Your Weekly Dose

Cheek pressed against the cool tank, I bend over to fill my mug. He walks behind me, pauses a moment. Looks over his shoulder, unzips, lifts my skirt, slides his dick into me. Asks me how my weekend was, the show I went to, the dinner out. He’s careless, lets his cock slip out, now and again, but he’s careful to rub it all over my snatch, kissing my clit with his slit before pushing back in.

The belt cracks against my ass. My knees buckle. You hit me harder for being weak. I love you.

I come back from behind you. Lift your hair and taste your neck, splay my fingers over your ribcage. You curve your back and I move to cup your tits. Press my dick against your ass so you feel how much I want you. You moan, turn around, kiss me, deep.

You're a deviation from my type. A football player run to fat, you've got 8 inches and 100 pounds on me. You touch me like I might break and you don't much care, carrying me with one arm from the kitchen to my room, throwing me onto the bed from the door.

There's a moment in the air when it feels like I've come unhinged.

My limbs detached, my muscles loose, brain off. The sheer weightless joy of it. The thud. I sink a moment into the mattress before I come back up and together and over. Flipped flat on my back, you pin my shoulders with your knees.

That's it, this time, my hand's in past the knuckles. Her intake and my sharp exhale. She yelps, surprised, shocked and beyond, it is the only muffled noise in my head. My hand a heart inside her cunt, gentle flexion. The tiny pulses ripple through her limbs.

That's right, I whisper.

Her ripples are gathering concentric circles around my wrist, bonecrushing muscles and I bend my head, lick her bent knee, make a trail of bites up. I rest my cheek on her inner thigh, place my uncurled hand on her mons. Feeling the pressure gather, the muscles tense, her keening breath, the push, the gush, the salt sweet spray on my lips.

My hand slowly slowly out, pausing, touching my tongue flat and slow to her clit, cupping her vulva, drawing my fingers up her legs. I peel the glove off, drop it with the others on the floor.

She looks satisfied with her work. I try to move, my shoulders and quads strain against the rope. I watch the pinched skin turn white then red then angry. She hasn't missed a single part, just left my head free, all the better to see her with. I writhe and her small knots rasp against my clit my slit my asshole.

Standing on the bed in her boots, over me, she waits, watching, silent. I calm myself. My pussy red and wet from the rope's bite.

She pulls her hands from behind her back, the short blade a flash between her nimble fingers. In one movement she swoops, places the point perfectly between my thigh and the rope, the flat side into my fat, the other sharpened fresh for me. I tense, against the cold metal, the potential cut.

That's right, she whispers, stay still.

I always travel with a long coat, just in case. For this case. I trade for the window seat: she wants the aisle. Her legs, she says, and I look. They're long, she's right. Thick and muscular, encased in faded denim. I smile at her crotch, slide over to the window.

With my head agains the shutter, I pretend to sleep, coat pulled up to my chin. I tap my fingers, syncopated, subtle, against my clit and asshole, barely a flutter, moving my hips, the barest rock.

There's this thing I can do, open my eyes just a smidge, my lashes still tangled. She doesn't know I'm looking, watching her watching me. Her hand resting heavy on her bulge.

I’m dizzy standing over you, sipping air and standing straight. I’ve shoved you down, your head on the floor, I grind your face with the thick sole of my boot.

You are what tethers me to the earth.

You slip the dressing gown off my shoulders; take the measure of heat from my skin with your palms. Knead the tension out, smooth it down my back. I round up under you, until you leave me, breathing deep. You wrap the corset around me, holding me in, drawing me up. Pull the laces, put your foot on my ass, pull them tight, pull them.

The tighter you draw them, the meaner I get.

First you stroke it, trace the silk embroidery. Bend down and press your face against it, take in the smell of me turned on, soaked into the fabric. I clear my throat: you’re taking too long. My back is to you, I’m holding the railing. Smiling indulgently at you over my shoulder.