Category Archives: Hot Stuff

Off Balance

I’m trying not to fall.

It’s one of three things on my mind, and by far the least of them. It’s an afterthought, an annoyance, but I don’t dare forget it for a second. Her face (all gasps and fluttering eyelids), my fingers inside her, and pleaseGod don’t let me fall.

It’s a studio apartment but fourteen feet from her front door to her bed is about twelve feet too far. For a moment she’s a glorious whirl of limbs, letting her hoodie flow to the floor like water while she closes the door. My body is less graceful. I kiss her hard. I’m moving forward, bending her back. A step back brings her up against the wall. She stops. I keep pressing forward.

I’m six feet tall in these shoes, maybe more. She might be 5’2″, if she stood on a phone book. I’m standing straight, looking down at her looking up at me. She half-climbs the sheetrock to bring her face to mine, raising herself on tiptoe with the chair rail gripped in both hands. She starts to wrap herself around me, but I pin her leg against the wall with my knee. We’re balanced on one of my stilettos and the toe of one of her sneakers. It’s a miracle we’re still standing, let alone pushing, kissing, pawing like this.

My mouth is on her throat, all teeth and heat and moans. I’m bent over her like a vampire in a classic film, and just as pale in reflected streetlight. My hands are on her: holding her neck and jaw in place, grazing her thigh under her skirt. She arches her back, pushes off of the wall. I feel my ankle start to turn don’t let me fall, manage to push her back.

“Are you going to touch me or not?”

“Hell, darlin’, this ain’t touching?”

“I mean: are you going to use your fingers or…” she looks away.

“I don’t know. Are you going to ask nicely?”

“If I wanted nice you’re not the girl I’d have brought home.”

I can’t help grinning at that. I’m all leather and spikes from hair to heels. She has a point. I slide my hand up her leg. There’s a moment of surprise when I feel pubic hair–she’s the first (only) girl I’ve been with who wasn’t shaved–before I slide two fingers into her. I move my hand slowly, gently, watching her face. She’s biting her lip, eyes darting to mine and away again. I’m frustrating her on purpose, waiting for her to say something. I’m trying not to laugh don’t dare laugh if I laugh I will fall.

“You’re such a tease.” I love that she makes eye contact.

“This is teasing? What, you want me to fist you, right here?

“Ngh.” She shivers, clenches around my fingers. “If you’re offering.”

I laugh. She doesn’t. “Got lube in the top drawer.” She nods at a dresser a few feet to the left.

“You wouldn’t rather–” I gesture at the bed.

“No. Right here.”

I drag her closer to the dresser anyway. I don’t want to stop touching her while I rummage for the bottle, and I suspect I’ll want something solid in reach to keep my balance. I withdraw a moment to remove my ring and start lubricating. “You’ve done this before?” She nods. “Okay.”

I move slowly, carefully. She gasps, and I pause. “Too much?”

“No, don’t stop.” She’s moaning and writhing and it seems like she’s being supported more by my wrist and her tenuous grasp on the chair rail than the floor. I am grateful to have the dresser to catch myself on. The world collapses. Nothing else exists, only her face, my fingers inside her, and trying not to fall.

There’s a rhythm to this. Slowly, gently, easing into her. She starts talking, frantic and high, swinging from English to Spanish and back again. She’s somehow scrambled one foot on top of the chair rail. She’s on point, back arched like a ballerina. She shakes, gasps. Her muscles clench down hard and I don’t try to move. Then again. Me, slow and gentle. Her, frantic. And again. And again.

“Fuck, I don’t even know how many times I came already, it’s all blurring together.”

“Do you need me to stop?”

A laugh. A volley of Spanish (which I do not speak). Then “Don’t you dare.”

I smile. Somehow we don’t fall, somehow my hand fits inside her, somehow my mouth can reach down to her throat in this position. I’m murmuring in her ear when I can pull my mouth off of her skin. She whispers back between gasps and moans.

“My turn. You have to let me–ngh.” She’s back to Spanish for a sentence or two. “My turn.”

“Are you kidding? You can still form sentences in two languages; I am nowhere close to done with you.”

Ripcord

It’s late. I’m alone in a hotel room in a city I’ve never been to before.

It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I’m alone, states away from anyone I could call at this hour. I’m texting  a partner back home, flirting and sending pictures back and forth, both getting more frustrated but not getting off. He’s teasing me for being insatiable. It’s a fair taunt, but not one I plan to let slide.


I’m sure I can find a way to entertain myself for a few nights alone.

Oh?

Yes, I came prepared. [I send a snapshot of a sheet of clothespins leaning against my thigh.]

And you plan to entertain yourself how, exactly?

That’s up to you.

[He tells me where to attach them. I send a photo when it’s done.]

Like this?

Looks about right…needs more clips though.

Yeah, well. TSA might have looked askance at that. Fuck, pulling these off is going to hurt.

Isn’t that the idea? Is it worse to wait or pull as soon as possible?

Waiting. Gives things a chance to get used to the pinching, then it’s worse when it stops.

That’s what I thought. So let things acclimate then change the climate.

Of course you’d say that. Just what am I meant to do while I’m waiting?

Be patient. [He starts talking about other things, making plans for after I get home.]

Just so you know, breathing makes the clothespins on my ribs shift. Ow.

Aww. Guess it’s just as well I didn’t have you line the whole ribcage, then. I considered a couple of other patterns.

Well, maybe I can try something else after you let me pull these ones off.

Oh, you expect me to let you pull them off.

Fuck.

You bastard.

Yes, that I am. Shouldn’t you be a little nicer if you want me to tell you to pull?

I wish you could be here for this.

Not just because I wish someone else would pull this damn ripcord for me.

Oh? To pull the line or to fuck you mercilessly afterwards?

Or to help keep me quiet when they do come off.

So maybe you should try to convince me.

[Hell. I never beg. I hate begging. If one or two renditions of “please” doesn’t get a result, I settle into a prideful state of “fine, I didn’t need that anyway”]

How would it go if I were there?

How would you want it to?

I don’t know how you’d pull. Jerk the whole string at at once, maybe,  or steadily increase pressure to release one clothespin at a time.

Which is worse?

Whichever is worse? I don’t know which one is worse, they’re both damn near unbearable.

I suspect you’d draw it out. Waiting for that rush of pain to hit is its own special torture, and you do love to torture me.

As if you don’t… I can’t tell if this is about pain or sex right now.

Is there a difference? It hurts. And yes, I’m desperate to come.  My clit is throbbing against that horrible clothespin. What the hell was I thinking, putting one there?

That it would please me. So what is it you want?

I wish you were here. I need to come but not half as badly as I need to taste your cock. I want to make you moan and grab me by the hair. I want to do whatever it is you want me to do.

I want you to keep talking. What do you want?

I want to see your face, what this does to you. I want to fly home right fucking now; to hell with this conference I want you to hurt me.

I need to come. Please. God, I need to come ten minutes ago. My legs are shaking. It hurts. It fucking hurts and I can’t touch myself with all these clothespins in the way.

I’m afraid to pull the cord, afraid I’ll make too much noise. Fuck, it’s going to hurt.

Fast or slow, which is worse? It’s a trick question. Waiting is worse.

Please. I need to come. I need these clothespins off of me so I can shove my fingers in my cunt and imagine they’re yours. Just…please.

Pull.


I’d never begged before. Talking, flirting, demanding others say these things for me, sure, but this was new and a little frightening.

New can be a good thing, right?

 

Peculiar Personal Performance

“The problem with playing at the club is that I can’t fuck you.”

His breathing is ragged. He speaks in a quiet growl that makes me want to growl back. I grind my hips against his. The tension has us wound impossibly tight. We’re playing hard, even for me. I’ll have bruises for a month, mottled garters around both thighs. My legs are shaking from the effort of staying upright while they swell and I don’t care. I don’t want it to stop.

I know this moment. It’s still violent, always violent, but the topology has changed. We’re so still, after all my twisting and writhing under his blows. He’s feeling along my edges but my surface isn’t orientable. If he wants inside he’ll have to break me. I almost want him to.

The problem with playing at the club is that I can’t fuck you.

Yes, it’s a problem. It wasn’t a problem until he said it; I was giddy with tension before but now it’s insistent, focused. If we were at his place he’d be fucking me now. He’d be pinning me down with a hand on my throat. He’d be telling me how much I want him with that smug look that I can’t even call arrogant even though he’s wrong; I want him so much more. And I’d be arrogant, too, if he teased, sure that he wouldn’t hold back for long.

But we’re not there. This tension has nowhere to go and now that he’s said it it’s the only thing in my mind.

He rakes his fingers across bruised skin, covers my mouth with his when I gasp. This isn’t kissing. I’m being consumed, voice and lips and skin and anything-you-want disappearing into him.

He puts a hand on my cheek, looks me in the eye. “I want to make you come.”

“God yes.” I’m surprised, later, that I didn’t hesitate at all. I’m not an exhibitionist, not really. Orgasm is intimate. It belongs to me, to my partner. It’s ours. I’m greedy for it and jealous of it and no I don’t care who’s watching, not really, but it isn’t for them and I’m not going to share.

I’m on the edge from kissing and from pain. He isn’t gentle. He shoves his fingers into me, rough and hard and perfect. His eyes stay focused on mine. I’m trying not to scream, not to draw attention. Trying to draw this out, if I can.

He whispers. “Come for me.” I turn my head, sink my teeth into the back of my forearm to keep from crying out. I nearly lose my balance. Too many nerves firing all at once in overwhelming contradiction of pain and yes and ohGod.

He pulls my arm away when I regain my footing. “I want to see your face when you come. I want to hear you scream. Can you do that for me?” I nod. I can’t answer aloud. He’s good with his hands, or good with me. I’m moaning again in seconds, low and soft at first, but rising fast. My hand flies up to cover my mouth. I remember not to before it gets there. He smiles. “Not yet.”

Fuck. Hell. Fuck. I exhale slowly. Refocus. Not on the pressure of his fingers inside me, or–oh God. Refocus. Math? I’ve gone past math. Words. Three syllables, beginning with P. Palimpsest. Petrichor. Priory. Pleiades. Please. Please. “Please.”

He shakes his head. He’s hoping I can’t hold back. He’s arrogant enough to think he can make me come when I’m trying not to. I’m contrary enough, proud enough, to refuse. But God, I’m close. Palmetto. Pinniped. Piranha. Predator. Like him, predatory, eyes on mine with all the smug fierceness of a cat staring down cornered prey. “Oh, fuck, please–” Refocus. Preamble. Portentious. Predicament. No, that’s four. Persistent. Pretentious. P– P– P–. I can’t think anymore, can’t see straight, can’t remember enough words to pull away from sensation. “Please.” If he says no, I still have the emergency brakes. I can control this. It may not be worth it. Employ that tactic and I may not be able to orgasm at all for days.

I don’t have to decide. He’s nodding, that smug grin still playing across his face. “Come for me.”

I don’t close my eyes. Don’t look away. Try not to think of how ridiculous my face must look, how ragged my breathing, whether I need to be quieter. His expression has turned gentle. He straightens to pull me into his arms and I let him. In these heels I can rest my chin on the top of his head, but somehow I feel small. Almost dazed. He whispers “thank you” and I smile.

The problem with playing at the club isn’t such a problem, not really.

Omne Trium Perfectum

She’s fucking me hard. Every thrust forces my face down on his cock, further than I think I can handle. With every thrust he tightens his grip on my hair. I’m choking. My throat tries to scream but there’s no air to scream with and his cock is gagging me. She’s fucking me hard and I can’t breathe and he’s groaning softly underneath me and it’s all too much, exquisitely too much. I pull my face away from him, struggle up to my hands gasping for air. “Sorry,” I mumble, and he laughs. “You think you have something to be sorry for?” His fingers fill my mouth before I can answer, not that I could have answered anyway.

Her lips are soft. She’s gentler than I’m used to. I’m trying not to smother her, resisting the temptation to make her struggle and writhe underneath me. Gentle is new, different, but then so is she, so is all of this and I’m mesmerized. All this softness can’t do more than tease but God, she doesn’t know that and for once I don’t want to say anything. Her eyes are closed. She looks focused. If she enjoys this half as much as I do then I don’t want her to change a thing. The mattress shifts a moment before I feel his hand on my hip. Her jaw slips open a fraction. Her tongue is suddenly insistent, her whimpers muffled by my cunt. Then he’s fucking her and her mouth presses into me harder. He sinks his teeth into my side, sends a shock through me from his mouth to hers. There are sounds, maybe even words coming from my throat but I don’t much care. She moans, her fingernails digging into my thighs, and it sends me over the edge.

I’m lying on top of her. She kisses slow and soft and earnest. I’m hungry for her, impatient. My teeth find her lips, her jaw, her throat. I don’t bite, just graze and drag my teeth across her. I glance up when my mouth reaches her breast. “Biting okay?” “Yes.” I bite her, not hard, not hard enough for the guttural sound in her throat and the sudden arch of her back. His fingers slide into me before I can pause to see what he’s done to her. He fucks both of us with his fingers while we writhe into each other. Her hand finds mine, brings it to her throat. I tighten my fingers, feel her shiver under the pressure. Her face changes, turns serene, almost vulnerable. I let go of her throat, feel her first shuddering gasp before I run my fingertips across her cheekbones, lips, and chin. We’re both breathing hard. I don’t know if I want to kiss her or keep watching her face. She meets my eyes. “Tell me when you’re close.” I nod. I’m already there, holding back because I want to feel this tension a moment longer. Now I realize she’s holding back for me, I want to draw it out further. I want to see her struggle against it. It doesn’t last long; I want to see her come. I say “just about now,” and within a moment I’m screaming and shivering. Her own shivering and moans follow. I kiss her, if you can call it kissing to devour the sounds she makes like this.

I straddle his face. She straddles his hips. At first she’s punching me, light blows to the scapula while we start to move. Then her hands are on my shoulders, pulling me to lean back. She bites my neck, slides one hand around my chest to pinch at a nipple. He bites down on my clit and I can’t think at all; I’m all spine and pain and too much pleasure. He bites harder, too hard. I’m shrieking in pain, twisting and pulling my body away which only makes it worse. This is too much, far too much. There’s a plea to make him stop just behind the next scream. I’m sure of it. I have no time to say it between one orgasm and the next.

We collapse. We had to, eventually. It’s been a long night, from dinner to hot tub to a long talk about the three of us, about how it’s going to work. Whether it can work at all. We don’t know, but the chemistry’s there and we do want to try. If the sex is any indicator, it’s worth trying.

“Just for tonight”

We’re mouth to mouth, skin to skin. We’re sweating, tangled, writhing. I want to throw him on his back, fuck him, flay him alive, I don’t even know. There’s so much need in these nerves, not enough of him to fill it. I’m teetering on the edge of something primal, only hanging on to reason because we are so close to fucking already and he’s not wearing a condom yet.

He bites. I claw. Fuck. “Sorry,” I mumble. I make fists, dig nails into my own palms. I will be calm. I will behave. This kiss doesn’t break, only cracks around the edges. I can’t breathe. I don’t care. He’s almost docile. No; wrong word. He meets my energy, matches it, but tonight he doesn’t overpower me. I’m frightened, giddy, vicious. I want more. My teeth find his throat and he moans. I feel it in my mouth, that sound. He’s let his head fall back, vulnerable. I know it won’t last, hate that it won’t last. I want to tear him apart in this moment. I want to keep it–keep him–like some snarling beast standing over its kill.

My nails drag down his chest, too hard. “Fuck! Sorry. Maybe we need to–” I was going to say stop. He’s not a masochist, not a bottom, not submissive. My body doesn’t care. I want to hurt him, and I’m close to the edge.

“You really want to scratch me, huh.”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Tell you what. Just for tonight, go ahead. As hard as you want, wherever. Just don’t draw blood or leave marks I can’t cover at work.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I have to hold back. My nails are longer than usual; I could easily make him bleed. I claw long, red lines over his back, his chest, his inner thighs. The last makes him gasp and shake and I pull back. “Sorry!”

“Trust me, that was a good noise.” I do trust him, or maybe I don’t care. I watch his face as I dig my nails in again. I want to slap him, to make him look at me. I want more than I can have, certainly more than he agreed to and I don’t dare ask for it; more would still be not enough. I keep scratching. I claw him while we fuck, make his hips jerk with unexpected pain. It’s more than I can handle: I’m all body no mind and I have to hold his hands in mine to keep from hurting him too much when I come. He’s looking at me. He wasn’t before but now he looks up at me with something like worship and it makes me want him all over again.

I call him beautiful. He is, the fierce attention of his face, my marks on his skin. He laughs, and I dig my nails in deep to turn it into another gasp. “You’re beautiful,” I say it again.

He turns away. “Sure, for a fat–”

“No.” He looks up–I never say no. I kiss him. It’s long and slow and almost sweet this time. “I mean it.”

Afterwards–still skin to skin, still coated in sweat–I run my fingers over his skin. “You’re pretty marked up.” I don’t mean it to sound like an apology, but it does.

“I’m impressed. I could feel you wanting to go harder. That took restraint.”

“You said no blood. Sorry, I was–”

“You’re sorry I’m impressed? I’m not saying this is going to be a usual thing, but damn. Don’t be sorry.”

I am sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t shred him in that moment when he was so in awe, so thoroughly mine. I’m sorry it couldn’t last, didn’t last. I’m sorry–and inexplicably certain–that it won’t happen again. He’s back in control. But just for tonight, it was almost enough.

Talk to me

“I want to do like a predicament scene with clothespins.”

“I have clothespins.”

“Yeah?”

“A few hundred of them.”

“Want to get your toybag?”

“Absofuckinglutely.”

“Wait, did we just negotiate?”

“Not yet. Who’s topping?”

“Uh, me. Remind me about your limits? No knives, and..?”

“Don’t fuck with my head, don’t hit my feet. No knives.”

We fumble briefly, decide to lay out a grappling mat. It takes only a minute to turn a vague idea of clothespin predicament into a plan. Four lines of pegs attached to a cross, me on tiptoe with arms stretched wide.

“So you move, you rip them off.” She’s grinning hugely.

“It will be a tense 43 seconds.” I move a lot.

“43 seconds? C’mon, you can do better than that.” She hits me before I can answer. Just slapping, bare handed. I relax into it, waiting for heavy pain. She throws a punch, hard enough to make me wobble. Two pegs snap off my hip, and I giggle.

“What happened to 43 seconds?”

“Getting bored?”

“This standing thing isn’t working for me, you’re too tall.”

“Okay.” I spin to face her, clothespins snapping all at once. She’s closer than I thought, holding a wide stance with her face an inch from my chest. “Oh! Hi!”

She looks up. “Hi. You watch pro wrestling right?” She grabs me under the arm and by the back of the knee, half-tosses half-drops me across the mat. “That’s some WCW shit right there.”

“William Carlos Williams?”

She pauses. I’m balanced on clawed hands and one knee. She’s dragging my body up by the other leg, hauling it up above my head. “What?”

The poet. WCW. You know, ‘so much depends-‘”

“‘On a red wheel barrow–‘ yeah. The hell is wrong with you, girl?”

“How long you got?”

“Until you start screaming.” She slams me down with a thump to the shoulder blade. I see Spouse hand her a wooden spoon. She applies it fast and hard to my inner thighs. I’m sweating, which makes it sting worse. I do scream. Well, yell. “Ow!” and “fuck!” and “fucking ow!”

“Aww, does it hurt?”

“Fucking stinging fucking goddamn fucking spoon! I hate that thing.”

“Guess you should go to your cave.” She starts hitting again, improbably loud slaps that have me punching the mat.

“What are you on about?”

“Your cave.” Slap. “Find your power animal.” Slap. “You know.”

“It’s a goddamn penguin!” We’re both giggling hard.

“Okay okay, be serious. I forget, have we tried this before?” She grabs my chest and lifts. She has tried if before. Attempt to induce a spasm in one of the pectoral nerves, I think. “Yeah. It doesn’t work.”

She frowns. “TMJ?”

“Nope, sorry. I mean you can try.” She applies pressure, and I take a moment to pop my jaw.

“Nothing?”

“Actually feels better now, thanks.”

“No problem.” She punches me in the chest, hard. It’s unexpected. I make a sound when I exhale. “What was that? He-?”

“No, just–hur” she punches again, forces air out.

“Definitely an “H”. Hmm. Hell? Hi? Henry?” We’re back to slapping, apparently. I start laughing, a hand over my mouth doing nothing to hold it in. “What?”

“I’m Henry the eighth, I am…” There is no excuse for singing Herman’s Hermits (hell, I shouldn’t be allowed to sing at all) but I’m committed. At least through the end of the chorus. I can’t remember the rest.

“Oh my fucking God. Turn over. I don’t even want to look at you.” She’s laughing. I hear her rummaging in my bag, focus on my balance rather than looking over. Too much weight on my left knee, pins and needles ascending on that side. She waits while I flex.

There’s no talking after that. She’s found everything that stings and she’s using them hard. I glance up: we have an audience, no one else is playing. Fuck it. I scream. Cuss. Shout. Shriek. Pain turns into energy, needs an outlet. I’m punching the mats in rhythmless staccato, balancing on the fingertips of my left hand while the right slams into the ground.

She stops, hands resting on my thighs. “You good?”

“Yup.”

“‘Yup’? Then what was all that noise about?” A two handed slap, with all her weight behind it. Ow. “Just having a tantrum?”

I giggle. “Hysterics. You know how it is with women; we just have fits over nothing.”

“Ugh, I know.” She pauses, as though she has more to say. Laughs instead. She drags me to my knees, prods everywhere she’s hit. “You’re really warm.” She leans across me to pick up the Sandman. Copper rolls over my skin.

“Fuck!”

“What?”

“It’s cold!”

“It’s cold.” I want to bite her smirk right off. “You don’t like the cold?”

“I am a lizard and I’m going to die!”

The whole room laughs at that one. She laughs loudest. “So go to your cave!”

“It’s cold there too!”

We’re both breathless with laughing. I can’t meet her eyes without making it worse.

“Okay, we good? We done?”

“We good.” I grab her in a bear hug. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“Bet you did, girl.” She helps me clean and pick up–unusual, that.

I’ve had quiet scenes. Play where the loudest sound is a quick breath or a clink of glass. They’re pleasant, calming. Nothing like this. Two people come together not in silent understanding that may or may not be all imagined, but in conversation. We’re raucous and vulgar and laugh too much. We have fun.

Some folks hold back. Don’t joke; it’s disrespectful. Don’t scream; it’s weak. Don’t speak; it’s not the time.

To hell with that. I’m not here to skate the surface of you, I’m here to dive in. Let all those words and sounds and all the rest of it break the surface.

Talk to me.

Hot Water

We shouldn’t be doing this. Kissing, touching, sliding hands over wet skin. There are others in the hot tub with us. Two acquaintances, more strangers. I don’t know how many. I’m straddling your lap, trying to focus on the conversation we’re having with the others, on the flow of water across my skin, on anything other than the pressure of your body against mine every time you move.

You look calm. You nod and smile and carry the conversation as though there’s nothing but this small talk on your mind. As though you aren’t running your hands over my ass and thighs, slipping your fingertips just under the edge of my bathing suit before moving away again. By the time there’s a lull in conversation long enough for us to kiss again, I’m ready to devour you. You let me. If I could thank you for not teasing me by keeping back another moment, I would. Speaking would mean losing a syllable of time that could be spent kissing you. It’s unthinkable.

You run your fingers between fabric and skin, shove the crotch of my suit out of the way. It cuts into my thigh. I can’t remember why I decided to wear it at all, can’t help being annoyed that it’s getting in the way now. Your fingers clamp down hard on my clit, making me gasp and pull back to look at you. You turn suddenly gentle, let your fingers drift down, feather-light and slow. You take your hands away, shift your weight. For a moment I think you’re going to push me away. You grip my hips instead, pull me closer, until your cock is pressed up against my cunt. I can’t read your expression–waiting to see how I’ll react, I suppose. I could stop you. I nod, only once, only slightly. Your expression stays the same: calm and inscrutable. Above the water, you don’t even move. You slide into me slowly, with the barest rocking of our hips. I have to kiss you again to keep from moaning out loud. It hardly seems possible that the others don’t know exactly what’s going on, but no one says a word. It’s not as though anyone’s likely to mind, here. We’re not fucking–not really. Once you’re inside me we barely move. I can hardly breathe. I’m all but shaking with the effort of not thrusting my hips against yours.

I wonder how you’d react if I leaned in to whisper exactly what I’m thinking in your ear. How I want you to fuck me hard, right now, consequences be damned. How I want you to take me home, throw me against a wall, hit my face and fuck my mouth and please don’t stop just because I gag or choke or my eyes seem to be begging for relief. How I could almost come, right here, right now, without moving at all. How I don’t give a damn about my own orgasm: right here, right now, all I want is yours.

Oral Fixation

I’ve been in bed for hours. I should be sleeping, but I can’t stop thinking about your mouth.

I’m thinking of kissing you. The lightest touch of lip against lip, not quite a kiss but charged, waiting. It takes me back to Millikan, to drop of oil hovering still in the air, to an impossible calm. Hard, bruising kisses while we crash into each other, fumbling out of clothes or just yanking them out of the way. Long, slow, good-night kisses that can’t be allowed to end because when they do I have to leave. Kissing you while you laugh. You kissing me to devour the screams when you hit me, when I come, sometimes both at the same time.

I’m thinking of the way you damn near maul my ears. Your breath and tongue invasive. My body wants to pull away: it’s too intimate, too much a breach of my defenses. I can’t be still. The writhing makes you growl, so close you might as well be in my own head. It’s invasive, excruciating, sends a terrible need shivering across the whole surface of my skin. I can’t stand it. I don’t want it to stop.

I’m thinking of your teeth. Anywhere and everywhere never biting quite hard enough. I can feel the restraint in your jaw when you close it on my collarbone, your beard scratching against my skin. When I look in the mirror in the morning I want to find your bite written on my skin somewhere among the bruises.

You’re in my head. Not just on my mind but my whole nervous system. I want so much out of so little time: conversations and meals and projects and scenes and places we could go.

Tonight, it’s simpler than all that. I’m missing you, of course, and wishing that tonight for once you could have been free as planned, but I’m not worried about any of it. I just can’t quite seem to stop thinking about your mouth.

Scream

I want to make her scream.

I’ve only known her a few hours, the length of a brutal scene and a conversation broken into pieces across this party. I know how we got here. It’s easy to point to the moment attraction is affirmed, the phrase that drew a sudden sense of of intimacy. Still, that first kiss is as thrilling and surreal as all first kisses are. I know how we got here, but it hardly seems to matter.

I’m gentle at first, kissing softly, sliding fingers over her back lightly enough to catch on the texture of her skin. Both of us are marked: she has a welt for every bruise of mine, burning under my fingertips. I’m trying to be careful, to move slowly. I don’t know her body, whether she can balance pain on top of pain or if she needs this time to recover. She makes a sound like a dove and arches her whole body into me when my fingernails brush the length of a weal across her side. I want to claw her open. I want to turn her soft noises to shrieks and her shy caresses to thrashing limbs. I force my hands to relax. I whisper in her ear (I don’t remember what, only that it made her shiver and try to pull my hips against her). I’m holding back a laugh, teasing her with my teeth, grinding hard against her thigh.

It doesn’t last long, the gentleness. My mouth wants all of her, from lips to skin to sinews. My fingers curl around the shape of bones. We are ill-balanced on this unfamiliar couch. I half-fall, land with one knee on cold tile and the other between her thighs. She’s talking, asking where she should move, filling the air with apologies I don’t want to hear. I scramble up, climb her with lips and teeth and too-clumsy hands. I bite her collarbone hard, harder, until she gasps.

“Stop. Saying. Sorry.” I don’t lift my teeth from her skin. The words come out half-growl, half-lisp. I sound ridiculous. She nods anyway, biting her lip, eyes cast down. There’s a low laugh behind me. Her boyfriend (dominant. Master. Something. I don’t care.) leans over in his creaking chair. His voice is too low for words to carry. The Techie’s answer is just as quiet, just as distracting. I try to push them out of my head.

She makes it easy to refocus. I slide my teeth over her breast, my hand up her thigh. When I look up, her eyes are closed and she’s still biting her lip. “Okay?” I ask. She nods. “Can I..?” I move my fingers farther up her leg, watching her face. “‘Course you can,” says her boyfriend from behind me. Annoyance flares up. I have to close my eyes and exhale slowly before speaking. “I am not asking you.” I tap her on the collarbone with the knuckles of my left hand. “I’m asking you.” For a moment I think she’s gone somewhere past words. I’m starting to sit back, pulling away from her when her eyes flutter open. “Yes. Please.”

I can’t help grinning. I’m being rough with her, watch her face to see how she responds. I’m trying to hold back. I worry even holding back might be too much. Frankly, I’m surprised she can lie on her back at all tonight. “If I’m hurting you, or this is too intense, tell me, yeah?” She mumbles something, too quiet to hear. “Sorry?” “I said I want too intense.” She buries her face in her hands.

I wondered if she would still pull me closer if she knew what I was thinking, that I wanted to crumble her to bits between my hands and eat the pieces. I held her down, fucked her with my fingers while her hands clenched and unclenched on either side of my hips.
She’s so quiet underneath me. All I hear is the faintest ragged breathing, whisper-soft moans. I want to make her scream.

We’ve twisted. I don’t know when it happened and I don’t care. I’m underneath her, my cunt pressed against the muscle of her thigh. We’re kissing, teeth clattering. She moans into my mouth and I drink it in. I’m not so quiet as she is. I come screaming, eyes locked on hers. After that it’s a blur. I heard the Techie and her boyfriend talking at one point, gasped at them to be quiet or go away. We exhausted ourselves and came back for more for I don’t know how long. She said it was after dawn, when she got home.

We exchanged numbers. Been texting, most days. It’s been a while. I feel hesitant, shy. It’s not the sort of encounter one can leave with any expectations, but we rather get along.

She’s heading back to town this weekend, for another party. I am unexpectedly, delightfully giddy.