Tag Archives: erotica

Three Days (in moments)

This is how to fit months of sexual tension into three days:

My stilettos threaten to slip between cracks on the deck. I have to stop kissing him to take them off. I have to stop kissing him and his hand draws back from under my skirt and I can’t stand it, not even for a second. I’ve been too long without kissing. I need more.


I’d forgotten how messy sex without condoms can be. I’d forgotten how much I love it. I’m forgetting words other than “yes” and “more” and “please.” He’s still looking at me like I’m performing miracles every time I come. I don’t know why. I don’t want it to stop.


He says “I need to fuck you” but it only makes me moan. I have his cock in my mouth. His hand is trembling in my hair. It almost feels like hes pushing me away, apologizing as he thrusts into my throat. I’m struggling not to gag, but the struggle makes me want this more. This is what I’m greedy for: feeling him tremble, hearing him gasp. I want to be solid while he quakes. I don’t want to stop.

He stops me. I’m pulled up his body into kisses that are all hunger and teeth. He says “I need to fuck you.”

I tell him “no.” Our bodies are pressed together. I writhe. He shakes.

“I need to fuck you.”

“No.”

He’s pleading, between kisses, for anything more than kissing. I tell him “no” as I slide two fingers into my cunt. I try to keep kissing him though I’m struggling for balance and for breath. He’s making a face like he’s in pain. I want to draw this out, seeing him this desperate, but it’s too much. I make myself come, far too quickly.

He insists it went on for hours.


Kissing, every moment I can steal one. In my hammock. Through the walls of a grave. In the passenger seat of my car, my knees around his hips, hoping my skirt drapes over his hands. I can’t get enough. He doesn’t try to stop me.


I fall asleep, or into something spinning and dark that might be sleep. He wakes up to ask if I’m okay, more than once. I’m okay, nervous about being not-okay but not uncomfortable being touched. We don’t sleep late, up near sunrise and unable to keep our hands off of each other.


I’m half-growling at him to fuck me. He knows I’m sore already. I know neither of us really cares. He pauses anyway. Asks if I’m sure. I’m more than sure. Demanding. He says “yes, ma’am,” and I don’t know whether it’s the words or finally feeling him inside me that makes me moan. His mouth is everywhere. On my mouth, holding me quiet. Teeth on my breast, making my body arch up into his. I keep asking for more. He keeps giving it to me.


We need to leave for the airport. He’s complaining that my underwear’s teasing, that he can see too much through the mesh, so I take it off. He reaches under my dress as we kiss goodbye, briefly slips his fingers into me before getting out of the car.

Swing (or “‘Merica, Fuck Yeah!”)

Two women and a man walk into a Walgreens for condoms and rum. The Chef and I are giggling arm in arm. Chi looks back at us to ask if we want anything else. Whiskey? Champagne? I shake my head. I won’t be drinking at all: I prefer strange nights sober. I’m half-monitoring dirty looks coming our way. We’re not being obvious, not really, but we’re too familiar to be friends and it’s clear we’re not sisters.

Two women and a man get a stern glare from the cashier. She says she can’t sell us alcohol–three sober adults over twenty-one. She can’t refuse to sell the condoms. It isn’t worth an argument. Chi can run in to another store for liquor.

The Chef and I wait in the car this time. She twists around to talk to me. “So Chi’s never had a threesome before. I thought it might be fun to give that to him, before I go home.”

“Yeah? I could go for that.”

“Sure? I know you’re going through some shit, if you’re not down it’s cool.”

“I haven’t had sex in ages. We’re talking once in the last four months. I am more than down.”

“Well awesome. Let’s see if we can make this work.”


I’ve never been to a swinger’s club before. I’m not sure what to expect. We pile onto a couch and watch a woman in jeans and pink stilettos dance. I’m taking it in: low light, music, people milling around. The Chef speaks first. “Okay, we should negotiate things. Game plan, everybody’s limits..?”

“Well, you pretty much know what you can do with me by now. Um. No penetration without a condom–”

“Wait, does that include oral?”

“No, unless you want it to.” He makes a face. Clearly not. I turn back to the Chef. “I should have asked, is the stuff we do okay here?”

She turns to Chi. “This one’s a masochist.”

“So…like…spanking?”

“Punching, slapping, hitting generally.” The Chef and I are grinning at each other.

“Punching? How hard are you talking about?”

I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. The Chef giggles, too. “However hard you think is too much, she’s gonna say harder.”

He looks at me, quizzical.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Chi and I keep looking to her, deferring. “These things are easier if one person takes charge. Like a facilitator. Do you mind–? That’s usually me.”

I don’t mind and neither does he. She sends us upstairs (“Get acquainted!”) so she can have a cigarette first. We both offer to join her. She shoos us off. “I don’t want to be rushed.”

We find a couch. I’m suddenly shy, looking at the video on the wall, at my hands, anywhere but at this boy I plan to fuck but haven’t touched. He laughs, and it brings my eyes to his face. “Hm?”

“No, just…Lucky me. You have no idea. I have a thing for redheads.”

I shake my head, try not to laugh. Everyone in this town has a thing for redheads. He’s put out a hand, but doesn’t touch. I’m not sure if he’s reaching to push my hair out of my face or pull me closer and I don’t wait to find out. I lean in to kiss him.

For an instant I wish I hadn’t. I ache, suddenly, everywhere. I’m raw from too long without physical contact. This isn’t enough. I love the way he’s kissing me, fierce and open, but it isn’t enough. His hands slide up my legs. Suddenly every inch of clothing is an offense, an affront. I can’t stand the thought of an inch that can’t be touched.

I help him peel off my dress, then everything else. There’s a pause–he’s never seen piercings like mine in real life, is staring with something like awe. Then his hands are on me, and his mouth. I am not clawing at him, not pulling his hair. I am too overwhelmed in this moment to trust myself. This is a fucking stranger and I want to tear him apart.

Then there are three of us. Another room. They joke that I’m a doll. It’s true. I don’t move, they move me. I am flipped, pulled, turned. Chi is hesitant. The Chef isn’t. Her manipulations push me into him. I’m gagging  on his cock. He pulls away. “It’s okay. Choking is okay.” I’m still gasping around the words.

His knees shift. “What?”

The Chef answers: “She says you’re good.”

I am scrambling for purchase, and for focus. I’m balanced on the exquisite edge of I need this and it’s too much, and it holds. I don’t know how but it holds. My throat is raw from failing to keep quiet. He’s fucking me, asking if it hurts, and yes, it does, and yes, I want it to.

A moment. The Chef is out of reach. I can’t breathe, the room spins. “I need a minute.” I roll away, try to breathe. They focus on each other. I’m in awe of their intensity, a little humbled that two people as strong as they are would include me at all.

They bring me back. I reach for her, am pushed onto him instead. I laugh. “You’re not letting me do anything!”

“Nope.” The Chef is grinning. “You’re our doll, remember?”

“Not a puppet?”

“Do you want a whole hand in you?” She pauses. “I have pretty large hands.”

Of course I want. A corner of me remembers that her hands are cut and burned. That there are gloves in my purse, lube in her bag. But mostly I don’t care. I’m willing to let her make this call. I like the roughness of it. She’s talking. Taunting. Telling me about my body, measuring the movement of her hands. She has words for both of us, all I can do is cover my mouth to hold back a scream.

She pauses. “Don’t let her do that again.”

Chi’s hands cover my wrists, but he doesn’t grip. He’s looking down at me, so I nod and twist to fit his hands more easily. He holds me down while she adds pressure. Shaking. Screaming. We’ve left lube across the room. “Right up to the last knuckles, but not past them.”

We need water. I need caffeine. We’re there for hours and most of a box of condoms more. Too much sensation for one night, and exactly what I needed.

‘Merica. Fuck yeah.

Don’t Touch Me

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“It’s from Beckett.” These lines are part of me, a paradox of fear and hope, self-loathing and pride. Ne me touche pas. Ne me demande rien. Ne me dis rien. Reste avec moi. It’s a favorite moment from a play I’ve read too many times. It’s a surprisingly perfect and concise instruction manual for handling my panic attacks.

They are written indelibly across my skin. I’ve run my fingers across these lines countless times. I like to see a lover do the same, in intimate moments.

“What’s it mean?”

But there is that.

For a moment I’m frozen in place, skin clinging to leather, reticent to reveal what I’ve already put on display. I’m thinking of loneliness, which is always safe and always calm. I’m thinking of betrayal and loss. I’m thinking of a mouth so hot and fierce and dangerous that I never want to stop kissing it. Something shifts. I’m on my knees, too close. My fingers are twitching to trace the line of his jaw or choke him or slip into his mouth.

Ne me touche pas.

He looks so calm. How is he so calm? I push my hair out of my face, lean in to whisper. “Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t move. I close my eyes and breathe. I’m swooning into the heat he generates, listening for his breath over the rushing sound in my head. He doesn’t move. This isn’t close enough. I swing one leg over to straddle him, brace my hands on either side of his head. We aren’t touching. I know we aren’t touching because if we touched I wouldn’t be able to stop. There’s an impossible humidity condensing on my skin, unbearable, unbreathable, but nothing next to the storm. My lips pass over his. I inhale his breath.

Ne me demande rien.

The center cannot hold. I bring my lips to his ear again. I’m breathing too fast, trying to keep control. (of whom?) “Don’t question me.”

His breath catches. The movement brings his earlobe to brush against my mouth. It’s too much. God help me but it’s too much. I sink my teeth in, just below his jaw. He growls. I growl back. I bite his neck, his shoulders, his clavicle. Some light nips, some near to mauling. He lifts his hands from the couch. I don’t wait to see what he does. I grab his wrists and hold them down. I bite his shoulder hard enough to make him whimper, even through his shirt. I feel him straining against my hands. He’s strong, much stronger than I am. He’s not trying to get loose, but not about to surrender either. He starts to say something. I put a hand over his mouth before he can.

Ne me dis rien.

“Don’t speak to me.” I’m sitting on his lap, my face inches from his. He meets my eyes when he nods, and I take my hand away from his mouth. He’s breathing hard, almost panting. So am I.

This kiss is a hurricane. I can’t get enough. I am howling wind and driving rain. I am shoving him back, seeking a way in. This kiss should crack him open. This kiss should have him throwing up panicked defenses. It doesn’t. He is brave, or careless. He has come out to meet me and I’ve made him too slippery to catch. I am surging around him and he’s moving through. He should be pinned beneath my onslaught but I can’t hold him down. This kiss is desperate. Please. Please don’t be so sweet, don’t be so gentle. If he calms me, I may drift apart and be forgotten. Oh, but I love this too. This kiss I can sink into. It will drag me down. It will drown me. I don’t care. His mouth on mine is all that matters, and I can’t remember why I wanted it so vicious, so violent before.

Reste avec moi.

“Stay with me.”

I know he won’t. I don’t meet his eyes. This is pressuring. This is cruel. I want to take it back, because I have pride, because I don’t (no, not ever, can’t) speak hope aloud. I can push anyone away, that’s easy, but inviting someone in?

Est-ce que je t’ai jamais quitté?

Have I ever left you?

Tu m’as laissé partir.

You let me go.

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Confessions

“I keep telling myself I won’t come back here.” He’s sprawled in my chair, clutching one of my books.

“We don’t have to have sex. That’s not the only reason I call, you know.” It doesn’t occur to me until much later that it’s the only reason he answers.

“When you called–I was trying to figure out how to break up with you. Except I can’t.”

I laugh. He looks up at me. “Sorry, just…wouldn’t we have to be together before we could break up?”

“Well, if you’re going to be sensible about it…”

“So why can’t you?”

“Mm?”

“Stop coming back. It’s because I beat you at Smash Bros, isn’t it. You want a rematch.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely not it.” He stands up, looking for a place to put the book down. I get up and put it away before I give him my attention.

We’re face to face and too close to be coy. I take his hat off to run my fingers through his hair. He leans into me, close enough that his nose brushes my cheek and then bumps closer. Close enough that not kissing is unreasonable, deliberate torment.

“We don’t have to.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes, but you’re always miserable after.” I’ve pulled back. “I like sex. I like sex with you. I don’t want to be the awful woman who makes you sin.”

“Awful.” His voice is soft, his mouth so close to mine. “You aren’t making me do anything. Only making me want to.” I don’t know what to say. My hands are on his hip, on the back of his neck. All I want to do is pull him closer. I’ve initiated every time and I’m afraid he only half wants it. I stand still. He moves closer. “Lord, give me temperance…but not yet.”

Not yet. I don’t kiss him and he doesn’t kiss me. We let go, slam together with the inevitability of gravity. His weight and his intensity drive me back until my legs hit the bed. When I fall I drag him after me. His teeth close on my throat. I’m trying to stay quiet, not sure if my roommate is home. She used to go out with him. I’m not sure how awkward this is for her. I’m pulling his hair, snarling, wrapping my legs around him. I want to tear his clothes off. I have no intention of putting enough distance between us to get him out of them.

He rolls away to unbutton my shirt. There’s no fumbling: he’s neat and focused. I fling the shirt on the floor as soon as I can jerk my arms out of it. I reach to untuck his but he pulls back. “Did I do that?”

I look down. My upper arms are covered in leopard-spot bruises. “Yeah.” I grin. “I think you missed a spot.”

He runs his hands over my shoulders, too gently. I lean into the pressure, groan a little when he tightens his grip. His mouth lands on mine. It’s unexpected–I’ve kissed him before, and he kisses well, but he always moves away to kiss and bite every other inch of skin he can find. This time I hold him in place. We don’t break apart until I pull his t-shirt over his head.

I slide out of the rest of my clothes and onto his lap. He reaches between my legs to pop the button on his jeans, then stops. “Condoms?”

Hell. “Yes, but not– Roommate needed–” I trail off. He doesn’t need to know she’s fucking someone else, or who. “I don’t know if she’s home.” I keep a bowl of them on my desk. They don’t fit him and neither of us needs the fear of another one breaking.

“Not when I got here.” He stands up. “I know where she keeps them. I’ll explain if she’s here.” I consider arguing that I should go, but he has clothes on and I don’t. I nod. He’s only gone a few seconds, long enough for me to get nervous again. He notices. “You okay?”

I stand to put my arms around his neck. “Could be better.” He grins and lets me pull his face up to mine. I’m biting his lip hard. He dips slightly, pushing his jeans down. He catches my thighs in his hands as he straightens back up, lifts me off the ground. We teeter a moment before tumbling onto the bed. He lands on top of me. His hand slides up my thigh. I’m gasping, pushing closer to him, but he shoves me down. His teeth close on flesh an inch below my collarbone. I curl my fingers in his hair, not sure whether to pull him closer or away. “Will you please fuck me already?”

There’s a moment of fumbling with the condom. He’s shy of being watched, and I like his shyness. “Are you sure–?” I pull his hips toward me. “Yes.” He pushes into me slowly. He’s watching my face, almost comically concerned. It does hurt. His cock is the largest I’ve seen and I’m not in the habit of using lube. But I like the pain. I thrust against him hard, making us both groan out loud. I hold still, a shivering line of tension from shoulder to cunt. It takes a moment before I can stop gasping long enough to speak. “Fuck me. Hard.”

It’s his turn to shiver. He does, choking out half-sentences between gasps while I dig my nails into his back. I’m not listening. I tell him to bite, yes, harder, and he does, with one hand over my mouth to muffle the screaming when I come. And again. We’re all shuddering sweat and sound blending together. He moans “I’m going to…ngh. Please–”

I don’t remember if I answered–I was somewhere past words and his “please” pushed me over the edge again. His whole body jerked, knocked the breath out of me. When he rolled over he pulled me on top of him and held on tight.

We lay there a long time, not talking, or if we did talk it wasn’t about much. I asked if he was going to stay the night. He wasn’t, and he took that as his cue to check the time and pull on his jeans. I watch from bed, too content to move.

“Still think you’re going to stop coming back here?”

He grins at me from the doorway. “Not yet.”

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.”

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.

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.