked me. We hadn’t been together for that long. A few weeks maybe. I was in her bed. We were making out. My hand was under her shirt. The kiss felt so incredible, I didn’t want anything else. We kissed for a long time, my fingers rubbing her tits and my leg resting lightly between her thighs. She pushed me onto my back and started to unbutton my shirt. I opened my mouth to say something but she gave me this look that burned my cheeks. She looked me up and down, her mouth hanging open. I felt everything shift even before she spoke.
"Are you getting hard?" she asked, taunting me, "Don’t worry, I know you can’t help it." I nodded. I grabbed at my jeans and felt between my legs for it. She followed my hand with her eyes, nodding. "That’s right," she said, "You want to show me what you’ve got?" I grunted, unable to speak. She sat up on her knees and stared down at my hand on my fly. She pet my knuckles, smiling, before knocking my hand away. "Let’s see," she said and started rubbing my jeans. Her hand moved in long strokes. Her fingers grabbed and kneaded me. She pulled. "Are you a big boy?" she laughed, "I won’t suck you off until you’re as big as you can get."
I pulled myself up on my elbows, mesmerized by the motions of her hand on my prick. I saw us. Teenagers in a corner. In a school hallway on prom night. An abandoned chemistry lab in the dark. Behind the bleachers. The back seat of a car. I pawed through different scenarios in my mind. Where am I? Where are we? I flipped through the images like I was selecting the next song on a jukebox. A couch. My childhood home. Late at night. “We need to be quiet,” I said and she cocked her head, tuning in to me. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said, “Whatever you say.” She paused, staring at me, and then stopped rubbing me. She looked hard at my hand and nodded her head. I slowly dragged my hand down and took over rubbing myself. “Yeah, baby,” she said and started to undo my belt, “Show me how big you can get.”
She took her time unbuttoning my jeans. I rubbed. I pulled. Watching her fingers move. My jeans hung open. Her fingers scratched at the elastic band on my briefs. She smiled. Paused. Her fingers crawled up under my shirt, clawing at my skin. Buttons under her fingers again. My shirt. She started at the last button and worked her way up. One finger traced the edges of my tank top. I sucked in my breath and arched my back, realizing that the look on my face was probably more shocked than turned on. She stayed with me. My eyes were locked on her. I rubbed at my jeans, pulling on my cock. Quiet breathing. Her whispers, “I want you as stiff as you can get.” I rubbed harder. “That’s right,” she said with her lips against my ear, “That’s so good.”
I started to slide my hand into my jeans but she grabbed my wrist. “No, baby,” she signed, “You don’t understand. That’s mine.” I felt tears well up in my eyes. There was no stopping. I felt my cock so hard in my jeans it made me wince. “I need you to take it out,” I said, my voice barely audible, a hoarse whisper, “I need you to rub it harder.” She smiled at me. Smiled down at my wet, red face. “Oh, you’re so good,” she squealed and lay down beside me before sliding her hand between my jeans and my briefs. She slid her fingers on either side of my clit with the cotton of my shorts between her fingers and me. I felt hard. So hard. I gasped to feel the pressure of her fingers against me. Someone other than me making me feel it. Everything undone. I felt big. Giant. “Oh, baby,” she said, “You feel so good.”
She whispered into my ear as she stroked me. “Do you shake just before you get off? Do you quiver? I feel something. Wet. Did you come a little in your pants? I want you to come in my hand like this. I want you to come all over my fingers.” She slid her hand inside my underwear. I held my breath as her fingers slid over my clit and pushed inside me. I felt my cunt open up for her. And then everything shifted. “I want to be inside you,” I said. She slid one leg over me and straddled my hips, her fingers still thrusting into me. “Like this?” she said, lifting her skirt. I put my hands on her thighs and pushed my hips up against her. My chest flushed. My breath tightened and then I let go, relaxed, and closed my eyes. I felt myself inside her. Fucking her. My cock hard, straining. Her pussy gripping me. “Let me in deep,” I said. We rocked against each other like this while I stared at her. Quiet. Somehow furious. I felt myself inside her. Filling her. I nearly came but she pulled away and put a finger on my lips. “Wait,” she said.
She slid off of my hips. Slid down and leaned forward until her face was between my thighs. She pulled my jeans and shorts down and started fucking me harder. “You’re so good to me,” she said, “Giving me what I want like this.” I pulled a pillow under my head so I could look at her. “You like this?” I asked, my voice came out cracked and halting. She just nodded and stared at me. I watched her arm move. I felt the pounding feeling. I listened to the sound of us fucking. Her fucking me. Me fucking her. Everything spun and smashed together. “I want you to come in my face,” she said and left her mouth hanging open. My hips jerked towards her over and over again. I heard myself yelling. I heard her reminding me to be quiet. I left the fantasy. The couch. The boy. The girl. The quiet house. I was right there on her bed. Legs spread. Getting fucked. About to come in her face. “FUCK,” I yelled. Surprising myself. Making her laugh. “Fuck,” I breathed, spent, buckled over.
She kissed my clit. I jerked in surprise. She kissed my thighs, my hip bones. She kissed her way up my chest, stopping to suck on my neck. I looked at her. Dismayed. Dismantled. I kissed her mouth. Soft at first, then sucking hard on her lips. I held her face in my hands. I held her tight and told her everything.
[Femme on femme for a reader request. I started this story a long time ago for a friend who requested it and finally finished it after a reader requested an ‘ode to femme sexuality’.]
I’m a girl who likes a good butch. I like the dark, oiled looking jeans. The wide cuff. Freshly shined boots. A crisp button down over her softest t-shirt. I like her cap pulled low. Her muscled arms. I like that darting look behind her eyes and the grin that she mostly tries to hide. I like her strut. How she opens my car door and leans in for a kiss. These are the girls that make me swoon. Most of the time. Maybe it’s because they’re so visible. I see them. Even when they pass as boys, I see them. Always. Even though almost never see me. I have to fall into their laps before they see me. I have to stare and flutter and let my lower lip fall open. I have to look them up and down. I have to make them blush. And even then, they never make the first move. These butches. So hard, they can’t crack. So hard, they’re scared. I love them all. Most of the time.
I was having one of those days where I wake up and just roll over to fall back asleep again. The room gets too warm as the sun comes up and still I’m in bed. Hot. Getting a headache because I need my coffee. Pulling the covers up over my head. I need to move. I’m feeling slow. I stare at the orchid on my bookshelf and slide my toes out from under the covers. My hands run over my breasts, my belly, between my thighs. So wet under the hot blanket, I’m so hot and wet and sleepy. It feels good. I feel good. My fingers frenzied, following my thoughts wherever they lead.
I don’t seek anyone’s approval. Not yours. Not anyone’s. This has taken me a long time. I seek myself. I dig my heels into the mattress when I come, lifted up on shaking thighs. I cry out to the air around me, my room, my books, my dresses hanging crookedly in the closet, the piles of shoes. I fuck myself and yell out to the plastered walls of my tiny room.
I finally got up and decided to go shopping. A day away by myself. I wanted to finger rows of clothes on the rack, a blur of colors, texture. Flip them one by one. I’m not even looking. I know why I’m here. I know why I came. I keep my eye on the makeup counter. The makeup artists always catch my breath. Beautiful women leaning in close, holding other women’s faces. I watch this woman working, gripping a customer’s shoulder and running a thumb against her cheek. It looks so intimate. I stare at them long enough to feel my pussy get wet and heavy with an overwhelming want. My heart races. I close my eyes and feel the brush on my own skin. I smell the powder with the names that make me quiver deep down low. The sexy, absurd names of make up. Sin. Torrid. Gilda. Deep Throat. I like to wear these colors and turn the name over in my mind as my date stares at me, compliments me. “Deep Throat,” I think, “that’s what I’m wearing.” It gets me wet. I want to suck her cock. This powder on my cheeks, the bulge in her pants, the dirty appeal.
My head feels dizzy. I wander through rack after rack of clothes. I touch everything. I grab selection of things to take to the dressing room, but I don’t try anything on. I rub my fingers on the fabric. I circle buttons with my thumb. Holding a stiff pair of jeans, I run my fingernail across the zipper and pinch the thick seam running down the inner thigh between my thumb and forefinger, pulling it slowly, feeling its rough tug on my fingertips. I take off my top and bra and pull a thick, cotton shirt across my nipples. My reflection in the mirror catches me off guard and I blush, staring into my own eyes. I watch myself get turned on and it makes me feel dirty. Perfect. I smile and see the look that always made my ex blush. She told me how I get this look and she knows to pay the bill, get to the car, or meet me in the bathroom. This look on my face that told her to rub her cock up against my ass, reach around and inch my skirt up, bury her face in my neck, my tits, press her open mouth against mine. I’m seeing it now. I’m rubbing my thighs and leaning back against the door when the sales girl suddenly checks on me, “How’s it going in there? Can I bring you anything?” I try to sound calm when I send her away, but I’m out of breath, burning inside on this day that I started so lazy and warm under the covers. This day when I stayed in bed too long. This day. This day, I want to feel my own softness.
I touch all the clothes. I shut my eyes and feel the thin, ribbed cotton of a sweater on the softest flesh of my breasts. I lift one arm and let the fabric fall over my shoulder. I do this with each piece. Different textures pulled across my skin. I want to explode. In a rush, I put all the clothes back on their hangers, turn to face myself in the mirror, and unzip my skirt. I slip my hand under the seam of my panties and shudder at how soft and wet my pussy feels. I stand there with my legs open. My fingers slide against my wet lips and push inside my pussy. I look at my open mouth and my heavy eyes. I watch my cheeks blush red. I squeeze my nipples and rub my tits. Everything feels heavy and swollen. My tongue, thick in my mouth, feels lonely. I can smell the sex of this solo fuck in the dressing room. I smell my own pussy. I bring my wet fingers up to my face and inhale. I lick the tip of my finger. I want to fuck someone. I want someone to fuck.
Back in the store, I wander near the makeup counter again. I circle, getting closer. Thinking about how it will be. She’ll lean in close to look at my skin in a way I never experience anywhere else. The way a lover might stare at me when I’m sleeping. No one stares like this. It’s impersonal but so intimate, so close. I walk over and touch the lipsticks in their plastic display. One, two, three. Counting as I tap them. Waiting. Patient. She’s behind me, watching. “Do you know what you’re looking for?” she asks me. I smile. I do. I know. I turn to her with a puzzled look on my face. I’m a pouting girl. “I can’t decide,” I answer, “What do you think?” I pick up a hideous orange color. She frowns, “Let me show you.”
I sit down in her chair. I’m ready for this. I smell her minty gum as she leans over me, her face so close to mine. I catch my breath and force myself to stare right at her instead of demurely lowering my eyes like I normally do. She talks to me about color, foundation, powder. She talks about my skin, my eyes. She’s smiling as she talks, as she works. She’s working. Just working. I sit there squirming in my chair while she her fingers glide across my skin, massaging my brow, brushing color onto my cheeks, tinting my lips. She smiles at me. “So beautiful,” she says, “a timeless beauty.” It comes out canned, but somehow I still feel desired. I’m lost in my own idea of what this is between us. She didn’t know what I was taking from her. This false energy. The buzz. All afternoon, the intoxicating closeness of her beautiful face and her clean smell and soft fingers will swirl around me.
When she’s done, I look at myself. I’m glowing. I’m beautiful. I walk away with my hips swaying, my ass calling out to anyone who wants to see. I decide to take myself out for an afternoon glass of wine at one of my favorite little spots. A dark place with shiny caramel colored wood and leather chairs. Everything glows in a reddish, golden light.
Inside, in the dark warmth, I ordered a heavy red cabernet with a velvety finish. I squeezed my thighs together under the table as I sit there. I drank in gulps to feel the dizzy warm glow come fast and spread inside me. I smiled at my hands. My fingers on the thin glass. I rubbed the worn wood on the table top. Everything felt sensuous. I felt like a woman on fire. The dirty nymphomaniac in an old black and white movie whose fingers crawl, searching out sex. I wanted to scream. I needed fresh air.
I stepped out into the bright sun, forgetting it was still daylight. Wanting to be shaded and cooled by the late afternoon but feeling the sweat between my breasts before I’d gone half a block. My mood was just about to sour when I saw her. I yelled and waved. Undignified. A little drunk. Laughing.
We were old friends from our days in Portland. We used to run into each other all the time in vintage shops and bonded over our lamentably small closets that simply weren’t able to hold all our dresses respectfully. Eventually we shared an apartment, compounding the problem. We’d always been fond of the same things. Vintage dresses, butch girls in glasses, booze, books, blow jobs. I loved living with her. We’d sit on the couch with a decent bottle of wine and let it grow dark around us. We shared our techniques for giving blow jobs. “Slutty cocksucker,” we called each other, laughing, enjoying each other’s stories. We would talk about the last time or the first time or that time in the back of a club or that time I don’t like to remember or those times she wishes she could forget. She talked about how she twists her palm and brings the heel of her hand to the underside of the shaft and presses in and up. Silicone cock only. I don’t suck real dicks. Or plastic. I loved talking with her about sucking butches off. And getting fucked. It was almost as much fun as sucking cock and getting fucked itself. There were times when I was in the middle of a really great fuck and I’d smile to think how I’d tell her about it later. That’s just how it is sometimes. Some fuck you’ll never see again, but a great story you’ll have forever. We each had our epic stories, the ones we told more than once, the ones we liked to remember. Sometimes I’ll remember one of our stories and for a minute I don’t know if it’s hers or mine.
I was so happy to see her. We went back to the bar and ordered wine, drinking too quickly. She was in a hurry, she told me. I hadn’t eaten enough and felt my drunk buzz shift to something more sloppy. My apartment was a brief walk away so we headed there after one drink. She went straight to the kitchen to make us something simple to eat. She always cooked for us. It had been too long since we’d been together. I got sentimental, almost teary. “I’ve missed you,” I lamented. She turned around and smiled, “You’re drunk.” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, laughing, “It’s still true.”
I watched her bend over to get a pot for the stove and felt my clit suddenly hot and swollen. I wanted to fuck her and didn’t even stop to think. I surprised her at the stove, grabbing her thighs. She laughed and gasped in this silly, dramatic way and slapped my hands away but I turned her around to face me and slowly kissed her. She didn’t pull away. We stood there making out by the stove. She still had the small pot in her hand. I smiled and took it from her, setting it on the stove. She had a surprised look on her face. A half smile. I’m pretty sure I had the same look.
"I love your dress," I said, sliding my hand under the hem, pushing it up to her waist. “What are you doing?" she asked me, shaking her head and laughing. “I just want to fuck you right here in my kitchen," I said and she shut up, letting me kiss her again. “I’ve got plans," she whined. I grabbed the kitchen timer and handed it to her, “Set it." She set the alarm for 20 minutes, placed it back on the counter, and then leaned forward onto the butcher block and held on. I lifted her dress and slip, exposing her ass to me. She was wearing butter yellow cotton panties with sweet red cherries printed on them. I knelt down and kissed her ass through the fabric. I tugged her panties slowly down her thighs with my teeth and pushed two fingers against her pussy. I felt my way. Her clit was new to me, swollen, sensitive. She reached one hand down and showed me what felt good. I pulled her hips back, making her bend lower. I stared at the curve of her foot, how it sloped in her high heels. I caressed her ankle with one hand and let it slide casually up her calf and then let the backs of my nails drag up her thigh. I thought of her stories.
"I want to taste you," I whispered, “Turn around." She moved to face me and let her arms fall behind her. Her hands reached back to grip the counter. I lifted her dress and held it in one hand while I nuzzled my face into her pussy. The hair around her pussy was slick and wet. She smelled spicy and I could feel the heat rising off of her. “I want you," I said and opened my mouth around her clit. My tongue slowly snaked between her lips, lapping at her pussy, gliding up and around her clit and back again. I was slow. I wanted to feel her clit swell in my mouth. She ran her fingers through my curls and pulled my face harder against her pussy. My fingers moved inside her, feeling her arousal, everything swelling and expanding. I sucked on her clit and her lips while I fucked her. I heard the pots and dishes rattle behind her. When she came, she slapped her hand on the door of the cupboard making a loud, hollow thump that startled us both. Laughing, I stood up and grabbed her face. We smiled at each other. There was nothing to say, but it felt easy.
She looked at the timer and quickly grabbed me, bending me over and lifting my skirt. She had my panties down around my ankles before I could do anything about it and she was spanking me with one of my wooden spoons. She spanked my ass and the backs of my thighs. I wriggled and cooed beneath her. I stared at the soaring birds that flew on the hem of my skirt and the delicate little flowers surrounding them. I traced my finger across the stitching while she smacked me until I was dripping wet. She pressed her body up against me and reached around, lifted my skirt, and found my pussy with her fingers. She fucked me hard and fast and I came quickly, panting, a little dizzy from bending over. The rush of blood whirred inside me. I could hear my own heartbeat.
"I’ve got to run," she shrieked when the alarm rattled us. She pulled her panties back on and smoothed her dress before she turned to look at me. I hadn’t moved. I saw her look at my panties still down around my feet. “Jesus," she said and came back to me. She grabbed my face and gave me a kiss. The passion felt simple and friendly. She stared at me. “You look good," she said, “Is that a new powder?" I smiled at her. “You’ve got to run," I told her and she turned to go.
It was over so fast. She was here. We fucked. She left. My clit was still buzzing. My ass stung a little. I looked around the kitchen The bag of flour on the counter had been open and a thin white film dusted the wood surrounding it. My wooden spoon sat half on and half off the edge of the stove. I picked it up and slid the wood through my sticky fingers. I traced my own name into the flour on the counter. I thought about the day. Perfect. Just what I wanted.
"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.
Welcome to e[lust]- The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #57? Start with the rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
"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
Welcome to e[lust]- The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #56? Start with the rules, come back March 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
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.