Archive for sex

The Bathroom Stall

I hear the bathroom door open; the music shoots into the room and then becomes muffled again when the door shuts. I hear the clap of stilettos on the marble floor in front of the stalls and then the sound of one opening and closing.

I examine my toe-nails. The French pedicure is starting to peel. Who gets a French pedicure? It looks so tacky.

“That wasn’t very nice, Joan,” a voice says and I look up and through the crack between the stall and its door.

“Up here.”

I look up and see Miriam looking down at me.

“Jesus!” I scream, “Miriam, what are you doing?”

“Finishing our conversation.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

I realize she’s not going to get down, so I finish, wipe off, pull up my thong quickly, without looking at her.

“Cute ass,” she says with a giggle. I hear a Zippo open and flash on before it snaps shut. I look up. Miriam has a cigarette hanging from her mouth. “Want one?” she asks.

“No.” I reply, straightening my dress. “How did you know I was here?”

“Brad told me. He heard you and that guy talking. Is he your boyfriend or husband or…? He’s older than you.”

I said nothing.

“Right,” she giggles, “does he know about me?”

“That I was looking for a whore? No, it was a surprise, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why did you run away like that?”

I turned to face her, “because you weren’t what I had in mind.”

Miriam jumps down and I hear the stall door open and close again, and then the sound of hip hop come pounding in before the door closes and the music’s reduced to a series of thumps.

I open the stall door and it stops midway. Miriam throws it open all the way and pushes me into the stall, closing the door behind her.

“Hi, Joan,” she says. “Did you think I’d left?”

“You’re fucking insane, aren’t you?”

“I want you to write about me,” she says.

“Is this what this is about?” I ask her indignantly. “Miriam, I’m not a writer. I just drink coffee and smoke cigarettes.”

“And fuck,” she adds, pushing me against the cool stall wall and bringing her lips to my ear, “don’t forget you fuck.”

She licks my ear lobe and traces my jaw line with her lips.

“You never answered me, Joan,” she whispers, “how would you fuck me?”

Her hand slides up the inside of my thigh, under the gray jersey dress and then higher, until her finger is grazing the space between my thong and leg.

I push her away from me and she pushes hard against me, “what, Joan?” she asks, “why do you run away?”

“I’m busy now,” I whisper.

Miriam kisses me. Her lips are hot; she pushes mine apart with her tongue. I feel it over mine, moving slowly. Her right hand has slipped around me, pulling me closer, pinning me between her and the wall. Her other hand has reached into the low cut of the dress and pulled it to the side, so my tit is exposed. I feel her cold fingers and hot palm cup it; she pulls away from my lips and brings her mouth to it. Her hand is now pushing away the other side of my dress so both my tits are out. She’s moving from one to the other, still holding me to her.

I let my head rest against the wall and finally bring my hands up to touch her. Her back is warm. My hand slips under her little black tube top and I pull it up to see her tits, those little nipples I’d seen earlier.

She brings her mouth to mine again and presses against me so our tits are sandwiched together between us. I put my arm around her, reach under her skirt; her ass is soft and full. I hadn’t noticed before when she had that skirt on.

Her fingers have found my thong again and she’s playing lightly over it with her fingernails. I moan as she begins to kiss my neck.

The door opens and the music fills the room. There’s the sound of stilettos on the floor, but I’m not listening. Miriam is sucking on my earlobe and I can hear her moans distinctly; her fingers are under my thong, playing my clit and I’m playing with her asshole.

Someone pushes the stall door open: “oops, sorry,” she says when she sees us and closes it again.
I pull my hand out from Miriam’s skirt, “Miriam…”

“You want to fuck me, don’t you?” she whispers in my ear, her finger now inside my wet cunt.

“Yes,” I say, “yes, but not here. Come to my hotel.”

“And your boyfriend or whatever?”

“He can watch.”

Artist Management

It seemed liked he was always behind her. Looking over her shoulder, talking to someone else, reading something. He’d come into the office and always be in Juliet’s periphery. When he was in plain sight, though, she swooned.

Those hands, those eyes, that voice. His beautiful Italian suits and his dark hair brushed just so, occasionally a strand falling into his eyes. Then there was his accent. Spanish, she knew, but there was a way he paused when he didn’t know an English word and he would drag out the word before and she would hang on that syllable like it was a finger going up her thigh.

His name was Xavier. Juliet had seen him play, once. First violin, of course. Every note was so strong, so distinct, so intentional. It was like he was playing a completely different instrument than the violin she’d picked up.

He was a client of the agency she worked for. He’d stop by whenever he was in New York and the other girls in the office would fawn over him. He’d even went out with one of them once, though nothing came of it. Juliet has been jealous, she admitted as much to herself. She didn’t even know him, but she found herself thinking about him, his olive skin, his honey brown eyes, wondering what his chest looked like under his expensive shirt.

When he came in that Wednesday she was happy she’d worn a pretty summer dress. A little low cut, not that she wanted to show off that much, but she did have something to show off under her dress.

He made small talk with one of the agents, he was going to have a big tour and they were putting together a press release. He was picky, he wanted to make sure it was perfect. The agent led him right to Juliet’s desk and she looked down hoping she wasn’t blushing as he took her hand and and kissed her cheek.

“Nice to see you again, Julietta? No… Juliet, si? I remember now, like the play.”

She nodded. She almost wished it was Julietta, on his lips it sounded better, more poetic, more worldly. He stood behind her as she pulled up the press release file on the computer. It was already late in the day and they had to finish it so it could be printed in the morning. He went over all the information and suggested a few changes. As they worked the others in the office left one by one. It was already six thirty and Juliet realized soon they would be the only ones in the office.

As she worked she felt the warmth of him standing over her, behind her. Juliet looked up just in time to catch him looking down at her, his eyes hungry on her cleavage. Her dress wasn’t that low cut, but she was very buxom and from his angle he was getting a view of the top of her tits, the lace of the fringe of her bra. Her face flushed immediately, but she didn’t move, in fact she just looked back at the computer, not wanting his eyes off of her.

He moved closer to her, pointing at the screen. His cologne was strong, usually she didn’t like that much cologne, but somehow the richness and exotic smell of it suited him. He was close; as he pointed to one of the pictures, his arm brushed her shoulder.

“Can you… how do you say? Make this one bigger and make the other smaller?” when he put his arm down it stayed pressed against her shoulder. She tried to fix the file with him in contact, but she was getting more and more turned on. When she finished the change and looked up his eyes were on her again.

There were times when it would have made her mad, she didn’t like men staring, but this was different. She straightened her back, pretending to stretch a little. She was showing off, but when she stretched her elbow brushed against him, he pressed into her a little more.

“It looks better this way. Can you move the phone numbers and make them bigger?” he asked, his other arm coming up and his hand resting on her shoulder, his thumb on the naked skin of her nape.

His hand was almost shockingly hot against her. His dark olive skin on her pale skin made her almost unable to move the mouse. His hot bloodedness was making her wet. His proximity, his hand, his eyes. It was like he was on top of her.

He leaned down, his mouth near her ear. “It looks good, don’t you think?”

Juliet nodded, breathing harder, wanting him so much it ached.

Then his lips were brushing against her ear out of nowhere. “I’m sorry Juliet, I can’t leave tonight without touching you at least once. Should I not?”

She didn’t say anything. She sat still and waited, her mouth half open. His hand came up and cupped her breast, his touch was strong, his fingers long and precise. His mouth was still next to her ear just barely brushing the lobe when he spoke. His voice was like a liqueur, potent and intoxicating.

“Your body is amazing, I’ve wanted to touch you since the first time I saw you.”

Her head turned and her mouth strained for his lips but he only kissed her cheek. Then he was kissing down her jaw to her neck. His hands now pulling at her dress. His lips and teeth on her neck making her dizzy, making her crazy. Then suddenly he was pulling her dress up and off, her arms in the air and then she was sitting there, in her office in only her shoes, bra and panties.

The cold of the air conditioning tickled her skin and her thighs felt wet. She felt absurdly naked with him in his suit next her and the fact that they were in the office. His hands were on her again, so hot on her cool body. He was obsessed with her breasts, kneading and and cradling them, tracing the hardening nipples through the fabric of her bra.

She turned her head again and finally caught his mouth with hers. His lips were soft, but his kiss was aggressive, hungry. His fingers were in her hair, pressing her to him and pulling her hair. Then his hands we moving down her spine, opening her bra.

“I need to see you. So fucking beautiful,” he growled as his hands went back to her body.

Her arm brushed against his hardness as he moved and she paused, moved back, felt it through his pants. He pushed against her hand. Then, as his fingers circled her sensitive nipple she started opening his pants. Past a zipper and buttons and silk boxers she found his cock. She held it as she slipped off the chair and got on her knees in front of him.

Looking over to her right she saw their reflection in a window. She was suddenly aware of how someone could walk in now and they would see her almost naked on her knees pulling out this client’s cock. She looked like a call girl, sucking the dick of a wealthy European. She looked like a slut.

His cock was long and smooth, like his body. Not as thick as she imagined, but hard and wet tipped. She licked it and he groaned. She sucked the tip into her mouth and his knees almost gave. She was good at it, she knew it. She had him. She sucked him, wet and hard, hand working him as she pressed her tongue against the bottom of his cock. He was loud, she liked that. He couldn’t control the sounds. Little pleading grunts and murmurs. Sucking cock made her wet.

She looked up at him and his eyes were dark and wide. She liked how he watched her, how he watched his cock disappear into her pretty mouth. She was putting on a show for him, stroking it and licking the tip.

Then his hands were roughly on her shoulder, then her arms, he pulled her up and turned her around and bent her over her desk. He pulled at her panties, pulling them to the side, too eager to even take them off. He was wet with her saliva, but that was nothing compared to the wetness he slid against as he pushed forward. They both gasped.

“Fuck that pussy.” she said through gritted teeth, the words making her face even redder as she said them.

His fingers on her hips, he fucked her, her fingers spread out on the table as she took every thrust.

“You like that tight pussy. Fuck me. Come on.” she goaded and he grunted a “Yes, fuck!” followed by a string of harsh Spanish whispers.

One of her hands flew back and she pulled her panties further to the side, rubbing herself in rhythm with him. He felt the movement on his balls as they slapped against her and the sensation made him wince. He was pounding into her in slow hard thrusts, nearly picking her up each time. The friction was excruciatingly good.

She rubbed faster and faster and as she felt her orgasm rushing in, she yelled, “Fuck me! Fuck me fast! Come on!”

She tightened around him and grew wetter as he started pounding her fast and hard until he felt every inch of him in her and the hot familiar rush build inside of him. He let out loud groans and she quickly pulled away from him and turned around, letting him cum all over the tits he was so obsessed with. Shot after shot as she held them up for him to rub against. The head of his cock hard against her pink nipples.

Then he was standing there gasping, pants around his ankles and hair sticking to his face. Juliet got off her knees and kissed him once on the lips. Then she walked on shaky legs to the bathroom to clean herself up, knowing he would be gone when she got back.

Originally published in Jack Wites Dirty. Used with permission.

Spinning Class

Shit! I’m late for spinning class again!

I run into the locker room and change quickly, then head for the spinning hall in a hurry. There is one available bike. Next to Dan.

Yes! I say to myself, with a little thrill. Dan is so insanely gorgeous, I’ve been drooling over him for two months. I’ve even tried to make contact with him, but he doesn’t seem particularly interested–not in me or anybody else.

Oh, well, you’re always allowed to dream, I think as I hop on my bike and start to pedal softly. I turn right hoping to catch Dan’s eye and say hi, but as usual, he seems to be in his own world. Lame. But God damn, he’s so beautiful!

Our instructor comes through the door, breathless, but exceptionally sunny as usual.

Well it’s not just me who’s late, I think, kind of satisfied with myself.

“Today we’re going to work hard, everyone!” she said, walking to the front of the room. “Are you ready?”

Yes, I’m ready! I think. Fuck, I haven’t had sex for three months–I need a release for all my sexual frustration!

The instructor puts on music. Techno, as usual. I put on a little resistance on my spinning bike, and feel the muscles in my legs slowly start to wake up. I cast a glance to the right again; Dan doesn’t not seem to see me at all.

Whatever, who gives a fuck? I think to myself. Suddenly I’m really irritated and I decide to give everything I’ve got today. Five minutes go by, and I put on even more resistance. Starting to get warm now. Ten minutes: a drop of sweat runs down my forehead. I put on more resistance until I feel the acid burst in my thighs. I slow down the intensity a bit and drink some water. I take this opportunity to look at Dan.

He’s working the bike inhumanly hard and I see the sweat running down his face, his thigh muscles are hard and strained. I take a last sip of water and increase the intensity of my spinning again. Twenty minutes have passed, and now I’m really hot and sweaty. Beads of sweat run everywhere–I’m starting to feel horny. I always get horny when I get really hot.

Suddenly I feel something wet hit my right arm, I look down. There are four drops of sweat. They’re not mine. It’s Dan! He ran his hand through his hair and splashed me!

Oh my God, I think, horrified. Do not do this to me! It almost makes me come.

Instead, I turn to him and snap: “Hey! You’re sweating on me!”

I hold up my right arm to give him the proof. He looks at my arm, no sign of recognition or feeling in his eyes. His lack of response arouses the devil in me and while he’s still looking at my arm, I bring it to my face and lick his drops of hard work.

His eyes suddenly come to life, and I feel shy when I see the new expression in them–he looks like Satan himself, and he has come up from hell to get me. His tongue slides along his lips, deliberately seductive. He brushes his hand through his hair again–this time on purpose–and his salty rain pours down on me.

Help! I think. What happens now?

I press down the brakes of the bike and come to a stop. He gets off his bike, takes me firmly by the wrist and drags me out of the spinning hall. Outside the room, we don’t exchange a word. He pulls me down the corridor and into the handicap restroom.

He slams the door shut and locks it. I see my life pass in review. Does he intend to kill me? Suddenly, I’m afraid, but part of me is excited, and I feel a jolt shoot from my stomach to my pussy.

“Undress!” Dan commands.

I hesitate.

“I said: get undressed!”

I dare nothing else than to do as he says.

“Do you feel tough now?” he asks me, angry-eyed.

“N-n-no, err-no,” I stutter.

“You were so tough before, that’s suddenly over?”

“I don’t know,” I say with a soft voice.

“I think you need a little discipline right now.”

Should I lie down? I wonder. Should I roll over and play dead?

Dan jumps at me, takes hold of my neck with one hand and pushes me against the wall. My pulse races, hitting 250 at least. He leans towards me.

“Little whore!” he says, before pressing his mouth against mine in a greedy French kiss.

He presses his entire body against mine, and I can feel that he likes what he’s doing. He is adamant. My stomach is burning now, the lowest part, and I’m not afraid anymore, I only wish that he would take me, here, right now, immediately. He has other ideas.

He tears himself away from me and takes off his shirt and shorts. His entire body is glistening in sweat. I want to lick all of him, and before I realize it, I am. Starting at the bottom of his calves, slowly approaching his upper body, I lick the knee, and up the inside of his thigh. I don’t touch his dick, I continue up the stomach and chest until I reach his neck.

I bite him there–hard. First, he’s paralyzed, but then he grabs hold of my hair and pushes me down.

“Suck my dick!” he says. “Do it well, bitch!”

I try fighting back, but he’s strong. He has me trapped on my knees.

I start to play around with my tongue on his dickhead. He drags me backwards by the hair, looking into my eyes.

“Did I say that you could lick my dick?” he demands. “No, I told you to suck me. Do it! Now!”

My legs stop working, they are completely numb. I’m so horny that had he not told me what to do, I wouldn’t have had any idea where or how to begin. But Dan knows exactly what he wants.

I lick my lips slide his hard dick into my mouth slowly. Completely. He moans deeply.

“Continue! If you’re good enough you’ll have permission to ride me.”

I am a sacrificial lamb in his hands. I do as I’m told. I enjoy the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of my mouth.

He praises me, almost tenderly: “Good girl! You like to suck dick, don’t you?”

I start to increase my rhythm a bit, and he pulls me my hair harder. I take a firm grip around his balls with one hand, and begin to massage him between the balls and ass with the other.

“You like this you little bitch. Is your pussy wet now?”

He starts to fuck me hard in the mouth. I’m looking up at him, and when we get eye contact, he explodes in my mouth. Convulsions race through his sweaty body, and he slides down to the floor before me.

He covers my mouth and nose with one hand and commands, “Swallow.”

I can’t breathe–I have no choice but to swallow. I want him so badly, I feel almost like I’m about to burst. My legs are shaking, hell, my whole body is shaking.

But I’m a little disappointed, too. Is it over? I wonder. I got nothing!

In a sudden move, Dan gets up and takes hold of my neck. He pulls me up and bends me over the sink.

“Now I will check how much you liked this, and I bet my dick that you loved to be used. People like you tend to like it.”

He gets on his knees behind me, and I suddenly feel incredibly naked.

“Spread your legs so I can see properly,” he instructs.

I hesitate, feeling embarrassed. Brutally, Dan forces my legs apart.

“Your pussy is running. Like I said: you like to be used. Maybe I will use you more. And, I promised you pleasure if you did a good job on my dick. Do you think you deserve my cock in your pussy now?”

“Yes, you shit!” I hissed determined.

He takes a good hold of my ass cheeks and keeps holding them tight.

“Get rid of that attitude, you slut!” he exclaims. “If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m the boss here! It is I who decides what is to happen and not. I control you now!”

I’m silenced and he buries his face into my pussy. Only a thin squeak escapes out of my mouth.

Oh God, so delicious!

“It tastes like your pussy is really horny,” he murmurs in between my lips.

I’m about to kneel, but he does get his arms around my thighs and keep me upright.

“Do you want my dick now?”

“Yes,” I whisper, my body trembling.

He slaps my clit. Hard.

“Say it! Say what you want!”

“I-I-want your dick,” I say uncertain.

“Say it like you mean it!”

He gets up, and with one hand firmly planted on my hip, he begins to rub his solid dick against my wet, shivering pussy. If my clit could talk, she would scream out what he wanted to hear. I feel an intense longing to feel him inside of me.

“I want your hard, throbbing cock inside my pussy now!” I say, turning to face him. “I want you to fuck me hard! I will do whatever you want, I just need you inside of me now, before I go insane!”

I have never talked that way before. But I have never been as horny as I am now, either. The feeling of being in his power is incredibly liberating; strangely enough, I feel perfectly safe.

“There. Now, you were good, my little whore. You did as I told you. It is absolutely correct. You have no choice but to do as I say.”

He turns me around, then takes hard hold of my tits and presses me against his chest. I’m shaking with expectation.

He rams his dick brutally into me from behind, and I shout out. As wet as I am now, it is completely impossible to harm me no matter how hard the thrust.

He continues to run into me hard, but slowly, and I feel that I might dissolve at any moment. Dan loosens his grip on one of my tits, and starts massaging my clit. Hard. Almost a little too hard. But I can feel that it doesn’t really matter at this point.

“You like this, don’t you?” he asks.

My answer is a little whimper.

He increases the pace of his thrusts. Stronger, faster. Faster, faster. I know that I’m about to come, and my body starts to shiver. He stops.

“Are you coming? Did I tell you you could come now? No, I haven’t said a word about that.”

Tears are not far away now. Why is he so mean to me? I wonder. It must be how it is to be in hell.

He pulls out and takes me brusquely and sits on the lid of the toilet. I bet it’s cold, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Want more? I know you want more, come here and sit down on me.”

I almost can’t walk; simultaneously, I feel numb. I manage to sit down on his dick, facing him.

“Turn around!”

I get up and turn around, before I again sit down on him.

“Now we will see if you have skills enough to ride my dick. If you are really good I may let you come.”

Oh my god, is this guy for real?! I wonder.

Nothing I could have said would have mattered, and I find that it turns me on even more. I move forward with my hips, then backwards, trying to create a good rhythm. He gets a hard grip around my tits. I keep riding him for a couple of minutes, in a fairly quiet pace.

Dan doesn’t utter a sound, and it makes me panic. What if he doesn’t think I’m good enough? Then I won’t come!

“You should do a little better than that if you want me to let you come. You have to deserve the orgasm.”

I increase the pace considerably and used the muscles in my lower belly for all they are worth.

“There you go! That’s much better.”

I’m starting to get tired now. Exhausted from being so excruciatingly horny. My pace and intensity are gradually decreasing, and with panic I think he’s mad at me again. But No. He is happy with me.

“Turn around now,” he whispers.

I almost can’t do what he asks of me, but I make it happen somehow. He helps me in place, one arm around me, below my own arms. He keeps me firmly in place over his dick. We start again and he begins rubbing my clit. He increases the tempo and intensity, and I know that before long I’ll be coming. My body starts shaking, and he fucks me even more intensely.

“Are you coming? You want me to let you come this time?” he asks.

“Yes,” I moan, my voice hoarse.

“Do you think you’ve earned it? I think so, and now I will fuck you hard and watch you.”

I can’t talk. My brain is not present anymore. I explode in an orgasm that at least measures at seven on the Richter scale. My orgasm shakes his dick so violently that he roars loudly when he comes inside me. I can feel his cum, a volcano outburst of sperm. My tears are running freely now, and I sob noticeably. I sink down, putting my head on his shoulder and my arms around him. He kisses me softly on the shoulder, and loosens his grip.

“Let me look at you.”

I almost dare not look him in the eyes.

“Look at me,” he repeats.

I lift my eyes to his. The smile he gives me is comforting and boyish. He bursts out with a hearty laugh.

Who is this man really? What is he laughing about?

“You are beautiful!” he says, laughing.

He lifts me off of himself, and gets dressed quickly.

“I have to go now. Same time next week?” he asks, with a smile and a wink.

He does not wait for my answer, just closes the door when he leaves. There I am, naked and used.

But absolutely completely satisfied!

Fuck-Me Pumps

“What?” she looked at me. And then turned away. She seemed nervous by my stare. A flash of light came in through the windows. Her earthy scent permeated my nostrils. Her hair turned and twisted down her back. I could only imagine what she was going to do once I moved my hands up her black skirt. So tight, in fact, it was like a second skin.

“Do you want me?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Do I want you? Want is not the word. Want is futile. Want is weak. I want to do things to you, yes. But want you? No. I crave you. So much, that I go through withdrawals. Physical withdrawals when you leave my presence. As we left the confines of that restaurant tonight, you said you had to go to the bathroom. When you went there, I almost went in after you.”

She smirked. “Oh yeah? You are that desperate for me?”

“It’s not desperation. It goes beyond that. I need you like I need to eat, breathe, have shelter. I need you. More than need you. I am an addict. You are my drug. I will give a lot to get a little of your time.”

“Hmmm… you talk a lot my friend,” she said, inhaling another drag and blowing it in my face.

“You are a fool you know,” she said, as her five and a half inch red heel started to move up my leg. Her smoky eyes with their green centers. She stared at me now as the tip of her heel rested on my throbbing cock.

“Do you like my shoes?” she asked. Her lips red like fire.

“Yes. I do,” I was breathing harder.

“If you could fuck me, would you keep these on?” she took a sip of her champagne as she gently stabbed my cock with her stiletto.

“Yes. I would.”

I grabbed her red fuck-me pump and raised it up in the air. Her leg trailed behind. It was smooth and glowing under the light of the street lamp outside. My hand gently ran down her calf and up to her inner thigh. She gasped and bit her lower lip.

As my hand hastily drifted toward her panties, I moved her thigh outward so she was open.

“Touch it,” she whispered.

Wait. “No. Wrap your thighs around my neck,” I demanded.

She obeyed.

Her milky thighs opened even wider, her legs extended to either side of the chair where she sat. She leaned back and moved her legs into the air. Her stilettos pointed to the opposite walls. Like daggers, they stabbed the heavy, hot air. Slowly, she moved them toward my shoulders. Her legs wrapped themselves around my neck. I heard her heels snap against each other. She pulled my head closer.

“My panties,” she said. “You didn’t take them off.”

My fingers found the tiny strings. They were a poor excuse for underwear. With a snap, they ripped.

“Yes I did.”

She giggled.

My tongue entered her juicy lips. She was dripping. A little stream ran down her left butt cheek. It tasted like skin and smelled like musk. I breathed it in and savored her flavor. My mouth kissed her smooth glossy lips, her clit red and pulsating. Over and over. Lick, lick. Over and over again.

“Fuck me, OMG, fuck me!” she begged.

Her legs flew off of my shoulders and her pumps hit the tile. Click! I couldn’t help but notice her defined legs walking across the floor in those shoes. Every step making her muscles tighten and relax, tighten and relax, just like a woman’s cunt. Tighten and relax. Her ass moved gently toward the bedroom. Tighten, release, tight, release.

She threw her tank top and pink bra to the floor. Her breasts were plump. She flung herself on the bed. Long hair falling onto white sheets, her body open to my cock, her red stilettos still attached to a magnificent body eager to be fucked.

“I want to feel you inside of me.”

“Do you?” I asked as I unzipped my slacks. My cock bounced outward. It pointed at her luscious figure.

“Yes please.”

And so, I let her.

Dating A Minor Mogul

Not long after moving from New York to Los Angeles, I met a Minor Mogul (MM) in an upscale grocery store, first hearing his voice before actually turning to look at him. He was speaking loudly for what seemed to be my benefit, complaining about the half-and-half. Where was it? Did they even make it anymore? Where the fuck was the half-and-half? This is what powerful men in their 40s are like in Los Angeles, in the new century, traipsing through grocery stores in Hermes sandals, with messy hair and beautiful skin, speaking loudly, pretending to make fun of themselves. He could make half-and-half appear if he wanted to. He just wanted to groan about it. He just wanted to hear himself, alive, in a grocery store, momentarily powerless, knowing that would be the essential ingredient to attracting someone like me.

I moved on to the cheese counter. I didn’t like that kind of powerful man. That had never been what I was after. But I did like brains, and passion, and men with style. I ran into him again near the nutrition bars, and he looped me into conversation about his favorite brand. We talked greens and phytochemicals, then started touring the store together, discussing the merits of meatless sausages, the glory of butter, how we would never stop drinking, not even for our skin. He watched me drop things into my basket. He was like a high school boy whose success is already secure, and I felt that old feeling, as he walked me to the checkout, that he was walking me to my locker. I liked the way his eyes gleamed behind his expensive Teutonic gold-frame glasses, the way his hair stuck up on one side. He didn’t tell me, until just before I was leaving, that he had recently been partners with one of the most powerful men in Hollywood but now had set out on his own. This was not surprising, and I couldn’t deny that it turned me on.

I didn’t call him until several weeks had passed. He called me back on a Saturday afternoon, the kind where I’m trying to work and am utterly relieved to have a reason to stop. We rendezvoused at the Grove, an outdoor shopping area situated conveniently halfway between Beverly Hills, where he lived, and my place in Los Feliz. He was waiting for me, perched on the stone rim of an obnoxious replica of Las Vegas’s Bellagio fountain, knees tented and feet side by side, like this was college now and, having broken up for a while after high school, we were now getting back together. His hair was even more unkempt. He must really like me, I thought.

We had only walked and talked for a handful of minutes when his fingertips started to brush my forearm, then, in the Apple store, they began to nip puppyishly at my hip. We ran into a woman he knew who talked a lot and had just gotten back from Sundance where she and he mutually knew people. At the end of their conversation, he repeated to her something I’d said jokingly about the fountain, which made her laugh, and I felt a thin blanket of approval settle around my shoulders.

MM and I then found our way to a small restaurant and weaseled a table, even though we were only ordering coffee, and talked about our ex-spouses, how friendly we were with them, and how great it was to “get to the other side of it,” meaning you no longer wanted to have sex with them and you no longer cared whether they were having sex with anyone else. He asked me at the end of coffee if I wanted to have dinner, and then there was some blackberrying to be done to find a table at a decent spot at such late notice, but this was his kind of challenge and he reserved one with no great effort at The Little Door.

During dinner he went to the restroom and kissed me on his way back to his seat. “Am I allowed to do that?” He paused, his eyes shining again behind those glinting frames. “I guess I am.” When he sat down, he took my hand and held it between the two of his in a warm, pressed sandwich.

The next morning he called and invited me to “swing by” his apartment—a large and bland and faux Spanish style monstrosity, just around the corner from Rodeo Drive— for coffee. I made an excuse about having to drive west anyway, and I refused to even look in the mirror before I left. I wore low-slung jeans on and a tight nipple-popping top, and he came to the door in Adidas sweatpants and no shirt. We almost looked like teens with nothing better to do than curl up in a deep expensive couch and keep each other aroused all day. As soon as we kissed, he got hard. I clutched his dick like a bouquet while I licked and sucked his ribbon lips, but it wasn’t long before I was ready to leave. The luxe apartment, or maybe it was the entire neighborhood, was killing the vibe.

It took, in fact, a few more dinners—a tower of smoking ice artfully encrusted with lobster and crab legs, then an Italian feast drowning in olive oil that made his small mouth glisten—before I found myself below him in his California King, watching his compact, smooth body banking against mine. And it took him stopping and asking with likable directness, “This isn’t doing anything for you, is it?” before I let myself admit that sex with a minor mogul was not as exciting as I’d hoped.

The following morning, trying not to judge it too early, I curled up patiently in his spa-sized bathtub, the faucet a slit that poured water in a long rectangle, waiting for a reasonable amount of time to pass before I could ask him to take me home. I focused on the positive, on making the glass half-full. I liked watching him reach his tanned hand into his boyish jeans for his blackberry, his small keen eyes darting around the room as he listened to someone on the other end who was at last saying something interesting. I liked the way he rested his hands on my hips as if we were posing for prom pictures while we waited for our table. I liked meeting him in bars full of men and find him all to himself, seated on a sofa wearing the softest sweater you ever felt with a stark white origami collar poking toward each shoulder, two martinis untouched on the low table, and the way he looked up at me from his leather-bound notebook, stood, and kissed me until he felt sparks, after which he would do that rare thing—look me straight in the eyes—and say, “did you feel that?”

I wish I could say something more substantial, like we had great conversations, but we never really conversed. He constantly jumped from one subject to another, stories from his life, details about various competitions with his friends (this week it was vintage golf wear), all the while taking calls from his celebrity clients, patiently discussing something mundane in their lives, which they could disguise as something significant because they were discussing it with him, yet (yet!) still “conversing” with me, indicating with a touch to his free ear that he was listening, that it was no problem, he was very good at this. He would joke with me that I was the adult, and I laughed but didn’t argue. His mania made me feel as deep and wise as the sea.

So, even though I knew this kind of man would never truly be interested in me, beyond his claim: “I’ve always wanted to date a woman like you,” I found myself unable to break it off so soon. It had only been two and half weeks, and he had yet to take in a single nonphysical detail about me, still, when he called to invite me to a dinner he was throwing for a his newest client, a body-conscious 22-year-old with mounds of red hair, I said yes. The guest list sounded interesting. One of those two tall Russian boxer brothers; the boxer’s wife; the MM’s brother; Kate, a fellow agent; his best friend, who was not aggressive enough in the business and liked art (“he’s perfect for you, unlike me,” the MM said); and a brooding German promoter and his party-hearty son.

I had nothing to wear, as freelance life and writing don’t exactly leave enough cash for shopping, especially when I am never willing to sacrifice things like fresh fruit, good wine, and color-enhanced hair. So I wore a black Donna Karan skirt with a simple, tight-fitting top, good quality, and heels that showed off my legs but which weren’t really in style. It was an outfit that would pass in New York City; people there could interpret from this outfit some of the choices I’d made in life, but here in LA, fashion equals “the newest things,” meaning that style buys you stature, not understanding or camaraderie.

The MM looked happy to see me, and to his credit he commented on my legs not what I was wearing. It was a certain kind of honesty. He couldn’t say he liked my outfit—he didn’t. He didn’t hate it. In fact, he probably liked that it was not what women who date minor moguls in this city would ever wear.

At dinner, we sat next to each other near the middle of one side of a long table, like we were the bride and groom. He stroked my thighs and kissed me throughout dinner, which I liked. I’m proper in certain ways but never modest. I talked with his best friend about the art scene and with the new starlet about her Dolce & Gabbana jacket. I thought perhaps I was going to make an effort to strike up a conversation with Kate, the other agent, who was about 50 and had also moved to LA from New York, but I’d no sooner had the thought and she began telling a story about a homeless man asking her for money in the parking ramp and how she’d screamed at him that she’d just totaled her BMW—asshole! So I picked at my seabass instead.

When the MM asked me to step out onto the adjoining balcony, I eagerly took his hand. We stood for a few minutes talking, looking out at the cars streaming up and down Sunset Boulevard, and because there was nothing else to salvage the evening, I made out with him there in full view of the table. This was it, I couldn’t do it again, unless by some miracle the sex would improve. And as I pressed my lips against his, waiting for “sparks,” that little fact gave me hope, was the very reason, perhaps, I soon found myself half-naked in his giant SUV, skin to skin with its cream leather interior. I just needed to see if sex between us might be any better a second time, without having to make a repeat trip to Beverly Hills.

He was handsome, rich, well-dressed, and sometimes even funny. He was a minor mogul but I drove home alone that night, panties in my purse, wandering in that middle ground of the psyche that is flat, bare, and lifeless, except for a pit in your stomach and half a smile on your face. I hadn’t been to that exact place since I was a sophomore lying in bed at home after being finger-fucked by a supposedly dazzling senior guy: simultaneously wishing the fantasy was still alive and deeply gratified by my own power to kill it.

This piece originally appeared in the Montreal literary smut zine Black Heart Magazine.

A Hooker Named Miriam

In 2005, Weyco, a medical benefits company, began its aggressive campaign against smokers by giving employees fifteen months to kick the habit. Employees who failed to quit were fired. When challenged on the topic, management cited health care costs as the driving force behind their decision: smokers, after all, are a walking liability. Companies around the country have followed suit.

Smoking is not merely a factor in employment. Slowly but surely, legislation has criminalized the habit. Some years ago, the editor of Vanity Fair got fined $2,000 just for having an ashtray on his desk. Almost all states have banned smoking in restaurants and bars completely. The “smoking section” is outside—and not in the front, either. You have to go out back, by the dumpsters.

Nevada is the only state you can really smoke anywhere anymore. So we come here every once in a while to let go, unwind, sit back and indulge a host of bad habits, among them smoking.

I light a cigarette and look around, leaning against the bar. A few tables are arranged before me over the ugly carpeting; it’s a nice casino, with a lot of room. There are no windows in casinos, no windows and no clocks. Time ceases to exist here and one is consumed by his most primal urges: conquest and possession.

It’s in the eyes of the men and women playing Texas hold ‘em a few feet away. It’s in the eyes of the men and women circling around the top players waiting for some scraps of some sort. Hunger, need, desire, greed. Sin, sin, sin.

No one knows how Texas hold ‘em came about. Legend has it that it originated in the 1900s in Robstown and that it came to Vegas via a group of gambling Texans, one of them the legendary Doyle Texas Dolly Brunson. In the late sixties, the game was only played at the Golden Nugget. But because the poker room was such a sty, it never took root. Eventually the pros moved over to the Dunes on the Strip, where they milked the wealthy and inexperienced tourists. By the 70s, the no-limit variation of the game had become the main event of the newly-formed World Series of Poker Tournament.

“What can I do for you?” I hear the bartender ask me and I turn around to the stereotype good-looking guy you always read about in novels with a female protagonist, the one you can never find in real life. True to genre, there he is: all electric blue eyes, blonde hair brushed casually over his forehead, and die-for smile on his lips.

“What can you do for me?” I ask scanning the name on his breast, “What can you do for me, Brad? To start: is that really your name?”

“Yes,” he answers, smile widening. He switches my ashtray with an impeccable one without taking his eyes off mine. The motion makes me think of the one-handed bra removal. I suddenly see him, in a dorm room at LVU, charming eager freshman girls with his handful of tried and tested, no-fail tricks.

“Do you play poker, Brad?”

“Sometimes,” he replies, giving the bar a swift wipe. “You?”

“I don’t take to things without a clear history.”

“Martinis have a clear history.”

“Really. And just what is their history?”

“The martini comes from the Martinez, a gin and vermouth drink invented by Jerry Thomas in 1862 in California. According to legend, he had a regular who commuted every morning from San Francisco to Martinez, so he made him this drink to warm him up and named it ‘Martinez’, for the destination. Eventually, when the strength of the alcohol diminished due to government control, less stuff was needed to make it easy to go down, so they got rid of the maraschino cherry syrup and other sweetening ingredients. Eventually, vodka replaced gin. And there you have it, the martini.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Can I offer a martini?”

“Actually, I’ll have a café Americano. Extra sugar. White sugar, none of that sweetener stuff.”

“Coffee and cigarettes, then you must be a writer.”

I laugh and sip my coffee.

“Writers used to live at cafes,” Brad says, “but they banned smoking, so they moved into bars. Then they banned smoking there too, so they moved into casinos. It’s the last safe haven. I’m surprised there aren’t tons of people sitting around with laptops and little notebooks.”

“The last safe haven!” a man next to me interjects. “I used to write.”

“Oh?” I look at Brad, but he’s busied himself with the order.

“Then I realized I couldn’t do it.”

“You couldn’t write a novel?” I ask.

“No, I did write a novel. But I burned it. I can write, see. But I realized then, I shouldn’t.”

Brad puts the coffee in front of me.

“What was it about?” he asks the man.

“I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“Everything is part of The Story, it’s not real, but we tell it and it becomes real, real as this bar.”

I sip my coffee.

“We trap ourselves with our fictions and dreams. They feed the illusion and they keep us asleep. We are imprisoned,” he says, looking directly at me, “we are not aware of what truly is. Our senses are flawed and fiction and stories only add to our inability to perceive.”

“But literature,” says Brad, “doesn’t great literature open your eyes to new experience?”

“Is that experience enlightening? Or is it merely the account of another somnambulist stumbling along his idea of reality?” the man responds. “No, there is no merit in literature, my dear. The Toltecs—the Toltecs believed that you have to live the life your father lived: as a warrior. You have to fight the alien parasites that are The Story. The Story is not really yours, not really you no matter what you tell yourself. The Story was given to you by your parents and mentors and people in your life; it feeds on you and you have to fight it. You have to fight the parasites.”

“How?”

He slams his drink and looks at me, “I don’t know.”

He gets up, slams a twenty on the bar and walks away.

The Story is a parasite. It is inside me right now, pressed against my diaphragm, its yet-unwritten aspects tangling their tendril-like loose-ends with my viscera. A few tables away, my husband and some others are playing Texas hold ‘em. Over here, I am being eaten by the parasites.

“We get odd characters like this occasionally,” says Brad. “They keep things interesting.”

Brad doesn’t understand. Brad’s a Barbie boy in a Barbie world.

“Hey, Brad.” Speaking of Barbie, here’s the life-size version. The place is almost worse than California. Almost because even though the tits are fake, the faces aren’t. They all have something, some imperfection that has been left alone and this imperfection alone, juxtaposed with the impossibility of their dimensions, makes them beautiful.

“Lee, how’s it?” Brad replies, turning around and getting a glass, “usual?”

“Naw, it’s been a shit night, I need somethin’ to slap me awake. Gimme some tequila.”

“Lost some money?” I ask her.

She smiles, “oh, I made money. But it was pullin’ teeth gettin’ it.”

“You be careful, Lee,” Brad warns, and I realize he’s not talking about her night; he’s talking about the conversation.

Lee’s a hooker. I look her over; she’s dressed in a short jean skirt, a tit-popping shirt and cowboy boots. It’s the Jessica Simpson look, safe but still skanky enough to do the trick. Or turn a trick, rather.

See, prostitution is legal in Nevada, but not all Nevada. According to Nevada Revised Statute 244-345, the license board in a county with a population of 400,000 or higher may not license any houses of ill fame or any person for the purpose of engaging in prostitution. Clark County, where Las Vegas is located, is the only county in Nevada at present with a population exceeding the limit imposed by this regulation.

Lee downs the tequila.

“OK,” she says, “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you later maybe.”

She turns to me, “it was nice meetin’ you.”

“She’s really nice,” I say to Brad after she’s gone.

“Yeah,” he replies, a little quiet, “she is.”

“Hey, Brad, can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.” The smile is back again.

“I want to be with a girl tonight. Can you help me?”

“I know a lot of great pick-up lines,” he jokes.

“No,” I say, without smiling, “you know what I mean.”

“Look, I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. I serve drinks at a casino. That’s all.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Eight years.”

“Then you must know someone who can help me.”

An older man in a hat and aviators comes to the bar and takes a seat a few stools from me. Brad straightens up and walks over to him, “how’s the night going, Don?” he asks the stranger.

“Still young, still young,” Don replies, putting out his cigarette. “Cuba libre.”

“Coming up.”

“How you doin’?” Don asks me, looking over.

“Frustrated.” I reply.

“That’s no way to be. Brad, give the lady another of what she’s having.” Don reaches over, “I’m Don, I play to win, but sometimes I don’t. I don’t get frustrated. I just wait for the next hand.”

“Well, Don,” I say, “I’m Joan. And you’re my next hand.”

“Is that right?” he asks smiling.

“Joan here’s a writer,” interjects Brad.

Where did Brad get that idea? A woman drinks coffee and smokes and suddenly she’s a writer? If I’d known it was that easy, I wouldn’t have gone to college.

I ignore Brad, “Don, I’m going to be with a woman tonight.”

“I fuckin’ love you!” he says laughing.

“In order to do that, I need a woman.”

“What kind of woman you want?”

“A beautiful woman. An interesting woman,” I say, “a real woman.”

Don lights another cigarette, “fake women are no fun.” He chuckles.

“Come on, Don, help me out here.”

Don looks at Brad, “call up Miriam, kid. Joanie needs to meet Miriam.”

Brad looks hesitant.

“Call Miriam, goddamnit before I fire you.”

“Are you his boss?” I ask Don.

“It’s an expression, Joanie,” he puffs on the cigarette. “Oh… I think you’ll love Miriam. Shit, I love Miriam. Brad! Get Miriam to come over here! I want Joanie to meet her!”

“Brad, are you being a cock-block?” a sing-song voice asks behind us. “Who’s Johnny?”

“I’m Joan.” I say and spin on the stool until we’re face to face.

Miriam has long, straight auburn hair and bangs. It makes me think a bit of Winnie Cooper off The Wonder Years, only with reddish hair and hazel eyes, a too-short skirt, knee-high stiletto boots and a cropped white top. She has no tits and isn’t wearing a bra, so I can see her nipples through the t-shirt.

She’s looking at me the way women look at each other, with a quarter of admiration and three-fourths envy. She doesn’t know I’m not on her turf. She doesn’t know I am her turf.

“Joanie here is looking for someone like you, Miriam,” Don tells her, puffing on his cigarette. “She’s been asking all night for a girl like you.”

“And what would she do with a girl like me?” Miriam asks him.

“I’d fuck you,” I respond.

“Miriam, do you want a drink?” Brad asks.

“No,” Miriam takes the stool next to me and comes really close and lifts my face with a finger, “is that what you want, Joan?”

I sip my coffee.

“How would you fuck me?”

I’d fuck her hard. I’d hurt her. I’d pinch her nipples until I heard her scream. I’d slap her pretty face until that smug, whore look fell off it.

“Surprise, is it?” she asks, taking away her hand, “or is it you don’t really know? Is this new to you, Joan? Have you ever been with a woman?”

“Joanie’s a writer,” says Don, “a damn good one, aren’t you Joanie?”

“What do you write, Joan?” Miriam asks me.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t write. You only fuck.” Miriam takes one of my cigarettes from the pack on the table. “OK, then. When do you want to fuck me?”

“I don’t,” I say, pulling a ten out of my wallet and setting it in front of Brad, who’s staring at us without moving. I get up and leave.

The room is dark when I walk in and I leave the light off. I undress and get in bed and begin to wonder why Don wanted me to meet Miriam. Of all women, why her? She was nothing like I’d imagined a hooker should be. She was a hooker; there was no doubt about that. But I’d been thinking about someone more like Lee. It wasn’t that Miriam wasn’t sexy; she was sexy, in her way.

She just wasn’t what I was looking for.

So why Miriam?

Because she was real. Miriam wasn’t like Lee; she doesn’t make your fantasy happen. Miriam has it on her terms, whatever it is. What are her terms? How would she do it?

I think about her sitting on that stool in the casino bar, in those cheap-looking boots, that little translucent top. I think about her nipples that I could just barely see through it.

“How would you fuck me, Joan?” she asks me, running her tongue over her lips. They’re coated in strawberry champagne lipgloss, or some other disgusting combination and her breath is smoky, like the bar.

“How would you fuck me?”

I part my legs and my hand trails down over my stomach. How would I fuck you… I wouldn’t fuck you, Miriam. I wouldn’t.

I pull her hair and bring her to her knees, off that barstool, on the tacky carpet that decorates the bar. I push her skirt up until it’s around her waist. She’s wearing nothing underneath.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Miriam?”

She stays on hands and knees on the ground, her head bent and I pull he pony tail again until her head is lifted, until her back is arched.

“You want me, don’t you, Miriam?” I slap her skinny ass. “Don’t you?”

I stroke my pussy thinking about Miriam on her knees, waiting. I run my other hand over my tits. I think about her lips, strawberry champagne, parting as she waits.

I’d make you wait, Miriam. I’d make you wait until you couldn’t wait anymore.

I flip on my belly, my hand still playing lightly on my clit, teasing myself. I get on all fours on the bed, shrug the sheets off.

“Give it to me, Joan,” I imagine her moaning.

I lick my finger and bring it back, this time over my back, so I can thrust it easily into myself.

You like that, don’t you, Miriam? Yes, you like that. You want more. Another finger. And another finger. Beg, Miriam. Beg for me to fuck you.

Fuck me.

I can’t hear you.

“Fuck me!” I scream.

The lights come on; I look over my shoulder and see Thomas standing at the threshold, leaning against the wall, his cock pushing against his pants. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there.

I raise my eyes to his, “so?” I ask, “are you going to fuck me?”

He walks into the room, unbuttoning and unzipping his pants and his shirt. With a move of my head, I throw my hair over my back and look at his reflection on the glass of the painting over the bed.

He runs a hand over my ass and then slaps it hard. I think I feel his cock on my thigh for a moment, but then the heat diminishes and there’s nothing. I try to look over my shoulder, but he takes my hair in his hand and pulls my head back so my eyes are on the wall.

I feel his grasp release my hair and then my eyes are forced shut by the force of something being tied around my head.

I see black and the little streaks of light that filter in around the blindfold. There’s no sound.

I feel his fingers on my clit. Fingers or lips, I can’t tell and I don’t care. It feels good. Then his tongue, slightly circling my cunt. I want him to thrust it inside me, so I can feel it wiggle against the folds of my pussy, a real tease. I reach back and touch his head, as to insinuate; he pushes my hand away.

He stops. I turn to look, moving my head up so maybe I can see through the slit between my nose and cheek but he takes my hair and straightens my head so I’m looking forward again. He takes one of my hands and then the other; I fall against the bed. He pulls my hands over my head and I feel him tie something around them.

He’s over me. I feel his weight on my back, my thighs struggle under me. His breath is on my neck. As I pull yourself up, I feel my pores open with the shallow gusts of breath against my back. The pressure on my legs releases as he pulls himself up and off me.

I feel his hands on my ass; they run up my sides and slide under me until they’re cupping my tits. He flips me over easily and I stretch my legs.

I feel his breath on my thighs, closer and closer to my pussy until his tongue is on my clit again. I moan, one ounce of pleasure and two-thirds of frustration.

“I want your cock.”

His tongue digs deeper, teasing me, slipping over me without rhythm or focus until I can no longer register the pleasure; I’m desensitized to the motions.

“Fuck me!”

I bring my hands down to reach him, but I can’t. He pushes them up and slaps my tits. The sting echoes over my body.

“You want my cock?”

“Yes,” I say to him, “YES!”

And I feel it rush into me hard and deep. He pulls out, so the head of his dick is nestled in the folds of my cunt. I moan, frustrated, and draw my legs around him. I want to force him in, to make him fuck me.

Not yet, Joan.

I’m powerless. One inch. Two inches. Out. One inch. Three inches. Out. I thrust against him.

And then all the way again. He starts fucking me like I want it: hard, without stopping. He puts one of my legs over his shoulder and pounds into me hard and deep. It hurts; it hurts good. He puts my other leg over his shoulder and pounds. I can hear my body slap against his with every stroke.
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap. And then faster, slap-slap-slap-slap-slap. His balls are slapping against my ass.

I feel his hand over my mouth; I didn’t realize I’d been screaming.

He rolls us over the bed, so I’m on top, facing away from him. I put my feet down on the bed and lift myself into a crouch so I can maneuver myself on his cock. I start to bounce on it. His hands grip my hips and he thrusts up to meet me, with his cock deep inside me.

I slow down and stop so I’m hovering over him, he takes my hair with one hand and pulls, to bring me down but I resist. I slip out of the tie he’s used around my wrists and then remove the scarf from my face.

I look over my shoulder at him and then sink so his cock is inside me and then I begin to move up and down, faster and faster. I watch his cock go in and out of my cunt; it glistens with how wet I am. I love watching myself get fucked like this. Seeing his cock inside me makes me go faster, until my thighs can’t handle it anymore and I fall to my knees like I’m riding him. I imagine him as a horse, then, as I bounce on him. I lean forward so he can get a view of my pussy and ass; I feel his cock against my g-spot.

Moans—mine or his. Mine and his. I’m riding him hard. The sight turns him on and I feel his cock throbbing inside me. M vagina contracts around his dick. I contract, he expands; then I feel his cock contract and I know he’s close before he whispers, “I’m close.”

I’m close, too, but he comes first. It’s the feeling of his hot cum shooting into me that sends me reeling and I come hard after, my whole body still except for my cunt that shakes with my orgasm long after it’s gone.

I fall back on the bed, wet with sweat.