brewer

Grant is curious about the things that I write here.

The other evening, he and I had spent the day together in a smallish suburb of our fair city. We visited museums with surprisingly extensive collections for the middle of nowhere, shops that indulge our mutual interest in out-of-print books, and found a surprisingly great pub with a delicious, exclusive brew. We sat at the bar and ate mussels and drank lager and talked about the kinds of sex I want to have and the kinds of sex that I had previously enjoyed. He shared similar information.

“So what kind of names do you like to be called?” Grant’s voice is low; he is a number of things but an extrovert isn’t one of them.

“Oh, you know, like ‘whore’ and ‘slut,’ that kind of thing. I chose not to think too much about why I like it, because I’m pretty sure that would just make me less happy.”

“You’re probably right. What else do you like?”

“Bruises.”

“What?”

“Not on my face, not on my neck, but handprints on my ass, that sort of thing.”

“You like power dynamics.”

“Oh yes. I like it when you’re in charge.”

“You like being dominated.”

“Uh-huh.” I squirm in my chair. I’m pretty sure the barmaids are not actually paying attention to us. Grant changes the subject.

In the car on the way home, we revisit our bar conversation.  We are discussing where I like to be slapped, how I like being tied up, and the fact that the backs of my knees are surprisingly sensitive when I look over and see that Grant’s cock is straining against the fly of his jeans, and there is a tiny, tiny wet spot bleeding through at the tip.

“Did you ever take naked photos of yourself?” he asks, my hand snaking across his lap to investigate these new developments.

“Yes, but a lot of them have my ex in them.”

“Can I see them?”

“Some. If you want, we can swing by my place for pictures.” We are planning to stay at his place for the night, as his roommate is out of town for the month.

“Ok.” My hand explores his hardening cock.

When we stop by my house, Grant stays in the car while I run in to grab a box of restraints and an envelope full of old polaroids of me and Simon, or photos of me taken by Simon, that were the spoils of that breakup. Looking at them feels awkward at best to me, and I flip through the stack of pictures to find the ones that reveal as little of Simon as possible and that flatter my then-22-year-old body, and then stuff the rest of them back in an envelope that lives somewhere out of sight and out of mind. I run back to Grant’s car with my spoils, and offer to show him one photo. He has to pick from a fanned-out selection of blank boxes on the backs of the pictures.

He selects one where I am adjusting a strap-on. He laughs before starting the car back up and driving us home. His erection has not faded in the slightest in the face of these photos.

When we get into his house, we drop our things on the floor. Grant wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me, his hands running up and down my back from ass to shoulder. They find the hem of my shirt, pull it off over my head, and fling it across the kitchen table.

“What do you want to do?” he inquires. He is playing with my belt buckle, and eventually loosening it. His breath in my ear is hot, and it resonates through my brain and down my spine. I pull out of his embrace and kneel. I pull his jeans to the floor with me and bring his cock into my mouth, where it hits the back of my throat and I struggle not to gag. He pulls my hair into his fists and guides my head along his shaft.

“Get up,” he says. “Bend over.”

I comply: I stand up and bend at the waist, forearms on the table to steady myself. Grant grabs my hipbones, hikes them up, and enters me from behind. I am so wet that he slides into me with ease, and he fucks me against the table until I come, and clear fluid leaks from my body down my leg to a puddle on the floor. He decides we need to go to the bedroom.

He pushes me onto the bed and lands on top of me, covering me with his body. He grabs my hair with both hands and uses it to pull my face to his and kiss me. My hips are pressing insistently into his, and he enters me again. He lets go of my head with one hand and uses it to push a leg over his shoulder, bending it back so my knee touches my breast.

Grant’s penis has a curve to it that is difficult to describe. When we are not actively fucking I like to tease him that he is built for sex, because it is so easy to have mind-ending orgasms with him inside of me, easier and far more pleasurable than it has ever been with anyone else. Tonight is no exception, and I tighten around him and muffle my cries into his chest. 

We have been having sex for about an hour and a half. We decide we need a break. We take a shower and return to his bedroom. We contemplate changing the sheets and decide against it.

“Margot, what is your favorite thing you’ve ever written in your blog?”

“My favorite thing or a thing I think you might like?”

“Either-or.”

“Well, I think this one is particularly hot, but knowing you I think you’ll really like this one.”

He starts to read. He starts to get hard. I stroke his cock. He sighs and raises his hips to my touch.

“Suck my cock, Margot.”

I comply.

I look up and see the pale monitor light reflected in his glasses as he scrolls through my writing.  One hand operates the touchpad on his computer, the other alternately pulls my hair and plays with my breasts while I lick and stroke his dick. There is an exceptional amount of fluid dripping from the tip into my mouth.

“How much of this is real?”

“I’m busy, I’ll tell you later,” I reply, the sound muffled by his erection on my tongue.

His hips are thrusting into my face, and his hand holding my head steady. He is groaning and sighing as his other hand joins its mate in controlling his angle of penetration.

“I need to fuck you,” he pants. “I don’t care if it’s your face or your cunt or any other part of you, but I need to fuck you.”

I lift my face off of him and roll onto my back.

“Fuck my tits, then.” I reply.

He straddles my ribcage. My saliva is all over his cock as I press my breasts around it. He thrusts across my sternum and I lick the tip of his glans ever time it approaches my mouth.

He is flushed. He groans and sighs. He alerts me that he is very, very close to orgasm.

I squeeze my breasts more tightly together; I can get the tip of his penis into my mouth. His glans is swollen and its now-rigid corona catches my flesh as he thrusts in and out of the valley between my tits.

Grant exhales deeply. He comes in ropes across my chest, this fluid streaking across my neck and face and landing in my hair and on the headboard. His orgasm is prolonged, and as a result there is a truly astonishing amount of liquid on my skin and in the sheets.

Grant dismounts from my torso. His breathing is heavy. Before he can lean in to kiss me, I have found a tissue and have cleaned my lips and eye. He kisses me and chuckles a little bit; wiping more of his come off of my face.

“I think I need another shower,” I tell him.

“Ok.” He blushes. “I’m sorry I kind of messed you up.” Grant has returned to his normal self: kind, considerate, and a touch shy.

I grab a slightly damp towel and head off to the bathroom. When I return, Grant has changed the sheets and is waiting for me in bed. My old photos are scattered across the room. I crawl under the covers with him and straddle his lap. He kisses my nose and forehead while stroking my back.

We make plans for the rest of the weekend that include a bike trip in a nearby national park before I fall asleep, my chest to his back with an arm over his waist, with his arms covering mine. When I wake in the morning, we have rotated and traded places. We go to brunch and share our food. We are obligated to spend this day apart.

We will only be apart for 24 hours, but I always am excited for him to come back home to me.

smiling from ear to ear

I went to undergrad at a small liberal arts college on the East Coast, and I graduated within the last 10 years. It’s a pretty obscure place, but I think that like most of those institutions, it was filled with young people who felt the tension and the urgency of the moment, who wanted to change and fix every injustice in the world right this instant, and who, by all accounts, really weren’t aware of what college was like compared to the rest of the world. Most students didn’t realize that we lived in a privileged space by pretty much every measure (I’m willing to admit, I didn’t until somewhat late in my time there), and those of us with left leaning politics were unlikely to realize how left we were until we wandered out to real jobs and realized that, for example, not everyone firmly believed that man-on-pumpkin sex is a fundamental right that should be taught to children (Thank you, Jon Stewart).

One of the great lies sold to most kids running off to college is that sex is cheap and easy to find for everyone, as long as you show up and have a few drinks. That was, generally speaking, not my experience. What was true, however, was that sexual tension was everywhere, not a lot of people knew what to do with it, and that it was much, much easier to find sex practices that exist on the tail ends of the bell curve in college than it would ever be after. Also true: a reputation was easy to come by, even if it was based entirely in conjecture and misunderstandings: I had a trashy reputation because the girl who lived in the room under mine heard the couple who lived next to me having sex pretty much constantly, and knowing that I didn’t have a boyfriend, she concluded that I was spectacularly easy. Whether or not that last part is tru, confronting this classmate about the fact that if I’m going to have an easy reputation, I’d prefer to have the sex that earns it remains one of my favorite memories.

Anyways. You’re not here to read about the things I did or didn’t love about undergrad.

Going to a small liberal arts college filled with people age 18-23 who really wanted to be having more sex with more people than they actually did always affords a certain amount of hedonism whenever that tension is allowed to be released. I left my school to study abroad for the first half of my junior year, and I came back caring considerably less about what my classmates thought of me and considerably more about getting what I wanted. This played out in my favor, especially on the night of one of the bigger parties on campus. The party was school-funded in a way that seems totally crazy now, but then it only made sense that my college would give money to a group that wanted to celebrate non-binary gender and the full spectrum of human sexuality in the form of a giant party filled with people in, at most, underwear and ridiculous accessories.

I had never gone to this party before. I was always too self-conscious; too concerned that people would judge my body the way that I had judged myself instead of realizing that when presented with a young woman in lingerie, boots, and a silly hat, most people who want to sleep with women are less judgmental and more carnal. By the time I came back from overseas, I had figured this out. I went to the party that spring wearing a deep purple-red lacy bra, purple lace boyshorts (not actually a matching set, but in the dark it was just fine), a fedora, and leather boots. I wore a long coat over this ensemble to protect myself from the mid-March east-coast weather, and stuffed a flask into my boot to warm me up.

Upon arrival, I found the basement room that was functioning as a coat check and had a beer from the free keg. There were a few nervous minutes between arrival and shedding my coat, and then a few more between feeling exposed and cold to feeling powerful. My friends and I went from tense giggles with sidelong glances to open-mouthed laughter and flirtatious words. I’d like to say that this was all due to the influence of alcohol. It wasn’t.

My friends and I wandered up to the main room. It was filled with college age kids dressed in outfits ranging from next to nothing to completely costumey: there were women striding around the dance floor in garter belts and headbands, men in head to toe leather, women dressed as devils with wings and men wearing leashes while being lead by their boyfriends. The room was hot and rank, the bass so loud my own diaphragm shook. Looking back on this now I could have been a hunter in that room and picked whoever I wanted to be my game.

I found Carl and Elise, two adventurous friends of mine who are protagonists in a story for another time, on the dance floor. We danced together, we ran our hands over each others’ bodies, we pinched sensitive parts and kissed sweaty lips. This was familiar territory. This was both tense and comfortable; it was riding a roller coaster two times in a row.

I felt someone else’s eyes observing us. I turned around. There was a man there—tall, bearded, shirtless, handsome--staring at our scene, and when I turned to face him he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me towards him while he asked me to dance. Our bodies were solid together. I put an arm around his neck and pulled my hips to his while I said yes.

“Do you go to school here?”

“Yes, you?” My lips are grazing his while I answer this question.

“No, I go to a school out west, I’m visiting a friend. What’s your name?” His hand travels firmly from the back of my waist to the fullest part of my ass.

“Margot. You?” I throw my other arm around him, and wrap it around his chest, and trace his back with the nails of my index and middle fingers.

“David.”

We are done with small talk. I may or may not have asked him his major, he may or may not have asked me mine. That part of the story is unimportant and I only vaguely remember it.

We dance to the beat. We sweat down our torsos—his naked and mine nearly so—and press ourselves together such that when we part, our skins peel away. We start to kiss and we skip the gentle steps. He is kissing me with an open mouth, I reciprocate and lick his teeth. He pulls my lip. I scratch his back. He pulls to the side and sucks my earlobe. My insides surge. I kiss and bite his neck.

He pulls me to the side and presses my body against the cold, stone wall of the room. The carved rock that the building is made of is rough and uneven, it presses into me but I don’t feel any pain. We kiss in between biting and sucking. He is rough. He gets me wet with his aggression. He pulls down the front of my panties and presses a finger into my pussy while his thumb discovers that I have a piercing through the hood of my clit. I moan deeply as he gasps in surprise.

“Is that what I think it is?”

I don’t use words when I respond: I sigh and grunt as I work my pelvis across his thick hands. This answer appears adequate as I reach down his briefs and pull out a solid, thick cock.  I run my hand from base to tip. He responds in kind.

We find the words to discover that as neither of us has a condom, certain practices are off the table. I scan the room across across his shoulder and notice that women and men stare at us, some with a look of proud disdain and some with a look of arousal. Carl and Elise return my gaze and wink. I return my attentions to David.

He rips down the cups of my bra. My exposed nipples are hard and sensitive when he takes one in his mouth, puts his left hand on the wall behind me, and bites and sucks my breast while his other hand works my snatch.

My left leg is high around his waist, my right hand feels him leaking across my palm as I run it over the length of his cock. His sweat and secretions make an excellent lube.

I am pressed into the wall, I feel it scratching against my back. I smell his saturated hair. My tiptoe is my only contact with the floor: my partner is practically holding me up by my pelvis. My nails give him red marks across his broad back. I am coming, he holds me up in suspension. His fingers are thick inside my contracting pussy. He presses his face into my chest and moans deeply when he orgasms into my hand.

We are still for a moment. He slowly pulls out of me, settling my foot on the ground. I unwrap my leg.

He takes my hand from his briefs. He licks it clean of his own semen. He kisses me. We smile. He wanders off into the crowd.

There may or may not be people staring at me, I don’t care either way. I wander down to the coat room and meet my friends for a beer. The photos taken right after this encounter, with my hair long and free and a hat perched on my head, grinning from ear to ear with my friends smiling and laughing and all of us nearly nude, are some of my favorite pictures from undergrad.

I somehow get home. I am exhausted when I flop into my twin bed. My roommate is snoring across the room.

The next morning, I awake with a wild hangover and a dry mouth. I stumble to the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror. My nipples are purple with bruising and my back covered in scratches from the uneven wall. I wonder if my partner’s body shows similar signs. The shower I take ranks as one of the top 5 showers of my adult life.

I find Carl and Elise for breakfast and we go over the previous night’s events. We laugh about it; they congratulate me. I run back to their rooms and show them the battlescars.

One of the great lies of college is that there is sex anywhere and anytime you want it, from anyone. College was, on a romantic level, one of the loneliest times of my life, but I was able to share it with some wonderful people and punctuate it with events that are hard to find as an adult. I’m not sure if the best part of this story is my encounter with David, the marks on my body from after the fact, or experiencing it with Carl and Elise. Everything is wrapped together. Everything is one experience. I am a lucky one.

myfaircity.craigslist.org

myfaircity craigslist > personals > casual encounters

a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

Date: 2011-06-18, 8:49AM EDT

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I have a very specific fantasy that I’ve decided I’d like to realize. I would like to meet a man between the ages of 22 and 40 (ish) in a bar that is mutually convenient to both of us. I would like to see him from across the bar. I would like him to see me. I would like to watch him drink a drink with someone else—another woman, another man, someone he came with, or someone he didn’t—while stealing glances at me. I will be by myself. I will be wearing a short skirt or dress, and a low neckline. I will not be wearing a lot of panties. I can wear heels upon request, but I really prefer boots.

After we have this exchange of glances for approximately 20 minutes, I will get up and head for a bathroom. He will follow me. We will lock the door, it will be just the two of us—no stalls, please—and he will fuck me from behind, while standing, and pressing me either against the sink or the door. He will lift up my skirt and unzip his jeans. He will rub my clit until I orgasm with his cock buried inside my pussy. He will spank my hips and ass hard enough to leave hand-shaped bruises.

There are some non-negotiable aspects to this fantasy:
1)  There will be no sexual contact without a condom. The end.
2) There will be no talking. A major aspect of this fantasy for me is anonymity. The only sounds out of his lips should be the wordless noises we make while fucking, and we can make those in abundance.
3) We can both reserve the right to abandon ship at any time, end our activities, and call it off. If the man choses, he doesn’t even have to follow me to the bathroom and start at all. I can walk out the front door of the bar instead of fucking. Free will is extremely important to me.

A little about me: I am a graduate student in my mid-20s, medium-tall, voluptuous-muscular build, with short blond hair, green eyes, and clear skin. I have breasts that have been described by a number of people as “epic.” As this ad is clearly a little bit more verbose than the average one, I promise I’m not a bot, but I AM extraordinarily picky.

About you: You are between 22-40, you have meticulous hygiene, you are in decent shape, you don’t dress terribly, and you don’t wear tons of cologne. At some point during our communications, you’ll send me a photo of your face, and I’ll send you one of mine if I decide I’d like to. Any photos of penises or headless torsos are grounds for immediate disqualification.

Depending on how well this encounter goes, there can be more like it. I’m not necessarily looking for something more regular, but I’m not NOT looking, either.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 10:35 AM

subject            a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 10:35 AM (13 minutes ago)

For years, I’ve had a fantasy about a former classmate: she’s a tall, voluptuous woman, with a toothy grin and a sharp wit. I am in her apartment, we are kissing and clawing: her at my collar and me at her skirt; I turn her around, pull up her hem and down her panties as I press her against a wall. Her breath has a beat in the middle when her chest hits the plaster. I unzip my jeans with one hand and the other is in her, I am biting her neck as we fuck. In this fantasy, there aren’t words, and a condom is a fine price to pay for realizing this story.

I’m 6’2”, broad-chested, brown hair, sharp dresser. I’m happy to talk to you about the long-term ramifications of recent political decisions after this meeting. The attached photo is from a recent trip for work. I have a bachelor’s degree and work in a competitive field. My field requires an aggressive nature, which I’m happy to bring to the floor.

--A

from    Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:00 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:00 AM (just now)

Dear A,

Your email has spectacular grammar, and your photo is both of an attractive man and does not feature a penis! Well done. I think your fantasy meshes well with mine: your height and build are very much in line with men that I am attracted to, and I love aggressive men who both know when to stop and push me to that limit. Please don’t leave any marks on my neck, but I want you to bruise my hips and scratch my thighs. Is that in line with your fantasy?

I’ve enclosed a photo. I hope I resemble the object of your desires.

Best,

Margot.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:15 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:15 AM (3 minutes ago)

Margot,

It’s funny, when I opened your email I had a moment where I thought you were the woman I’ve been fucking every night in my thoughts for the past few years. You’re not her, but you are extraordinary.  I would be flattered to help you realize your fantasy, to the letter.

How do you feel about Old McFlannery’s Brewhouse, at 14^th and jones, at 8pm? I don’t live too close to there, you don’t have to, but they have bathrooms that I think would work well and an excellent gin and tonic.

Best,

A (do you need more of a name?)

from    Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:36 AM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 11:36 AM (just now)

Dear A,

A is plenty for me, 8pm works fine for me. Old McF’s is exactly where I had in mind. I promise not to wear a lot of panties.

--m

I am at Old McF’s at 7:50.  I am wearing a short, pale green dress, with pockets and a plunging neck. I wear a black gstring under the skirt, a small wallet tucked into the top of a boot, and a kerchief in my hair (it’s disposable). I am drinking a gin and tonic.

The door opens. It’s june: there is a gush of hot air from the outside world that accompanies A as he walks into the bar. He is as advertised: 6’2”, brown beard, salt-and-pepper Kennedy hair, impeccably tailored pants. He is out of place by about a $50 a month dry cleaning bill. He looks at me, winks, and walks to the bar without further acknowledgement.

I fidget in the booth. My nipples harden against the tight fabric held against them. I pinch one when I rest my hand on the table. I shudder; I sigh involuntarily at my own touch. I notice through the corner of my eyes that A is the only person who saw all of this. He is standing slightly off from exactly across the bar from me and he sips a porter. He is observing me over the rim of his glass. It is my turn to wink.

I finish my drink.

I stand.

My skirt has crept too far over my thighs, I pull it down a few instants later than I should after I stand up. A raises a solitary eyebrow when I slink across the room to the bathroom before he follows me there.

I open the door to the bathroom: there’s one toilet, and across the room one sink, with a stack of paper towels. A pushes the door open again before it has a chance to hit its frame. His pupils are enormous. He grabs me around the waist, pulls me in, kisses me, and his hands are immediately under my skirt. His movements are choreatic: impulsive, brisk, flexed, and erratic. My lips swell with his aggression.

He breaks the kiss and pulls out a condom at the same moment as he unzips. He hands the condom to me, I rip it open and sheath him. He spins me around, presses me against the unlocked door, and bends me over: my short skirt hikes up, and he rips off my suggestion of underwear.

I am surprised: A pulls back on my thighs while pushing down my shoulders as his knees spread apart my thighs. He kneels behind me, spreads apart my ass and presses his face against my swollen pussy. He licks my folds, moans into my body, and I feel the rhythm that his arm is defining against his shoulder, his cock, my thigh. My back arches and my hips press into his mouth: this is a welcome surprise.

A stands. He is miraculously hard as he penetrates me with no further preamble. Our moans are deeper and throatier. He slaps my hip: it echoes and I shriek. He is kissing my back, his free hand is wrapped around my hip: he pinches, rolls, and flicks my clit.

The bar sounds on the other side of the door have hushed considerably in the last ten minutes.

A is relentless. His hips move faster, I feel him drip sweat that rolls down to the cleft at the bottom of my back. I do not notice that his voice is becoming louder and deeper due to my own wailing against the cheep wood of the bathroom door. My pussy tightens and relaxes; it clenches and releases his cock while I gush all over his hand.

Thirty seconds later, the ringing in my ears quiets enough to allow me to hear him grunting and sighing against my neck with his orgasm.

We are still for a moment.

He pulls out of me, and pulls down my hem. I turn around and face him.

He kisses me and stands to one side as he pulls open the door.

I step out.

The 35 people in the bar are silent: 70 eyes stare at me, 35 mouths are slack-jawed. I walk out the front door of a bar I don’t frequent.

from    A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <laravaudeuse@gmail.com>

date    Sun, Jun 20, 2011 at 3:07 PM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 3:07 PM (5 hours ago)

Margot,

Thank you.

xxx-xxx-xxxx.

Best,

A

to         A Stranger      <…@gmail.com>

date    Sun, Jun 20, 2011 at 8:32 PM

subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

mailed-by       gmail.com

signed-by       gmail.com

hide details 8:32 PM (21 minutes ago)

Dear A,

Of course I will.

--mlr

how to end a dry spell.

Louis meets me at the southwest corner of the block where I am at a supreme-court-themed party (my friends are VERY specific people), because I insisted that he walk me home because my skirt is too short, it is too late, and I am too drunk. We walk arm in arm, catching up with each other about the events of the past few weeks: his huge work upgrade, my finally finishing the most challenging year of my academic existence. His hand slides across my waist to rest on the curve of my ass.

He tells me he wants to bend me over a car parked on the street.

He asks me if I can tell how hard he is from where I am, pulled to his right as we briskly march down a cobblestone sidewalk.

I feel my pussy tingling, waking up from a hiatus. I lick his earlobe and tell him to walk faster.

We are at my front door. I fumble with the keys. We enter. I walk up the stairs in front of him, my impossibly short skirt riding up my hips and showing my thong-clad pussy through my tights. His hands are running up my thighs, helping my skirt on its way north.

We are at my apartment door. He presses behind me as I search for the key. My skirt is at my waist, he finds the top of my tights and pulls them down, his breath is breezing through the hairs on the back of my neck and tickling my ears. His hand spreads my thighs and fucks my pussy on the landing.

I cannot find my keys.

I press back against him. I go from the beginnings of sexual response to the edge of orgasm in approximately ten seconds.

There is a zipping sound, and the ripping of a condom wrapper. I am momentarily empty, and then his hands are on my hips again, his cock is parting my labia and entering me, I am standing on my tiptoes with my face pressed against my front door. It is 2:00am, I barely consider that my neighbors might be awake to enjoy the show. The pane of glass in my front door rattles with our thrusting.

His right hand pulls the front of my tights down and finds my engorged clit. He brings me to orgasm and I stifle my cries as best I can, hoping not to wake my roommate whose bed is approximately 8 feet away through two doors from where we screw.

He pulls out of me and pulls off the condom. I find my key in an unfamiliar pocket of the jacket I only rarely wear. I open the door. We make our way through the darkness to my bedroom, shedding clothing as we go. I turn on the light. I take his latex-tasting cock into my mouth, he moans deeply and holds my hair in fistfuls. I am kneeling on uneven hardwood. Saliva rolls out of my mouth, onto my hand, onto my thigh, down the slant of my thigh to the floor. He hardens more. He moans, pulls my head off his erection, and puts his hands under my arms as he tells me to get on the bed with my legs in the air.

His face is buried in my pussy, one hand is inside me and one is pressing apart my thigh. I am dissolving in my own orgasm.

Another condom. He stands as he penetrates me.  My legs are over his shoulders, then spread apart by his hands, then wrapped around his waist as he pushes me back on the bed. We roll over and I am on top, his face in my breasts. I slow us down. I am savoring this, the cock that stretches me out and presses against my swollen tissues, the hands that spank and spread the globes of my ass, the mouth and teeth that bite my nipples while calling me a whore.

I am lost. I try not to leave marks as I kiss him, kiss his neck, cry into his ears and come, my snatch wrapping and seizing around him.

I ask him to fuck me from behind. He is thrilled to comply. We roll over; he grabs my vibrator off my nightstand and gives it to me immediately before lunging in.  The fronts of his thighs slap against the backs of mine. His hand leaves large red marks on hips. I press the vibrator against my clit, I pant, I hold off as best I can and so does he, until he doesn’t anymore and thrusts aggressively against me while making purely primitive, purely male sounds.

He pulls out. I fall onto my stomach. My breath is rapid. His head is in the small of my back. He kisses both of the dimples on the back of waist. My hands are in his. We are like this for a minute, until we rearrange ourselves under covers, with him on his back and my head in the hollow of his arm. We sleep.

The next morning, we are on our sides, my stomach to his back and my arm around his waist. We mutter morning pleasantries to each other. He rolls on his back. We kiss, small light kisses on cheeks and noses, then heavier, more purposeful ones on mouths. I straddle him. I kiss him. I slip down between his legs.

I take him into my mouth. I feel him stiffen; I wrap a hand around his shaft and one around his balls. I alternate running my hand with my mouth and using just my hand while licking each testicle. I feel him get impossibly hard, and I back off. I feel him soften, and I apply more pressure, with my lips and tongue to the parts of his dick that make him instantly harden, with the knuckle of my hand cradling his scrotum to his perineum and indirectly to his prostate.

I bring him to an edge, and then I bring him back. I repeat.

My pussy swells and drips. I moan against his cock. His hand reaches between my legs and he half-laughs, half moans to find how wet I am. He asks me to stop sucking him off, he begs to eat my pussy, and I comply.

Sucking cock brings me close to orgasm on its own. Being flipped over and feeling a light, then slightly more substantial, tonguing, accompanied by hands that spread apart my labia and penetrate my cunt sends me over the edge much more quickly than I expect.

The climaxes that I reach with Louis’s face between my thighs are of heights that I cannot attain by myself. With him, my mind empties, my body opens and my spine enflames, every nerve from every part of me firing off. Muscles in my pelvis that are otherwise quiescent make their existence known, my throat makes sounds that come from some more basal part of my organism. The sensation from Louis’s lips and his own moans of satisfaction reverberate against my flesh.

He arises. He kisses me, his mouth tastes like my body. He puts on a condom, puts my legs around his neck and thrusts into me without preamble. I am squeaking, squealing with pleasure and oversensitivity as he fucks me and my post-orgasm pussy tightens even more around him. I move my legs down, I wrap them around his waist, he holds my arms over my head, he thrusts into me and sweats.

He pulls out. He pulls off the condom. I lift my torso, and with him straddling my thighs I take him into my mouth while cradling his balls and stroking his shaft.

“Margot, you can squeeze me harder than that.”

I accept the challenge.

His breathing changes. He thrusts against my face.  I feel him orgasm before he makes a sound, his ejaculate shooting straight to the back of my throat in a high-pressure stream. His voice is guttural, his orgasm continues. What I can’t swallow leaks out from my lips onto my hand, and falls on my stomach.

He stops. I pull my mouth off. I smile broadly. We flop over and sleep for another hour. We wake up. We make coffee. I am calmer than I have been in weeks. He seems happier than I have ever known him to be. In my kitchen, we hug like friends and kiss each other on the forehead. He leaves to meet his brother for lunch.

I go back to bed. The left side—the side he slept on—smells of man. I have no obligations today aside from enjoying anything that I want to. I smile, and run my hands across my body, thinking of all the things my lover can make me feel.

a study in contrasting temperatures.

Two weeks is too long. It is February.

We walked up the stairs to his one-bedroom. He cupped the fullness of my buttocks in his large chapped hands; squeezing me through my jeans. I had a weekend's worth of clothing in a backpack, which I threw off as soon as we crossed from the front door into the kitchen. He grabbed me around the waist, pressing his abdomen to my back as I raised my arms up around his neck and he kissed my shoulders.

Those hands explored my body: they squeezed my flesh and piqued my senses; they ran over my shirt then under my belt. He pinched a nipple through my bra with one hand while slowly exploring my overheating sex with the other. My hips rose and fell with the rhythm he defined. His erection grew and pressed against the small of my back. We were edging towards the kitchen table.

His hand left my tit and joined its companion at the buckle of my jeans: that was swiftly undone and my pants and panties were immediately around my knees. The edge of the table was level with my mons, and the pressure of the cold wood against my skin raised goosebumps across my body. With his left hand he pulled back on my left hip and with his right he undid his fly and released his penis, then grabbed my other hip. I bent forward stood and on my toes as he penetrated me, the both of us sighing and flushing with the satisfaction of our combined sense of urgency that had percolated over the course of the days that we could not be together.

Everything is hot and cold: the air and the table steal warmth from our bodies and harden our nipples, the heat from my lover's flesh brings a glaze of sweat to my back. The cool smoothness of the wooden table against my outer labia is in stark contrast to the temperature of cock inside me, the tempo generated by the one heightens the sensual-pressure-numbness-warmth donated by the other.

His hands dig into the curve of my waist. I brace myself against the table with mine pressed flatly on its surface. The combined sensation of my partner's aggressive thrusting and the firmness against which I am forced is overwhelming, and when I orgasm I leak fluid down my thighs and leave a small puddle on the table while I whimper.

My lover pulls out of me before he comes. I am momentarily surprised at the sudden departure, until I hear him moan behind me and feel his semen splash against the cleft between my cheeks. He grabs me by the joint between the top of my thigh and the fold beneath the fullness of my ass, pulls towards himself, and licks from my perineum to the top of my sacrum until I am clean. The warmth of his mouth is the opposite of the coolness of his saliva left on my body. When he stands, I spin around and we embrace, squeezing out all the air between our torsos and having as much flesh against flesh as we can. The time without my lover is the antithesis of this closeness.

We shower. We clean off the longsuffering kitchen table. We eat and laugh, I sit in his lap and he pinches and tickles me. These two days are what I spent ages waiting on, and they are always over far too quickly.

Patience.

In this story, I am 23. We are both young, my lover and I, and we do not get to see each other with any kind of frequency. I spend long bus trips traveling out to his apartment, my pussy getting wetter with anticipation and every passing mile. The town he lives in is conservative and traditional; he and I are not.

Simon is tall and slim, in sharp contrast to my voluptuousness. He is patient and caring, and historically very attentive to my pleasure. He has large, strong hands that he does not use gently. His bed has a wooden headboard with rings that he installed on it that clang when we roll over in our sleep, or when he fucks me too hard. They are not for show alone. He keeps a row of cabinets on the wall by the bed.

I am straddling his lap on the small blue couch in his apartment. I am kissing him deeply; smelling his slightly salty, slightly earthy body and feeling his tongue explore me. His hands move from firmly gripping both of the globes of my ass and pulling me closer towards him, to gripping my hips as he lifts me off. As I stand, he undoes the buckle on my wide belt roughly pulls my jeans off, dragging my panties along with. I step out of them and he pulls my shirt over my head. I am standing in front of him in a black lace bra, with my blonde hair in a sloppy ponytail, his hand lifting my chin up so that I am looking him directly in his hazel eyes. He kisses me deeply again and leads me by the hand to his bedroom.

The only light that's on tonight is a lamp standing in the corner. The bed is made.

“Sit on the bed, Margot, put this over your eyes. Do not take it off. Do not move. Do not make a sound, unless I tell you to.”

I say nothing, as requested, as he roughly ties a blindfold around my face. The room is just a little bit cooler than is comfortable, and my nipples stick out prominently from my breasts. My skin is covered in goosebumps, my hands are patiently waiting on my thighs, and I am sitting upright with perfect posture. I hear a shuffling in the room, the opening and closing of cabinet doors, and the familiar ring of metal on metal. My lover has a predilection for chains.

He roughly picks my hands up off my lap, straps them into leather cuffs, and pulls me into standing. He presses me against the back of the bedroom door.

“Turn around,” he says, “put your hands over your head and put your ankles apart.” I oblige. I feel a click at each wrist and my arms are supported from above. I hear him pace around the room, and I feel my pussy swelling in tiny increments with every step he takes while he makes me wait.

The first slap of the flogger is a surprise. It lands squarely across my back, stinging it a bright red, and pushing me forwards into the door. I stifle a gasp. He flogs me again, this time on my left asscheek, and again on the right. I fail to remain silent on the last one and let out a squeak.

“What's that noise you made, Margot?” He stops flogging me, and steps close behind me. I can feel his words on my shoulders.

I say nothing.

“Didn't I tell you not to make a sound?” He is reaching his left arm around my hips and snaking it down towards my dripping sex.

I nod my head yes.

“You failed to obey me,” he informs he, as he runs his fingers over the outsides of my folds. I arch my back into him and hold the restraints in a white-knuckled grip, pressing my breasts into the wall and my ass into his hips. “I'll have to punish you for that.” His finger lightly grazes my clit, and flicks it a tiny bit. I leak a little onto my inner thighs as he pushes off of me.

He steps back. There is a moment of silence, which is broken by the loud thud of the flogger against my hips. He works into a rhythm again, and I am silent for as long as I can help it, until a gasp involuntarily escapes my lips a second time. He stops flogging me.

“Margot, I told you to be silent.” He places his left hand on the curve below my waist.

“I told you not to do that.” He brings his body close behind me, and I feel that his cock is completely hard and pressed against my body. I arch my back the slightest bit, and feel the heat of his erection against my pussy.

“I can't have you disobeying me.” With that, he thrusts his hips forward and pulls me towards him, roughly entering me completely. I am biting my lip and my nostrils flare. I am standing on the tips of my feet as he pulls back and thrusts into me again, and with his left hand roughly pinches and rolls my left nipple through the lace of my bra. After entirely too little time, he pulls out, stands back, and flogs me again.

This time he only flogs me for a few strokes, and then stops.

“Margot,” he informs me, “Your pussy felt so good and juicy that I think I need to fuck you some more.” He pushes into me again, and with every thrust he presses against the spot on the back of my pelvis that seems to go straight to my core. The restraints are cutting into my wrists and my hands are nearly numb, but his body feels exquisite in mine.

“You are allowed to moan, but you must not come or speak unless I tell you to,” he tells me as he fucks me. I finally let out a sigh. My breasts are are shaking with every thrust and my hard nipples are sensitive even to air moving over them. His fingers draws circles around my clit. I am struggling. He pulls out and starts flogging me again.

We continue like this for a time; him flogging me for a few strokes, stopping, and fucking me for a few strokes. Sometimes he is so kind as to rub my clit at the same time, sometimes not. At one point, he pulls down the fabric of my bra just far enough to expose my nipples, and the cool room air thrills me. I am moaning, my pussy is tightening, and every time he pulls out of me liquid leads out of my pussy and rolls down the inside of my thighs. It is by sheer force of will and obedience that I am not orgasming.

He puts down the flogger.

“Margot,” he says, “when I fuck you you moan like a whore. What does that make you?”

I am silent; quivering.

“Margot, I asked you a question. What are you?”

“I'm a dirty whore.” My voice is hoarse and unsteady.

“For whom?”

“For you, Simon.” My hips are still gyrating the smallest bit.

“Why don't you tell me what you are? Be loud for me”

“I'm your dirty whore, Simon.” I am not shouting, but I'm not whispering.

“What's that? I need you to be louder.”

“I AM YOUR DIRTY WHORE.” I am speaking form my guts and projecting my voice loudly enough that his small-town neighbors will surely perk up a bit.

“Good! What does a dirty whore like you love to do?” He is running both of his hands up and down my body, and as if to punctuate his question he pinches my nipples.

“I love it when you fuck me, Simon.” I am gasping, he is still playing with my breasts, and my pussy is hinting at tightening and spasming.

“Good.” He runs his hands down to my hips and tugs me roughly onto his waiting cock. He slides inside me easily, despite my tightness, and starts slowly fucking me. I am breathless.

“Margot, when I tell you to I want you to come.”

“Yes Simon.” My pussy is tightening and relaxing at regular intervals, and his cock is getting harder and harder inside me. Fluid is coming out on my body, running down my legs and making a small puddle on the floor. My breasts shake with every thrust and I feel sweat drip off of him and onto the small of my back. I am panting and groaning; practically shouting while he is nearly silent.

Not orgasming is almost impossible. My control over my body is flagging, and Simon can feel it. He is rhythmically rubbing my clit, and I am nearly crying.

“Margot, I feel your snatch gripping pretty tightly. Do you want to come?”

I can't use words, I can only moan.

“Margot, you have to tell me, do you want to come?”

“Yes, Simon.” I sigh.

“Good girl,” he says. “I'm going to let you come.”

With that, he pounds into me harder and faster, and indelicately massages my clit. My pussy gushes all over our thighs and I tighten up so much around him that he will tell me later it became nearly impossible to fuck me. I let out a sound that comes from somewhere primitive inside me while my body flushes and my hips thrust back into him.

He is not far behind me. When he comes, he grabs my hips tightly and fucks me more deeply than I thought he could, he also moans out my name.

We stand together for a moment, and he lets my wrists out of their restraints. My arms are completely numb, but I don't particularly care.

He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into his body and his warmth, kissing my neck. I am still shaking as I turn around and place my face in his chest. He runs his hand through my hair, undoes my bra, lets it fall to the floor, and holds me to him.

He leads me by the hand to the shower, where he washes me from head to toe, even shampooing my scalp before he does the same to himself, and we crawl into bed.