S.M.U.T

 

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A bit of housekeeping

To my family, for not insisting that I get a ‘real’ job so that I can have time to write (even though most of the time they didn’t know what it is I was writing).

*

To fan fiction writers, for the excruciating feels that kept me up most of the night; you made reading a joy again.

 

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015

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Push/Pull

12am              

    Her body sighs into a more comfortable position.

    His knees touch hers, move away then return. Conversation has become a task so they just stare at each other. They look like angst lovers on the cover of an edgy music magazine: folded in a vintage bath tub in the middle of a storage unit littered with empty bottles of Heineken.

    He is watching her intensely. Even though the lighting is piss poor, he can see the outline of her profile: her half lidded gaze fixed on the point their knees are touching, her crunched up nose, her lips stuck in a half forgotten smile. It makes her look sinister since her makeup is smeared on one side of her face. He wants to kiss her but he’s not confident she won’t punch him in the throat.

    She feels him staring at her and looks up with a question furrowing her brow. He shakes his head but he’s gotten her attention now and his stomach starts to churn when he recognizes the grin playing on her lips.

    “Truth or Dare?” she asks.

    “Truth,” he says, remembering that the last time he chose the other she dared him to masturbate in front of her.

    “Do you want to fuck me?”

    He groans inwardly. He should have known that she would go for an all-kill. She is better with the sex talk because it means nothing to her. And she knows what she’s doing when she runs her nails up his foot; she doesn’t have to look to see that she has gotten a rise out of him - the dilation of his pupils gives it away. Her own eyes dance with mischief; the same way they did that time she spilled chili sauce on his pants; and even though she had assured him that she was not in the least bit interested in him, she was a little too excited at the prospect of undressing him.

    Still, he admits it catching them both by surprise. Once recovered, she makes a disappointed noise. She had wanted to see him agonize over the answer. Now, she just feels uncomfortable with how close he is. Closeness has never been a problem between them – they’re close friends even though they keep pushing the boundaries of the friendship - but now it has intention. She takes a swig of the beer dangling in her hand.

    “True or Dare?” he asks.

    “Truth,” she returns without hesitation. She always chooses truth but he isn’t sure she doesn’t lie sometimes.

    “Have you ever had your heart broken?”

    It’s her turn to groan inwardly. Honest conversations about feelings are difficult for her, worse than getting naked. That’s why the last two times she’s talked about feelings – and not deflected the conversation – it’s been in bed, naked so she can pretend it's only her body she bares and not her soul.

    “I wouldn’t know anything about that; I’ve never been in love.” The words come out even, nonchalant.

    “Don’t you feel ashamed saying sad things like that?” He pities her.

    She just shrugs.

     “What’s love anyway?” he asks rhetorically in a bid to lighten the mood.

    She answers anyway: “That thing after the honeymoon phase of the relationship. I think love happens there but I don’t really know since I’ve not been there.”

    His words that follow aren’t sincere but it is something he feels he has to say, “I wouldn’t worry about it. It will happen. Even though you’re not pretty, you are easy going. Some people like that.”

    “Yeah, they do,” she agrees brightly.

    “They like modesty as well,” he intones, rolling his eyes.

    “I’m just acknowledging your honesty.”

    Their eyes meet when they smile. It’s a nice moment. An honest moment. So she deflects by crowning herself the patron saint of unrequited love where love is best when the other is far away.

    He decides to take the bait. “That’s because you’re afraid of getting hurt.”

    “There was this guy who liked me,” she says, suddenly serious. “He was always looking at me but I never noticed because I was looking at someone else. Even though I rejected him he was there to comfort me when I was rejected. For a moment, I thought that he could make me happy. But when he confessed again I felt nothing. It became such a burden that I did something terrible. I hate myself for hurting him. I have always been the one getting hurt; and as bad as that pain is, it’s worse hurting others.”

    He is stunned. An honest conversation about feelings and they’re both fully clothed. He wants to ask what terrible thing she did but instead, “How can you just tell me something like that?”

    He sounds breathless and she looks at him with doe eyes.

    “It’s not as though I couldn’t be making it all up,” she says.

    Bitch! He is affronted by his own gullibility and her insincerity. “Whatever,” he sulks but he notices that she hasn’t looked him in the eye. Not in the way people do when they lie but in the way they do to protect themselves.

2am

    He is trying to sleep with her in his bed but it is so frustrating the way her breath hits his chest and with his engorged penis between them, he can’t even relieve himself. He tries pulling away from her but she whines at the loss of his warmth. He has to do something. It’s getting painful holding in his moans. So he moves his butt away from the spoon, enough to palm his dick comfortably. His breaths get heavier and throatier but progress is achingly slow because he doesn't want to wake her up.

    Suddenly, he hears her ask if he wants her to turn around. His eyes flip open to find her staring at him. She doesn't wait for a reply. She turns her back to him, scooting further from him to allow him better access.

    "Go on," she says when she doesn’t hear him do anything. He is still a little embarrassed but he releases his cock from his pants and starts pumping his fists; slowly at first then faster in order to get over this embarrassing situation.

    After five minutes, he gives up with a frustrated groan. She turns back to face him thinking he’s satisfied but when she looks down she sees that he isn't.

    "I can help you," she says reaching for his cock before he can even protest. He hisses at her warm touch. "Would it help if I sucked you off?"

    He heads her off, bolting up to sit on his knees. He hasn't even kissed her how could he allow her to suck him off? She sits up as well; her eyes widening and her mouth slightly open. He doesn't realize that he has said it out loud.

    "Just jack me off." Even saying this sounds incredulous.

    She nods and lathers her hand the precum seeping from his cock's head. She starts with a gentle up/down pumping motion, caressing the tip of his head with her thumb before every downward stroke.

    She shuffles up closer to him, changing to a twisting motion with every upward stroke. She doesn’t have much arm strength so to edge him along she grabs the back of his shirt so that it stretches across his chest and leans in closer so that her little exhalations fall on his neck. It’s working...she can feel him suppress the urge to thrust into her hand. His breathing gets harsher and every now and again he hisses the word 'fuck'    

    In order not to grab her, he fists the sheets behind him. Her hand movements get faster, her encouraging exhales get louder. He’s close, she feels him throbbing in her palm but he’s still resisting.

    "Fuck me," she moans into his ear and it’s enough to push him over the edge.

    "Oh, G-god, I'm coming." he says. 

    "C-come," she whispers. With that his thighs quake and ribbons of white cum spill hot on her hand, on his belly.

    Exhausted but relieved, his head falls forward on her shoulders to catch his breath. When he opens his eyes, her hand is still around his cock.

    "You can let go now," he says with a breathy smile.

    She uncurls her sticky fingers. He leans in to catch her lips with a kiss but lands on her chin at an awkward angle as she turns her head in search of something to wipe her hands.

6am

    "Truth or Dare?" she hears and groans. It’s too early in the day for this but she answers truth anyway.

    "Do you think about...me?"

    Her brow wrinkles. "I do," she answers, turning her head away to continue sleeping.

    He realizes that he’s asked the question wrong but when he tries to clarify she points out that it's not his turn.

    He can practically hear her smile when she asks "truth or dare?"

    "Truth," he says.

    She makes a small sound of disappointment and has to think of something to ask. "Ok. Did you have sex with Tina?"

    It's a tame enough question; they've shared a lot already but somehow he feels that a lot is riding on the answer he gives. He answers cautiously. "Yes."

    If it was anyone else, he would have missed the twitch in her shoulder. But he knows her and the silence that follows is pregnant with tension.

    "Truth or Dare," he asks.

    "Truth."

    "Do you think about me and you fucking?"

    Sitting up to face him, she sighs, and he's sure that she's going to lie. "I do not deny that I have greatly desired it," she starts solemnly but then she smirks, "‘in place of a dark lord you would have a queen not dark but...’" His face falls and he turns away from her obnoxious laughter.

    "Ok, ok, I'm sorry," she says, grabbing his hand. "Yes, I've thought about us fucking."

    "How?" he leans in excitedly.

    "Ah, ah, ah!" she waves her index at him. "My turn. Truth or dare?"

    "Dare," he says, mindlessly. It’s what he's always said.

    "Fuck me!" she says. And it’s like time has frozen over.

    He is shocked. Even though he has wanted to, he could never ask because he'd already put too much of himself out there. And even though she has wanted to, she wouldn't ask because girls shouldn't have to ask to be fucked. But somehow within the confines of the game, it becomes ok for her to ask. This makes him angry. If he refuses it’s not really rejection. If he agrees she’s not really wanton. She’s probably teasing him about earlier so he looks in her eyes for any hint of hesitation but there is none. She’s looking back at him expectantly, almost challenging him. He is tempted.

    “I can’t,” he finally says.

    Her gaze turns from a challenge to a question.

    "I've wanted this for so long but I don't know if I can be gentle."  He sounds regretful even resentful and refuses to look at her. She wants to tell him that she asked to be fucked not made love to but she doesn't say it because she realizes that that's what he wants – to make love.

    “Ask me something else,” he says.

    She hums, weighing the options of what to say after the question. "Ok, truth or dare?" she asks in a low voice.

    "Truth," he says.

    "Do you love me?"

    His head snaps up. "Why do you ask?"

    She insists, "Answer the question.”

    "Why do I have to answer the question?' he returns, testily. He doesn’t like her tone. He doesn’t like her question.

    "Because that's how the game is played.” Her tone takes up the challenge of his.

    "Well it's not a fucking game to me anymore," he confesses hotly, surprised more by his tone than his admission. It was all fun and games in the beginning when she dared him to wear her underwear for a week. But somewhere between jacking off in front of her and her jacking him off a few hours ago, it has changed. It has become real and playing the game is only an easy way out of admitting that they want more.

    "Are you going to answer the question or not?" she continues, somewhat unaffected.

    "Not," he says defiantly.

    "Then you need to take two shots...of Everclear."

    The defiance intensifies on his face. “Why two?”

    “You failed twice.”

    "Fine," he hisses. He storms to the kitchen and retrieves the bottle of alcohol and a shot glass. He takes the shots in her presence, feeling as though he’s going to combust. His stomach revolts against the burning assault and he struggles to swallow back the throw up in his throat.

    He turns to her with vengeance in his eyes. "Truth or dare," he spits venomously.

    "It’s my turn," she informs him coolly.

    “HOW?”

    “You took my turn this morning,” she reminds him.

    He has to think back to see the truth of it. He bites back a curse and acquiesces to letting her take the turn but he has just yelled at her and she doesn’t want to play anymore.

 

    They don't meet again after that; not for a long time, and it gets easier to leave it that way when they both see each other happy with other people.

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Safe Word

    She signed the contract after long contemplation. Again, she reminded him of the purpose of their arrangement - research. He smiled knowingly; across the table from her, seated sideways, his long legs crossed at the knee, and his head tilted in her direction. The implication of which, she insisted, would be that she would not be as pliant as he was accustomed. She had no interest in exploring her “hidden desire to be dominated” – as he speculated women who participated in this kind of activity did.  The smile on his messianic face only widened, slowly.

    “Just be sure to use the safe word when it becomes too much,” he drawled.

    The contract, for her benefit, was an articulation of her limits. For his benefit, it was protection from liability. Satisfied with the agreement, he folded the document in thirds and slid it in the breast pocket of his designer jacket. Unfolding his legs and drawing his six foot frame to full height, he led her to the ‘play room’. He halted her hasty entrance with a long arm across the door frame. Once she stepped into the room, he said solemnly, her ‘research’ would commence. She looked up at him but not in his eyes – she could not bring herself to trust anyone whose eyes did not hold her reflection. She nodded; her throat was dry with anticipation. He withdrew his arm.

    The room was not as she imagined; quiet ordinary, not the medieval torture chamber she had supposed. In the middle of room was queen sized bed, draped in maroon sheets. An oak wardrobe flanked a dresser of the same collection. The overall effect of the scene lulled her to thinking that they would just be fucking. Just? She mused at her apparent nonchalance of sleeping with a stranger. As though to dissuade the thought, the smirk dancing on his thin lips promised that it would not just be fucking. It was unnerving. Even though she was sure he could not read minds, she found him lurking in the recesses of her thoughts.  She would have to be more guarded in his presence. His stare was too penetrating.

    He followed closely behind her, his breath shadowing hers. He brought her attention to a hook in the ceiling above the wooden bench at the foot of the bed. She had noticed it in her first sweep of the room – for potted plants or mosquito nets.  When she looked directly up at it, he stepped deliberately into her personal space. Her retreat was hindered by the bench digging into the flesh of her calves. He began explaining what was going to happen on that little piece of machinery: she would be strung up by her wrists and stripped naked. He would observe every inch of her body: her lopsided breasts, her flabby belly, her stretch marks, her thighs dimpled with cellulite. He expected her breath to hitch and it did. He expected her eyes to expand and they did. For the first time her mask of nonchalance slipped. He cocked his head to the side and drank deeply the range of emotions dressing her face. She settled on outrage. A smile crept onto his face. It was a miserly thing that sent shivers down her spine.     “Bet you wished you used your gym membership,” he quipped.

    And so began her training.

    She obediently stripped down to her underwear, though hesitantly. He sniggered when she stepped forward to receive her binds. She was still under the impression that she could rise above it all, wearing resistance like a badge, but he predicted a swift descent to despair where pretentious sneers give way to whimpering. He pulled her up on the bench to secure the rope to the hook. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath short and shallow; confidence leaving with every exhale.

    The rope had enough slack to allow a comfortable standing position and to keep her arms relaxed. As he came down from the bench, his eyes inspected every curve, every rise, every crevice of his canvas: Her threaded brows arched majestically on a high fore head; her eyes were almond shaped, her pupils muddy, and her lashes inconsequential. Her nose was un-heroic with a smattering of light freckles gathered on the bridge. Her lips burgeoned with the promise of fullness. Her breasts were not, after all, lopsided and her belly was distended not flabby. Her coloring illustrated an art lesson in light and shadows; her skin populated with fine, dusty hair performed the wave when his breath brushed over them. He counted seven beauty spots: on the right temple, the left corner of her upper lip, the left collar bone, peeking from under her right breast, the right side of her pelvis, her left buttock, and behind her right knee. He counted two tattoos: a dove on her left shoulder and a short, archaic script on her forearm just below the elbow.     

    Along with his eyes, his nose made thorough work of the investigation.  And when his eyes fell on the intricate design of her panty, he smiled carnivorously. “You’re wet,” he said. He took a long drag of her most intimate scent and turned his face away, hiding the expression upon it. She felt humiliated.  She would have preferred he used his hands than his scrutinizing eyes. She would soon get her wish.

    He took off his clothes, amused by her attempt to avoid the sight of his nakedness. Then to her utter dismay, he grabbed his penis and started caressing along the shaft. It was fat and large; her pelvic muscles involuntarily contracting in anticipation of its entry. She twisted this way and that, taunted by his laughter. It finally occurred to her to shut her eyes, and she did but she could not shut her ears to the simulated moans. Quickly, she tried to fill her mind with something, anything to drown out the sloppy wet noises. Inexplicably, she wondered what would happen if she farted. The ridiculous thought burst out of her mouth in a short laugh. She couldn’t stop it.  She threw her eyes open, dilated and contrite. She opened her mouth to explain but the fire darting from his eyes quelled the sound. It wasn’t so much that she was afraid of him as much as she was shocked by what she had done. And while she was busy reprimanding her tactless self, he calmly walked to the wardrobe and retrieved a three pronged leather whip.

    Only people who have been beaten a good while could resist; their indifference to the sting of the whip reading like defiance. She had only been slapped once by her mother. And while she remembered the indignation the act had caused, she remembered none of the pain. And even if she did, it could not possibly compare to the rending agony being lavished on her back. Her apologies cut across the room like a badly handled sword. There was no count of the number of lashes she received but he stopped when a slither of skin opened. The blood trickled from the blade of her shoulder to the small of her back, collecting there till the overspill disappeared in the crack of her buttocks.

    Her apologies simmered down to whimpers. When he returned to the room with a first aid kit, she was still apologizing. He tended to her wounds silently; his face passive, his eyes expressionless. Instruments of pain now instruments of relief; his fingers gently rubbed ointment on her injured skin. Her wrists were bloodied from her vigorous attempts to escape the whip. Without un-restraining her, he cleaned those wounds. Face to face, he avoided her bloated eyes even as he wiped her tear-soaked face. He was so close, his breath hot on her skin. His arm snaked around her waist and with deft fingers released her breasts from her bra. The heaving of her chest accelerated at the realization that she had not reached the end or at least an intermission. Her pleadings went unheeded as he lifted the underwire over her head and lowered her panties to her ankles. He warned her not to impede his exploration lest she receive another whipping. It took a while but she managed to come close to something resembling calm.

    The investigation continued. This time with his hands and to stop her squirming he secured her legs as well for a standing spread eagle. Standing behind her, four inches taller than she, he watched their reflection from the full length mirror on the door. Pressing his hard-on between her butt cheeks and his head to her tousled mane, he raised his hands to the level of her chest. Her breasts were bigger than his eyes had led him to believe. They spilled over from his grasp and her nipples spiked at his palms. Leaving his left hand plucking at her left nipple, he caressed the length of her torso, the dusty hair of her body standing at attention. He walked his fingers down her bunny trail into the bushy landscape of dips and mounds. Like the black on her head, the hair of her bush was soft as if conditioned.

    “See how your body responds to my fondling,” he cooed, referring to the arch in her back, her full-bodied participation in the taxing work of breathing. While his index finger coaxed her clitoris, his middle finger raced towards, and fell into, the dark hole of wonderland. It emerged wet and pungent, sliding back over the hardened clitoris. Back and forth, in and out; this movement caused exquisite shudders to roll over her body in unrelenting waves.

    She twisted her eye lids shut, refusing to accept that she might be enjoying this. It is but an automated biological response to stimulus, she told herself, a kin to pupil dilation to the stimulus of light or buccal salivation to the stimulus of food.

    “Moan,” he commanded.

    She refused. Instead she screamed; a biological response to the acute pain in her nipple.

    “You will moan for me,” he twisted maliciously.

    She rolled her mind’s eye, her mind’s voice emphatically saying she would not. But in the end she did: He knelt before her, his head at the crest of her sexuality. This distressed her and she demanded use of the toilet. The request was denied. She warned him of her desperation but the look he gave her dared her to engage in that humiliation.  He parted her pubic hair as though making way through dense bush. The scent that was expelled was unlike the honey-hemp of her hair or the Shea butter of her nutty skin. Finally at the heart of that fleshy forest, he licked his lips. Her pussy had never been kissed before and in anticipation of that contact, purred open. His lips pressed against those lips, the tip of his tongue brushing lightly against her hooded clitoris.

    “Fu-uck!” A violet shudder leapt from her depths, speeding along her spine and escaped in a guttural moan. He stopped, having gotten the moan he wanted but her body, orbiting in his direction, pleaded for more.

    She was getting frustrated, maybe even angry. Progress, he smirked. He knew what she was thinking; it was in the fugitive glances she shot in his direction when she thought he was not looking – shame, resentment. True to the American Spirit she wore resistance, resistance which in itself was victory. Foolish girl!  She had forgotten about the mirror and horror registered when he met her glare in the glass. She quickly arranged her face to placate him but it was too late. She felt the sting of the reed above her knees. Like siege ladders scaling towards a fortress, he left bright marks across her thighs. He then fingered her gently, bringing her to the brink of orgasm before marking her thighs with whip again.  She was crying, sometimes from pain, sometimes from pleasure. She finally began to understand the game she had decided to play and that from the start she was going to lose. When she was utterly spent, her body hung heavy from her wrists so that the wounds there deepened. He released the rope from the hook, and as she fell into his embrace. He whispered ‘baby’ lovingly in her ear. She received it begrudgingly and fell asleep.

                                                                      

    The sound of Mozart’s Requiem in D minor brought her abruptly out of sleep, something of anxiety weighing heavily on her abdomen. She was stretched out on the bed, her hands and feet bound to the posts, and blindfolded. She thrashed this way and that but could not see him. But she knew he was there and she knew what was going to happen. The aches on her thighs, back, and arms suddenly pressed on her. Her calves burned but it was the sensation gathering between thighs that caused her the most distress. Straggled tears stained her forlorn face at the betrayal of her body.

    “Now that you are broken,” his disembodied voice said. “We can fuck.” She turned her head to the direction of his voice. But he seemed to hesitate. In his cruelty, her body’s condition deteriorated – purple bruises glaring at him. He was worried he was hurting her but she had not once used the safe word. He reminded her that it was an option. She nodded. He asked her to promise to use it. The corner of her mouth twisted, whether it was the beginning of a smile or a sneer he would not know.

    He looked at her body spread open below him, the only piece of clothing sheer and wrapped across her eyes twice. It looked nothing like the one he had started with and again he hesitated. Then, as if to quell his disquiet, she wordlessly opened her mouth. The not-knowing made her nervous, even now. He loved watching her body squirm. His lips prepared her neck with kisses as his right hand fondled her cunt in preparation for his penis already hard in anticipation. Without fail she inhaled sharply at his fondling.  Almost immediately moisture filled his fingertips. With his little finger he grazed the vaginal opening, feeling it twitch. His left hand traveled the length of her torso, lightly triggering her nipples before closing around her neck. Bracing himself with his right arm, he positioned his penis at her entrance. He took a breath, counted to three and thrust hard and deep. The gasp she made was caught in her throat, his grip around her neck firm but not tight. She swallowed it down as he pulled out but again it got caught in her throat when he thrust into her. This was their rhythm. His breathing got harsher as he felt the familiar tingling start to build up, but he managed to tell her to tell him when to stop.

    Her breathing deepened in response.

    His thrusts got harder, his grip tighter, her face a mix of pleasure and pain.

    “Tell me when to stop,” he said, almost pleading.

    She moaned, throwing him deeper in the throes of ecstasy.

    He was coming hard and she wasn’t saying the safe word. What was she trying to prove?     Yet he wasn’t sure he would be able to stop himself if she said the safe word just then.

    He came forcefully inside her, collapsing heavily on her sweating body. He lay there catching his breath, his left hand coming loose from her neck. As his pulse steadied, he noticed that hers didn’t. In fact, he couldn’t feel her pulse at all. It had been there, pounding at the crest of the index and thumb. He called out her name. Silence. Again he called to her, fear coloring his tone,

    He managed to revive her after five minutes of CPR.

    Even though he had not gone beyond the stipulations of the agreement, and all she had to do to end it all was use the safe word, she couldn’t help feeling the way she did when her then best friend exposed her underwear to the entire tenth grade class - betrayed.  Unlike that time, she didn’t cry; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of any more tears. Her body, however, betrayed the trauma, trembling under his watchful gaze as she fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. He made as though to help her but she violently shrugged him away, or at least communicated that his assistance was not required – she had no strength to do anything violently. He smirked at her and returned to his former position on the bed, watching her.

    It wasn’t until she had turned the corner from his town house that she broke down and cried; there, in the middle of a busy side walk. She hated him, the son-of-a-bitch, cunt-sucking mother fucker because bastard didn’t seem to cover the full range of emotion she was experiencing.

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Playing House

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Private Sessions(pwp)

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Spellbound (Three Words)

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(High school) Reunion

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My Pet, the Human

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Your Firsts

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