Your Weekly Dose

We have made a tent of the covers, dived down into the middle of the bed. We have wrapped ourselves around ourselves. Left the need for oxygen behind. We are limbs and lungs, tongues, various grooves read by deft spinning fingers. And we are finally warm.

You say your favourite thing is giving
head. I say shut up.

Curve your fingers stiff
into my cunt. Suck
my nipple while you’re at it, and if you’re good
enough, pinch the other one too.

That throws my head
back, makes me believe in some
god.

You brace me against the wall with your knee and hip. A hand over my mouth. Though I'd never dare to say a word, you know that sometimes I get loud. Your palm on my lips is a warning.

Sitting on the hard wooden chair. Watching the clock flick its seconds around. Bound up, held in. The smart tap of your stilettos down the hall and past my room.

This morning, for a good half hour after waking, I thought about you fucking me. We ended up in the chair by the window. Me sitting in your lap but facing the room. My hands flat on its arms for leverage. Your hands where I want them: one on my hip to guide me; one on the back of my neck, bowing my head down.

You write the alphabet on the tip of my clit. There’s a irritating tickle, a tingle, I squirm my ass up the bed and away from it. You follow. Insistent on my pleasure. I groan, you moan. I grab your hair, pull your face up, slap you for your inattention.

You've stood too close all term. After every lecture: a question in your eyes, bits of a knowing smile in the corners of your mouth. You're nearly my age, older than the rest, and should know better.

I stopped stepping back at week 6. Your dresses got more prim, your heels higher, your lips more red. I started wearing ties and after shave. And leaving the room with slick panties, every time.

I am thinking about my left hand fingers in your pussy and my right hand around your throat and your hand on my cock.

I am thinking about straddling you.

I am watching you on your knees. How you balance and take the thrust of my cock with hands on thighs.

I am thinking about your lips, just slightly parted. Your quick breath.

I had no idea I could be so mean.

And yet, there you are, your helpless eyes glinting back the streetlight as it wavers through the crack in the curtains. Your tender body, its pliant flesh and sharp nerves. The tendons I might catch up in my fist and pinch. The stream of filth you'll let loose when I twist your pebbled nipples another few degrees.

I'm too busy to fuck, I've made this patently clear. But it's hot as blazes in our top floor apartment and I'm working at the kitchen table in your boxers. And I know the sight of a femme in your underwear makes you crazy. You keep floating up to the back of me. Maybe use a finger to lift the tendrils stuck to my neck. Maybe take a lick of the sweat behind my ear. I do my best to ignore you.

You take a different tack.

I feel a light breeze on my clit, stop still. You blow harder. Your tongue, your sure tongue, up my inner thigh then a slow slide to open my slit. You pinch and twist my clit, slowly use that muscular tongue to fuck me. I drop my arms, lean back, let the sweat drip from my shoulders.