I…

open my legs.

“Thank you.”

I do not expect to be praised for this, but I hope to be, as you push them wider still to settle in and inspect.

My body has been through so much it feels like a war zone, a dust bowl blown through, I do not recognise the sensations I once found home in and as gentle as you are, every touch feels like

sandpaper

lightning

suffering through pain to receive pleasure as if that was my punishment for unfurling, opening the windows.

After gentle pressure parting my thighs, your palms smooth down them once, twice, until I have long lost count, until the feel of your rough skin on my soft has faded into a hum, until my eyes have closed, until I am swimming in this feeling.

Only then do you trail a finger up the crease along my mound, cup my vulva, gently whisper, “Hello again. Let’s play nicely.”

You leave your hand radiating warmth through the lace, leeching into my labia, nestled against the fabric. The lack of motion or pressure sends me shifting, so used to release at any cost.

“Ah-ah,” you tut, squeezing my mons firmly, holding me in place. “I’ll tie you down, make no mistake.”

You know the friction of fabric on skin leaves me sore, so though my instinct is to seek sensation, you have the role of listening to my body when I forget. Speaking on her behalf.

“First, I’m going to undress you. Then, I’m going to taste you.”

You roll up your sleeves very carefully, drawing the curtains as I sink lower, nails digging into the flesh of my thighs.

You don’t leave me for long, returning to offer a hand, guiding me from my chair. Once I am standing to face you, you give me a twirl, reminding me this is, should be, joyful. I am caught in your arms, lightly dipping me for a kiss, freeing one hand to ruck the hem of my jumper up, exploring the skin below.

A calloused fingertip and thumb barely pinch my nipple before your entire palm clutches at my breast, pulling me to you, as your tongue dances atop and past mine. I can feel the heartbeat between my legs, the throbbing, I had feared would never return.

You push the sweater further: up, over my breasts, neck, head, to the floor.

You hold my chest in place to trail your tongue across my collarbone, down my sternum, to my belly, looping back up to discover my lips. Licking between them, beyond them.

You pull me into you, the warmth of your clothed body a shock to my bare skin, smoothing your hands down my back as you whisper into my ear:

“How lovely you are.”

A palm runs to the small of my back, pulling me into you, so that I can feel your arousal press up against my vulva.

“How patient.”

You reach lower to knead my ass, rubbing me slightly up and down against your length.

“What a very—”

A tug of the zipper at holding together the back of my skirt.

“—*very—”*

Another.

“—good girl.”

My skirt floats to the floor.

Your eyes carve into me, up and down, and something, a noise, rumbles in the depths of your throat, audible only to the trained ear. I’m pulled even harder into the imprint of your swollen cock, brushed up as you flick your hips once, hard, and I hiss at this sensation, but it’s delicious, too, and then you’ve dropped to your knees on our merciless stone floor, tugging the thin layer of lace down with you.

“Sit.”

I do, just on the edge of the bed, well within reach. A brazen flash comes over me and I spread my thighs as far open as they can be.

You stare at my centre, red and wet and wanting, palming yourself unashamedly over your jeans.

“You love baring yourself to me.”

It’s not a question, but I say, “In every way.”

I’ve never seen a soft smile that could burn through ice, but you beam, and then slide the ring that almost all the time adorns your middle finger off, passing it to me.

“Hold onto this for me.”

I slide the silver circlet onto my thumb, only looking up to catch you tying your hair into a knot.

“Now,” as if you were directing a scene, “Hold yourself open for me.”

I settle a finger either side of my labia and *s t r e t c h.*

You stare, motionless, until my skin has gone red across every limb. I can feel the wetness percolating within me, gathering at my entrance for you to see. It is difficult to believe I ever felt shame being so exposed.

You lean forward, slow as syrup, and gently kiss me where I open up to you. Your lips on mine are feather-soft, only broken by the clinking of metal on floor as you remove your belt, deftly unfasten, and bring your red and weeping cock out for air.

I press down through my palms to get a better view of your hand on your flesh just as you dive into me with a much less forgiving kiss, open mouth to my entrance, lapping with tongue up inside of me, drinking of my waters. Your nose brushes my clit as you force your way closer, closer, just enough to please.

One hand stays frantically rutting your cock as the other, the one whose ring I’ve taken, extends a thick middle finger, drawing circles around my entrance as you lean back for air. The loss of sensation drives me desperate, which you know. You anticipate this before I feel it, the gaping loss, and keep teasing the ring of my vagina,

around

and around

and around

a deadly gleam in your eye.

“Ready for more?”

“Yes, please yes,” I muster, my throat catching with want.

You immediately slide your finger all the way up inside me, an explorer claiming my walls with joy.

You tease, but you deliver all the same.

“So. Wet.” It’s a growl, and before I can respond, your mouth has descended back upon me, tongue wrapping fervently around your fingers, replacing the circles they traced, nose rubbing the swollen hood of my clitoris, and it’s wave after wave after wave of electricity, of shocking heat rising up from my core.

It builds as I hear the hand on your cock become slick, coating yourself in your own runny precome.

It builds as the bed creaks, egging you on harder.

It plateaus for a moment, long enough for me to catch your eye, which is a question, and I nod, which is “Please, don’t stop, I need more, I need exactly this, please say you’d keep going forever if that’s what I need,”

and you smile and return to the task at hand, choking grip on your shaft, and I watch it throb obscenely against your hand, leaking and wild as you push not one, but two more fingers in me, probing me open, extending them in a stretch that—for all your work—is not painful, but warm, and tight, and I can feel the cool air hitting parts of me that have never seen the sun as your saliva collects, as you eagerly lap up the little trickle of fluid I all the time produce, as you groan in savage delight at the miracle of what our bodies can do together, and you growl, and I know you’re gonna come.

“Let me hear it,” I say, “I want to hear it.”

Your fingers curl sharply, tongue lashing as if seized by a current, wet hot semen that was just inside you hitting my ankles and shins as you groan up into me, the noise vibrating my lips up to my centre.

“Give it to me,” you growl, hand ferociously working yourself, aided by your spend. “It’s mine to have.”

For you, I can do this.

The trickle running out of me turns into a stream and I can *feel you* grin against me as I grasp your hair, pulling you as ferociously as you have done me up into my cunt, grinding and powerless to stop. You laugh, pushing up off the floor to force me deeper up the bed, diving in, tongue laving flat against my clit, fingers stretching and sliding feverishly quick.

You look up at me, fingers still pumping, filthy squelching sounds filling the room.

“You’re so beautiful. I love having you. All of you.”

“Now come for me.”

I feel myself tighten.

“Come for me.”

Every muscle is tense, contracting, the wave is toppling over me.

“Come for me, pretty girl.”

I scrabble for purchase on your scalp, rutting my cunt up against your face blindly as you cover everything you can in your wetness, or mine, using a bit of the come cooling on my thigh to re-slick your fingers, and with one final lick to my clit everything snaps. I’m coming around your fingers, wringing them and the semen covering them out, my thighs contract in around your head, and you laugh, and the laughter echoing through my cells makes the next wave higher, and I’m trying to turn my clenching fingers into a massage for your precious crown, but I’m failing, I’ve lost all control—

—which is your job well done.

The world around me fades to a hum, broken only by the periodic tremor of an aftershock. You slide up beside me, not bothering to clean either of us, allowing the slide of skin and fluid to settle into a sticky kind of warmth, my face pressed into your chest, your arm petting my shoulder with the same softness you showed my thighs at the beginning, until the motion stops, and you’re asleep.

I follow, led on by the sound of your heartbeat.

NSFW: yes