When I was in San Francisco last fall, I had the opportunity to take some fun photos at a friend’s house; sadly, these are not my clothes, but I had a great time putting them on for a bit. I felt like a dirty ring master.
Paul stepped out of his Toyota Corolla with a concrete foot and a stomach full of moths. He paused and looked up at the tall, grey, nondescript walls of his high school and stared at a waving American flag in front of the main entrance, lost in thought. Would anyone remember him? If they did, would it be as anything other than that kid that everyone called a fag? Why did he even bother to come back?
Morbid curiosity, he supposed. He tried not to wish various maladies and misfortunes on the countless people who’d treated him like shit when they were teenagers, but his revenge cortex couldn’t help it. Lebanon, Missouri was closer to Kansas than it was to St. Louis; as soon he graduated, he hightailed it to Northwestern University and stayed in Chicago thereafter. It was the first time he’d even crossed the border back to Missouri in twenty years.
Straightening his tie, he walked toward the school uneasily; he opened the door with a heavy heart and was relieved when the first person he saw was the girl who’d played Marion the Librarian to his Harold Hill. He gave her a huge smile and warm hug. She was thrilled to see him, too; almost immediately, she grabbed his shoulder and pulled his ear toward her. “Paul,” she whispered – “He’s here.” Paul knew who Loreen meant, but he didn’t want to create hope where there was none, so he played dumb. “Who’s here?” he asked, painting a quizzical look on his face. “You know who,” she scolded, lightly punching his arm. It was true, then. Dean. Dean Walker – the wrestling champion who took their school to state finals senior year. Thinking about his sweaty smell as he walked past Paul down the hallway after practice still gave Paul a raging hard-on. Dean had been in his spank bank for decades.
He continued chatting to Loreen as they walked into the gym and grabbed beers; while they caught up on their lives, he restlessly scanned the room until he saw Dean talking to his old teammates. His eyes lingered on Dean’s shoulders – not as big as they used to be, but still strong and toned under his fitted T-shirt. He gulped and remembered fondly one late afternoon that he’d gone into the locker room after school to use the bathroom and had found Dean coming out of a stall; Dean turned around when Paul went in and followed him back into the same stall, looking Paul square in the eye for a moment before Paul willingly dropped to his knees and pulled down Dean’s shorts, taking his freshly-showered, now hardening dick into his mouth. He eagerly relished the texture of every vein and ridge and the moan that Dean didn’t mean to make when Paul squeezed his balls just so. After Dean had shot his salty load into Paul’s mouth, he pulled his shorts up and walked out, leaving Paul on his knees; they never spoke of it again. In fact, they never spoke again.
Feeling uncomfortable as his cock started to stiffen under his trousers now, Paul excused himself momentarily and started walking toward an exit. He couldn’t help looking toward Dean as he strode – and Dean looked back at him. They made fleeting eye contact before Paul stepped out to inhale lungfuls of fresh air. Standing against a wall, he closed his eyes and tried to think of anything that would make the blood leave his cock. He started when he opened them and Dean was next to him.
“Hey, Paul,” he said. “It’s been awhile.” Paul squinted his eyes a bit, befuddled by this sudden friendliness. “Y-yeah,” he stammered, “It has.” The last word came off like a question as his brain tried to comprehend what was happening. “I got a new truck,” Dean said in a way that suggested they were old fishing or hunting buddies. “You haven’t been around in a long time – want to see it?” “Sure,” Paul said, drawing out the word. He followed Dean to a silver behemoth at the far end of the parking lot. “Chevy Silverado,” Dean said proudly, tapping the hood twice. “She’s real comfortable for a truck and even has heated seats if you can believe that. Want to go for a test drive?”
Paul opened his mouth, but no words came. Dean opened the passenger side door and offered up the seat to Paul. “Hop in,” he said. “She’s a beaut.” Dean drove them west on 64 until they came to the gravel parking lot of an abandoned diner, which he pulled into, treading on a linked chain that meekly attempted to keep cars out. He turned the engine off and turned to Paul. “I owe you something,” he said, his voice deeper than normal. “I don’t – ” Paul started, but Dean interrupted him by sliding a large, rough hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Now Paul really thought he was dreaming, so he made the most of it and kissed Dean back with the ferocity we reserve for fantasies. Suddenly, Dean was taking apart the clasps at the top of Paul’s trousers and pulling his cock out of his boxer briefs, licking around it before taking it into his mouth and then into the back of his throat as Paul grew thicker and longer. Paul was so taken aback that he held his hands up at first, motionless – but as Dean’s head movements became rhythmic and he started groaning, Paul placed his hands on those shoulders he’d spent so much time thinking about during meetings and held on. Feeling Dean’s tongue slide along the length of his cock and his strong hand gripping the base was almost too much to handle. He felt his core tighten and his legs tremble; “Fuck,” he muttered, “I’m going…” his words trailed off as his face screwed up and his whole body clenched, then released. His breath slowed as Dean licked every last drop of cum off of him. He closed his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he said, his head tilted back, feeling body-drunk.
Dean put his arm around Paul’s shoulders and rested his chin next to Paul’s ear. “We’re even now,” he said. “But maybe don’t make it such a long time ‘til you come back to visit.” He started the engine and turned the truck around, back toward the school, and drove silently while faded music played on the radio.
It’s late November; I’m sitting upstairs in a Starbucks reading a long, dry textbook chapter, and Billie Holliday’s version of “All of Me” comes on. I try to focus on the text, but when I stare down at the page, the black marks swim and crash against each other until I have to close my eyes. I remember you gliding your hand up my right arm, pressing my palm into the cabin wall while biting my neck. You reach behind my shoulder with your other hand to untie my bikini string; the top falls from my breasts and you yank it down, taking your left hand off my right and sliding your fingers into my wet hair. I still feel your muscular arms wrapped around me, picking me up to wrap my legs around you and pressing me harder into the rough wood so you can penetrate me, banging me against the wall with all the force of youth’s desperate wanting. I try to find something to hang onto, but you tell me you’ve got me; I don’t need to put my hands anywhere but around your neck. You sink your grip deep into the flesh of my flanks and find a way to get deeper into me, tasting lake algae in my kisses and hearing me whimper into your ear as I come hard onto you, making sure no one outside hears us. There won’t be campers until the next day, so we spend all night tangled together, listening to Billie Holliday’s love songs on the cabin’s CD player.
I’m driving through Death Valley on a long stretch of empty highway, looking around at colorful rock strata and abandoned mines, and “Shameless” by Garth Brooks comes on the radio, crackling because I’m so far out. I think of another highway in another state; of tall firs and stars. We’re in your 1981 Ford pickup, and this song – our song – comes on the radio. You pull over, shut off the engine, and ask me to dance. With my window rolled down, we can hear the song loud and clear; I have my hand on your shoulder, caressing your neck with my fingertips, and you have your hand in the small of my back; I sigh, feeling connected and safe. Mid-dance, you reach under my skirt to slide my panties down under my dress and over my flip flops, flinging them through the window. You return your hand to my back and touch me with the other; still swaying side to side, you take the now-flowing juices from inside of me and lift them up and over my clitoris, clumsily moving your fingers, but still gratifying my easily-satisfied body. After the song, I hop into the truck bed and offer you my hand; you grin and take it, scrambling up. I unzip a sleeping bag and put it down, pushing you onto it and laughing. I take your boots off and unbuckle your belt, then unzip you to find you commando and hard as a rock. I let my dress straps fall over my shoulders, taking them off as I straddle you, and put on your hat. I interlace my fingers with yours and sink onto you, giving you my very best cowgirl. You buck up like a mechanical bull and I stay on for the long ride. The night is black around us, and I still smell pine sap and distant bonfires.
A band at Coachella sings “Billie Jean,” and I remember sneaking off with you at a Halloween party, finding a dark room where we meant to make out but ended up fucking with abandon on a couch. We were too greedy for each other to be careful about not being seen or heard. Too young to be drinking; tipsy with vodka, but soused with oxytocin.
I hear “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by the Temptations in the supermarket and am transported to an intense and steady stare in your eyes across a field of running children; I blush, feeling a taut line between us where everything else fades. I feel a tug on my hand and look down; it’s a seven year-old camper. “Delivery service!” she squeaks, smiling big with a couple of teeth missing. I pop the balloon handed to me and take out a piece of paper that reads, “I want to make you come so many times that you beg for mercy.” I stuff the paper in my pocket and blush deeper, trying to will my nipples to deflate, feeling an uncomfortable and warm gush in my knickers. “Mercy,” I mouth to you, and you salute me.
At karaoke one night, someone gets up to sing “Faithfully” by Journey. I deeply inhale and think about the last time we kissed, slow dancing at the Bear’s Den in front of your bros, multi-colored lights flashing around us. You had a girlfriend, but that had never stopped us on either side. I listen to the lyrics – “Being apart ain’t easy on this love affair / two strangers learn to fall in love again / I get the joy of rediscovering you / oh girl, you stand by me – I’m forever yours, faithfully” – and reminisce about the promise of love, the consequences of lust, and the fact that there are some people you never stop wanting no matter how much time has passed.
This piece was inspired by an erotica writing contest over at @EA_unadorned’s site; he came up with a brilliant set of writing prompts based on song lyrics. Please check out not only the prompt page, but his site in general!
The first time was an accident. Maria had picked up the phone in her room when it rang; when she heard her roommate Edith say hello to her long-distance girlfriend, she almost clicked the button to hang up – until she heard Edith’s girlfriend ask, “So – what are you wearing?” This should be good, she thought, waiting for Edith’s inevitably quippy reply.
Instead, she heard Edith say, “You know that bra you bought me for Christmas? The red, lacy number that I never wear because it’s so impractical?” “Mmhmm,” came a knowing murmur from the other end. “That, and one end of your favorite dildo.”
Maria almost dropped the phone. In a panic, she pressed the earpiece to her ear and moved the mouthpiece down toward her neck, afraid to breathe or make a peep. She listened to Edith’s girlfriend give orders which Edith presumably followed:
“Are you wet? Good girl. Slide the dildo in and out until it’s covered in your juices. Get on your knees; push it deep into your A-spot and pulse it there. Press your legs together to hold it in place while you put your fingers in your mouth. Make circles around your clit… painfully slow circles.”
All she heard on Edith’s end were moans and whimpers of assent and pleasure – then a strained pleading to be allowed to come, followed by a tortured groan when she was denied. When she finally did come minutes later, it was epic – Maria had never heard anything like it before. Like a house on fire breaking apart, sending embers flying into a black sky, lighting it up with red smoke. Maria had never felt like that before.
When they finally said goodnight, it was Maria who felt exhausted. She hung up the phone and turned out her bedroom light; lying on her back in the dark, she slid her hands under the bottom of her nightgown and flung it aside. She squirmed as she felt slickness warm her inner thighs; when she moved her hand into her panties, she was shocked by how wet she was. She slid two fingers inside her cunt with one hand while gently rubbing her entire labia with the other, up and down, thinking about the orders that Edith obediently followed. Her hips bucked and her breath caught as her orgasm had her. She turned her head to bite her pillow, curling into a ball, afraid to make noise; she fell asleep in her underwear, which stuck to her.
It was the first thing on her mind when she woke up the next day; she knew she had to come clean. Edith had been her best friend for years; there just weren’t any secrets between them. Dreading the conversation, she rolled out of bed and slouched into the kitchen for coffee.
When she sat down at the table, she noticed how perky Edith seemed – how light on her feet. Good. “Ed – I have something to tell you.” “What’s up?” Edith asked, a spring in her step as she fluttered around the kitchen, grabbing dishes and cups and toast and creamer. “I heard you last night.” “Oh, god,” Edith said, her movements suddenly halted. “I was so loud you could hear me through the walls? I’m sooooo sorry!” “No…” Maria continued. “I heard you on the phone. I picked up and couldn’t stop listening. I know it was a huge violation of your privacy – I’m so, so sorry, Ed.” Her face flamed. She expected Edith to yell, to slam things on the table, to be furious. Instead, Edith just looked… curious.
“Huh,” she said. “Huh?” replied Maria. Again: “Huh.” Maria looked at her, completely baffled, not really knowing what to say. It turned out she didn’t have to say anything. “Did you… like what you heard?” asked Edith. Still beet red, Maria looked into her coffee cup. “Yeah,” she practically whispered. “It was… it was really hot, Ed.” The words rushed out of her mouth like air from a tire. “Huh.” “Why do you keep saying that?” asked Maria. “Well – Lora might be into that.” “What?” Maria asked, her mouth ajar. “Yeah – she might be into the idea of someone else listening in. Let me check with her.”
Maria felt her nipples stiffen under her nightgown – from arousal or anxiety she wasn’t sure, but she was sure of one thing: every cell in her body was saying “Yes.”
Image taken from Pixabay; credit: markito.
After dessert – a decadent raspberry custard topped with chocolate ganache and served with port – Cal handed over a small, meticulously-wrapped box, which he seemed to pull out of thin air. Maybe it was the intoxicating effects of the port, the strength of which still lingered on hir tongue. Les accepted it with both hands, wondering where Cal had found the paper containing real leaves and the ribbon which felt like velvet. Sie looked at it carefully, turning it over in hir small hands, marveling at the care that had gone into it. Cal’s eyes twinkled. “Open it,” he eagerly instructed.
Sie peeled the tape off, careful not to rip the paper, and took off the lid, lifting layers of multi-colored tissue paper away from the interior to reveal a handful of small, plain, white envelopes containing what felt like cards. Each one of the twelve had a single word printed on the cover: the first said January. “What are these?” sie asked, delighted at the attention to detail, the smooth surface and crisp corners of the envelopes.
“Each month, you get one card with an instruction on it. You have one month to carry out the order; if you succeed, you receive a reward. If not, a punishment. That simple.” Les’s eyes widened and the corners of hir mouth drew up slowly as sie started to think about all the possibilities. Knowing Cal, there would be nothing simple about this – it would be challenging, but exhilarating.
“Put them away for now,” he said, standing up and walking around to help Les with hir coat. Hir face formed a momentary frown, at which he laughed. “My darling,” he said, “January first is but an hour away, and the clock is ticking. I believe we have an engagement to be at. You owe me a dance and a midnight kiss.” Sie smiled and slipped hir arm into the sleeves before putting one through Cal’s arm. They strolled out into the cold air, still glowing from each other’s company, and held tight to each other as they walked to a friend’s party.
They danced to song after song, alternating the lead to songs that would always remind hir of New York – Gershwin, Porter, Berlin. At midnight, showered in vibrant confetti, they kissed each other, relishing the pressure and taste of each other’s lips. Sie trailed hir lips to his ear, and whispered, “I can’t wait. Can I open the first one now?” “You’re so impatient!” he chided playfully. “But yes, of course you can.”
Sie ran over to their coats in staccato steps, digging the box out of hir deep coat pocket, and gingerly took out the first envelope. Sie slid a finger underneath the flap and pulled out a small white card containing the following sentences:
Put the Njoy plug in first thing when you wake up in the morning. Keep it there all day and come to my office five minutes before I get off work. I will leave my office each day at 4:53 exactly. When I arrive back to my office at 4:55 one day in January, you will be there, hands on my desk, wearing nothing from the waist down except that plug, waiting for me.
Les’s heart stopped at the idea of being semi-nude in Cal’s office. Sie knew his coworkers; they often had happy hour cocktails together. What if someone else came in? What if the timing was off? What if…? Cal looked closely at hir expression, wondering momentarily if he’d made a mistake – but then he saw the fear in hir eyes replaced with lust, and an unmistakable blush spread across hir face. What if he spanks me? Sie thought. What if he replaces that plug with his fingers? Sie quickly thought about the heft of the metal plug and how it would feel inside of hir for an entire day. What if he demands I get under the desk and lick his cock from base to tip, over and over, until he’s shivering? Sie closed her eyes dreamily and thought about the potential. Cal leaned in and brushed his lips against hirs. “This is just the beginning,” he said, almost inaudible against the chorus of Auld Lang Syne. “I started with an easy one.” He slid his hand around hir waist and up hir back in a reassuring way; they spent the next few minutes in silence, both contemplating their adventures ahead and feeling no need to make resolutions.
Alex pushed her front door open, the cold air blowing porch snow in around her ankles. She banged her Docs against the step to knock the packed snow out of her boots and hurried inside; Jen followed close behind her, wrapping her arms around her lover’s waist. They were flushed from one too many cocktails, from stumbling home over half-shoveled sidewalks, from the conversation they’d had on the way.
It was Jen who’d seen her first. Who had watched her, gliding like an angel toward a pool table, the yellow bar lights swimming around her closely-cropped honey hair adding to the effect. She stared at the woman’s shoulders, pulled back in confidence – her smile, gleaming and glorious – the ease with which she pushed the cue stick through her hooked index finger as she bent over the green felt, a bit of cleavage poking out of a tight white button-down shirt. After a minute of trying to get Jen’s attention and being unsuccessful, Alex had followed her gaze over to the beautiful stranger, now shaking hands with the loser of the game. She leaned into Jen’s ear and whispered, “She’s a looker, huh?” Jen, still in her reverie, just replied with an “Mmm.” Their stare lingered a minute longer before Alex said, “Babe? She’s fine as hell, but now we’re just being creepy.” That was enough to get Jen to laugh and break the spell. Jen turned toward Alex, cupped her face, and kissed her full on the lips, trailing a hand down between Alex’s breasts. “Let’s go home,” she said.
On the walk home, past lit-up duplexes and technically-illegal-but-still-used parking chairs, Jen dropped the question into the snowy silence around them: “So hey, babe. Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a threesome? I mean… just wondered, you know?” Alex smiled. “You mean with someone like the woman you were just stalking?” she asked. “Well – yeah,” replied Jen. “I mean, she was hot, right? What would you think about bringing someone else in just for a night? Just to see what it was like?” “I think that I’d like to think about it,” replied Alex. “For now, let’s just focus on getting home!” The wind swirled and howled around them, flinging flurries this way and that. They quickened their pace.
Once they were in, coats, hats, mittens, and scarves lying on a pile on the couch, Alex turned on her electric fireplace; they put a few blankets and pillows on the floor and lay down in front of it, snuggling close together to get warm. After a couple of minutes of staring into the electric blaze, Alex brought up their prior conversation. “So – if we were to have this hypothetical threesome, what would you want it to look like?” Jen felt her pulse quicken and her cunt warm. She turned to look at Alex. “You mean, what would I want to happen?” “Yeah,” replied Al. “What would you want to do with her? With me? Would you want to watch, or be watched? How involved would you want her to be?”
“Hypothetically?” Jen asked. Alex nodded. “I’d want you to direct the scene. I’d want to start out with the two of you taking my clothes off, then you telling her what you want to see.” “And what do I want to see?” Alex asked with a mischievous grin. “You want to see her warm me up. You want to see her lap at my nipples until I’m begging to have the rest of my body touched. You want to see her caress my inner thighs, teasing me until there’s a stream of fluid running down my pussy because I’m so turned on. You want to see her graze my outer labia, making my heart pound, and then lick my clit just once so I’m trembling all over – and then you kiss her so you can taste me on her tongue.”
“Like this?” Alex asked, pulling Jen’s leggings and boy shorts down, spreading her legs just enough, and lapping once over the inside of Jen’s labia and up over her clit before kissing her. She loved the lemondrop taste of Jen’s cunt. Jen closed her eyes and breathed shallow breaths, letting her body take over. She continued talking as Alex continued to taste her: “You lick me slowly and steadily until I come in your mouth, and then you tell her that I’m hers to fuck; she leaves on a tank top, her nipples hard underneath it, and puts on a leather-harnessed strap-on. She puts a pillow under my ass and works her cock inside of me, rhythmically pumping; while she’s doing that, you hover over me, kissing her. Long kisses. I struggle to crane my neck up enough to run my tongue along you, but you… won…” Jen gasped, groaned, bucked her hips up to Alex’s waiting mouth, and finished – “’t let me.” She collapsed, hoarse moans escaping her. “I can feel the heat of your cunt on my face; I can’t reach it with my mouth, so I slide one finger inside, then two. I run them along my lips, making them sticky with your juices, and suck them clean. You stand up while I’m shuddering from being fucked and walk around to the back of her, sliding one hand up the front of her shirt to gently pinch her nipple and massage her vulva with the other hand until she’s too close to coming to keep fucking me.”
“Then what?” Alex asked, now sliding her fingers in and out of Jen’s cunt, curving her hand so that her heel would rub against Jen’s clit. “I told you -” said Jen, a dreamy smile on her face – “you’re directing the scene.” Alex leaned in and kissed her before whispering, “But you’re the one with the imagination. Babe, you have the sexiest brain of any girl I know.” “Thanks, love,” she replied, pulling in Alex for another kiss. “Let’s talk more realistically about this when we’re sober; for now, I just want to feel you all over me.” “Done,” said Al, pressing her whole weight into Jen, hot now under the blazing light of the fire.
Inspired by the following lyrics from “Winter Wonderland” (which I know isn’t technically a carol, but it popped into my head!):
Later on, we’ll conspire as we dream by the fire
To face unafraid the plans that we made,
Walking in a winter wonderland
I like scenes like this: First, I’m told that (s)he knows I have done something wrong; my behavior necessitates some kind of reprimand. But (s)he understands – we all make mistakes. Maybe there’s something I can do to help sweep this situation under the rug. Mum’s the word.
I’m smarter than (s)he bargained for, however; I’ve got dirt, too. After relishing every sting and burn of my supposed punishment, I turn the tables. I, too, have a strong hand and a desire to play.
I don’t think we’re quite finished here, I say, and smile. It’s going to be a while.
Wait, I say to him before we get off the phone. I want him to read me a bedtime story. He stoically tells me that it’s 10:00 am. Not where I am, I remind him. I tell him I’ll be restless without it. That I won’t be able to sleep. That I’ll be tossing and turning all night long when I could be dreaming of him. He grudgingly gives in, searching for a good piece of erotica on his computer while I turn off the lights, climb my stairs, and slink into bed, the bright light of my phone pressed to my ear.
How about a gangbang story? he asks. I smile; that’s exactly what I would have chosen. As he starts to read, his voice deep and reassuring in my ear, I close my eyes and imagine the scene unfolding before me, vivid images floating behind the dark half-moons of my eyelids. Hands and mouths everywhere, greedy, grasping, searching. Every glorious orifice being used to its full potential, undulations of bodies and pleasure. My right hand slides into my pajama bottoms, underneath my cotton panties as he continues to read; I find my labia already slick and slippery.
I’m not prepared for how fast I come. Before I can take any clothes off, before I can pull a breast out to graze one of my nipples with a wet finger, without tensing into it like normal, I suddenly come hard at the thought of several strangers using me, not ever knowing who they are, a dozen hands groping me at once. Fingers in my mouth, a fist around my hair, nails dug into my haunches, gripping me backward. I cry out, my body convulsing, and continue to moan; he stops reading.
“I wasn’t done,” he says. I am. I tell him to keep reading to me. I lay still in bed, my panties and thighs soaked, breathing deeply and evenly as I imagine him next to me, whispering the story into my ear in the dark.
|Photo from http://www.wisconsinhistory.org|
For the third day in a row now, Mari could feel eyes caressing her back as she unlocked the door to her office at Ambrosia. She’d only started there a week before; she assumed it would be like her previous HR jobs, but it was so much better. She remembered being a child and smelling the chocolate factory from her school bus as it rumbled through freeway traffic every morning; now she inhaled deeply, turning the key in the lock, and paused for a minute to feel it course through her before briefly turning back to see if she would catch someone looking at her through the glass that separated office workers from the factory floor. All the machine operators and assemblers, however, had their eyes down or forward, making sure everything continued to move smoothly along conveyor belts and into boxes.
By lunchtime, she was starving. Walking past the other offices on her way to the parking lot, she looked over the factory floor to her right and noticed a woman she hadn’t seen before writing on a clipboard nailed to a post. The woman was tall and muscular – or at least she looked so in her white coat – and suddenly she looked Mari directly in the eye and smiled, tilting her head a bit. It was a genuine smile, full of curiosity; Mari could make out bundles of black hair under the woman’s hair net. She wondered briefly what it would be like to take the hair net off and run her fingers through the woman’s silky hair; the invasive thought caught her off guard, and she tripped over a snag in the hallway carpet. Collecting her purse and shaken, she looked again for the mysterious woman, who had turned around and started moving a machine behind her. Mari blushed and hurried on her way, holding her purse tight and her breath tighter, her heels soundless on the carpet.
She lay in bed later that night, thinking again of the amazon. Imagining her strong arms (god she looked so strong) picking her up so that Mari’s thighs gripped her obliques and placing her on the small desk in her office, deftly working one hand up Mari’s thigh and snaking her fingers under Mari’s panties and into her wet cunt, the other hand pulling one of Mari’s small breasts out of her camisole so she could slip the taut nipple into her mouth, her long black hair falling in waves over Mari’s face. Her hair that smelled like chocolate. Her breath that smelled like chocolate twirling up through Mari’s nostrils as she leaned in to kiss Mari with full lips, making her moan from her diaphragm. She rubbed her clit in circles, coming in undulations as she felt the woman’s tongue and fingers and body weight.
She came in early the next morning, wearing a red blouse and a bit of blush, which she never wore to work. Shortly after arriving, there was a knock on her door; “Come in,” she said, staring at the green and black computer screen in front of her. “I hope I’m not bothering you,” a husky voice said from the door frame. She didn’t need to look up to know. Her heart felt like the Kool-Aid man bursting through a wall; she swallowed and lifted her eyes. “I wanted to introduce myself,” said the woman, confident and direct. “I’m the forewoman on the floor; I thought it would help to know someone’s name in case you needed to talk to anyone here about paperwork or other unresolved issues.” She strode in, took the latex glove off her right hand, and extended it to Mari, sliding it perfectly into Mari’s small hand, her skin smooth. Her skin that smelled like chocolate. She held Mari’s hand in hers for longer than necessary, her eyes searching for Mari’s and her hand making promises. “I’m Tanya,” she said with her beautiful lips, Mari barely hearing the words, seeing in her mind her own hands on Tanya’s face and Tanya’s lips on the nape of her neck. She felt warm and full as she made it through the words “It’s nice to meet you, Tanya – I’m Mari.” Words like peanut butter in her mouth.
So I have this friend who inspires incredibly intense domination fantasies in my head. What’s strange about this is that with this particular person, I’m the dominant in my fantasies – 95% of the time, it’s the other way around. I am undoubtedly a bottom. Not entirely submissive (though I thoroughly enjoy taking orders from the right person), not quite a masochist (though I do tremble with pleasure at a moderate amount of pain and can really get into sub space when I’m high on pain endorphins), but absolutely a bottom. I can take control during play and sex, and I enjoy doing so once in a while, but it’s not my default and it’s certainly not what I fantasize about.
Which is why I find it so fascinating that I want to slap this guy so forcefully that it makes him crumble. I want to pull his hair, tie his hands to the ceiling, and flog him so hard that he bleeds. I want to spit in his mouth and verbally humiliate him. I want to stick my boot heel into his mouth and tell him to lick it clean. I want to tie up his cock and balls with a pretty pink bow, whisper dirty things into his ear, dance my fingers all over his body, and get him all riled up — but never let him come. I want him to beg for more.
I have no desire to hurt this guy, nor do I harbor any bad feelings toward him — in fact, he’s one of my closest friends, and I love him dearly. There’s just this super subby energy that radiates out of him that makes me want to lean in close, barely graze his earlobe with my lips, and whisper, “Get on your fucking knees before I make you.”