tangled

You’d typed out and deleted the text three times before you’d sent it, finally. You in the area? Off my feet for a few days, could use the company. He travelled a lot – you were never sure, one week to the next, whether he’d be in town, but your phone had buzzed a few minutes later. Hurt? What happened? And then, before you’d finished the reply, Back in town by tonight. Chicken or chinese?

You wished, vaguely, that it was a more sensational reason – something sexy, or at least entertaining. I was mown down by a rogue group of segways or I fell down the stairs during an over-enthusiastic threesome. But this was just a bad attack of kidney stones, one that had hit two days before just as coffee break arrived at your office job. It’d started like sudden bad cramps and got terrifyingly worse, terrifyingly fast – by the time you’d made it to the hospital the pain was so bad you’d lost the ability to focus your eyes and had vomited messily all over the front foyer, had moaned and yelled on a cot till they gave you morphine, finally. You’d been discharged an hour ago, after emergency surgery, been sent home with instructions on how to tell when the pieces had passed, and now you were camped gingerly on the sofa, medicated to the gills, still sore but almost oppressed by the sheer relief from the worst of the pain. You hadn’t known there was pain like that, and that thought too made you feel weird, like there was this whole realm of human experience you’d underestimated.

There’s a knock, but he knows it’ll be open and shoulders his way through the doorway before you’ve got both feet on the floor.

‘Don’t move,’ he hollers from the hall, ‘I’m good.’ You can hear his boots hitting the floor as he toes them off and then he’s in the living room, stooping over the couch to kiss your forehead, bag of chinese food in one hand. The other rests for a second on your hair.

‘Kidney stones, fuck!’ he says, like it’s impressively horrifying, like you’re Indiana Jones and you’ve just battled through a pit of snakes, and you want to kiss him more than you already did. He goes into the kitchen and puts the bag on the counter. You can hear him shuffling, finding the plates, opening styrofoam boxes. ‘They got you on the good stuff?’

‘Mm,’ you hum at him, kick the blanket around a little, draw your legs up to make room for him on the sofa. He comes back in with plates of food and hands you one, sinks into the couch and pulls your feet and shins back over his thighs. It’s nice, the warm heat of him and the softness of his touch, comforting in a way the pain meds don’t reach.

Not that you don’t like the pain meds.

‘How’re things?’ you say, around chow mein. ‘Thank you for coming, I know it was super last minute.’

He brushes this aside, shakes his head.

‘On my way back anyway – wasn’t a problem.’ His hand is running up your shin, his little finger tracing absently over your kneecap. ‘Been too long, anyway.’

‘Yeah.’ You grin, fumble for the remote. ‘Whattaya wanna watch?’

He doesn’t care, and you’re halfway through Penny Dreadful, so you press play on that; it’s a bit of a mess, as you try to catch him up on the convoluted storyline, but it’s nice. Companionable. His hand is still on your kneecap when the credits come up at the end of the episode, which is also nice. You let it play through till it ticks over to the next episode and then hit pause, hook a finger over two of his.

‘Hey.’

‘Hmm?’ He’s making that inquiring face that brings out his dimples, eyebrows raised, and you laugh.

‘Gonna kiss me?’

He grins, then, ducks his head till his jaw meets his collarbone, squeezes your fingers.

‘I mean – you’re walking wounded still, wasn’t sure -’

Kiss me,’ you say, tug on his arm a little, and he scoots up the couch till he’s right up beneath your thighs, leans sideways and cups your head in one hand. It’s gentle, undemanding, but you pitch right into him, get both your hands up into his hair. ‘I’m fine,’ you say, ‘just – if you’re ok with – mellow.’

He laughs against your mouth.

‘Think that’s alright,’ he says, and pulls just a little away. ‘I can do mellow.’

‘There’s condoms under the sink,’ you say, tugging at his shirt, and he starts to laugh so hard then that his shoulders are shaking before you even get his shirt over his head.

‘I’m not that impatient,’ he says, dimpling harder, and you flick your eyes up at him, laughing back.

‘I am,’ you say, and start to struggle your sweatpants down over your ass. ‘I am.

By the time he’s back you’re naked from the waist down and thank god it’s a deep couch, big enough that if you roll up against the back there’s room for him beside you. He shucks off his jeans and shorts and rolls on a condom, jerks himself a couple of times to adjust it right down over the root of his dick.

‘You’re ok?’ he says, one more time, swinging one knee up over you and planting it right in the back of the couch. It sinks behind the cushion and you roll a little towards him, against the inside of his knee. The inside of his – hnnng, his thigh, and in spite of how sore you are your hips hitch up involuntarily towards him, enough that his cock brushes against you.

‘I’m fine,’ you say, breathless, ‘just – go a little gentle.’ He makes a noise in his throat, then, and settles in over you, gets an elbow up beside your head and puts the other hand down between you to guide his cock easy into your cunt. It feels so good that you stop breathing for a second, let your legs fall further open beneath him.

‘Mmmhm,’ you say, face pressed into the skin of his neck, bodies close together, sunk deep into the couch. He shifts, puts more of his weight onto his other elbow so that you both roll a little to the side, almost face to face, and his other arm slides down your body, lingers over your hip, and he gets his fingers spread around your ass and tucks you in against him, close and safe and open-legged, your shins tangling a little with his in the afghan at the foot of the couch. For a few minutes there’s silence, just him glancing at your face to make sure he’s not hurting you and your little gasps when he shifts a little and hits a different angle, one that makes your palms curl hard against his pecs. It’s different from most of the sex you’ve had with him, gentler, softer, but good, wet and close and so deep, and the cradling side-by-side means that it’s not just the thrusting of him inside you that makes your body thrum but his pelvis and thighs and the little softness of his tummy all pulling hungry against you, a dragging caress over all the sensitive nerves of your pelvis and belly. He’s breathing into your hair, not loudly, but you can feel the warm buzz of it against your scalp.

‘OK?’ he says, after a minute, laughing almost silently on the inhale, and you wriggle a little against him, pull him back directly on top of you.

So ok,’ you say, up into his face, and he grins and puts his head down into your shoulder and thrusts into you harder, a little bit faster, enough that you know that he’s close, and you fist one hand into the top of his hair and tighten around him. ‘So so ok,’ you whisper, again, against his ear, tongue flicking light over his earlobe, and he presses so hard you can feel the shape of his nose, the heat of his breath on your breast, and seizes hard, stuttering down deep into you.

You’re expecting him to lie there a minute but he pulls out, rolls off and knots the condom almost in one movement and is bent back over your belly, one knee hanging off the couch now, thumbs grazing up the inside of your thighs.

‘Fuck,’ he says, once, when he’s nudging your legs back apart, and then his face is between them and gentle, so gentle, no fingers even, just his mouth not even so much licking as soothing and trembling-hot over your clit and you’re so close already, you can blink and still feel his cock pressing heavy inside you and you come, that long dragging wrung-muscle kind that puts stars behind your eyes for a second and that’s mostly inside, just your thighs trembling a little under his hands.

‘That was fun,’ you say, when he’s gone to throw out the condom and settled in back by your feet, pulled the afghan over both of you. He turns, gives you that smile that makes your heart hiccup a little every time.

‘It was,’ he says. ‘Settle in now, honey, we’ve got another three episodes to go. Beer OK with those meds?’

tangled

fire drill

‘Where are you?’ you say. It’s 9.15 am and you’re stuck outside in the office parking lot in the middle of a fire drill, shuffling your feet and watching the muster point wardens disinterestedly checking people off their lists.

‘Kitchen,’ he says, on the other end of the line – you called him just to say hi, and also to pass the time, and also you’re maybe in love with him. Just an unofficial little bit in love. You can hear the clatter of dishes in the background, the sloshing of liquid. ‘Coffee.’

There’s a little silence.

‘Whaddaya wearing?’ you say, singsong, almost a joke but not quite. He clears his throat, makes a kind of grunting chuckle.

‘Housecoat,’ he says, ‘and those, uh, those shorts you got me that time.’

That takes a minute to hit, but then

‘oh!’ you say, and stop. You’d tossed them in his basket for a laugh when he’d been through town a few months back and you’d done a 2 am Walmart run: a black micro-fibre thong dotted with grey stars. You take a second to picture it stretched up snug around his balls, tight over the line of his –

He’s talking.

‘…not so bad,’ you catch, ‘and as you know I’ve got one fine fuckin’ ass.’

‘Shit,’ you say, and your co-workers look at you, so it must have been pretty loud. ‘I never thought you’d actually – gosh – what are – I mean, you’re just hanging all thongalicious in the kitchen?’

‘Well,’ he says, ‘since you ask, I’m sittin’ on the edge of a table and I’m gonna jerk one off pretty quick here.’

‘Shit!’ you say, and take four steps away from the cluster of officemates, turn around. ‘Fuck, c’mon, you can’t do this to me – I’m stuck in a fire drill.’

‘Too bad you ain’t got my hose,’ he says, but before you can mock him there’s a groan over the line, so low and gut-real it makes you flush up your throat. ‘Oh honey wish you were here.’

You lick your lips.

‘What are you doing?’ you say, a little frantic, ‘they’re gonna call us in soon, quick quick.’ You can see the wardens starting to nod at each other across the parking lot. ‘What are you – are you – how hard are you? Are the shorts pulled right down?’

‘Yup.’ You can hear his breathing pick up a little and the thump of something – a chair leg? – in the background. ‘Got ‘em pulled right down under the balls, like you like ‘em.’ You flush bright red, put your hand up to your face. ‘And I’m – yeah, I’m hard as they come, honey – fuck.’

‘What?’ You’re walking back up to the building now. Everyone else is inside and the last of the monitors is standing at the door, obviously waiting for you. ‘Shit – I can’t really say any more, going back into the – I’ll listen though, keep, keep telling me.’

‘OK,’ he says, and you’d swear you can hear the thwick thwick of his fist jerking quick over his dick. ‘That’s hot, baby, you on the line but you can’t touch yourself or even make a noise – uggghh, getting close – christ – bet you’re getting wet cause you want it, don’t you, you want this dick so good and hard between your legs, baby, fuck, fuuuuck, just say yeah, say it, say it, Christ I’m gonna-’

Yeah,’ you say, halfway up the stairs, perfectly still and gripping the rail with one hand like it’s salvation, and you hear him grunt twice close together, long and torn up from the bottom of his chest, and you’re gripping your phone so hard it’s leaving dents in the pads between your knuckles.

He laughs, warm like melted honey, and it goes right through you.

‘Ok there?’ he says, and you take a light shuddery breath, make your feet start up the stairs again. You’re astonished they’re working.

‘I’ll call you later,’ you say, like a threat, ‘once I’m home,’ and he says

‘You’d better.’

fire drill

sloppy

I wasn’t planning anything, hadn’t even drank a full cup of coffee yet – was just looking for my comfortable bra, dropped (I thought) lazily on the bathroom floor before a bath the night before. But when I open the door from the hallway he’s standing beside the bathtub, towelling off, room still warm and foggy from the shower.

I don’t say anything, don’t have to; there’s a second of hesitation (coffee bus routes trousers to iron) and then I step towards him, peeling my shirt off and stepping out of my panties in a single movement, cause he just looks so good: drops of water still glimmering over his shoulders, nipples popped from the rough rub of the towel, his cock hanging half-soft between sturdy thighs.

I put the pads of my fingers just over his collarbone, lean in a little, enough that I can lick across his lower lip and press into a deeper kiss, mouths open, wet and warm and lips still sleep-soft. My palms drag down over his chest, slow, feeling every inch, drag down over his stomach and pause over his waist. His hips sway forwards, hungry, involuntary, and his cock bobs against the inner crease of my thigh, stiffening.

I touch it, just a little, fingers stroking light over the crown, just enough to feel his breath grow quicker, harsh. Then I press my palms against the front of his thighs and sink to my knees, roll my head a little sideways so his cock slaps gentle against my temple.

Baby,’ I say, and take him in my mouth, tongue soft and hungry and suckling along his length, take him deeper till the head of his cock bumps against my soft palate and I jerk just a little, resettle my hands on his thighs, breath in deeply through my nose. He’s looking down on me, dark-eyed, mouth a little open, wet hair fallen into his eyes. I let the saliva pool under my tongue and run out the corners of my mouth, bob a couple of times up and down his cock, getting everything wet and – sloppy, slick with want, undignified.

‘Morning,’ you say, around his cock, and start to suck in earnest, and his head knocks back soft against the wall and he starts to groan.

sloppy

3 things

The thing about couch sex is – well, there’s three things, okay.

The first thing is when he puts his beer down on the dinky table beside the empty kitkat wrappers and looks across the couch at you, smiles a little, squeezes the hand he’s been holding, and you straddle his lap and brush your fingers back through his hair, run a thumb down over the line of his nose and his lips and his chin. You kiss along his lower lip while you unbutton his shirt, slip your hands inside along his chest, let your thumbs brush over his nipples. You can feel his dick harden inside his jeans and there’s nothing, nothing, not even coming is quite like the feel of that still-soft quickening. His hips press a little up from the cushion, up against your panties, and you squeeze his hips between your knees and that, that’s the first thing.

The second thing is when you’ve dashed all warm and flustered to the bedroom for a condom and come back to find that his jeans and briefs are around his shins and he’s just sitting there with one hand up in his hair, pushing his bangs sweaty off his forehead, and the pink curve of his dick is leaking against his stomach and he parts his legs a little wider and pats one thigh and grins. Your hands are shaking a little, too clumsy to get the condom on at the first try, but once you’ve got it you run a thumb up to the root of his cock and angle it just enough to line up and sink down on him and that, that’s the second thing, the wet-thick moment when you’re not quite separate or joined, you’re – illimitable, poised together on a breathless bone-deep please .

When he gets close he lets his head fall back on the spine of the couch, throat long and open, eyes half-lidded, watching you fuck yourself shaken-apart on his cock. When you start to falter – thighs giving out, your fingers between your legs rubbing quicker and desperate, shaky with want – he tightens his hands over your ass and pulls you in against him and jackhammers up into you, pumping his hips, his thighs under your ass gone taut and hard with the effort. If you look down then you can see him bite his lower lip, see it slide through his teeth slow and bloodless-white and that, that’s the third thing.

3 things

stairwell

You’re just down the hall from your office and your back’s against the wall and the guy who’s been in the archive room all day, going by your desk, winking, eating frosted donuts and licking the powder off his lips, he’s standing in front of you: not crowding, not too close, no, but firmly there (and firm, under the cheap white dress shirt, you’ve not not-noticed), and he’s eyefucking you in the most respectful way possible. It’s taking a conscious effort to keep your hips from swaying towards him.

You lick your lips and say ‘is there some place we can go?’

His lips tighten, a flicker. Not anger. Satisfaction, and your belly starts to ache.

He pulls you into the stairwell and presses you back against the wall. There’s a second, two, where he holds his face a little away from yours, lips open, eyes dancing. You move against him, reflexive, but he’s got a hand on either side of your face and he’s holding you there, suspended between him and the wall and the surface of the world. The butterflies below your breastbone start to ricochet skyward.

‘You want it, hey?’ he says, not insult in his voice but delight, and his eyes are sparkling, sparking, and then he pulls you together and his mouth is the world exact, wet, tugging. He’s sucking on your tongue and his hips are pressed up against yours, so tight you can feel the cold of his belt buckle through your cotton sundress.

One of his thighs slips between your legs and, god, it’s thick, muscled. The front of his slacks are flush against the hollow of your hip and you feel the bite of a crooked zipper head and beside it the hard line of his cock.

‘Oh,’ you say, in a gasp, and push your hips forward. He kisses you with a kind of surging suddenness, and you tip your head back and let him suck on the skin of your neck and below the lobe of your ear.

‘Wish you could fuck me right here,’ you say, and he makes a choked noise into your neck. Your bodies have slotted hungrily into a kind of rhythm, pressgrindrock, and then he scuffles his foot and his thigh finds where the cusp of your pubic bone meets the hood of your clit and your whole body startles, jerks in his arms.

Oh,’ he says, danger-sweet, and rocks against you again, careful, hardly moving so much as just shifting the weight of his body. There’s a noise in the dampened quiet of the stairwell and it takes you a couple of seconds to know that it’s you, moaning, low and gritty, cause he’s got one hand down the back of your panties and two of his fingers are crooking up just inside you, thick and practiced.

Fuck,’ you say, once, clear, before all you can think is breathing, keeping quiet, a little, please, quiet, and then you’re coming, pulsing around his fingers, legs giving out, and he holds you up against the wall and breathes unsteady behind the shell of your ear while he comes.

stairwell

ride

‘Yeah,’ he says, low, rough, edge of a groan underneath it, ‘yeah, just like that, baby, fuck yourself on my dick.’

She’s riding him, thighs clamped tight around his hips, knees digging into his ribs and hands planted flat on his chest. All of her focus and most of her muscles are working, straining with the thrust of her hips and the roll of her ass to take him deeper, bear down on him harder, let the dragging heat of him turn all to fire inside her. She stopped talking awhile ago – trembling, lust-blind, the world narrowed down to the hunger between her legs and the hard curve of his cock. His hands are around her hips and he’s moving with her, following her momentum.

‘You feel so good,’ he says, not patter but like he really means it, like after a couple decades of fucking it can still take him sometimes by surprise. ‘Come on, yeah, just like that, fuck, fuck, so deep.’ He drops an arm to the bed and gets himself up on one elbow, watches her face, puts a hand soft over her belly. She’s almost sobbing now, making little frustrated sounds of want, her thighs burning with effort. He lets his hand drop to her hip, thumb caressing her skin, breathing heavy.

‘I want,’ she says, ‘I want,’ and she leans back and settles her hands back beside his thighs, arches back so she’s pumping her hips from her haunches, head tipped back. He strokes the pad of one thumb down over her clit and she shudders, shivers. Then he braces his forearms against the bed and thrusts his hips up once, holds them there, just enough that the root of his cock presses a little harder against her. She cries out and jerks against him, uneven, frantic with want.

‘Yeah,’ he says, warm and husky and sure, like the feel of his lips when they’d first kissed her, ‘yeah, baby, you like that? gonna come all over my cock all soft and tight? yeah, c’mon baby, make those pretty noises, show me, show me how bad you want it.’

She lets out a long, broken moan, but he’s already got himself up on one elbow and grabbed her ass with one hand, is fucking up into her fast and hard, hardhotwet, and she puts her hands around the backs of his knees and sets her teeth and screams.

ride

scarf

You’re both a little tipsy when you stumble into the hotel room in puffy jackets and mittens, cheeks flushed with booze and temperatures low enough to frost your eyelashes, stick them wet to your cheeks. By the time you’ve tripped out of your boots and unwound your scarf he’s sitting on the end of the bed, knees sprawled apart and leaning back on his hands, and he’s shucked off not just his coat but his jeans too, stopped undoing his shirt somewhere around button three so it’s gaping open over his pecs and cold-popped nipples.

Uurgh you say, appreciatively, and move towards him, into the V of his legs, and he puts his knees together and pins you light between them. Your scarf is wound once around the heel of one of his hands.

‘You wanna–?’ he says, inflecting up, and you don’t even answer, just press a little deeper between his knees and pull your hair aside so he can tie the scarf around your head. It’s not too different, at first, really, cause you usually don’t see all that much while you’re kissing him, ever, immersed in his mouth and teeth and the way his lip snarls a little against your face, the breathy warmth of him and the clumsy shedding of layers between your bodies.

Now his hands run down your back, knead hard over your ass, and that’s fun, the feel that he’s cupping you close and tight, held still in the dark, the slide of his fingers over your thighs shifting you slantwise to the world but steady on the axis of his hips, the hard hot line of his dick. There’s a tipping, then, disorienting, your body pitches forward a little and your hands are touching parts of him but your brain’s lost the plot, the map, can’t quite place how he must be on the bed.

‘Baby,’ you say, hesitant, breathless, and he’s peeling off your leggings and knickers together, tugging when they stick around one ankle, and you half expect him to press you down on your back and eat you out but instead he does – something – lifts you, you’re almost kneeling, gasping, laughing a little, and then the feel of his chest sudden between your legs, skin thinner here and cool still from the outdoors, the brush of his armpit hair against your knees, and then his hands hooking behind your calves and he’s pulling you up right over his face and

– oh, jesus.

‘Hey,’ you say, faintly, and struggle a little, instinctive, cause you’re usually too self-conscious for this, too worried he won’t be able to breathe or over-analysing how you should sit, move, whether your belly looks weird from that angle. Usually you wriggle and deflect, pull him on top of you, and it’s fine, it’s fun, but this – 

‘’s hot,’ he says, growls, almost, and his fingers tighten around your thighs and pull you down onto his mouth and nose, the soft give of his lips and the wet slippery touch of his tongue and you start, you’re so, you start pushing yourself down onto him, down on his tongue pressing up beside your clit and fuck it’s like he found a nerve that doesn’t, that isn’t, that goes right to some ache-wet limbic system and –

Your hands grope back a little, lost, and find not the bed but his legs, drawn up open and almost frog-legged wide. You get a hand on the inside of each of his knees and press them towards the mattress, feel the quick coil of his body against your palms, and he does this fluttering soft moaning thing over your clit and you, you’re not even thinking, you stop breathing for a long, long moment, back arching up, muscles tense and pain-bright in your belly, and he holds you, holds you hard on the soft quiver of his tongue and you curl down over him and scream and you don’t know quite where he is, where the mattress is, just the black soft fugue-state of the scarf and the shuddering jerk of your body towards his tongue and hands and breath.

scarf