Your Weekly Dose

I stand with my back against the wall.

You order me to my knees. The floor is cold.

Keep your eyes here. Your voice is a growl, your eyes hold mine.

By the time I make it halfway across the room, your cock is out and in your hands. You know it's my favourite, that one. Soft at the surface.

A finger under my chin, you tip my head up. Trace a line along my jaw, pressure on my cheekbone so you can see the shadows play across my face. Press my eyelids closed, part my lips. The slap from your cock rings through my skull. My head jerks, spittle flies a slick across the floor.

We have talked of high notes and long chapters over congealed ribbons of pasta in tepid wide trays between us. The red glaze of heat lamps; we have never yet been closer. Your eyes a deep blue. As far away as the horizon or the ocean floor. With such depth.

I will loan you my dog-eared copy of that slim volume?

Yes, yes. You would like that.
 
You will visit me. Knock on the doorframe. Pointed teeth. You will open the book across your lap. I will lean over your shoulder, my breast barely glancing your cheek. Trace a finger under my favourite sentence across your thigh.

I do it slow. My hand squeezed around your cock, drawn up over the head. I gather saliva behind my teeth. Part lips one millimeter. Let a string of it drip slowly down. It disappears into the space my circled fingers have created. You moan. I twist my hand, spreading the spit over the head. Draw it down your shaft. Watch your head bloom above my thumb.

Hands on my belly. Slow wave as if over thick salt water; cup the curves and hold them. Skin, fat, sinew, muscle. The heat seeps. All my layers, in fact. Transmitted through the liquid gaps between my cells. I am loose skin and forgotten joints framed by your swollen knuckles.

Your legs are shaking, but I demand you keep them up. Say you must keep your hands flat on the wall above your head. I'm using my thighs to keep your ass cheeks spread. The finger of one hand circling my clit, the other making loops around your hungry hole.

I like to hold you open while we fuck; when you're on top of me. I dig my nails into your ass, pull to expose your tender hole. Think about who might be sliding a finger up in you. How it might feel as it presses my cock forward. I watch you arch your back into our lover. Stare into their eyes over your shoulder.

We have made this
cave, you and I. With brushed
cotton and sweat; with our humid
breath. To ward off drafts and the seeping
December damp. To bar the orange glow
of our lunar streetlamp as it creeps
through the cracks between curtain and warped
wall. We have

made this heat. Moving. With friction. Between
my breasts, in the small
of my back, the skin drips. Your lapping
tongue finds salt.

You ask us to go easy on you. We look at each other and laugh. But she chooses a smaller dick than I've seen her choose before and I discount the cane. We love you, we really do, though you curse us as we scratch and bruise and fuck your ass.

It's been weeks, but feels like months. Time has stretched and refracted till your pixellated face seems real. We come together shyly, at first, until our tongues and noses register familiar pheromones and our hands grope hard. Your crevices are strange to me now, but my fingers still know their secret spots.

Apologies for the filth interruption.

If you follow my Radial Symmetry blog, you know that I'm doing National Novel Writing Month. It'll be done November 30th. Your Weekly Dose will be back December 5th.

Yours in smut,
Megan