Tag: erotica

Rub It Harder

We fucked a lot. Especially in the early days. We fucked every day we saw each other. Sometimes more than once a day. “I like to fuck,” I told her. She just smiled. We were a good match. She challenged everything I’d known up to that point. Everything I’d known about myself, thought I’d known. Turns out I hadn’t figured out as much as I thought I had.

I was stone. Or nearly stone. Very rarely could I let some girl touch me down there. I didn’t quite know what to call it. I hated the word pussy for myself. I couldn’t say cunt. Dick sounded too much like pretending. Cock had the same problem. And the moment some girl said one of those words, I closed up. I left the building emotionally, physically. Everything broke down. I wasn’t one or the other. I was a little lost. This is me. Not you. Everyone goes through there own thing.

With her, somehow, I opened. 

I remember the first time she fucked me. We hadn’t been together for that long. A few weeks maybe. I was in her bed. We were making out. My hand was under her shirt. The kiss felt so incredible, I didn’t want anything else. We kissed for a long time, my fingers rubbing her tits and my leg resting lightly between her thighs. She pushed me onto my back and started to unbutton my shirt. I opened my mouth to say something but she gave me this look that burned my cheeks. She looked me up and down, her mouth hanging open. I felt everything shift even before she spoke. 

“Are you getting hard?” she asked, taunting me, “Don’t worry, I know you can’t help it.” I nodded. I grabbed at my jeans and felt between my legs for it. She followed my hand with her eyes, nodding. “That’s right,” she said, “You want to show me what you’ve got?” I grunted, unable to speak. She sat up on her knees and stared down at my hand on my fly. She pet my knuckles, smiling, before knocking my hand away. “Let’s see,” she said and started rubbing my jeans. Her hand moved in long strokes. Her fingers grabbed and kneaded me. She pulled. “Are you a big boy?” she laughed, “I won’t suck you off until you’re as big as you can get.” 

I pulled myself up on my elbows, mesmerized by the motions of her hand on my prick. I saw us. Teenagers in a corner. In a school hallway on prom night. An abandoned chemistry lab in the dark. Behind the bleachers. The back seat of a car. I pawed through different scenarios in my mind. Where am I? Where are we? I flipped through the images like I was selecting the next song on a jukebox. A couch. My childhood home. Late at night. “We need to be quiet,” I said and she cocked her head, tuning in to me. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said, “Whatever you say.” She paused, staring at me, and then stopped rubbing me. She looked hard at my hand and nodded her head. I slowly dragged my hand down and took over rubbing myself. “Yeah, baby,” she said and started to undo my belt, “Show me how big you can get.”

She took her time unbuttoning my jeans. I rubbed. I pulled. Watching her fingers move. My jeans hung open. Her fingers scratched at the elastic band on my briefs. She smiled. Paused. Her fingers crawled up under my shirt, clawing at my skin. Buttons under her fingers again. My shirt. She started at the last button and worked her way up. One finger traced the edges of my tank top. I sucked in my breath and arched my back, realizing that the look on my face was probably more shocked than turned on. She stayed with me. My eyes were locked on her. I rubbed at my jeans, pulling on my cock. Quiet breathing. Her whispers, “I want you as stiff as you can get.” I rubbed harder. “That’s right,” she said with her lips against my ear, “That’s so good.”

I started to slide my hand into my jeans but she grabbed my wrist. “No, baby,” she signed, “You don’t understand. That’s mine.” I felt tears well up in my eyes. There was no stopping. I felt my cock so hard in my jeans it made me wince. “I need you to take it out,” I said, my voice barely audible, a hoarse whisper, “I need you to rub it harder.” She smiled at me. Smiled down at my wet, red face. “Oh, you’re so good,” she squealed and lay down beside me before sliding her hand between my jeans and my briefs. She slid her fingers on either side of my clit with the cotton of my shorts between her fingers and me. I felt hard. So hard. I gasped to feel the pressure of her fingers against me. Someone other than me making me feel it. Everything undone. I felt big. Giant. “Oh, baby,” she said, “You feel so good.”

She whispered into my ear as she stroked me. “Do you shake just before you get off? Do you quiver? I feel something. Wet. Did you come a little in your pants? I want you to come in my hand like this. I want you to come all over my fingers.” She slid her hand inside my underwear. I held my breath as her fingers slid over my clit and pushed inside me. I felt my cunt open up for her. And then everything shifted. “I want to be inside you,” I said. She slid one leg over me and straddled my hips, her fingers still thrusting into me. “Like this?” she said, lifting her skirt. I put my hands on her thighs and pushed my hips up against her. My chest flushed. My breath tightened and then I let go, relaxed, and closed my eyes. I felt myself inside her. Fucking her. My cock hard, straining. Her pussy gripping me. “Let me in deep,” I said. We rocked against each other like this while I stared at her. Quiet. Somehow furious. I felt myself inside her. Filling her. I nearly came but she pulled away and put a finger on my lips. “Wait,” she said.

She slid off of my hips. Slid down and leaned forward until her face was between my thighs. She pulled my jeans and shorts down and started fucking me harder. “You’re so good to me,” she said, “Giving me what I want like this.” I pulled a pillow under my head so I could look at her. “You like this?” I asked, my voice came out cracked and halting. She just nodded and stared at me. I watched her arm move. I felt the pounding feeling. I listened to the sound of us fucking. Her fucking me. Me fucking her. Everything spun and smashed together. “I want you to come in my face,” she said and left her mouth hanging open. My hips jerked towards her over and over again. I heard myself yelling. I heard her reminding me to be quiet. I left the fantasy. The couch. The boy. The girl. The quiet house. I was right there on her bed. Legs spread. Getting fucked. About to come in her face. “FUCK,” I yelled. Surprising myself. Making her laugh. “Fuck,” I breathed, spent, buckled over.

She kissed my clit. I jerked in surprise. She kissed my thighs, my hip bones. She kissed her way up my chest, stopping to suck on my neck. I looked at her. Dismayed. Dismantled. I kissed her mouth. Soft at first, then sucking hard on her lips. I held her face in my hands. I held her tight and told her everything.

Powder

[Femme on femme for a reader request. I started this story a long time ago for a friend who requested it and finally finished it after a reader requested an ‘ode to femme sexuality’.]

I’m a girl who likes a good butch. I like the dark, oiled looking jeans. The wide cuff. Freshly shined boots. A crisp button down over her softest t-shirt. I like her cap pulled low. Her muscled arms. I like that darting look behind her eyes and the grin that she mostly tries to hide. I like her strut. How she opens my car door and leans in for a kiss. These are the girls that make me swoon. Most of the time. Maybe it’s because they’re so visible. I see them. Even when they pass as boys, I see them. Always. Even though almost never see me. I have to fall into their laps before they see me. I have to stare and flutter and let my lower lip fall open. I have to look them up and down. I have to make them blush. And even then, they never make the first move. These butches. So hard, they can’t crack. So hard, they’re scared. I love them all. Most of the time.

I was having one of those days where I wake up and just roll over to fall back asleep again. The room gets too warm as the sun comes up and still I’m in bed. Hot. Getting a headache because I need my coffee. Pulling the covers up over my head. I need to move. I’m feeling slow. I stare at the orchid on my bookshelf and slide my toes out from under the covers. My hands run over my breasts, my belly, between my thighs. So wet under the hot blanket, I’m so hot and wet and sleepy. It feels good. I feel good. My fingers frenzied, following my thoughts wherever they lead.

I don’t seek anyone’s approval. Not yours. Not anyone’s. This has taken me a long time. I seek myself. I dig my heels into the mattress when I come, lifted up on shaking thighs. I cry out to the air around me, my room, my books, my dresses hanging crookedly in the closet, the piles of shoes. I fuck myself and yell out to the plastered walls of my tiny room.

I finally got up and decided to go shopping. A day away by myself. I wanted to finger rows of clothes on the rack, a blur of colors, texture. Flip them one by one. I’m not even looking. I know why I’m here. I know why I came. I keep my eye on the makeup counter. The makeup artists always catch my breath. Beautiful women leaning in close, holding other women’s faces. I watch this woman working, gripping a customer’s shoulder and running a thumb against her cheek. It looks so intimate. I stare at them long enough to feel my pussy get wet and heavy with an overwhelming want. My heart races. I close my eyes and feel the brush on my own skin. I smell the powder with the names that make me quiver deep down low. The sexy, absurd names of make up. Sin. Torrid. Gilda. Deep Throat. I like to wear these colors and turn the name over in my mind as my date stares at me, compliments me. “Deep Throat,” I think, “that’s what I’m wearing.” It gets me wet. I want to suck her cock. This powder on my cheeks, the bulge in her pants, the dirty appeal.

My head feels dizzy. I wander through rack after rack of clothes. I touch everything. I grab selection of things to take to the dressing room, but I don’t try anything on. I rub my fingers on the fabric. I circle buttons with my thumb. Holding a stiff pair of jeans, I run my fingernail across the zipper and pinch the thick seam running down the inner thigh between my thumb and forefinger, pulling it slowly, feeling its rough tug on my fingertips. I take off my top and bra and pull a thick, cotton shirt across my nipples. My reflection in the mirror catches me off guard and I blush, staring into my own eyes. I watch myself get turned on and it makes me feel dirty. Perfect. I smile and see the look that always made my ex blush. She told me how I get this look and she knows to pay the bill, get to the car, or meet me in the bathroom. This look on my face that told her to rub her cock up against my ass, reach around and inch my skirt up, bury her face in my neck, my tits, press her open mouth against mine. I’m seeing it now. I’m rubbing my thighs and leaning back against the door when the sales girl suddenly checks on me, “How’s it going in there? Can I bring you anything?” I try to sound calm when I send her away, but I’m out of breath, burning inside on this day that I started so lazy and warm under the covers. This day when I stayed in bed too long. This day. This day, I want to feel my own softness.

I touch all the clothes. I shut my eyes and feel the thin, ribbed cotton of a sweater on the softest flesh of my breasts. I lift one arm and let the fabric fall over my shoulder. I do this with each piece. Different textures pulled across my skin. I want to explode. In a rush, I put all the clothes back on their hangers, turn to face myself in the mirror, and unzip my skirt. I slip my hand under the seam of my panties and shudder at how soft and wet my pussy feels. I stand there with my legs open. My fingers slide against my wet lips and push inside my pussy. I look at my open mouth and my heavy eyes. I watch my cheeks blush red. I squeeze my nipples and rub my tits. Everything feels heavy and swollen. My tongue, thick in my mouth, feels lonely. I can smell the sex of this solo fuck in the dressing room. I smell my own pussy. I bring my wet fingers up to my face and inhale. I lick the tip of my finger. I want to fuck someone. I want someone to fuck.

Back in the store, I wander near the makeup counter again. I circle, getting closer. Thinking about how it will be. She’ll lean in close to look at my skin in a way I never experience anywhere else. The way a lover might stare at me when I’m sleeping. No one stares like this. It’s impersonal but so intimate, so close. I walk over and touch the lipsticks in their plastic display. One, two, three. Counting as I tap them. Waiting. Patient. She’s behind me, watching. “Do you know what you’re looking for?” she asks me. I smile. I do. I know. I turn to her with a puzzled look on my face. I’m a pouting girl. “I can’t decide,” I answer, “What do you think?” I pick up a hideous orange color. She frowns, “Let me show you.”

I sit down in her chair. I’m ready for this. I smell her minty gum as she leans over me, her face so close to mine. I catch my breath and force myself to stare right at her instead of demurely lowering my eyes like I normally do. She talks to me about color, foundation, powder. She talks about my skin, my eyes. She’s smiling as she talks, as she works. She’s working. Just working. I sit there squirming in my chair while she her fingers glide across my skin, massaging my brow, brushing color onto my cheeks, tinting my lips. She smiles at me. “So beautiful,” she says, “a timeless beauty.” It comes out canned, but somehow I still feel desired. I’m lost in my own idea of what this is between us. She didn’t know what I was taking from her. This false energy. The buzz. All afternoon, the intoxicating closeness of her beautiful face and her clean smell and soft fingers will swirl around me. 

When she’s done, I look at myself. I’m glowing. I’m beautiful. I walk away with my hips swaying, my ass calling out to anyone who wants to see. I decide to take myself out for an afternoon glass of wine at one of my favorite little spots. A dark place with shiny caramel colored wood and leather chairs. Everything glows in a reddish, golden light.

Inside, in the dark warmth, I ordered a heavy red cabernet with a velvety finish. I squeezed my thighs together under the table as I sit there. I drank in gulps to feel the dizzy warm glow come fast and spread inside me. I smiled at my hands. My fingers on the thin glass. I rubbed the worn wood on the table top. Everything felt sensuous. I felt like a woman on fire. The dirty nymphomaniac in an old black and white movie whose fingers crawl, searching out sex. I wanted to scream. I needed fresh air.

I stepped out into the bright sun, forgetting it was still daylight. Wanting to be shaded and cooled by the late afternoon but feeling the sweat between my breasts before I’d gone half a block. My mood was just about to sour when I saw her. I yelled and waved. Undignified. A little drunk. Laughing. 

We were old friends from our days in Portland. We used to run into each other all the time in vintage shops and bonded over our lamentably small closets that simply weren’t able to hold all our dresses respectfully. Eventually we shared an apartment, compounding the problem. We’d always been fond of the same things. Vintage dresses, butch girls in glasses, booze, books, blow jobs. I loved living with her. We’d sit on the couch with a decent bottle of wine and let it grow dark around us. We shared our techniques for giving blow jobs. “Slutty cocksucker,” we called each other, laughing, enjoying each other’s stories. We would talk about the last time or the first time or that time in the back of a club or that time I don’t like to remember or those times she wishes she could forget. She talked about how she twists her palm and brings the heel of her hand to the underside of the shaft and presses in and up. Silicone cock only. I don’t suck real dicks. Or plastic. I loved talking with her about sucking butches off. And getting fucked. It was almost as much fun as sucking cock and getting fucked itself. There were times when I was in the middle of a really great fuck and I’d smile to think how I’d tell her about it later. That’s just how it is sometimes. Some fuck you’ll never see again, but a great story you’ll have forever. We each had our epic stories, the ones we told more than once, the ones we liked to remember. Sometimes I’ll remember one of our stories and for a minute I don’t know if it’s hers or mine. 

I was so happy to see her. We went back to the bar and ordered wine, drinking too quickly. She was in a hurry, she told me. I hadn’t eaten enough and felt my drunk buzz shift to something more sloppy. My apartment was a brief walk away so we headed there after one drink. She went straight to the kitchen to make us something simple to eat. She always cooked for us. It had been too long since we’d been together. I got sentimental, almost teary. “I’ve missed you,” I lamented. She turned around and smiled, “You’re drunk.” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, laughing, “It’s still true.”

I watched her bend over to get a pot for the stove and felt my clit suddenly hot and swollen. I wanted to fuck her and didn’t even stop to think. I surprised her at the stove, grabbing her thighs. She laughed and gasped in this silly, dramatic way and slapped my hands away but I turned her around to face me and slowly kissed her. She didn’t pull away. We stood there making out by the stove. She still had the small pot in her hand. I smiled and took it from her, setting it on the stove. She had a surprised look on her face. A half smile. I’m pretty sure I had the same look.

“I love your dress,” I said, sliding my hand under the hem, pushing it up to her waist. “What are you doing?” she asked me, shaking her head and laughing. “I just want to fuck you right here in my kitchen,” I said and she shut up, letting me kiss her again. “I’ve got plans,” she whined. I grabbed the kitchen timer and handed it to her, “Set it.” She set the alarm for 20 minutes, placed it back on the counter, and then leaned forward onto the butcher block and held on. I lifted her dress and slip, exposing her ass to me. She was wearing butter yellow cotton panties with sweet red cherries printed on them. I knelt down and kissed her ass through the fabric. I tugged her panties slowly down her thighs with my teeth and pushed two fingers against her pussy. I felt my way. Her clit was new to me, swollen, sensitive. She reached one hand down and showed me what felt good. I pulled her hips back, making her bend lower. I stared at the curve of her foot, how it sloped in her high heels. I caressed her ankle with one hand and let it slide casually up her calf and then let the backs of my nails drag up her thigh. I thought of her stories.

“I want to taste you,” I whispered, “Turn around.” She moved to face me and let her arms fall behind her. Her hands reached back to grip the counter. I lifted her dress and held it in one hand while I nuzzled my face into her pussy. The hair around her pussy was slick and wet. She smelled spicy and I could feel the heat rising off of her. “I want you,” I said and opened my mouth around her clit. My tongue slowly snaked between her lips, lapping at her pussy, gliding up and around her clit and back again. I was slow. I wanted to feel her clit swell in my mouth. She ran her fingers through my curls and pulled my face harder against her pussy. My fingers moved inside her, feeling her arousal, everything swelling and expanding. I sucked on her clit and her lips while I fucked her. I heard the pots and dishes rattle behind her. When she came, she slapped her hand on the door of the cupboard making a loud, hollow thump that startled us both. Laughing, I stood up and grabbed her face. We smiled at each other. There was nothing to say, but it felt easy.

She looked at the timer and quickly grabbed me, bending me over and lifting my skirt. She had my panties down around my ankles before I could do anything about it and she was spanking me with one of my wooden spoons. She spanked my ass and the backs of my thighs. I wriggled and cooed beneath her. I stared at the soaring birds that flew on the hem of my skirt and the delicate little flowers surrounding them. I traced my finger across the stitching while she smacked me until I was dripping wet. She pressed her body up against me and reached around, lifted my skirt, and found my pussy with her fingers. She fucked me hard and fast and I came quickly, panting, a little dizzy from bending over. The rush of blood whirred inside me. I could hear my own heartbeat.

“I’ve got to run,” she shrieked when the alarm rattled us. She pulled her panties back on and smoothed her dress before she turned to look at me. I hadn’t moved. I saw her look at my panties still down around my feet. “Jesus,” she said and came back to me. She grabbed my face and gave me a kiss. The passion felt simple and friendly. She stared at me. “You look good,” she said, “Is that a new powder?” I smiled at her. “You’ve got to run,” I told her and she turned to go. 

It was over so fast. She was here. We fucked. She left. My clit was still buzzing. My ass stung a little. I looked around the kitchen  The bag of flour on the counter had been open and a thin white film dusted the wood surrounding it. My wooden spoon sat half on and half off the edge of the stove. I picked it up and slid the wood through my sticky fingers. I traced my own name into the flour on the counter. I thought about the day. Perfect. Just what I wanted. 

The Last Last Time

It was the sound of her boots on the sidewalk that buckled me. God damn her. Coffee. Seemed innocent. “Let’s talk,” she said, as if we could manage that without the sudden swerve and crash. Big fucking joke. Every time I saw her face, I thought, “Too much damage,” and then fell right into the middle of it all again. Over and over. The swerve. The crash. All that damage.

We sat there. She stared at her coffee. Poured too much milk and too much sugar in. “Candy coffee,” I said, like I always said, and kicked my own goddamn shin under the table for saying something I always said. I drank my tea. Fuck her and her coffee. She mumbled. I had to ask her to repeat herself. She’d stare up at me, sad eyed, and mumble something about how things were good with her and her new girlfriend. And I’d think, “Fuck you and your fucking girlfriend,” and say, “That’s cool. I’m good too.” And then she’d stare back down at her coffee and maybe stir it and sip it a little and wipe her mouth. She wiped her mouth after every sip. Every bite. I used to think it was adorable. Now I wondered what the fuck was wrong with her.

We held our dialogue close to the script.

“How’s your job?”

“It’s stupid. It’s not my real job.”

“Are you quitting?”

“Yeah, I need to quit.”

“But are you looking?”

Silence. She looked out the window pretending that she recognized someone which I knew was just a bullshit way of avoiding the question.

“Fuck it. Find something else.”

Silence. A sip of coffee and her napkin across her mouth.

“I’m serious. You hate that job. You should find something else.” I kicked myself again. What the fuck do I care? I’m not her goddamn mother. I’m not her girlfriend.

“I’ll work it out.”

It went like this. On and on. Pointless. Irritating. Me saying shit I didn’t really want to say. Her avoiding my stupid questions.  Rubbing our raw wounds up against one another. Stupid. I got another cup of tea. We sat there mostly silent. I tried to remind myself why I was sitting here. “Let’s stay close,” we decided, “Let’s not be stupid and ignore each other and pretend this never happened or feel like we have to hate each other.” I was so sick of that bullshit. The scene was too small for that crap. So many people you had to call up before a party and tell them, “So and so, your ex, will be there,” and blah blah blah and then phone call after phone call about what a shit this or that person was and how they can’t stand her anymore and won’t be in the same room and fuck that fucking crap. Fuck it.

Right. Okay. That’s why I agreed to go sit down over coffee and watch her stare silently and mumble about her new girlfriend and pretend that we’re all casual with each other and it’s cool. I blew out my breath and ran my fingers through my hair. I leaned way back in my chair and spread my knees wide. Butch to butch. Here we are. We can be buddies, right?

I cleared our glasses and we headed out for a cigarette. I hate smoking but I always smoked with her. It seemed sexy. Still does. I liked the way we walked down the sidewalk together. Side by side. Boots hitting the pavement hard. Jeans slouched down resting on the curve of our asses. Her vintage shirts. Her perfect cuffed sleeves. I usually had my jacket on. Zipped up tight. Shoulders hunched. We walked in silence. Smoking. I crushed my cigarette out under my heel while she lit up another. I jammed my hands deep in my jeans pockets and nudged her with my hip. She laughed. I looked at her. “C’mon,” she said and jerked her head towards one of the dozens of bars open in the morning in the city. Our city. The city that felt like ours, together, because we met the first week we both lived here.

It felt so good, so right, to drink those beers together. It wasn’t 10 in the morning yet and I felt the buzz hit me half way into the bottle. We didn’t say anything. We drank and read all the words on the coasters, the labels on the bottles, the signs behind the bar. She turned around and leaned her back against the bar and looked at the empty tables and the one old man sitting there with his drink. She stared at him when she talked to me, saying, “Listen. I’m glad we’re going to do this. Stay friends, I mean. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” That felt like bullshit. She started fucking some other girl and dropped me without warning weeks ago. I’m pretty sure what she’d do without me is exactly what she was doing already. But I didn’t want to lose her either. “Yeah,” I said, “Me too.”

“You’re my best friend, you know,” she said and I shoved her hard enough that she fell off the barstool and had to grab the spinning seat to keep from landing on her ass. “Fucking jerk,” she said and we laughed. I ordered us two more beers and two whiskeys. Fuck it. We were going to get drunk enough, I guess. We deserved it. I didn’t think we’d fall out like we did. But we did. Fall out of line, I mean. Fall out of our senses. Maybe I should have known. I just didn’t think she was still into me in that way. So I didn’t look for it. Or maybe I did. Maybe it’s what I had planned the whole time. Sitting there with my knees wide and my hand resting between my legs. Sucking on the bottle good and hard. Looking stoned. Looking dead to everything. Hard and stiff. Just like she always liked me. Just like I wasn’t.

“I need to piss,” I said and slid off the barstool, walking slow towards the bathroom, knowing my ass looked great in these jeans. I had a drunk smile on my face when I pushed the door open. I stood there to take it in. I love dirty bathrooms in bars. I love them. The sticky floor with wadded up toilet paper jammed into corners. The tiny porcelein sink that would pull right off of the wall any day now. The floor was tiled with square inch black and white tiles. Filthy. The toilet bowl permanently stained with a rust colored ring. I wanted to stand to pee but I’ve never been good at that and especially not when I’m drunk. I squatted over the toilet with my jeans held at my knees. “Maybe we’ll fuck in here before we go,” I thought. Stupid idea. I shook my head to rattle the thought out of there. The water in the tap was hot. Really hot. I cupped my hands and splashed my face over and over again. I ran wet hands through my hair until it was all slicked down. I combed through it with my fingers and wiped my face on my shirt tails. I looked at my teeth. “I’m stalling,” I said out loud and turned to go back.

“Rudolph Valentino,” she whistled at me. I slicked my hair with a smile. “Errol Flynn,” I answered. I never liked Valentino. She never remembered anything. Why was I sitting here strutting for her. Preening. Fuck her. Nothing was right between us when we were going out. Nothing. The fucking was great. It was everything else that was a total disaster. But when the fucking is great. When you hook up the way we did. Lost little puppies in a big new world. Well, the fucking can get you pretty far. The fucking was unlike anything I’d ever known before. Jerk my pants down, bend me over, spit covered fingers shoved into my holes. That kind of fucking. Nothing about sweet kisses and polite little pets. No more fawning about how soft each other’s cheeks were. This was fucking. Like boys. Our tiny little cocks. Ramrod stiff. Stiff jeans. Shiny boots. Thick belts. Slicked hair. Fall in line, little boy, because this is how you show it here. I fell in line for her. Or she fell in line for me. Or we both fell in line because that’s what you fucking do.

The fucking. The way we fucked. Tossing back and forth. You fuck me. No, you fuck me. We both wanted to be fucked. We both wanted someone stronger than either of us. Or weaker. We both wanted something that was more opposite. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think she knew. How could we know anything? How can you figure anything out when the fucking is so good and you’re both new? I remember the time she grabbed my stiff, black comb out of my back pocket and held it against my neck. It hurt like a knife. It felt dangerous. I didn’t feel like a kid playing dress up. I felt tough. Dangerous. How I wanted to feel. She cut my back with that comb. Raking it across my shoulders, she let it bite into me. Jagged red lines.

I felt the booze swirl around in my brain. The warm rush in my belly. I stared at her with my wet lower lip hanging open. A dog. She was telling me some story. Something dumb. She was shaking her head and laughing and telling me about some asshole on the bus. Something about makeup. Or maybe a pregnant lady. I wasn’t listening to her. “I want you to fuck me,” I said, too loud, in the middle of her story. She looked at her knees for a second and then grabbed my arm and we headed out the door.

She walked ahead of me, still gripping my arm, and led me to her place. She stumbled off the curb once and nearly took us both down, but she never looked at me. Not until we got inside her apartment. When the door closed she turned around and shoved me up against it. She grabbed my crotch and spat her words at me. “You want me to fuck you? You don’t hate me yet?” she hissed. The words stung. Prophetic. I am going to hate her after this, I knew. It didn’t matter. Or maybe it did. Maybe that’s why I wanted it.

I moved slowly as I turned around and put my palms flat on the door. My boots slid apart as I stuck my ass out for her. I closed my eyes and opened my throat when her arm snaked around me, her hand grabbed my belt. All the anger left me. All the frustration and hurt melted. I had her. Now. Right now. She wanted me and I was right here. Any thought of how she didn’t love me disappeared. All my tortured images of her fucking someone else vanished. Whatever pain I had would be made physical.

She punched at my clit through my jeans. Her head pushed into my back between my shoulder blades. I could hear her crying. “Shut up and fuck me,” I said. I needed her angry or desperate, not sad. She shoved my head against the door. Pain shot through my head. We were both suddenly struck as if by lightning. She unbuckled my belt but left my jeans buttoned as she scraped them down and off over my thighs. My underwear was pulled down too. She left them just below my ass. The elastic bit into my thighs. One hand held my head against the door and the other jerked my ass back against her. She slammed her hips against me. Slamming her jeans, her cunt up against my bared bottom. Without warning, her fingers jammed into me. Her other arm gripped me tight around my middle. Her head sunk against my back. I heard her boots scraping the wood. I heard her grunt. “Fuck me,” I spat out anytime I wanted to say something else.

I rolled my ass higher for her. I wanted her to see how I craved her fingers deep inside me. “Don’t you want to fuck this ass?” I snapped. She pulled her fingers out of my pussy and grabbed my neck, starting to drag me down the hall. I straightened up and stumbled toward her bedroom. Shuffling with my pants still around my knees. I crawled onto her bed without being led and pulled my jeans down to my ankles for her. “This,” I said and wagged my ass at her on all fours, rolling my back. I heard her open the closet. Her box. The glove snapping onto her hand. The wheezing sound of her nearly empty bottle of lube. “This?” she said hoarsely and I felt her in my ass. “Yes,” I said and now my own big fat tears rolled down my face. I buried my hot, shameful face in her blanket and brought my fists to my chin. I pounded my ass against her as much as she slammed into me. “Harder,” I spat through my teeth, “Harder. Harder. Harder.”

I wanted her to hurt me until I couldn’t feel anymore. None of the pleasure was there. Nothing left of the way it feels when you’re in love or think you’re in love or at least aren’t in that category of ex, lost, already used. That’s how I felt. Already used. The empty wrapper of something that tasted good a long time ago. I was crying. She was yelling. No words, but something animal. Something hurt.

This is what I needed. This last fuck where everything felt desperate and wrong. The one that would remind me not to do it again. This is what I wanted. I don’t know about her. I didn’t care.

She fucked me hard in the ass for a long time. I finally reached down between my legs and jerked my aching clit off for an orgasm that hurt like a pulled muscle, a deep cramp. I doubled over on my side and held my knees to my chest. I felt the snot dripping on my upper lip. I didn’t care. She was on her back in front of me. Her chest heaving up and down. I saw her smile. Her wide grin. Her eyes open and darting around. That clean look she gets after she fucks me.

I fucked her too. Her knees thrown up by her shoulders. All of my fingers and nearly my whole hand inside her. I leaned my weight onto her shins. She held her knees. I fucked her hard and fast. Nothing mattered but her feeling the ghost of me in her cunt after I left. The raw places on her skin.

She holds her breath just before she comes. The veins bulge in her neck. I watched her. I waited. It was time. She jerked her whole body and nearly knocked me off the bed. I slid off the mattress onto my feet, pulling up my pants. I didn’t say anything as I turned to go. “Wait,” she started to say but the word cut off halfway, “Yeah, nevermind,” she ended.

Walking home, I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag and very suddenly felt more drunk than I thought I was. My stomach pulled back into a tight ball and I knew what was coming. “Just get home,” I said to myself. A mantra I chanted block by block until I turned the key in my door and ran to the toilet to throw up. “Fuck,” I said to myself, my head in my hands, and let the tears cleanse my sweet face. I was okay. I really was. I knew it.

Careening, or How I Like It

I want to touch her pussy every day. I want my fingers inside her. I want to sit down next to her and unbuckle my belt and see how quickly she slides to the floor between my knees, her fingers on the buttons of my fly. “Fuck me,” I say.

I want to see her bent over the bed in a short dress with white cotton panties peeking out. “Let me see how wet you are,” I say and push my fingers into the cotton, in between her lips, wetness soaking to the surface. “Let’s get you soaked,” I say and lift the hem of her dress up to her waist, her bottom exposed, before I swing the palm of my hand down onto her ass. I spank her, feeling the soft cotton of her panties.

“Come here,” I say.

She asks me, “Where?”

I never answer.

I tug her panties down over her sweet, reddening ass. “Let me do what I want,” I say and she so readily, so sweetly nods her consent. I swat at her flesh. I kiss her curves. I watch. I watch for that arch of the back, for the thrusting hips. That moment. When I see it, I smack her several more times, staring at the red fingerprints that surface, and then I gently pull those sweet, cotton undies back up. “Let’s check,” I say and spread her thighs. I pull the cotton hard between her legs. I run the tip of my nose up and down the length of her pussy. “I want to smell you,” I say and reach my tongue deep into the cotton, between her folds of flesh, tasting her. I suck the cotton into my mouth. I stay like this for awhile.

“I’m going to jerk off on you,” I say and stand up, lowering my pants to mid thigh. I rest one arm across her shoulders and let my hips fall against the backs of her thighs. My boots slide out from under me a little. I scramble against her. One hand moves under the elastic waistband of my underwear. I let her feel the back of my hand as it pulls on my clit. I can taste her pussy in my mouth mixed with the light scent of her detergent. I suck on her exposed skin. Her upper arm. Her neck. “Climb up,” I say and she adjusts herself so she’s fully on the bed. I climb onto her back, rocking my hips against her. I’m too jacked up to come. I picture my cock inside her.

I pull my wet hand out of my pants and press my knuckles against her panties. I slide them up and down. The cotton is wet. Wetter. I keep pushing against the cotton. Feeling for her hole, hidden beneath. “Let me inside you, baby,” I say, pleading. I want to beg now. I want her to let me. I push these fingers, my cock, against her and let her feel my hips. All my weight leans into these fingers. This stiffening part of me. “Let me, baby,” I say and run a finger against the edge of fabric that’s cutting into her inner thigh, “I want to be inside your sweet, little pussy. Let me in.”

I push and rub. I beg. I plead. I whisper all the things. How much I want her. How good I know I’ll feel inside her. How I’m crazy for her. How I want to come. Want her to come. Want to feel it all.

She doesn’t lift a finger. She doesn’t move. Sweat stings my eyes. I need her. I can’t wait. I grab her wrist and pull it hard down between her legs. “Let me inside you, baby,” I say and finally, slowly, she pulls the cotton aside. I see her sweet hole. I linger, knuckles grazing her slick, swollen lips. Until, with a hand flat and pushing her deeper into the mattress, I jam my fingers into her. “Yes,” I hiss, my arm pumping hard. Nothing sweet. Everything ripe and being plucked. Taken. “Let me take everything,” I spit at her, wild and heartless now.

I roll her over onto her back. “Let me know you like it, baby,” I say and she sucks on one hooked finger and nods. Eyes wide. I pound my fingers inside her over and over. Her panties still held to the side, the elastic cutting into my hand. Tentatively, after what feels like so long a time, her hand crawls down to her clit. I see it, pink and waiting. She looks at me and I nod. We nod at each other. My hair sticks to my forehead. She jerks at her clit and I feel her body stiffen and stretch. Shaking. Shaking. The room trembles with us and her low, animal moan. Her howl. It crawls out of her throat with its belly close to the ground as we come. She comes. For me.

This is how it sometimes is. This is how I like it.