The Three Minute Game

Warning: This story contains some references to Daddy/girl, because that is what we usually call each other while playing. The first part of this story is an explanation and example of the three minute game, something the Body Electric School explores in their workshops, and does not contain the specific Daddy/girl words; the Daddy/girl play is further on.

I returned home from LA, from four days with Rife, and I was ecstatic to see Kristen. She picked me up early, early at the airport on the red eye, and we fell back asleep at home for a few hours, made some lunch, talked about what we’d been doing.

In the afternoon, we returned to the bedroom.

I know when I travel it’s best to come back to her sweet and slow, and even more so when I’ve been off seeing my lover. I was turned on (she felt so good in my arms, under my hands, her feminine curves, her sweet soft skin) and had some ideas, but we needed a way to reconnect playfully, slowly, first.

“Want to play the three minute game?” I asked.

“Okay,” she said brightly, smiling like I’d offered to make her favorite meal for dinner. “But remind me of the rules?”

“Each of us gets a turn, and each turn is three minutes, carefully timed. There are two turns, so—four rounds. The first is, ‘this is what I would like to do to you for my pleasure.’ Then, ‘this is what I would like you to do to me for my pleasure.’”

“Got it.” We’ve played before, but only a few times, and the last time didn’t go so well—she’d asked me for some touch around my chest and we both got uncomfortable and had to stop, but neither of us handled it well. I hoped we wouldn’t do that again.

“You go first,” I said (being a top is useful sometimes).

“Alright … for my pleasure, I would like to sit on your lap, and for you to kiss my face and neck and suck on my nipples.”

“Mmm, I’d love to,” I said. “Take off your shirt.” Part of the point is to respond well—with eagerness, or with suggestions of something else related if you are uncomfortable with what they request.

I shifted up to the head of the bed so I could support my back against the wall, and Kristen curled up over my lap. I set the timer on my phone for three minutes.

At first, I barely made contact. I let her feel my breath and nose and the heat of my skin; I closed my eyes and remembered the contours of her jaw and cheek with the tiny invisible hairs on my face. Then I let my lips touch her, just brushing, gently, gently, as light of a touch as I could manage, as slow as I could tolerate. Feeling her weight on my thighs and the curves of her waist and back and spine in my hand made me want her, but I resisted.

I traced her jaw, cheek, throat with my mouth, kissing now, using the soft insides of my lips, keeping my mouth supple. She made that soft mewling moan that slays me and a shiver ran down my spine. I kept going, working that spot on her neck by her earlobe that she loves, then where her neck and shoulders meet, and down to her collarbone. I kissed along the curves of the tops of her breasts, making my way between the cleft of them, down to one nipple and then the other, sucking them into my mouth, teasing gently with my teeth and tongue, suckling, nibbling.

Just as I was getting into it, drawing her closer to me with my arms around her back, burying my face in her, just as she was starting to drop her head back and thrust her tits forward, the timer went off, and we both laughed.

I shifted my position a little and she sat more on the bed than on my lap. I kissed her lips. She said, “It’s your turn.”

“For my pleasure …” I swallowed. “I would like you to kiss my feet.” We’ve played with this a little. It is only recently that I have admitted how much I like it—to myself and others—enough to actually experiment with the sensation. It makes me nervous to ask for. But that is partly what this game is for, and it’s only three minutes. I can do just about anything for three minutes.

She nodded, looked at me a little coyly, chin down eyes up lips parted, and said, “And suck your toes?”

My breath caught. “Yes,” I think I managed to say. I think it was audible. So nervous. And it’s something that I wanted to feel, so much.

I set the timer again and she slid down the bed on her belly to take my right foot in her hands and deliver a sprinkling of kisses along the top of it. She ran her tongue along the instep, the most sensitive part, and sucked gently with her lips. She tongued the crease between my big toe and second toe before sliding the larger into her mouth.

I groaned. It is so vulnerable and makes me so nervous to give over, to feel her mouth in that way. The sensation is so close to tickling but is ecstatic, and so close to getting my cock sucked but is very different. She worked her mouth over all the crevices she could reach. She sucked and licked, moving her tongue up and down, holding my heel and ankle in her hands.

Then she switched to my other foot.

(It is so hard to write about this! And words like toes and foot seem so inherently unsexy, somehow—but I know the feeling absolutely turns me on. I don’t think I’ve written about it here before. I don’t know if I want to, except that I like to challenge myself to make myself vulnerable, to Kristen and to myself and in this writing project, and this feels very edgy.)

Those three minutes felt like an hour. I lost myself in the sensation, but I didn’t lose my body: moreso the opposite. I felt my whole self down to each toe, where so much stimulation was concentrated. I felt my cock quiver and my nipples harden and my throat go dry as I tried to swallow. I watched her mouth move and lips darken with blood and sensation and she smiled and giggled a little as she showed me what she could do. My eyes rolled back. My wrists went slack. I almost begged for her to stop, almost begged for more. I was overwhelmed and ecstatic and so turned on.

The timer went off and I breathed out, both a sigh of relief and disappointment that it was over. “For your pleasure, what would you like to do to me?” I asked.

She rose to her hands and knees and crawled forward toward me on the bed. “I would like to suck your cock.”

“Mmmm, gladly,” I said, and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Give me just a minute to put it on.” I slid my jeans and briefs off, tossed my tee shirt into the laundry basket, pulled on my cock and harness from the small jersey bag I tend to keep it in, and returned back to the bed. She crawled over me. I barely had time to restart the timer before she had my cock in her mouth, tongue eager again, her lips soft and sucking me down. It’s a big cock, the Maverick, my favorite one, the one I use only with her.

She’s still warming up, but I want to push her.

“Is that too big for your little mouth, pretty girl?”

She smiles and shakes her head, mouth open, my cock still pushing past her lips. “No, Daddy.”

“Show me how you can do it, then.”

And she did: gulped it down even farther, slid it down her mouth in that magic way that I don’t understand. How is there even that much room inside her body? I don’t want to think about it. I concentrate on the sensation, on her hand at the base of my cock, on the way it pulls against my clit, on the vision of her tongue against me. I moaned and tried not to buck my hips up into her. She worked it like she does, sweet and slow and eager, and I watched and stretched myself into every inch of that cock, embodying it.

The timer went off and I wanted to fuck her. “I want to fuck you,” I said. “But without a timer.”

She nodded and came up to kiss me. “Yes please. Pick something else to do for three minutes first.”

That was all I wanted to do. I thought about it. “I’d like to go down on you.” She’d gotten her pussy waxed just before I left and I knew it was still smooth and bare, and it is so hard to keep my mouth off of her when she’s like that.

She nodded again and we switched places. She parted her thighs and I dove in, elbows up under her knees and my hands wrapped around her hips, my mouth finding her slit wet and swollen already. She tastes so good, musky and a little sour. She was bleeding but that doesn’t stop me; she’d already taken her cup out. I slid two fingers in and just held them there, a little pressure up as I caught her clit in my mouth and flicked it with my tongue.

“Ohhh, Daddy,” she moaned.

I lapped the length of her, savoring her smooth skin, sucking her labia into my mouth before sliding back up to suck her clit. A little suction, a little flick of my tongue, a little more pressure with my fingers inside her, and she was convulsing already, coming easily once, twice, in quick succession, like she does.

“Ohh Daddy, that feels so good,” she ran her fingers through my hair. I didn’t let up yet. I dipped my tongue as far as I could reach, fucking her hole with it, and she moaned again, giggled and sighed, and I kept going with my thumb flicking her clit until she came again, squirting this time, not a lot but enough that I noticed, and I caught it in my mouth, a little sour against my tongue.

The timer went off. I kissed her thighs, wiped my mouth on them a little. “Come here, come kiss me,” she said, stretching her arms out for me, and I slid into them, wiped my mouth again before kissing her. “I like tasting me on you,” she said. We kissed again, more, deeper, my mouth covering hers, our lips soft, her mouth sweet. I found her pussy again with my fingers, thrust in a little deeper, a little harder this time, and her spine arched, head bent back with a moan. “Ohhh fuck me, please,” she whispered.

I pulled back, nodded, more urgent now, desirous. Grabbing the bottle of lube from my bedstand, I smeared my cock with it, then added a little more right to her pussy, dripping down from her clit. I rubbed it around with my cock, parting her lips and pushing inside slowly, all the way. We both moaned and my hips shuddered, contracting already. “Baby, you feel so good, so good,” I started in on a string of dirty words. “I love the way you feel, sweet girl, I missed you.”

“You like my pussy, Daddy?” she started. “It feels good, you feel good inside. I like it. Put it in and out. Fuck me, Daddy, fuck me, yeah, like that … ohhh yeah, please, more Daddy, more …”

And I followed her directions, fucked her harder, slid in deeper, and shook against her as I came inside. She held me against her. I caught my breath. “Did you come enough?” I asked. She nodded, both of us worn out. Even though we had some time to sleep after I arrived at 5:45am, I still felt like I’d skipped a night. We kissed more, light and soft, and curled around each other, falling asleep together for another brief nap before we got up to make dinner.

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Dirty Filthy Nasty

This story contains Daddy/girl language, rough sex, and lots of body fluids. This has been your trigger warning.

“Will you pause it for a minute? I have to pee.”

Kristen gets up from the couch and I grab for the remote, hitting pause on the second porn flick we turned on tonight. We’d shared a bottle of wine. I knew she was bleeding, since earlier in the first film, unimpressed by one of the girl’s one-finger banging techniques, I shoved three into her to illustrate that cunts can take more.

Well, maybe not all cunts. But hers, obviously.

She was wet, and moaned a little, making a little mewl of protest when I slipped them out. My fingers came away with just a little blood and I wiped them on her leg.

“That’s dirty, Daddy,” she cooed. She leaned in closer. “I like it.”

Now, I watch her ass in tiny blue shorts as she strides across the kitchen, and I rise and follow a few steps behind, waiting until she closes the door and I hear her lift the toilet lid to open the door.

“Daddy!” She squeals, laughing a little.

“Go ahead,” I say, standing close in front of her.

“You want me to … ” she sits, and I snake my hand between her legs, my fingers in a V on either side of her pussy lips.

“Do it.” I say.

“You want me to … pee? On your hand?” (She’s playing at acting reluctant. She has been asking for more water sports. And she is very dirty.)

“Yes.”

“I don’t know … if I can … ”

I don’t rub or stimulate her, just hold my hand there and wait. “You can do it. Come on, dirty girl.” Her eyes are wide and she’s giggling, body taut and poised, mouth open, a little agape at me, but turned on.

I hear it hit the water in the toilet before I feel it on my fingers, and I move my hand a little to touch the flow of piss. I feel it on my fingers and bring them closer to the lips of her pussy as she lets it go in a steady stream. I draw my fingers along her clit and she comes almost immediately, the pee stops as her spine ripples and she grabs at my bicep, then I hear more liquid hit the water, and I’m not sure if she’s squirting or peeing.

She laughs and bends her neck to touch her forehead against my chest. “You’re so dirty.”

I bring my hand up from between her legs. My fingers are wet. “Yeah. So are you, pretty girl.” I wipe my hand across her cheeks, use her face to clean off my hand.

She laughs. “Daddy! Stop!” She tells me later that piss on her face is different, it kind of stings. Like toner. I remind her that I frequently wipe lube over her skin. She likes that. Likes to leave it there so she is filthy all day.

“I’m done,” I say, and leave the bathroom, closing the door (a little more emphatically than necessary) on my way out.

She comes out a moment later and I’m on the couch like nothing happened. I press play and we return to the queer porn flick. A minute later, she points to the dried blood on her thigh and leans in to me.

“I like how you get me dirty.”

Kristen was doing that thing where she curls her back and writhes a little, looking up, eyes wide, at me from under her lashes, and I groaned inwardly and tried not to lose my composure right there.

“I like it too,” I say.

“Is it bad that watching porn is sometimes boring? Am I so desensitized?”

“I think it’s pretty great that our sex life is better than really good queer porn. I think we should …” I finger her thigh.

She bites her lip. “What are you going to do?”

I am so done with the flick. I swig the last of the wine. “Let’s go.” I don’t have to say anything else. She knows that is almost a command, a request, that means let’s go to the bedroom. I follow her and flick off the lights. She strips off her shorts and tee shirt and I pull my cock out of the jersey sheet bag I keep it in on my nightstand, strip off my tee shirt, jeans, and briefs, and put the harness and cock on.

“Get the blanket,” I say. She grabs the Throe, spreads it out onto the bed, and climbs up, lying on her side. I bring the bottle of lube, twist my legs up onto the bed and get on my knees, grab her thighs with my hands and pull her hips toward me so she’s at an angle. I pump the lube twice—once over the lips of her cunt, once on the head of my dick. I rub it slowly with my hand, showing off a little because I know she likes to watch me jerk off. Her legs are open on either side of my knees. Her cunt is mostly bare, her lips are pink and swollen.

“Fuck.”

I grip her inner thighs in my hands and poise my cock with my hips. Taking the cock in my fist, I use the head of my cock to rub the lube along her slit, rubbing it on her cunt, slick and smooth, and then smack her with it a few times, before I slide in. I reach up to her wrists and my hands fit so easily around them, she feels so small. She struggles against me, just a little, pushing back, but I have gravity and more than fifty pounds on her—we both know it’s for show. A request to hold her harder, a request to keep her down. We both shudder as I slide in deeper and put more of my weight down onto her, and she wraps her legs around me, her arms around my shoulders.

I vow to go slow, I keep repeating in my head, go slow go slow slow down go slow, but she feels so fucking good and she’s so wet and slick and pulsing around me so tight, and I’m so hard and deep, my hips start bucking and I don’t restrain them. She moans. I fuck her harder, reaching down with my right hand to lop my elbow around her calf and pull her knee up, her legs apart.

“Baby, baby, baby …”

I wish it was a given that I would fuck her like this until I shoot. I wish it was more consistent, to come inside her, to get off while she writhes. I still don’t know the secret formula. I’m so hard that I’m starting to feel blue balls, uncomfortably turned on with no release. She moans in my ear and squirms under me. I shift some weight onto my knees and spread my forearm out across her chest, pressing her down into the bed.

“Daddy, fuck me, please. Harder, please Daddy, please …”

She starts begging and I start losing it. I work my hips harder, pulling out and slamming back in, splaying my knees a little to get a better grip on the bed so I can keep my angle and friction. I put my hand over her mouth. She likes that. Her eyes plead and I hold her down by her jaw, cautiously but firm, and work my hips. I lift my hand up and she breathes in, and I close it back down on her mouth again, this time over her nose, too.

“Fuck, you feel good. I love how you take it, my good girl. That’s it, take it all the way in, give me that pussy, that’s my girl.”

I babble. She splays her hips open and gives me everything. I lift my hand from her mouth and she gasps, breathes in. I bring my fingers to her clit and she starts yelling, open mouthed.

“Can I come?”

She manages to get some words out. At her ear, I say yes and don’t let up. She does, immediately, and I keep going.

“Come on, pretty girl, is that all you got? Do it again. Do it for your Daddy. Come on, show off for me.”

She gasps and shudders, grabbing at my shoulders and upper arms as she thrashes against me. I hold her down, bite her shoulder, and she pushes against me, coming again.

“Good girl.”

I kiss her, whisper dirty nothings in her ear. She catches her breath and I sit up, kneeling between her legs, then grab at her thighs and turn her over to her stomach. I pull on her hips. “Up,” I say. “Give me that ass.” I smack it a little, lightly, back and forth with the palms of my hand. She squeals a little; she likes it, but it stings. She wants to take more pain. We’ve been talking about this. I slide my cock back insider her and press my palm down into her back, smacking her shoulder blades hard enough to make some dramatic noise but not so hard as to leave any red marks. She moans into the pillow.

I grip her hips and fuck harder, my knees slipping on the Throe blanket.

“Squirt for me, baby. Make a big mess, get my cock all dirty.”

My hand reaches around for her clit. She moans and can’t quite form words. “I can come again?”

“Yes; do it. Make it dirty, little slut. I know how you are. Filthy. My slutty little girl.”

She yells into the pillow and comes again, but it’s quick and not enough. I want a gush, want to feel it drip down my thighs. I lean back and shove my fingers in, start working her g-spot and her clit between two fingers and my thumb, still pressing her back down into the bed.

“Don’t stop, do it again. You like it nasty, let’s have it.” She twists and writhes, moans and yells out. I can feel her swelling and pressing against my fingers as she squirts, gushing, and I feel it on my thighs. I pull her back onto my lap, both of us on our knees, stacked, and hold her as she leans back into me, catching her breath. We breathe in sync.

She moves off of me first and we both stretch out our legs, shake out the cramps in our knees. “Look,” I say, spreading out the blanket where some of her come is pooled.

“I came a lot,” she admits, almost sheepishly.

“That’s what I wanted.” I lean back into the pillows and bunch the blanket toward her side of the bed. My cock is smeared with blood and come and lube—the blood, at least, I can see.

“I can still feel the piss on my skin,” she admits, laying down into the crook of my arm, head on my chest. “On my pussy. It kind of stings.”

“You like it dirty, don’t you.” I absently rub my cock. Still hard. Still craving more.

“Yes.”

“You got my cock all filthy. Blood and piss and come and lube.”

“I know, Daddy.”

“Why don’t you go clean it off for me?”

She looks up at me, just a little, and nods, rising to her knees to lean over my cock. She grips it in her hand and I shift my legs, still holding the base of it. She sticks out her tongue and licks along the tip, then makes a face. She does it again, sucking down the head this time, but recoils and grimaces again.

“It’s dirty, Daddy.”

“I know. You can do it.”

She licks again and works her hand up and down the shaft, reluctant and still wrinkling her nose.

“Oh, does that taste bad?” I’m losing patience.

She nods, tongue out, with pleading eyes like she’s trying so hard. “Uh huh.”

“Come on. I told you to do it, now do it right.” I grip the back of her head and shove my cock in her mouth. “It’s not that bad. You can do it. You made a big mess, now you clean it up.”

She moans a little, she likes it but she still protests, it still tastes bad, we both know it isn’t bad for her, but somewhere in her she has a good girl and a dirty girl fighting it out. The dirty filthy nasty girl wins, and she sucks it down, taking it deep into her throat eagerly. She works her tongue and her hand.

“That’s it. Good girl, clean that all up. Lube and come and blood and piss and spit, all the dirty things from your sweet holes. Clean it all up.”

I feel like crying from the pressure in my balls, in my cunt, built up and wound so tight. Moments like this I find myself hip-deep in dick envy, wishing so hard that my flesh would yield in her mouth like I want it to, like I crave. Embodied silicone only goes so far. I concentrate on what it would be like if it was flesh, her sweet soft lips and slick tongue.

She pulls it out of her mouth to breathe and dribbles spit everywhere.

“Look at you, you’re making an even bigger mess.” I rub my fingers in it and rub it onto her face. “Again.”

I push her head back down, but I don’t have to use much force. She slides it as far back in her mouth as she can, nearly to the base, and I groan. I want to feel it tickle her throat. I want to feel that ring of muscles contract around the head. I get so frustrated, I nearly start crying. I have to shift.

I pull her up onto me and kiss her wet mouth. Her body feels good, sweet and lithe, and I want inside her again, haven’t had enough, am not done, but I probably can’t come this way. I just want to feel her a little more. I slide back in and she rides me, rocking her hips back and forth. I grip her wrists again and hold her up, she leans her weight down onto my arms and I hold her there, thrusting my hips up, spouting strings of dirty things, filthy little girl, come on, ride that cock, that’s how I like it, you’re so good baby, come for me again, give me that sweet tight hole, that’s my girl. I work myself up to tension and release, tightening and cresting the wave that breaks over me, but I don’t come. I thrust some more. I pull her to me, down to my chest, when she comes again. I hold her there a minute, stroking her hair, then push her back up to sitting and hold her wrists again.

“Are you done?”

“Hmmm?”

I don’t correct her phrasing, even though she’s supposed to answer questions properly. “Can you come again?”

“Right now?” she raises her eyebrows. I have lost count of how many times she’s come, but I like for her to do it on demand. We have talked about some training experiments around that.

“Right now. Do it, again, right now.”

She tightens around me, I can feel it in her hips and thighs and pulling on my dick.

“Squirt for me again, make a mess. Let me feel it drip down.”

She cries out and thrashes her arms against me. I don’t lose my grip but let her back down to lying on top of me as I feel it drip down over my cunt and to my ass.

“Mmmm thank you. That’s what I wanted, baby. My dirty girl.”

“I like to be dirty, Daddy.”

“I like it too. You know I do.” Fuck. So filthy. That dirty mouth and those dirty holes and her sweet girlish body and nasty desires. My body is spent. I fall asleep with my binder on and wake up to pull up the covers, flip off the nightstand lamp, an hour later, and I slip my arm under her neck and pull her body close to me, holding her close all night.

Image from the cover of The Harder She Comes.

Her Best Line

I’ve heard the New York City subway referred to as a “hotbed of sin, and it’s true, New York has the most attractive people with their most attractive fashion at any given moment.

Tonight, I’m on my way to meet the guys, play some pool, drink more whiskey, share weekend conquest stories. Jesse’s got the night off and will join us later.

She gets on at 9th Street, I notice her immediately. Petite, dark hair, gold glowing skin, big dark eyes, a thin swingy white wrap dress tied at her hip, simple white sandals with a small kitten heel and four straps over her ankles. She sits across from me and doesn’t notice me, she’s absorbed in Murakami’s Wind-up Bird Chronicles.

She’s gorgeous. She crosses and uncrosses her legs slowly, deliberately. She’s got this smoky eye makeup on that makes her dark brown eyes even bigger, liquid and pooling and I haven’t seen her lower her lids and look up under her lashes, but I’d like to.

I wonder if she’s queer. Then I wonder if that matters. Sure it does “ it’s more fun to sleep with a girl who knows how to treat a butch in bed. We’re strange creatures, to some, after all. I think what I often think when I see a gorgeous leggy girl, reading some intellectual book, in barely enough clothing: if she’s queer, man, all is right with the world. I keep an eye on her, watching her movements, the way she brings a fingertip to her mouth and laughs to herself, the way her eyes dart, how her palm flips as she turns pages. She leaves her legs uncrossed once and turns her ankle in slightly, an unconscious but slightly submission that makes my hands ache.

I turn up my iPod, attempting to stop staring. She slips me a tiny bit of eye contact, just a sip, and a sideways smile that says she’s known I was there all along.

Damnit.

I shift unconsciously, take my leg down from the seat in front of me and cross my legs, sit up straight. My cock shifted wrong in that maneuver and now it is digging into my inner thigh, but I can’t adjust it “ how tacky to go poking at my junk when she’s watching. I can’t shift my position again yet either or she’ll know I am adjusting myself for her gaze. I’m starting to wince from the way the cock is pressing into me, dull pain that may be making a bruise. That’ll be attractive.

I try to look casual and stare out the window as the subway takes the Manhattan bridge into the city. She turns pages, crosses her legs again. I reach into my pocket and finger one of my cards with only my name and cell number, black text on a simple white background. Classic. Minimal. I don’t need adornment. Except maybe her.

At Broadway/Lafayette I adjust my cock “ finally, finally “ as she shifts and other passengers block our view of each other, then I move to stand above her, holding onto the rail. She doesn’t look up. The train pulls into the station and I place my card in her book. She looks up, startled, and I get that amazing view of her eyes, the one I was waiting for, peering under her long dark lashes, open and big and I could get lost in the way they shimmer. She sees me and blinks.

“In case you want to call me, I say, then step off the train.

I’ve stopped sweating by the time I get to the bar. My cell rings while I order my first Jameson rocks.

“Hello?

“Well, if it isn’t Sinclair Sexsmith.

No caller ID. Could it be her? I gulp. Does she know me? It must be her. So soon? “Yes, who’s this?

“Jane, she says. “On the D train. I thought I saw you notice me.

“¦ You were impossible to miss.

I can almost hear her blush. “Are you busy tonight? she says.

“Out with friends at the moment, but I could be free later, I say.

“Good. Come out to the bar at 24th and 10th. 10pm. Alright?

“¦ Alright. Why would I argue?

*

The bar is nearly empty, low lights and a few single patrons at the dark counter, quiet. Some low music is coming from somewhere, soft and subtle and electronic. The bartender is polishing pint glasses and laughing low with a woman in red, candles reflected in the glass as she polishes.

“Hey, I say as I approach the bar, making eye contact with the bartender. “Can I get a Jameson rocks?

She nods, but continues to wipe the glasses. I shoot her a puzzled look. She nods again “ a gesture this time, I catch it, she’s directing me to look behind me.

I turn and she’s there. Jane. Same white wrap dress, same long legs and strappy sandals, same gorgeous dark eyes. She’s sipping a martini. A smile on her face like she’s amused. She has a second glass on her table: whiskey. On the rocks. Ready for me.

I take one, two, deliberate steps to her table. Place both my palms on it and lean over her, still standing, so she has to look up at me.

I tip my chin to the drink. “That for me?

She swallows, holding back a smile like she’s the cat who got the canary, and nods. Almost nervous, but she’s covering it well. She’s so sexy with her tiny little movements, fingertips on the glass, looking at me shyly from the side. I don’t believe she’s queer. No, that’s not it “ I don’t believe she’s the kind of femme who primarily sleeps with women. Yet. She picked me up, sure, but I’m beginning to fear I’m her experiment. Maybe she’s just a fan “ but then again, so what? So maybe she knows what I like “ am I being taken by the ways femme can undo me? Am I so preoccupied by her smooth legs (oh my hands on her ankles running up to her knees), her big eyes (looking up like she could swallow me), that I become willing? I’m a sucker sometimes. I’m skeptical. This girl clearly knows how to wield her power.

I keep eye contact for just a flicker, say “thank you, sit down, and take a sip.

*

“I changed it, she’s saying. “It’s my middle name, really. My grandmother’s. My mom is a second-waver, gave me one of those gender neutral names I always hated. But I never was a girly girl until I started dating butches.

She leans in, as if telling me a secret. My second Jameson is melted ice and she’s halfway through her second martini. “I grew up a tomboy, I have three brothers. I mean, I was the bully on the playground! I begged my parents to let me play T-ball and little league like my brothers did. I was the only girl in the league, for a while. Others came after me. My first girlfriend in high school, we met on my softball team. I know, so gay.

We laugh. I knock the ice around in my glass. High school girlfriend. Duly noted.

“I used to dress up for dances and stuff and get made fun of so much. ˜Hey, I thought you were gay!’ So I put my dresses away. Tried to fit into the lesbian uniform. Jane shrugged, fingering the speared olives in her glass, leaned back again. “But, Sin, seriously “ once I finally took my real gender out of the closet, it’s been adolescence all over again. New desires, new awakenings. I feel like a teenager. The tip of her toes brush against my ankle.

“Is that so. I lean in, catch her gaze; her eyes are alight.

“‘Femme is knowing what you’re doing,’ she says, looking down into her drink, then giving me a penetrating stare. “Isn’t that how you say it?

She’s quoting me. It’s hot. She gulps the martini, the liquid too much for her mouth, and chokes a little, sputters, then smiles and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. My cock stirs.

“C’mon, she says, and gets up.

*

Her place is nearby. It’s why she chose that bar “ to interview me before taking me home. She planned the whole thing. Those were here best lines back there. She wants me, and she’s willing to work for it. I like that.

She locks the door behind us, positioning herself next to me, taking a few steps like it’s a dance and she’s leading so I follow, and then my back is against the door and she’s sighing and flipping her hair and waiting for me to kiss her.

So I do.

She tastes like cream. Smooth, just a tiny bit of thickness, mostly ease and softness. She waits for me to guide her. To show her how I like to be kissed. She doesn’t rush in and thrust her tongue, just makes herself warm, wet, open, available.

I let desire increase slowly. Start soft as I get a grip on her hips, her lower back cradled in my forearm, fingers eagerly pulling at the thin fabric of her dress. She lets it get stronger in me, slides her ankle against my calf as she wraps one leg around mine low. I start growling a little, that ravaging tone that is not quite a moan, but a hunger, building.

She arches her back, gasps, cries out, leans into me like she’s nuzzling, and starts laughing, delighted. “Fuck, she says and looks at me, catches my gaze, then gets shy and looks down. She fingers my buckle.

“Unbuckle your belt? she says. And I take it back – that’s her best line.

I do, swiftly, pulling the button open, popping the fly, taking my cock out as she kneels, knees wide and pelvis tilted like she’s already on top of me and easing down on something big.

She takes me in her mouth tentatively at first, just the head, wraps one hand around it, gauging the length. Can she swallow it all? She’s thinking. She laps her tongue, runs her lips down the shaft, then draws a breath and swallows me whole. It’s too much for her mouth and she makes a little gulping sound, choking a little. Her smoky eyes water and she looks up at me, keeping it in her mouth. I fight the urge to thrust in again. I can feel the tight O of her throat clenching and she tries to get hold of her gag reflex, then pulls her mouth off and puts her hand back. She rocks her pelvis a little as she sucks, the pretty white fabric of her dress between her knees is falling open and I want my fingers there, want to hear her gasp and oh and yes.

Goddamn she feels good.

She keeps hold of my cock at the base, keeps it pressed against me so I can feel everything. She works it good, pressure and speed and oh god I’m going to burst in her mouth. My hands in her hair, on the back of her head. Her gorgeous smoky eyes are smudged and she looks even more beautiful.

I love it when they start to dishevel. Makes me want to tangle her hair, pull at her dress, smear what’s left of her lipstick.

*

“Fuck me, she whispers, a command, a request, a desperate need, as she pulls me on top of her on the bed and wraps her legs around the backs of my thighs. I drag my palm from her knee up under her dress and push it aside, tear at the tie and it falls away in one neat cascade of fabric. She nuzzles into my neck again, arms around my shoulders as she sucks my earlobe into her mouth and flicks it with her tongue.

I groan. Fuck. Exposing her skin I take her all in, tracing my gaze along her body, her curvy waist and small soft belly, round breasts, small but thick, a handful, cherry nipples and no bra. I catch one in my mouth and encircle the other with my hand. She arches her back, sighs a little, taking a breath in and leaning back, her mouth open, eyes closed, hands at my shoulders, gasping.

I lift up to kiss her. Her mouth supple again and she’s eager, open. I’m hard and a little fierce, desire honed and sharpened and ready. Her noises are muffled by my mouth.

I bring my hand to the back of her neck and take hold of a fistful of hair. A gamble with some girls, but Jane wants to be taken, I can feel it. She responds immediately, like a cat does to a stroke of its back, arching and curling into the touch of a hand. Eyes closed, she’s taking it in. A gasp and she’s still, waiting. I keep my grip. I drag my other fingers down the side of her body, gently, and her nerves are increased from the immobility. She shivers but does not squirm. Waiting.

My hand at her stomach, on top of her thigh, pushing her legs open. I smile. I’m smug in these moments, I can almost start laughing from the waves of power and dominance and pleasure. Go ahead, try me. Go ahead, give in. I’ll take you, I’ll catch you. I’ll make you. Come.

I cup her pussy with my hand and drag my fingers along her lips from on top of her sweet smooth panties, I can feel the outline and she’s swollen. She unhinges her hips and spreads them wide, but I need them together so I can slide her panties off. I twist and pull and toss them aside, pull her up by the wrists so I can push the dress from her shoulders, expose her fully.

My mouth on her clavicle, her skin sweet and smooth.

“Please, she whispers, airy, her breath hot. “Please.

I nearly laugh aloud, nearly chuckle, something strong moving deep in me, grinning and restraining myself. I push her gently back down, grab at my cock with my hand.

She reaches for it, lifts her head and shoulders and her stomach flexes. She licks her lips, looks at me. My eyes are on my cock, pushing at my jeans, peeling back the split around the zipper so it doesn’t obstruct. It’s a silicone cock, just boiled, and doesn’t need a condom. I find her cunt with two fingers, my thumb along the shaft, and she’s wet, eyes begging for it, waiting, mouth open, jaw tight, one hand behind her on the bed, grabbing at the blankets and waiting for me, breathing in, trying not to growl or scream or hit me, trying not to roll right off the bed and run with all the energy buzzing under her skin right now.

“So sweet, I murmur, tip of my cock touching her cunt. “So, so sweet.

She’s tight, I can feel her contract, thick, around me as I slide in. Slowly, slowly. I get to the base and extend my torso, she’s watching me and I capture her mouth in a kiss as I slide out. Softly, softly. She adjusts her hips. We are quiet. Sounds of breath and bodies. Her brown eyes are smokier than ever, big and open with flecks of gold that catch the light and I swear I can see myself reflected as she gives me the shyest smile.

“Oh “ oh “ fuck, under her breath, she leans her head back and her neck is long, stretched, as I pull out quicker, slam back inside. “More “ she gasps, “more. Right in my ear, a whisper. I shudder, work in her faster.

“Goddamn, I mutter, a little breathless, my dick swelling and I can feel how she tightens. Her legs around my waist now. Pressing hard against me with resistance, friction.

She bites my shoulder. Claws into my upper back with her hands and I take a sharp breath in, like a splash of cold water, a sudden sharp sensation.

And it’s there again, that urge to laugh, to chuckle low as I regain my breath and control. I take hold of her hair again, position my arm across her chest so I’m holding her down and lift myself to my knees, legs apart and slid under her hips. I get the angle just right. Low and tight. A little room to wiggle and the strap of my harness is hitting my clit just right.

This goddamn girl is going to make me come.

She can feel the shift in me and her eyes widen, gaining a look of intensity, concentration, focus. So much effort, so much work, to let someone in, to trust a stranger to hold you up, even your dirty, dark, private places. I want to. I want to be able to catch her, I feel she’s falling into some other space and her stomach contracts, she clenches everything as I thrust in, and again, and again, until finally it is precisely right, that one perfect spot and pressure and we are both unraveled, bursting, shaking at the seams, simultaneously, all at once, then shuddering, shaking, gasping, reveling in each other’s bodies, and in our own.

“So, Jane says after a moment, low murmurs in her throat, happy sounds of quiet satisfaction, satiation, saturation. “Indian or Thai?

“Thai, I say. My hand traces lazy circles on her hip, over her skin, delicate as lace.

She kisses me, soft again, supple and deep, and gets up to make the call. She doesn’t ask me what I want. She pulls on a robe that barely covers her ass and winks at me as she leaves the room. I tuck my cock into my pants and tidy my perfectly messy hair.

She returns to the bedroom with another whiskey rocks and a glass of white wine, replaces the phone on the nightstand and opens the curtain on her bedroom window, revealing a sliding glass door. She opens it and gestures to me; I follow. It is a lovely view of 10th avenue, a dozen floors up, and we watch the traffic. I marvel at the quiet when I am just above the city.

The quiet is a little long and I should say something. I open my mouth.

“So, Sinclair, says Jane. “Where are you from?

I grin, and take a sip of the whiskey, so smooth, and the mouthful goes down easy.

The Study Date

I push her back against the door of the classroom the second she closes it, catching her jaw by surprise, my hand over her mouth. “Is this what you wanted? You want me up against you like this?”

Corinne’s knees go weak and her eyes widen, looking up at me softly under her short red hair which curled around her chin in a blunt bob, the bangs across her forehead making her look like a model from the thirties. Her ivory blouse is loose and silky against her skin, a bit fallen to one side, showing the edges of a lace camisole.

I bet she’s already wet.

“You’ve been trying to get me alone all semester. Did you think I didn’t know what you wanted, when you asked me to study with you after class? I speak softly against her neck, let her feel my breath, hot, against her skin.

Corinne can’t speak. She had been taking up all the air in the room every day in our evening literature class, feisty and talkative, and I’ve finally caught her unprepared. I like the way she keeps glancing at me, then glancing around the room, at the windows, at the door, the small individual desk-chair sets in messy rows, as if she isn’t sure she wants to be here, now that she created this situation.

“You like the way I feel, don’t you? I bring my hand to her waist, to the curve of her hip, to the front of her thighs, running it up her belly, to her breasts.

She gasps. Nods slowly. I let my fingers find the hem of her black pencil skirt and start tugging it up her thighs. She looks surprised and shifts her weight, her heels of her black pumps clicking on the hard classroom floor. She squirms and whimpers a little behind my hand. She’s breathing heavier and I have to let her have her mouth again in a moment.

“Getting shy now? I thought you knew who you were playing with. Her skirt is tight and it’s hard to get it to move along her legs with just one hand, I don’t want to rip it or stretch it out, but I’m getting impatient. I push my hand between her thighs and spread my fingers to get her to open them, shove at the fabric. She sucks air in through my fingers, brings one hand to the wrist that is holding her mouth and the other to my shoulder, my chest, almost like she’s pushing me away but she’s not, she’s leaning into me. She wants more.

She sets her jaw, gets her footing, spreads her legs, locks my eye contact. Getting bolder. Caught off-guard for only a moment, she’s regaining that fierce self-resolve I’ve been fantasizing about for months: how I would unravel it, thread by thread.

I move my hand up her skirt for a surprise of my own: no panties. Her cunt is not shaven but trimmed, I can feel the soft hairs around her lips before I explore the inner contours with my fingertips. I want to plunge in. I want to catch her between my hand and the wall, feel her from inside, see how she shudders when she comes, if she can stay upright against this wall, right here.

I let up with my hand over her mouth and feather touch my fingers to her lips, red and full, her mouth gently parted, breath sliding in and out, hot, it’s getting warmer in here, I’m starting to sweat. I can feel it at the nape of my neck, on the small of my back. I’m in my favorite deep red tee shirt and broken-in jeans, but none of the windows are open and it was warm today. Temperatures are rising fast.

Her tongue is swelling in her mouth. She swallows, watches my face, I can tell my features are getting more shadowy as she’s started giving over. I tease her lips with my fingertips and slide inside her mouth and her cunt at the same moment, two fingers each, she’s wet and warm and strong and tight.

Shuddering just barely, she leans her shoulders against the wall and tilts her pelvis toward me, an offering.
You can have me.

I know.

Slow and deep, filling every inch as I move inside her. She opens and blooms between my hands, reaching into her as though I could pull some jewel out from her core, as if excavating a mine.

Show me those precious things you hide inside.

Corinne swells, clit and tongue; I wet my thumb to thrum against her. I’m holding her up and back with my hands, she’s pressing her weight into me, opening deeper. Her desire rises and I think she’s going to come, she tightens so strong around my fingers and sucks me in deep, I can barely move either hand inside her, but she doesn’t, she gasps, goes limp, releases, leans her head against the wall and opens her mouth, opens her eyes, slides them sideways to look at me. Swallows a few times.

I slide my fingers out of her beautiful tight body. We both catch our breath.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and run my fingers through my hair which is falling in my eyes. She rolls her shoulders forward and her knees together shyly, then straightens up, pulls at the hem of her skirt, and takes four swift steps over to the teacher’s desk in front of the chalkboard still covered with notes from our lit class and from the day’s use, ghostly outlines of letters.

Her hard heels against the floor click, click, click, click, and she balances perfectly on the thin tapered heels, effortless (or so it seems to me) black straps buckling around her ankles. Much too fancy for some night university class. She regains her poise and she is all grace, all pressure and granite.

Turning to look at me, she shifts her hips side to side as she works her skirt up her thighs and bunches it around her waist, watching my face as I try not to stare, then she turns, and bends over the desk with her elbows on it.
I don’t make a move. I barely breathe. I let my hungry gaze take in the curve of her ass, her pussy laid out for me, wet and open, her asshole pink, the lines of her shapely legs.

This girl knows what she wants. I love that.

She glances back over her shoulder at me hesitantly, a little shyly. I can see her wondering if she’s made a mistake, been too bold, or if I’ll give it to her.

Of course I will.

My brown loafers click too, but softer than hers, the leather worn down and smooth. I don’t go slow this time, easily shoving three fingers into her, hard enough to tip her forward farther over the desk. Her mouth opens with a quick “ah! but she takes it. I grip her hip and slide out easy, slick, she’s so wet, so wet and easy, she guides me in and out, takes it hard, rocks against me.

In a flash she reaches down between her legs with her left hand and lays deeper onto the desk, breasts against the cool slick top of it. She lets out a moan as she flicks her clit and tightens around my fingers. I slow down, deepen, expand my fingers to fill her more. She gasps, yeah ohhh yeah yeah and I grin. There’s that tongue of hers working again.

I’ve got her perfectly at hip height and wish I had a cock with me “ how was I to know she’d accost me like this? “ her ass is luscious and I want to take a bite of her cheek, leave a bruise, wet my fingers and work them into her ass as I plunge my cock into her cunt. Maybe she’ll let me do this again. My free hand travels up, pulls her blouse free of her skirt and finds her nipples, one and then the other, smashing my hand between her and the desk as I keep thrusting and she keeps rubbing her clit, I’m closer to her and can hear her gasping, her hair is falling in her face and she is deliciously disheveled.

“Oh god oh god, she mutters. No need to involve him, I want to reply, and bite my tongue thinking this is the most holy thing I’ve done in weeks, I can feel her expanding and enlivening under my fingertips, can feel her chest sweeten and swoon as her heart beats red and strong. The buttons on her blouse are popping open and her skirt is all twisted, her hair swings next to her cheeks and ears, red as the flush on her forehead and between her legs.

I want to keep her here, poised, open, fine-tuned and sailing over waves of breath and pulse. Here, it is nothing but bliss and beauty and possibility and healing, nothing but filling the cracks and broken-down machines that are our bodies, that run us, both her and I, I’m flooded with it too, she’s spilling out of herself and into me and I catch it, drink it, push myself inside her deeper to spill and capture even more. I love this part, this dance, this exchange, when we are no longer separated, one big electrical circuit, raising energy from our own bodies, flowing through us, picking up speed and momentum and density and purity as it travels between us.

But of course it doesn’t last. Like all moments of ecstasy, it is short-lived: it spills over and explodes and she comes, hard, gasping and thrusting back against me, pushing her clit so hard I can feel it inside, knees shaking, one of her feet lifting off the floor as she slides her body nearly all the way over the desk.

Her cries quiet, but I notice they bounce around the bare, hard classroom; I wonder if anyone has heard.

I’ve pressed hard against her as she collapsed and after a moment I disentangle, breathe, feel my own body attached to my own hand, contain myself again. She hums with pleasure and pushes herself up from the desk, pulls and twists her tight skirt back into place, sits on the desk and crosses her legs to rebutton her blouse and smooth her clothes. Her ankles touch and kiss, shoes barely held onto her slender feet, just a few fine straps and buckles.

She runs her fingers through her hair, tucks it behind her ear, in a gesture so sweet I stop what I’m doing and reach for her, slide my hands around her waist and she brings her arms around my neck as we kiss, soft and sweet and slow, tender, and I realize we hadn’t done this yet, am I so professional about my fucking that I don’t even kiss anymore? The kissing is the best part. I sigh into it and she grins, I feel her mouth move up at the corners.

“So, she says, pulling back arms length from me, eyes sparkling. “No cock?

I laugh, a low puff of air. “Caught me a bit unprepared, I guess.

“Mmmm. Corinne doesn’t press it.

I do. “I’ll bring it Wednesday. We are going to have to, you know, ahem, study, again, before the final on Monday, after all.

She’s amused, still grinning. “I’ll be sure to wear a skirt, she says, and kisses me again.

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