Scene: Control

When I walk in, kiss me and ask how my day was. Help me take my jacket off as we talk. Offer me a cup of tea, which I will decline. Let me notice that the lights are slightly dimmed, intended to set me at ease. Keep talking to me as you sit me down and help me take my shoes off, your hands running up my legs ever so often. When I've been divested of the pesky things, stand me up and lead me by the hand to the bedroom, where I notice that you've set the temperature a little warmer than usual, again for my comfort. Kiss me, slowly, again. Ask me to stand quietly by the bedside, then unbutton my shirt slowly and carefully, your eyes watching mine, my eyes following your hands. Take it off, fold it and set it aside, then make me turn around, facing away from you. Ask me if I'm ready. Wait for my silent nod before unsnapping my bra and laying it atop my folded shirt.

Sit down on the bed and beckon me over to stand beside you with my hands extended in front of me, and bind them together to reinforce that I have no control over the events that follow. Bend me over your lap, adjusting my limbs until you're happy with my position. Make me stretch my arms out above my head so that they're out of the way.

Run your hand over my ass, taking your time to enjoy it, squeezing and gripping it as you please, until my back loses its stiffness and I begin to accept the situation I'm in. Rebuke me gently for enjoying this; force me to acknowledge that I am at your mercy and then, to really rub it in, make me say out loud just how much that turns me on. Right in the middle of my halting words, start to spank me - slowly and playfully at first. Take your time to make me twitch a little before establishing a rhythm, distributing your blows so that you don't hit the same spot twice in a row. Keep your other hand firmly resting on my back so that you can feel it every time I jerk in response to your strokes, and use it to make me stay still so that I am reminded again that I have no option but to take the punishment being meted out to me - and to take it well.

When you've warmed up my behind and I am squirming silently in your lap, yank my pants down partway down my thighs, leaving nothing between your palm and my bare ass but my thin panties. After a few moments of running your hands over the hot skin, resume your ministrations, this time laying your palm flat against my ass, outlining your target before you hit it. When I start to cry out, growl a warning at me, demanding silence, with the threat of further punishment hanging over my head if I disobey. We both know that you enjoy every little twitch and jump, every moment of tension in my muscles just before your hand comes down, every little sigh as the sting makes itself felt across my aching flesh. We both know that this is making me wet and ready, and you, hard.

Just when I think you're ready to give me a break, grab my hair and yank my face up to give it a sharp slap, just hard enough to sting and to make the fires smouldering behind my eyes roar to life. Watch me moan in response, my nipples stiffening even further, holding myself up on my bound hands, my crotch still draped over your lap, beginning to grind ever so slowly - and almost unconsciously - against your hardness. Slap my face lightly a few more times, back and forth, and feel my instinctive grinding pick up pace.

Make me get up, then, my hands still bound in front of me, and strip me down to nothing, carefully piling up my folded clothes. I will be breathing hard, eyes starting to glaze over, and you will see that I am wet. Smile as the smell of my wetness wafts up to your nostrils. Call me a dirty little whore, slapping my cunt lightly, making me jump and moan some more. On the pretext of tying my hair up, spin me around and blindfold me, making sure I can't see a thing. Let your hands roam over my body, my ragged breathing loud in the quiet room. Play with my nipples, my breasts, my neck, my back, stopping each time I squirm, resuming only when I hold still for you. Very slowly, and very delicately, pinch each of my nipples, then attach a weighted clamp to it, increasing the pressure till I gasp in pain. Step back to admire your work, then lead me out of the room by the throat, owning every inch of my body with that grip as I take one faltering step after another. Direct me to bend over, and feel me shiver as I realize that I'm being draped face-down over the back of your couch, my arms extended in front of me, my clamped nipples grazing the hard upholstery, my legs spread shoulder-width apart, my ass in the perfect position for a sound hiding.

Ask me, quietly, to open my mouth, then unceremoniously shove my wet panties in to muffle my cries. Hand me two pieces of cutlery - a spoon and a fork, I think - and tell me in careful, measured tones that if it gets too intense, all I have to do is throw them to the floor. Wait for my nod, whisper, "good girl," and give me a kiss on my neck before stepping away. Leave me there to contemplate my situation while you prepare the next instruments of my torment. Put on some low, rumbling music - the kind that you know will help me start to float through the pain to come - just loud enough to drown out sharp cries, but not loud enough that I can't hear your instructions.

As the strains of Massive Attack's Teardrop fill the room, ask me if I'm ready, your left hand resting at the small of my back. When I nod affirmation, remove your hand, and as I tense in expectation of pain, sink your teeth into the flesh of my ass, nipping at the tender spots and laving them with your tongue. Smile as I squeal, sharply smacking me to make me stop fidgeting - eliciting another, smaller squeal, followed by shuddering obedience. Spend a few moments running your hands up and down my legs, dipping your fingers into my warm cunt, letting me know that you plan to leave me dripping, bruised and used. Just as I start to buck against your fingers, withdraw them, then let me feel the bite of leather as you start to whip me with my own belt, at first taking short swipes at my ass, then letting the length of it whistle through the air to leave behind bright red imprints on impact. Remind me that my screams can't be heard by anyone, allowing me to unleash them without a thought. Alternate between the top of my butt and the sensitive flesh at the meeting of my ass and thighs, making me jump and almost dance at your will. I will yell in pain, but my grip on the spoon and fork will only tighten until my nails are digging into my palm. After a while, take the flogger that I had so mischievously brought with me the first time we played, and use it to raise welts across my tender skin, sharp stinging replacing the dull burning of the belt. Use it on my butt, my thighs, my legs, my back and my outstretched arms, merciless and consistent in your pace. Let the welts criss-cross my skin until the pattern pleases you. When my little screams have blended into one long wail, pause to gently massage some life back into my aching muscles, remarking over my noises on how my ass is glowing with heat and how hard it makes you to see that. Sit down, pour yourself a drink, and wait for the groans to subside to ragged gasps before stepping back up to me with an ice cube in each hand, running it over the now dearly sensitive flesh as I cry out in delirium through my gag, not sure if I want you to stop or keep going or fuck me or kill me. The choice will not be mine, in any case, as you remind me when your icy fingers reach down to play with my hot, steamy cunt. Talk to me as your fingers reach deep inside me, telling me how well I've taken my punishment, how beautifully I've been your little pain slut, your other hand stroking my hair. As I calm, give me one last surprise, your fingers tightening in my hair as you spear me with your hard cock and begin to fuck me from behind.

Make me scream into the gag as I quiver around you, the music just loud enough to cover the sound. Grant me no quarter, even as I begin to weep and clench and my legs start to shake from the pleasure and strain of holding myself up. Pull me up and tell me to place my weight on my hands, deftly removing the clamps that have made my nipples so sensitive that the slightest touch of your fingers on them feels like fire and ice. Hold me tight to yourself, one arm across my chest and the other grabbing at my hip, and fuck every last breath out of me until you finally explode with a roar, your hands twisting in my skin in that intensity, hard enough to bruise it.

As you collapse onto the couch to catch your breath, gently lay me down beside you, cradling my limp, exhausted body in your arms as you first take out the gag, then untie my hands and finally push the blindfold out of my eyes. I will still be coming down from the high that you transported me to, so I will clutch at you like a life-raft, my head against your shoulder, my parched lips tickling your neck. Stroke my hair and give me water in mouthfuls, whispering encouragements and praise, until I finally blink and smile at you, back in my own body and mind at last.

Cues

(This post was born out of a conversation with a Tinder match where the only requirement was to use the words provided to spin a story. My five words? recliner; darkness; strangers; nails; biting.)

I must say, movie halls are so full of potential. The darkness lends itself to all manner of misdeeds, from the mild and mundane to the heart-stoppingly outrageous. Sitting there, in the midst of a sea of strangers all of whom are conveniently distracted by moving images on a screen, it's all too easy to create your own parallel storyline that's often a lot...juicier...than anything Hollywood could dish up. And the thrill of being so close to discovery - any moment, your neighbour could sit up in his recliner to sip at his overpriced soft drink and notice that you're using yours for more conventional (and delicious) purposes - just adds to the excitement. Hands move with just a touch more urgency, nails digging in harder; mouths and lips and teeth find their mark with alacrity, biting down more sharply just because it's so much hotter to feel a moan being stifled lest discovery be risked. And half the time, you don't really care - let them see, let them be shocked, let them radiate jealousy and disapproval, because it only adds to the thrill (and who knows, it may just spur them on to give in to their own desires).

The best thing about a movie hall, though, is the moment when the lights come back on, and you stare at each other with barely leashed hunger, your clothes in disarray, and share an unspoken promise to finish what was started.

Want, Circa 2014

When you have me at your disposal, I beg this one thing of you - don't touch my pussy. Ignore that part of me. Show not the least bit of interest in it.

Take the rest of my body and ravage it. Stand me in front of a mirror, your arm wrapped around my torso, holding me to yourself, my hair bunched in your fist as you tilt my neck back to take in a whiff of my perfume. Trace your possession of my body in minute detail, your hands and fingers claiming my eyes, my lips, my nose, my tongue as yours. Trace lines over my thighs, my hips, my stomach - but don't pay any attention to the valley 'twixt my legs. Bind my hands behind my back with your belt, making me shiver at the feel of leather on my skin. Only bother to run your fingers over my panties when you slide them off my ass to squeeze and fondle it.

Bend me over the couch with your hand at the small of my back, positioning me just so to receive the blows I deserve and crave - deliberate, unyielding smacks that turn my ass cheeks warm and red, my cries muffled by the gag you've casually shoved into my mouth. Don't stop until my upper thighs glow just as brightly, and all I can do is squeal unintelligible things as my legs tremble from the sensory overload.

Ignore my aching cunt because it's not time for it yet, but grab me by my restrained arms and pull me onto your lap, still just short of being able to grind against your erection. As you undo the belt, kiss me, consume me, own me; pull my hair, devour my breasts, whisper your intentions in my ear, and call me out on all my wicked behaviour - make me feel the burning river of shame and arousal trickle all the way down to add to that pool of damp heat.

Make me so wet, so desperate for you, that my sodden panties make a mess on your jeans. When you notice it, set about punishing me for being so needy, so lustful, by hauling me to the bed, tipping my head back over the edge, and giving me a throatful of cock to choke on. Tell me how wanton I look lying there with your hard shaft pumping balls-deep into my mouth. Tell me how you can hear my moans as I suck and slurp at you. Tell me how good it feels to feel my throat convulse around you. Watch me squirm, watch me try to touch myself, slap my hand away, and watch me buck against thin air, my whine making itself felt as a humming against your cock. And just when my throat is starting to feel raw, pull out and come on my breasts and my face, my gasps spurring you on.

Lie down beside me to catch your breath as I catch mine, one hand idly clutching my breast, absently pinching the nipple hard enough that my pleasure/pain receptors short-circuit. Even now, ignore my cunt and its stream of wetness, even as I futilely attempt to gain friction against the sheets, my hands, your body, anything. Hold me down as I struggle, denying me still. Describe how needy and desperate I look as I do this. Hear me moan in response, a continuous feedback loop to infinity. Make me beg for your fingers on my cunt before you even begin to consider it.

Some Like It Rough

There is a fierceness to desire that I love. The burning heat, the urgency, the moaned excitement, the little noises of arousal and intensity - all these markers of want drive it up for me a few notches and make an already good scene superlative.

I want to drive a man so mad with want that he leaves impressions of that madness on my skin, in bruises where his thumbs dig in while we writhe together, our bodies feeding off each other's reactions. To hear a shuddering breath and feel my own pulse quicken in response, to bring his hand to my throat and let my racing heart reveal itself in veins quivering against his grip. To let my fingers speak my intentions, let my nails graze sensitive flesh, let my palm curl around hardness and heat in ways so intense and so demanding that incoherent cries are all that he can give me as I give him deliverance. To moan into sheets as I feel hot drops splash onto my breasts, to feel marked and owned by the hands that rub that seed into my skin, leaving me with reminders that I can wash off but never let go of. To be held hard and tight, arms wrapped around me, holding me in place, to be fucked with an appetite so large that I am sated and begging before he comes on my face.

Scene: Into Temptation

I ring your doorbell.

You open the door, we say hello. You're all in black, sleeves rolled partway up your forearms, clothes crisp and neat. I walk in, lingering just inside the doorway, a little hesitant. The house is dimly lit, so I can't make out much. You look at me, ask me if I'm ready. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, a bundle of nervous words sure to bubble forth if I tried. You invite me to sit, ask me to take off my shoes and coat, set my bag down, and then close my eyes and wait. You move away, busy with something as I do as you say. First the bag, then the coat, then my heels are discarded. I choose a seat, and with a deep breath, shut my eyes.

Losing my sight makes me that much more aware of my other senses. The slight chill in the air makes goosebumps run down my arms and under my dress - a woven, low-cut, wide-necked dark grey affair which I've chosen with your instructions (and tendencies) in mind. As I brush the pinpricks away, I strain to distinguish the sounds of what you're doing without much success. You make me wait a while. I'm terribly aware of how my body looks, so I shift often, trying to find a posture that I think might look okay. I'm so caught up in figuring out where to put my hands that I don't notice that you're back.

"Can you please stop fidgeting?"

I go very still at that, my hands sinking into my lap and staying there.

"That's better. Now, I want you to do something for me."

My head is turned towards your voice. I'm listening intently.

"Keep your eyes closed, please. I want you to take off your bra and underwear. Leave the dress on. I'm going to watch. You can stand up if you need to. Please don't waste any time."

This last line, I know, is because of my tendency to freeze as I consider the implications of your words. This time, I don't pause. I get to my feet, hand on the wall for support. My panties come off first, black hipsters drawn down and shimmied out of in no time. I carefully step out of them, bend over to pick them up and place them on the seat behind me, orienting myself by feel. The bra, in matching black, is a slightly more difficult proposition, since my dress has long sleeves. I start with the clasp, reaching under the back of my dress to undo it. I know the kind of view this gives you, and ordinarily would pause at this point to let the import of that hit me, but I'm trying, really trying to follow instructions properly this time. So once it's unhooked, I reach around to carefully work the straps down my shoulders and out from under my elbows. It's tricky, but I pull each sleeve up and reach for the bra strap, eventually getting both done. It's a simple matter to then reach into my cleavage to pull the bra out, but as I move to do so, I find your hand has already made its way between my breasts, my bra caught between your fingers, the operation soon complete, even as you take the chance to tug my dress a little lower and heft my left breast in your hand. Perhaps I've wasted time despite trying not to. Or maybe you just felt like sampling the goods. I hold still, hands at my sides, eyes shut as you fondle me, only breathing out when you pinch my nipple and withdraw, leaving me exposed.

"Mmm, that was very nice. Turn around and put your hands behind your back, please."

I comply, biting my lip as you take my wrists and bind them together with what feels like a leather belt. It's a comfortable bind, enough to keep me restrained but not enough to cause pain. It feels....right, like it belongs. And I know I can't undo it myself, no matter how hard I try. This is the beginning, where the feeling of letting go can start. I let it wash over me. You know what's going through my mind at this point, so you don't bother with words to interrupt, simply placing a blindfold around my head to obscure my vision completely and once again, taking choice away from me. Now, even if I choose to open my eyes, I'll be blind until you decide otherwise. I fall a little further into my surrender.

Once the blindfold is in place, you turn me around for a kiss, gentle but warm, before steering me further into the house, your hand at the small of my back. You don't know it, but I take great comfort from having your hand resting there - the warmth caresses my sensitive skin, and your touch calms the beginnings of nerves. I'm a little unsteady on my feet, but your guidance is firm and sure, and we get there without incident.

"Take a step forward, please. Then get down on your knees - I want your legs spread, though - and wait."

Instead of cold floor, I find something soft beneath my feet and then my knees as I comply. Kneeling there, I wait patiently for you.

One More Night

That night keeps running through my head in flashes. It gives me little shivers, jolts I can't quite handle, causing sharp intakes of breath as I recall in vivid detail the things we did, the things You did to Me.

I want more. More of that.

More of your body, which I can't get enough of - I want to run my hands all over you, just feeling the skin and muscle and heat, feeling all of you alive under my fingertips.

More of your cock, warm in my hands, rubbing gently over my lips, my cheeks, my closed eyelids.

More of your hands, running down my sides, dancing along my back, the feather-light touch making me gasp and arch for you.

More of your fingers, slipping into my slick pussy, the heel of your palm grinding against my clit, your hand laying claim to my wetness, my arousal.

More of your lips, thickly meshing with mine, then lazily meandering down my throat, your tongue wreaking havoc on my self-control as you envelop my neck in wet heat.

I want more of you all the time.

When we're out getting coffee. When we're singing. In your car, going somewhere. Talking (sometimes I stop paying attention to what you're saying, lost in miniature fantasies). Walking down the street, my eyes drinking you in as you make your way ahead of me.

You say I have no shame. I say I can't make myself hold back. I can't. I won't.

I want to turn to you to say something, only to find you looking at me with naked want in your eyes. As we hug hello, murmur into my ear that I look eminently fuckable. Grin at how I involuntarily stiffen at that, my eyes widening slightly. Leave a promise in that grin, a promise to follow through on your words.

Pull me into a kiss that leaves me breathless and biting my lip - you know that look well. Turn me on by words, by your clear intent, by your lips on mine, by your hands winding into my hair, then sharply tugging it back so you can nip at my neck; turn me on steadily, deliberately, painfully; until I beg, shamefacedly inarticulate, cheeks hot with need, for you to take me.

Deny me still, as I squirm and writhe beneath your touch, until, finally, you give me a taste of what I'm craving. Dispense with the preliminaries and just reach for my nipples, tug at them, pinch them until I moan and ask you to fuck me. I will. I'll bite my lip and hiss it, spit it out, mean it with all my soul. Don't listen to me. Instead, hold me down, ignoring my frustrated struggling, and bring your lips to my aching cunt.

A Little

Could you fuck me now?

Just a little.

Oh, a little - 

Just the tip, just the tip

...oh, yeah, like that.

Let the rest of me clench

In sweet anticipation

But keep fucking me like that,

just a little at a time.

Can we fuck, please? Yeah, 

go on, just a smidgen.

A bit more,

a little further;

Just as much as you like.

Don't listen when I say

                  Harder,

faster, oh

                  more!

I don't know what I want

I’m just wound up tight.

  

Give it to me in bits

Just the hint

Just a little

And then a little more

A little is sublime.

The shape of things to come

You've had limited exposure to my proclivities. You haven't had me giggle, grab you by the front of your shirt, and push you up against a wall to take a kiss that's been on my mind, mindless of who's around or what they might think. You haven't had me lead you into a room by the hand, then turn around, put my hands on your shoulders, and lean in to whisper "I want you to fuck me" in your ear with delicious intent. You haven't had me blush furiously as I mouth salacious things at you as you drive, surprised at my own daring. You haven't heard my breath catch as you quietly say something particularly filthy to me in public, in a place where all I can do is look at you with smouldering eyes and look forward to all your words have promised. You haven't had me take your hand and place it on my thigh, an invitation to do as you will. You haven't had me moan into your mouth as we kiss, as your hands explore my body and make me lose track of my thoughts, of everything, reducing me to a trembling bundle of raw lust.

You've got a lot to look forward to.

Possibilities

I want you

I want you so bad

I want you

I want you so bad, it's driving me mad

It's driving me mad

I want you to smile when you see me. To take in the sight of me, bare legs disappearing into ankle-high boots, thighs disappearing under a dress that hugs my curves, my hair spilling down my shoulders, my eyes sparkling to see you.

I want you to hold on just a little bit longer when we hug.

I want you to turn the lights down low, pour me a drink, and put on some good music. Nothing romantic – more...sexy, with rumbling beats and slick bass lines that make me want to undulate against someone. To smile when I raise my eyebrow at your choice of music, our wordless glances conveying the possibilities better than talking ever could.

I want you to watch me as we speak, to let your eyes roam over my body and drink it all in. I want to realise halfway through a sentence that you’re not looking at my face – that you’re focusing instead on my legs, following them up to where they melt into shadows under my dress. I want you to lean forward for a better look as my dress rides up when I settle back into my chair and cross my legs. I want to watch you realise that I’m watching you watching me, this delightful little game of cat-and-mouse making a smile dance at the corners of my lips.

And when I rise to set down my glass and stretch to work my stiff muscles, I want you to come up behind me and let your hand rest casually at my waist right as I’m at the height of my languorous reach for the ceiling. I want you to let your hand drift slowly down and inward to slide along my hip bone as I lean back into you in response, my hand rising to brush yours as I let my head rest lightly against your shoulder. I want to feel your warm breath in my ear, trailing down my neck as you bend to caress the hollow above my collarbone with your lips. I want you to elicit a low, slow sigh from me with that touch. I want you to turn me slowly, firmly so that you can pull me into a kiss that’s been a long time coming – a kiss that promises, in all its fierceness and heat, that there is much, much more to come. I want that kiss to make me moan, involuntarily, into your mouth. I want it to make me give in to you.

Sketch: Bruises

Bruises. I like them. I like what they mean, and I like how they make me feel. I like the tenderness that they leave behind, the slight ache jolting memories of the acts that created them to the forefront of my mind. Bruises made by hungry mouths, by strong hands, by being forced up against a wall.

I bruise easily.

A bruise, dark and angry, reminds me of the person who gave it to me. It's a reminder I can carry around with me, that I can stare at hungrily in the mirror, that serves as a mark of ownership which simply can't be matched. It's a private, personal badge of intensity and hunger that only the two of us know about - except when it isn't: when it's on display to the world in acknowledgment of the power that that person holds over me. A bruise reminds me of how little control I have.

I was once given a necklace of bruises, working all around my neck, sweeping under my collarbone, straying onto my breasts, snaking down my back; a scattering of purple-red on lightly toasted skin. I was never prouder to wear them than in the moment when I heard the shocked gasps of my roommates as I undressed that night.

As bruises take away power, so do they confer it.

That mark on my hip, my thigh, my arm where I was gripped so hard it hurt - not by intent but by instinct - that mark makes me smile because it tells me that I have the power to make another lose control enough that all they can do is grab recklessly at me. It is an exquisite embodiment of the throes of passion.

Mark me. Suck on my neck and take it just a little too far - hard enough for it to burn a bit, hard enough to make stars dance behind my eyes, hard enough to leave a mark. Throw me down onto the bed, cut short my scramble to escape, hold me down and then slowly, deliberately mark my inner thighs with your mouth, so that I can remember only you when I touch myself. Mark me with the flat of your hand, set my ass aflame with your blows. Then bite it. Break the skin just a little, just enough to justify the sobriquet, 'love bite'.

Find the softest, most tender flesh on my body, and leave it bruised.

I treasure these souvenirs, these reminders of our time together.

Sketch: Mouth Play

There is something about feeding a partner that ticks all the boxes for me. And I don't mean feeding them by hand.

Have you ever had someone take a bite out of something luscious, then beckon you over, only to kiss you with that still-juicy taste on their lips, then feed you morsels from their mouth, passing them back and forth until all that's left is your entangled tongues amidst the taste of heaven?

Have you ever watched chocolate melt on warm skin, and then leaned in to smear it a little with your mouth before licking it up? Have you tried it from their lips? Watching chocolate melt on lips held oh-so-still is tantalizing. Tasting it from those lips is an exercise in eroticism.

Have you ever been thirsty - so thirsty - and asked for a drink of water? Imagine being kissed by warm lips, then gulping down cold, refreshing water as it floods your mouth, the relief of thirst quenched mingling with the delicious feel of a cold-wet tongue grazing your gums.

It's a gorgeous, tender power play that can make you forget your meal, your thirst, your need and focus solely on that one gloriously stimulated point where your bodies meet.

And if you do it just right, it can be the most exquisite form of surrender, where you breathe in and out through your partner's mouth, their lips clamped over yours, your heart beginning to pound as you let them decide how much air to give you, all leading up to that rush, that moment of clarity when they finally let you breathe on your own, when the feeling of letting go utterly overwhelms you.

An open letter to future lovers

When I say "I want you," it is not simply some carnal desire that I'm expressing. It is the need to lose myself in you, to let the sensation of your skin, your touch, your scent, your breath, your hands, your lips overwhelm me until it is like so much surf crashing against the shoreline of my being. The need to have my ears filled with nothing but white noise, a static buzz that roars and roars until I fall into it, lost, my eyes closed, dropping further and further into the feelings that you give me.

And all this is simply desire for you - it is what happens in my mind when we build it up, slow, tentative, getting tangled up in each other, unhurriedly uncovering each other with nothing particular in mind. For me, the journey is gorgeous, with many many possibilities, opportunities just waiting to be taken. I almost never make it to a destination, so I have stopped planning for it or expecting to get anywhere.

Perhaps you will at some point understand how elusive and transitory orgasm is for me. I can't even get myself off without needing an image in my head of something so lascivious, so filthy that it drives me over the edge. My mind is a maze full of leather and chains, soft words and hard smacks, humiliation and praise, delicate touch and pain, exposure and privacy, tenderness and sternness all coalescing into this whirlpool which I struggle to hide from the world, for I doubt that ordinary society could ever understand or accept the things that float my boat.

The point is: if you care to come, I'd love to let you in, show you around, let you play curator to the museum of oddities in my mind. It's almost all in the mind (it always is - much more than most people like to admit). The more you explore my mind, the better you'll know me. And the better you know me, the further you'll be able to push me. And I want you to push me. I want you to want to push me.

How do you like it?

How do you like hair? Do you like it short? Long? Tied up? Worn down, cascading over my shoulders, so you can tangle your fingers in it when you reach for the back of my neck? In a loose, tuggable braid? Left to fall wildly over your face as we kiss, as I straddle you?

How do you like clothes? Do you think they’re a hindrance – or another part of the mystery? Do you like them layered, so that you can unwrap me, one piece at a time? Or do you prefer something that you can pull off me in one smooth move? Do you like figure-hugging dresses? Skirts you can slip your hand under? Shirts you can casually unbutton while we’re out, making me blush and bite my lip at the rush it gives me? Skinny jeans that cling to my curves, leaving nothing to the imagination? Billowing garments that reveal nothing except the outline of my collarbone? Do you like hints of cleavage, of the curve of my ass, of the strip of skin at my lower back as my top rides up, of the underside of my thigh as I cross my legs? Do you like to undress me yourself, or does it heighten your pleasure to watch me strip for you?

Do you like it when I wear heels? Do you think about how the added height makes us meld together perfectly, how you don’t have to bend to kiss me, and I don’t have to reach to grind against you? How you could just take me up against the wall without any manoeuvring, all because I’m wearing shoes that bring us eye to eye, lip to lip, crotch to crotch?

How do you like nails? Painted, to match my lips, toes flashing colour as I arch below you? Long, so I can drag them down your back as we fuck? Trimmed short, so you can watch me play with myself?

Do you like to watch?

I should...

I can still taste the vodka on my breath as I type this. I've spent the last half hour aimlessly driving around town instead of going home because there’s something soothing about speeding down a dark road in a closed metal box while music plays loud enough to drown everything else out, leaving you alone with your thoughts. And there’s something even better about being absorbed in those thoughts as a song winds down, with nothing but the whine of the engine in the background telling you that you’re hurtling through the night.

My thoughts were simple, and focused. On you.

One of these days, I really must put everything aside and act on those thoughts.

As you turn to leave after hugging me goodbye, I should grab your hand and say, “stay”.

As you walk away at the end of the night, I should call out, “come back”.

And instead of saying goodbye and filling the space with silly closing lines, about how nice it was or how I’ll see you soon, I really should just drop the pretence, lose the façade, look you in the eye and say something real. Something that makes you stop thinking for a second, something that makes it real for you too.

And in that moment, while we’re both looking at each other, acknowledging that there’s something here, something between us, I should just fuck all the doubts and the what-ifs and the buts and do what I've wanted to for so long: lean in and kiss you.

Want, Circa 2007

(I)

Want him. So bad.

Want to kiss him, full on the lips, as hard as I can. Delve deep into his mouth with my tongue, explore it to the fullest. Breathe as he breathes, take his being into myself.

Want to press against him, wrap myself around him, be locked in his arms with no chance or hope of escape. Feel our clothes getting in the way, slip my hands under his shirt and let them play over his skin. Feel the heat emanating from our bodies. Feel the pressing need to be close, to be one, to come together. Feel the powerful ache of desire for him.

Want him to feel me, hold me, crush me in his grip. Want him to claim me, make me his in every way, leave his distinctive mark on me. Want him to make me incapable of moving, incapable of being anywhere but there.


(II)

The slightest touch sending jolts through me. Waiting, ticking like a bomb, ready to explode. Just need that little bit more.

Thought excites.
Touch excites.
Need excites.
Presence excites.
Looks excite.
Everything excites.

To the point of desperation. To the point of my nearly losing my mind, losing control, and doing what I want so badly to do...

Crash into him. At every level.

From the mouths of babes

(All right - not babes, exactly. But I was clearly quite certain about these things at age 18. This is from a recently discovered stash of old notes from college.)

We are all sexual perverts. We all want to feel the violence of sex, the animalism that takes over the human mind during the act, and the inhuman pleasure that we derive from it.
The demeaning treatment that so arouses us.
The force that makes us surrender ourselves.
The raw feeling of pain and pleasure being brought together in one big, wet, sticky mess.

We all want it.

Kiss Me

Kiss me 

Out of the bearded barley

Nightly

Beside the green, green grass

Swing, swing

Swing the spinning step

You wear those shoes

And I will wear that dress

                   - Sixpence None The Richer, Kiss Me

When you kiss me, I lose track. Of time, of space, of the objects occupying the physical cross-section of the universe around me. Of everything but the sensation of your lips on mine, of your tongue flicking against my teeth and tongue, of your fingers gently holding my face close to you, of the heady rush that I can feel overwhelming me, of the sparks I can see behind my closed eyelids.

When you kiss me, I find myself suddenly incapable of higher level thought. My brain. stops. working. And here's the kicker - not only does my brain stop working, but I also find myself completely and wholly unconcerned by this. I'm perfectly happy to have you cause me to stop thinking, stop fretting, stop analysing. Because in that moment, when you're kissing me, my heart feels like it's about to burst from the sense of wonder of it all. And that's just about all my poor brain can handle at that point. So, yeah, when you kiss me, I can't think - and I love it. Your kisses leave me intoxicated and utterly blissed out. What's not to love?

It's in the way your kiss makes me feel, perhaps - it's the fact that I want to kiss you whether you've just smoked a cigarette or not (because you taste amazing anyhow - your lips ripe, your breath sweet), the fact that you smile at me between kisses in a way that makes my heart melt, the fact that your slightest touch sends a jolt down my spine, the fact that I stop. worrying. when you kiss me. It's in the way you look at me after long minutes of our shared breath and warmth and lips and tongue, when you take a moment to shake out of the daze we've both worked ourselves into and actually look at me again - and you smile, again. Oh lord, what that does to me.

I can't even begin to explain it. 

So, kiss me. Kiss me as much and for as long as you want to, because right now, kissing you is all I can think to do. And once you start kissing me again, I'll stop thinking of that, too. 

Words, Circa 2006

Suppress
the urge
to lick
to sniff
to smell
to feel
hold back
and watch
and then
Suppress
the urge
to free
myself
to be
myself
with you.

Lunch

“I miss your cock.”

He looked down at his phone, an instant jolt making him stiffen in his jeans as he read her text. The train was entering the outskirts of the city, and he was getting ready to disembark at the next station.

He stared at it a moment, then quickly typed out a reply: “You’ll have it in you soon enough. I’m going to fuck you raw.”

Not a minute had passed before his phone beeped again.

“Do you promise?”

She was sitting at her desk at work, her fingers dancing over the screen of her phone as they played their little game, her eyes sparkling with mischief and desire, widening ever so slightly as she received his response:

“Yes, lover. I’m going to bend you over the nearest table, flip your skirt up, and ram my cock all the way into your pussy in one go. And you’re going to take it, baby – hard. I promise you that.”

She gasped just a little as she read his words, delicious and devilish; tantalising and so full of promise. Her tongue fluttered over her lips as her mouth suddenly went very dry.

“Oh.”

He loved her little “oh”s. So much conveyed in such a very little sound. The gasp of surprise and shock and suddenly overpowering lust; the moment in which she gave up the game and just surrendered to him; the knowledge that he had the power to reduce her to a puddle of quivering wetness – “oh” conveyed all that and more.

 “Oh”, soft and breathy, when he ran his finger lightly up from the hollow of her neck to her chin, her head rising with it until he held her face balanced on his fingertip, her eyes closed and her mouth hanging half-open.

“Oh”, a low moan, when he ran his mouth gently along the curve of her breast, trailing kisses up the swell before swiftly taking her nipple in his mouth and rolling it on his tongue, pulling at it with his mouth.

“Oh”, a sharp gasp, when he blindfolded her and ran his hands very lightly down her sides, causing a wave of goosebumps to travel across her flesh, before scratching her skin with his nails, making her arch her back and bite her lip.

“Oh”, a startled cry, when he clamped his lips firmly onto her pussy, and ran his tongue over her puffy outer lips and slick inner ones, deliberately avoiding her clit to make her squirm beneath him.

“Oh”, a lust-heavy groan, when he knocked her legs apart, held her wrists down, and slid into her in one long, steady motion, stretching her with his girth.

Truly, her “oh”s were wonderful things.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Are you wet for me right now?”

She bit her lip, squirming a little in her seat. There was a moist heat between her legs, and she knew that it would only build until she did something about it. She often masturbated at work, but knowing that she would see him soon was enough reason to wait.

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“How wet? Are your panties soaked yet?”

“They are. I can’t wait to see you.”

He read her text, keeping one eye on the train’s progress, not wanting to miss his stop. An idea occurred to him, and a grin slowly spread across his face as he typed out his response.

“Go to the restroom and take them off. I want you to hand them over to me when I see you next.”

A minute’s silence. The phone beeped again.

“What?”

“Do it.”

They met at a restaurant that specialised in the American diner experience – steaks, sizzlers, cheesy fries, the works. She had already been waiting a while when he finally arrived, and their faces lit up as they spotted each other across the room. She jumped up and nearly knocked him over with her hug, which he enthusiastically returned. They stood there a moment, savouring each other’s nearness, before letting each other go and settling down. 

They snacked on the complimentary bread basket while waiting for their food to arrive. As they got over the initial rush of seeing each other, and settled into the comfortable feeling of being around each other, he put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him contentedly. Eventually, their food arrived and they began to eat, savouring each bite as much as the company they were in.

As the meal wound down, she found his left hand on her thigh, slowly rubbing up and down. The gentle friction was electrifying, adding to the earlier pool of wetness between her legs. With her panties gone, the feeling of arousal was even harder to ignore as she felt the moisture begin to start slipping down her pussy lips towards her ass. She bit her lip and tried not to squirm, hoping that he hadn’t noticed the effect he was having on her.

“Did you do as I told you?”

Her eyes widened imperceptibly as she looked at him, his eyes locking with hers, his gaze deep and intense. She knew exactly what he was talking about, but somehow, talking about it was proving to be very difficult.

She nodded very slightly, her eyes dropping and resting on the nearly empty plate of food before her.

“Good girl. Now hand them over.”

She reached for her purse with shaky hands, withdrawing a neatly folded pair of white panties, and handed them over to him without meeting his eyes. They were perceptibly damp, and the musky, sweet scent of her juices filled the air around them.

“Look at me.”

She looked up, startled, her wide eyes showing a hint of trepidation.

He took her chin in his hand, gently caressing it with his thumb. She swallowed nervously.

“You’ve done well. Does it turn you on to know that you’re sitting here next to me with nothing but a skirt covering your pussy?”

She nodded.

He leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“How do you think these people sitting here would react if they knew?”

Her eyes widened even more, and just as she began to shake her head slowly, he continued “don’t worry, you’re secret’s safe with me. But just imagine, if that guy sitting there – he’s your type, isn’t he – knew that all he had to do to have you is drag you over, unzip his pants, and pull you down onto his cock – how do you think he’d react?”

She cleared her throat. “He’d do it.”

“And you would let him.”

She nodded imperceptibly.

“How wet are you right now?” His warm breath tickled her ear, and it felt like every nerve in her body was straining to feel the things he was doing to her with his words. It was torture, being so close to him, yet unable to reach for the back of his neck with her hand, unable to draw him into the long, hot, wet kiss that she was longing to give him.

She moaned, softly. “So wet. I need you.”

“Go to the restroom. Wait there. Do not touch yourself. At all.”

Somewhat unsteadily, she got up and walked across the room, sashaying slightly in her 3-inch black pumps, the curve of her ass perfectly outlined against her skirt, with no panty lines to mar the smoothness. He could imagine her nipples poking stiff and hard into the fabric of her bra, and toyed with the idea of making her remove it and hand it over as well, but decided against it – she was, after all, returning to work after lunch.

He then proceeded to finish the rest of his food, eating with quick, efficient movements. She was already done with her meal, so he ordered a dessert for each of them before rising and walking over to the restroom.

It was a unisex bathroom, neat and nicely done up, with soft lighting. She was standing in front of the mirror, fussing with her hair, when he entered. She watched in the mirror as he shut the door, locked it, and turned to face her. She continued to watch as he walked towards her, his eyes on hers, right until he grabbed her hand and forcefully spun her around, his lips on hers in an instant, kissing her deep and hard. Her hands reached behind his head, locking at the nape of his neck, and she kissed him back with unbridled intensity, even as he lifted her up at the hips and deposited her on the counter.

“I’m so wet, my skirt is starting to soak it up,” she whispered into his mouth.

“Spread your legs for me. I want to finger you,” he breathed into her ear. She was quick to comply, her knees on either side of his hips and her skirt rucked up about her waist as his lips found hers once again, hungrily kissing her, tasting her mouth. He could feel her breath quicken and begin to heave as his finger found her wet pussy and slid in up to the knuckle in one smooth motion. He curled his finger upwards to hit her G-spot, and knew he had found it as she bucked in his arms, a low moan escaping from lips still trapped between his. He flattened the heel of his palm against her pussy so that it would rub against her clit, and began to steadily finger-fuck her.

She seemed to love this, as she attacked his mouth with a renewed ferocity, sucking on his lips till he thought they would bruise, her right hand buried in his hair, her left sneaking down behind the collar of his shirt to trace his shoulder blade. His other hand, till now resting on her left hip, began to tug at her white dress shirt, pulling it out of the skirt. He slid it under the thin material to caress her breast through her bra. When his hand found her nipple, it stiffened under his thumb, and he took his time to pinch and pull at both nipples to make sure they stayed that way. His mouth left hers to trail kisses and licks down her neck and collarbone, his right hand still with one finger buried deep in her pussy, rhythmically finger-fucking her in tandem with her bucking. He could hear her squelching against his hand, her juices almost a flood, as he bent his head to nip at her breasts. She gasped at each nip, her hands in his hair tightening momentarily before she relaxed.

All of a sudden, she pulled his face up with both hands and looked him straight in the eye.

“Fuck me. Please. I need you in me and I need it now. Don’t make me beg any more.”

At this, his thumb found her clit and began rubbing at it. She threw her head back, eyes closed, struggling not to cry out, her hands abandoning their grip on him and instead supporting her weight as she arched back, at the same time leaning both into and away from his manipulation of her most sensitive flesh.

He said her name, then – softly at first, then slightly louder when she failed to respond. Her eyes flew open as he indicated with his eyes that she should look down at the sight of his finger disappearing into her while her thumb rubbed at her clit.

“Do you still want me to fuck you?” he asked, as she watched, mesmerised, mouth hanging open as she drew short, laboured breaths.

“Oh. Oh yes!” she gasped, her hips still moving in time with his hand, which had by now started slowly grinding into her pussy and clit. “I need your cock. I want it. I need you to fuck me. I need you to take me.” This last sentence was spat out through gritted teeth, and she clearly meant it.

“How do you want it?” he asked. “Tell me.”

She bit her lip again, trying to keep from crying out loud. Her eyes were screwed shut and she clearly had to make an effort to string together words to form a sentence.

“Standing up. Push me up against the wall, pin my wrists down, pull my clothes open and fuck me hard.”

“C’mere.”

He pulled her forward into a steamy embrace, kissing her feverishly, his hand leaving her pussy with an audible squelch. She moaned from the sudden emptiness, but let out a barely-contained squeak as he started to nibble on her earlobe, his tongue tracing wet circles around her ear and making her swoon.

His low whisper filled her mind. “Wrap your legs around me.”

She did, her arms wrapping around his neck at the same time. She could feel his hardness rubbing against her pussy through the rough fabric of his jeans and started grinding against him, her skirt still bunched up at her waist, as he lifted her off the counter top and walked over to the wall. Slamming her up against it hard enough to knock the air from her lungs, he buried his head in the crook of her neck, licking, sucking and biting at the spots that he knew would drive her crazy, while she held on for dear life, pinned to the wall, her feet dangling a good six inches off the ground, slowly disentangling from his.

Suddenly, he let go of her and stepped back, and she landed on shaky legs, her arms still resting on his shoulders, as she looked to him to see what he would do next. Her pussy was aching to be filled, her nipples crying out for attention, but she loved the way he was dictating the terms of this encounter. Her arms fell to her sides, her skirt starting to slip back down, her pussy now covered as she shifted her feet and waited for him to tell her what to do, expectation writ large on her face.

“Unbutton your shirt for me, slowly. Take your bra off but leave the shirt on.” His hands were already undoing the fly of his jeans, his eyes following her hands as they tugged at her bra straps, pulling them over and off each arm in turn before they unbuttoned the first two buttons of her shirt ever so slowly and pulled her white bra out and off through the front of her shirt. His cock was out, hard and ready for her, as she put on a little show for him, tweaking her nipples through the fabric of the shirt so that they stood out stiff and erect against the thin white cloth. She slowly undid the rest of the buttons on her shirt, leaning back against the wall, one knee bent with the heel of her foot resting against the wall and her hips pushed out towards him invitingly. As the last button came undone, he stepped forward, and, one hand reaching behind to grip her ass, drove his cock into her in one long, sure stroke, his other hand over her mouth muffling her cry.

Seven Days (Part I)

Thursday

They had just received the keys to the apartment from their landlord that morning, and had spent most of the day just bringing their various belonging over and trying to find a place to fit them. The place was sparsely furnished – a double bed and built-in wardrobe in the bedroom, a plain square wooden dining table with three chairs to go with it, and a built-in hob and chimney in the kitchen. In the style of most Bombay houses, the nearly-floor-level windows were barred, with sliding panes to make maximum use of the space available. The bathroom was compact, but clean. It was enough.

When moving into a new place, one’s belongings seem to take up every available space. And with the knowledge that the kitchen appliances and the washing machine would arrive soon, the two of them knew that they had better get organised, and quickly. They had come armed with cleaning supplies, so they wasted no time in getting to it.

 He got rid of all the dust and dirt in the bedroom and the living room, wiping down all the furniture as well, while she set to work in the kitchen, cleaning each shelf, then laying down newspaper before unpacking and stacking the utensils and dry goods they had managed to purchase.

She unpacked and put down her maroon rug next to the bed. He carefully mounted his framed pictures on the walls of the living room, saving his painting for the spot on the wall opposite their bed. She unpacked and set up his lamp next to the bed, then positioned hers next to the dining table in the living room. He unpacked her curtains – they both agreed that new ones would need to be bought, but that privacy was more important at the moment – and strung them up in the bedroom and the living room. A mattress had been bought and snuck up to their apartment on the 15^th floor through the lift while the watchman was away, and now occupied the bed, inviting the tired couple to just take a couple minutes’ rest, lie down for a bit, what harm could it do....but no, there was too much left to do.

The microwave, fridge, and washing machine arrived in the early afternoon, just as they were wolfing down kaathi rolls from the hole-in-the-wall around the corner, and were installed under his watchful eye. They would have to wait a month or two before buying a TV.

And the unpacking continued. Her speakers, his football kit, their clothes, linen, shoes, pillows, hangers, drinking water bottles, laptops, phone chargers, you name it.

At 8 pm, they stopped, exhausted, and decided to call it a night. All that remained to be unpacked were four cartons of books, which, lacking a bookshelf, they decided to hold off on. He stepped in for a quick shower, too tired to even ask her to join him, while she fried them some eggs and bread for dinner. When he came out, hair wet and shiny, drops of water still running down his body, she was already tucking in, her i’m-sorry-i-was-hungry face on. He shook his head with a smile, tut-tutted, and settled down next to her on the bed, proceeding to demolish the food on the plate before him with savage hunger. It was simple, fresh, hot food, and the best thing on the planet at that moment. He took the dirty dishes to the kitchen to clean up while she went in to bathe. By the time she was done, he was already sprawled on the bed, dead to the world. She dried her hair with a smile on her face, making a mental note that they needed a mirror in the bedroom, and lay down beside him. As she settled down to go to sleep, curling up on her side, he stirred, his arm snaking around her middle, his chest coming up against her back, spooning her perfectly. “G’night,” he mumbled. “Goodnight,” she whispered back.

Friday

When she woke, his morning wood was pressing into the curve of her ass. She lay there a few moments, smiling to herself, as it become apparent that he was still fast asleep. Perfect! She carefully disentangled herself from him, making sure he didn’t stir, before padding into the living room to find her little bag of toys. Thankfully, it was in one of her half-unpacked suitcases, so she grabbed the things that she needed and tip-toed back into the bedroom. He was still asleep. Excellent.

She climbed back onto the bed, positioning herself by his knees, and bent low to the task at hand. His boxers were tenting, his erection out of sight but very apparent, and she quickly slipped them lower down his body so that she could lay her hands on it. She took his cock by the base, her right hand encircling it, and quickly took as much of it in her mouth as she could comfortably manage. Then slowly, she started moving his cock in and out of her mouth, pumping her hand up and down in tandem.

He awoke with the sensation of her wet heat surrounding him, as she squeezed and sucked and massaged his cock with her mouth and hands. She picked up the pace when his half-gasped “wha-?” told him he was finally awake, and his drowsiness quickly turned into a low groan, his head half-raised off the pillow to take in the sight before him. He threw his head back into the pillow, eyes open, breathing shallowly, as she worked him up, her right hand now playing with his balls, now squeezing and pumping his cock, her tongue now licking  up and down his shaft, now drawing lazy circles around his balls before she took them in her mouth one by one. His hand reached down behind her head, pushing her further down and his cock, his hips starting to thrust reflexively in time with her movements.

This was what she had been waiting for. She tightened her grip on the base of his cock so as to retain some control over how deep she let him go, then relaxed her throat and let him slide in as far as she could take him, his cock hitting the back of her throat and his grip in her hair tightening to a painful extent. She could feel her own wetness pooling between her legs, starting to leak out from between her now puffy lips, but ignored it – this was about him, and she had to focus on the way she was making him feel, despite the aching in her loins. He wanted more, she could tell, but she had to ease into it to prevent herself from gagging. Removing one finger of her right hand at a time from around his cock, she slid her mouth lower and lower, taking him deeper in her throat, half-inch by half-inch, till her nose was being tickled by his pubic hair. Her throat felt stretched, but the months of practice with her toothbrush had paid off – her gag reflex hadn’t kicked in yet.

Her little moment of triumph was interrupted by the feeling of him thrusting hard into her mouth, his hand at the back of her head holding her pinned while he started to fuck her deep in her throat. Despite the deep breath she had taken, she knew she would have to come up for air soon, and so tapped him firmly on his side to signal that she needed him to relent a little, which he did – enough for her to breath in through her nose while she continued to lap at him with her tongue. He had raised his head to look down at her as she did this, so she made a show out of it, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock and licking up the underside of his shaft in slow, long strokes, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Take off your clothes. I want you naked,” he said, his voice hoarse but firm, as he sat up to take his t-shirt off, shrugging out of his boxers with equal speed.

She leaned back to rest on her heels as she took the sight of his body in. Three months apart and it still looked just as gorgeous as the last time they’d been together – his chest smooth and hard, his arms strong and sinewy, his stomach flat with little wisps of hair at his navel that she loved to stroke, and his perfect, sculpted ass and muscular thighs, all of them ticking all the right boxes in her mind.

He adjusted the pillows behind his back so as to be more comfortable, then looked at her, clicking his tongue in impatience when he saw that she was still dressed.

“What are you waiting for?” he said, leaning forward and grabbing her the bottom of her thin t-shirt, dragging it upwards while pulling her forward at the same time. “Get this shit off. Now.”

As she hurried to comply, her t-shirt halfway over her head, obscuring her vision, he said something that brought a rush of wetness to her pussy – something that she had never thought she’d hear him say.

“And then get your mouth back onto my cock. I want to fuck you in the throat.”

This certainly wasn’t the same man. This aggression in bed was new. And she liked it. Very much.

Trying not to grin, she quickly wriggled out of her shorts and panties, and fell upon his cock like a starved child, preparing to deep throat him again. His hand quickly rose to the back of her head, pushing her further down faster than she could accommodate, and she began to gag, tears springing to her eyes as the head of his cock went deeper down her throat than it had before. Despite the discomfort and the fact that she couldn’t breathe, she realised that this was turning her on even more, so she let him continue to fuck her face, using her mouth and throat as he would her pussy, his hand holding her in place while his cock sawed in and out of her open mouth. This was the scene that she so often masturbated to – being forced to suck on a cock, to take it deep in her throat, with tears pouring down her face as she was mercilessly skull-fucked, used and abused in the most degrading way. She closed her eyes, her heart pounding, and could feel her arousal building from the humiliation of it all, and wondered, even as his thrusts became less frequent, but harder and deeper, indicating that he was close to coming, if he knew what he was doing to her. As he thrust into her throat one final time, grinding his crotch into her face, before spurting his seed deep down her throat, she resolved to ask him at some point.

When he was done, she eased her now-sore throat and mouth off his cock and sat back on her heels again, eyes still closed, slowly wiping the spit that had spread over her jaw with the back of her hand. She took deep breaths and swallowed to clear her mouth, trying to will her heart to stop racing, the tears feeling cool on her flushed face as they dried. When she opened her eyes, he was leaning back against the pillows, staring at her with an indecipherable expression on  his face – half-satisfied, half-alarmed, and half-something else entirely. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds, the distant sounds of traffic from the streets below echoing in the half-empty room.

“Was that-?” she blurted, at the same time as he said, “Are you-?”

They both fell silent again, watching each other.

Finally, she decided to give it another go, and said, “Was that good for you? Did you like it?”

He looked at her strangely, then said, “Yeah, I did...but...you’re crying. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to thrust so hard, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to hurt you, it just felt so good that I couldn’t stop, my eyes were closed and I didn’t realise that-”

She interrupted him with a vigorous “Nonono! You haven’t hurt me, love, don’t worry. I mean, I might be a little sore, but...you see...I liked what you just did. I’m incredibly turned on right now, because I love the way you used my mouth – it’s what I fantasize about so often, and to have you do that was just so amazing...”

She broke off as he was staring at her in disbelief.

“What?”

“You are one strange woman. You’re crazy. You liked that? There are tears flowing down your face right now, and you tell me that you liked that?”

“I’ve told you before that I like pain, and humiliation, and being used. You’re just too much of a gentleman to do any of those things. I don’t think you have it in you to disrespect me in bed. But the way you held me in place just now...I loved it, and loved you for doing it. I was surprised, yeah, but I wasn’t about to stop you and ask why you were doing this now, of all times. I just went with it. And I’m glad I did.”

“Well...it’s strange, and I certainly didn’t mean to do it. I wouldn’t want to force you in any way.”

She sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of. But it’s okay. Don’t sweat it. I like it when we do vanilla stuff just as much.” She hoped that he wouldn’t see through the lie.

She quickly kissed him on the lips and, before he could say anything, climbed off the bed, taking her clothes with her, not really wanting to continue the conversation. She shut the bathroom door and began to brush her teeth, a little disappointment welling up inside her, at the same time mirrored by a growing fount of resignation. She decided to snap out of it – there was so much to be happy about that she really didn’t want to let this bring her down – and felt much better as she splashed some water on her face. She dressed in the privacy of the bathroom, thinking about what they could eat for breakfast – there was milk in the now-functioning fridge and she was sure they had picked up some cereal the day before, besides which she fancied a cup of tea – and was just walking through the door, putting her hair up, when he stepped in front of her, holding her bag of toys in one hand and the vibrator that she’d left on the bed in the other, his eyebrows raised.

Fuck. She’d forgotten to put them away in her rush to get away from the conversation. Fuck fuck fuck.