Sitting by a window early in the morning, the shadow cast by a crocheted lace curtain inspired me.
She ate instant rice, drove over the speed limit, opened all her gifts on Christmas Eve. When she met people, she decided within 30 seconds if she would be their friend.
She couldn’t stop herself from urging him. “Please,” she said as his hands traced a meandering path along her legs.
“No, baby, I want this to last,” was his reply, his raspy voice barely above a whisper.
“But, I want-”
“This isn’t about you.” Kiss. Lick, his beard combining with his tongue to drive her insane. “This is about me, I’ve tried to tell you this.”
And he had, Levi taken control since the first time they had sex. He held her down, fucking her so hard the air was forced out of her lungs. He bit her nipples, sucked her pussy as if it were his life’s blood, pulled her face to his by her hair.
But now, now he was not doing any of those things. And Adrienne was going insane. She wanted him, now, here, hard. She wanted to be fucked, really and truly fucked. Release.
“You know what I like?” Levi asked as he cupped her ass and turned her over. “The back of a woman’s knee. I have found it to be . . .”
She heard herself moan, wordless sounds coming from deep within her. Still, he did not heed her, he simply put his mouth to the back of her legs. It was the most sensual feeling, like being on an ocean of warmth.
“Don’t you like this my love?” She could not answer him, any more than with a “mm-hmm.” She realized he was again in control of her body, albeit in a completely different way. He had not taken her over by force this time.
Levi usually stormed Adrienne’s beaches, took her lust hostage, made demands of her. He had, moments ago, done just that: met her need with his own, fucking her hard and fast, cumming so hard she felt it fill her. But now he was playing with her, toying with her, drawing her out, making her slow down and relax. It occurred to her that he was, perhaps for the first time, making love to her.
But that was an abstract thought, floating on the edge of her mind. Front and center was his mouth, back down on her leg, kissing the arch of her foot before taking each toe, one by one, into his mouth. Adrienne’s mind, often the arch enemy of sexual enjoyment, gave up. She gave in, and simply felt, stopped wanting anything more than this – Levi, his mouth, his hands, his voice.
“Doesn’t this take you to your happy place?” he asked her.
“Baby, you are my happy place,” she answered, not even knowing if he could hear her, not caring. He was kissing his way back up her leg, a path along the inside of her thigh, oh my god.
Then after barely kissing her pussy, back down the other side, explaining that this was what he wanted, to do this to her, and when she was under him, it was always about what he wanted.
“God, I love this,” he told her. “Doing this to you, toying and playing with you, taking my time to enjoy you.”
His fingers opened her up, his tongue dancing ever so lightly across the folds of her, barely touching the surface of her pussy and he put a finger inside as if to memorize what she felt like. Then he was there, licking and sucking her, hard then soft, his fingers fucking her fucking her fuckingfuckingfucking . . . and she was gone.
Kissing him goodbye, she tasted herself on his mouth, lying in bed that night, she realized he went back to his life with her juices in his beard.
And that, again, he had dominated her, but a different conquest altogether. He had coaxed her and she slipped under, not a surrender so much as a yielding, a gentle thing, letting go.
Rough Boy’s hand, my thighs. I sneaked to take this, and surprised him with it. He says it is his favorite picture of me.
“You like that?” Like there was any doubt, like she wasn’t grunting and moaning, baring her teeth, she realized now and again. “You like me fucking you?”
He wanted to hear the words, she understood that. Words were, at times, the only thing they had, they had spent hours, days, weeks, lifetimes with only words. Vivid, sexy, filthy, but just words. Now, now they had the real thing, flesh. Skin and tongue and hair and smell and fingers and cock and pussy, hallelujah.
He was balls deep, her legs wrapped around him like a vise, pulling him deeper still, as hard as possible. Her hair wrapped in his fist, he brought her throat to his mouth. She felt his teeth for the briefest moment, then just his tongue and lips leaving marks for her to hide tomorrow. She heard herself gasp as she sunk her fingers into his hair, thick and slick, she could smell the fucksweat as it dripped down onto her
“Tell me,” he said, biting her nipple. “Tell me you like getting fucked, cause you’re a dirty whore. You are my filthy whore, aren’t you?”
The question was unexpected, and it unexpectedly excited her. Was it the word, the context of it, called a whore while fucking a man she had no business fucking? Did she feel like a whore? Did she want to?
“Right . . . there,” she said as he put her ankles up over his shoulders, deeper and deeper he slammed into her, she could feel his balls slapping her ass. He pulled her hands above her head, pinned her wrists to the bed. “Oh god yea, hard like that, fuck me fuck me fuck me.”
“My whore,” he was two inches from her face now, making sure her eyes were open. “Are you? Are you my filthy whore?”
The rhythm slowed, she narrowed her eyes. “Fuck you,” she said, without ever stopping, fucking as hard as she was being fucked.
“Listen to me, motherfucker,” her hands reached down to feel his ass, the muscles hardening as he stroked, in, out. She grabbed both hands full, nails biting into the skin. “I am not a whore, yours or any fucking body else’s.”
He was surprised, but not taken aback, his stroke was hard and steady, out out out, the barest of pauses, then slam back into her, his cock filling her so that is almost hurt. Almost.
“Do I like this? Do I like you fucking me? Oh hell yea,” she told him, never blinking. “Harder, c’mon baby, give it to me.”
He grinded on top of her, his dick moving around, touching her pussy in places she didn’t know existed.
“Yea, I like this, no goddam doubt,” the last word came out as much a moan as anything. “But I am not a whore, I just like this, I just want to fuck you. Doesn’t make me a whore, fuck you.”
Her eyes challenging him, he fucked her as hard as he had ever done anything, as if to make her his whore simply by willing it, by fucking it into her .
He kissed her, sucking her tongue into his mouth, she could feel he wanted to bite it, she simply dug her heels into the small of his back, dare you.
He lowered his mouth to his ear, “So, you won’t be my whore?”
“Never. if I am a whore, I am my own whore, I do this for me, not you. I am here to cum, to lick and fuck and suck and to cum. I am filthy, I am fucking yes. But I am not a whore, and I certainly don’t belong to you.”
His hand moved to her throat, never taking his eyes off hers. Squeezed, not hard enough to stop her breath. Still, he fucked her, her hips moving up to match his strokes, her heels grinding into his back.
“Oh you’re mine,” he told her, a predator toying with his prey. “Whore or not, right now, these moments, you belong to me. I call the shots here, I dominate you, I own you, for just this time.”
It made her furious, the thought of it, that he thought she would allow this, submit to it, get off on it.
“Fuck you,” she said, using her legs to pull him in deeper still. “I belong to no one.”
His hand moved from her throat down between their bodies, to where his cock was shoving into her.
“Here, baby, this,” he said, loud. “This pussy, this cunt, this is mine. You know how I know it’s mine?”
“No, tell me, fucker. Tell me,what makes it yours. What makes you think that’s your pussy and not mine?”
“Because you can’t stop fucking me.”
And she didn’t; she fucked him harder, her pussy clutching at his dick, squeezing it with the orgasm his words brought to her. He pulled his hair, screamed like a banshee, fucking and cumming and fucking, out of control.
Later, recovered, composed, she called him. “Not yours.”
“Not now, my love. Only when I make it mine, only when I fuck you. Then there is no yours, it is all mine. Then you are mine. My pussy, my whore.”
A book, a drink and some bubbles.
Not rude, not hard to deal with, not against the grain. Not contrary in any way.
Friendly, polite, he smiles when we are talking, laughs easily, on the surface he is as cool and smooth as a pebble at the bottom of a creek.
Yet, he is not polished. I have never seen him in anything but work boots, his hands are as rough as his mind. Even his dick has escaped, it is as nature created it, uncut, fuck you world, intact.
His touch can be tender as he caresses my face, moves to my hair. Yet that hand grabs my hair and pulls my mouth from his cock, brings my face to his to make demands. Of my mouth, my body, my mind.
Those fingers are rough as he shoves them in my pussy, his voice is rough in my ear, growling, claiming this as his.
He eyes are fierce when he is inside me, fucking me, claiming me, telling me just how it is going to be. No one but a rough boy would hold me down, fuck me so hard I have to explain tender spots for days.
He is rough when he opens my blouse, not bothering to unhook my bra, just shoves it up over my tits, his mouth rough as he sucks and licks and, yes, bites.
“I will dominate you.” Now that is a rough declaration. And I try to be rough when I assert that, no he will not. But he does. When do it when he says, I suck him on demand, he eats my pussy without asking. He fucks me at his will and pleasure.
Hard. Loud. Rough.
Who is this woman who allows this? I am not submissive, I do not permit anyone to dictate to me, or rule me or subjugate me, it is simply not done. But then, he didn’t ask, he just did it, he is simply this way. Rough.
Fuck me, my rough boy.
My favorite robe, my fuzzy, and a ribbon. Just seemed like the thing to do.