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Me and Lizza, Part One

Where Lizza goes, I follow.

She’s not like me.  She’s the most beautiful girl I know.  She has hair as blonde as highway grass.  She wears terrible clothes and is still the epitome of cute.  She smiles at people and they give her everything she wants, except she only wants adventure.  She eats whatever she wants and fits into her size two yoga pants.

She’s wonderful.

I’m gangly and I lean forward too much when I walk.  I own two pairs of shoes: sandals for summer, hiking boots for winter.  My eyes are different colors, which I can’t even name.  I never lost my high school acne.  I smile at people and they ask me if I’ve thought about brushing my teeth.

I’m awful.

But Lizza loves me.

So I follow her into the musty crawlspace.  It smells like dead rats, just the smell we had to cover up with incense when I was a kid.  In college, my MCU boyfriend Kato burned a lot of incense.  He said it was for sex trances.  I was still pretty sure it was to cover up the smell of rats.

MCU wasn’t my school, by the way.  MCU is mutual cover-up.  We were both gay and not really ready to traumatize our families.  He met Reis around the same time I met Lizza, so our breakup was hones to god mutual.

She’s squeezing my hand and I’m here and now—she’s saying it, too: “Here and now, babe.”

“Sorry.”  The fog starts clearing, though.  When she first figured it out, Lizza insisted on setting a mental safeword for me.

“When I say ‘here and now,’” she’d said, her limeade eyes glowing across the dorm room at me, “you have to stop worrying.  It’s my promise that it’ll be okay.  Okay?”

That was when I’d known I needed her.  “Here and now,” I tell her, “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?  We don’t have to do this.”

“I just—a crawlspace?  Couldn’t we take a swim in a nasty community pool or something instead?”

“Bluejane,” she says.  I hate her for using my favorite nickname. “I think it’s where the ring went.”

We both heave a sigh.  Her mom came to visit us last week, mostly to scold.  Her ring disappeared just before she left.  She walked out of the door calling me a thief at the top of her voice.

“So you want me to go in there for your mom.”

“No,” Lizza says, somehow turning around in the tunnel, because she’s got my face in her hands.  I melt.  I always melt.  “For me.”

Every time she kisses me, I want to write her name a thousand times in a notebook, surrounded by hearts and wedding bells.  She’s that intoxicating.  We’ve been kissing for eleven years.

Shy as fox, I pinch my lips together and intertwine my fingers with hers.  “Lizza, we’re almost those thirty-somethings.  We’re supposed to hire nice muscley men to do this stuff.”

She ponders that, tilting her head and catching her lip under her just-too-big front teeth.  I stare at her lips.  She giggles.  “You really wanna spend a little bit of savings just so you don’t have to go under the house?”

“Absolutely,” I say.  “Mostly because I want to go inside and cuddle the fuck out of you until you want to eat me out.”

“Oh.”  It’s too dark to see it, but I hear her blush.  Her silhouette gets slinky and her voice is naughty-girl, and if I had a tail, well, it’s wagging.  “Do it.  Wait.  This is why you were downloading Game of Thrones this morning.”

I start crawling backwards.  I can see my hair frizzing out of my ponytail.  “Maybe.”

“You know I love you for many reasons.  This is merely the most obvious at this moment.”

“Come kiss me,” I say.  I’m out of the crawlspace.  The fresh air smells amazing and I don’t even throw pebbles at the squirrel chattering on our oak tree.  I run to the door, breathless like recess.  I love that I hear her feet swishing in the grass behind me.  We never mow.  We’re too busy kissing.

Where I go, Lizza follows.

I think about this every day.  Four thousand, three hundred and eighteen times, at least, I think about why Lizza follows me.  Not one of those times did I think of a good answer.  But she does: through the grocery store.  “You have magical veggie-picking powers.  Hippy cred to your momma.”  Into the house.  “I can never get the stupid door unlocked.  Also my brother always told me as a kid that the Skog would get me if I went in first, because he wanted to be first.  I have no idea what the Skog is.”  To church on the three big ones, Easter, Christmas Eve, Christmas.  “Look, it doesn’t hurt to bribe all the deity-things, and if there’s a one reason why I might believe in a loving god, Bluejane, it’s you.”

Me.  The androgynous tangly geek spending half her time watching anime and Invader Zim and the other half learning about marine biology.  Somehow, we were stuck together in a dorm room, and she stuck with me for a year before I found out she was gay.  It didn’t take me long to remember I was, too.

That first night, we slept together.

That wasn’t first.  First, we lay in the dark in our bras and underwear, staring at the red numbers on her alarm clock.  She reached for me and my whole body was on fire where her skin pressed against mine.

“There’s a reason I’m doing this,” she whispered against my forehead.  “There’s a reason I say what I’m about to say.”

I held my breath.  I probably felt like a dog on the Fourth, I was so tense.  I thought of all the worst ways it could go.

“I love you, Jane Lee, because you really, truly don’t give a fuck.”

I never swore back then.  I thought she was angry, so I started to cry.  She sort of laughed, sort of said, “Aww,” and hugged me tight.  Her hands wandered up to the back of my head and sifted through my oily hair.

“No, Bluejane.  Okay, I want to be serious, but that’s what I’ve called you in my head all this time, and I’ve really wanted to call you that out loud, too, but—I didn’t know if you loved me.  Now it doesn’t matter.”  She kissed my forehead.  It wasn’t the first time she’d ever done that, but it was the first time it made me tremble.  “I’m telling you anyway, you beautiful girl.  Well!”  She squeaked with delight and my arms squeezed involuntarily, because my heart seized up when she laughed like that.  “There’s another thing I’ve waited too long to say.  No, listen to me.”

I did.  I could barely believe my ears.

“I’ve always thought I was good at not caring what people think, and then I met you.  First thing I noticed about you was your Zim notebook.  Really,” she insisted when I frowned, “and I thought it was really…I couldn’t believe it.  Cute.  I thought it was adorable, and amazing.  I started following your lead sometimes, speaking my mind and really not caring.  Then I realized you were adorable, and amazing, always there across the room from me.  Especially when you came under the blankets.”

Ohhhh.

I started to shake again.  “Shit,” I said in a tiny voice.  I never swore.  I wasn’t angry.  The tears started up.

Lizza put her face very, very close to my cheek.  We just barely didn’t touch.  Her lips burned my ear.  “I love you, Bluejane.  I love you and everything you do, and you should never be ashamed of yourself.”

She began to kiss her way down my cheek.  Her tongue took my tears away, one by one, like a soft sponge.  She found my lips and I drank her in.  She had a little bit more spit than I expected.  I didn’t know what was hotter, my face or my desire to put her nipples in my mouth.

“Lizza,” I breathed into her flowery hair.

“Mmm,” she said.  She kissed my neck now, my collarbone now.  I braced when she kissed where the car accident had broken the bone, but she was so gentle.  My chest heaved under her.

Without another word, I reached behind her back and flipped her bra clasp open.  The shape and lace fell away and I saw her breasts as if I had never seen them before.  They were mine now.  I hadn’t seen them that way before.

They swung away from her, the perfect size for my hands.  I fumbled like a bad receiver but I got a nipple to my mouth.  I imagined what I would want her to do with mine and I did it.

She rose and fell over me like a snake.  I kept a determined hold on her breast and flicked my tongue in every direction.  She was stronger than I’d thought.  She lowered herself on top of me slower than I could see, and then my bra loosened too.  Her hands didn’t stop their slide down my back.  I tugged her panties off too.

For a while, we didn’t really move.  I wanted to remember how it felt to be a lesbian for the first time for—forever, I guess.  I thought very hard about how I would describe the moment.  I thought about Lizza’s exact smell: lavender lotion, cornbread, the air after a rain in May.  That’s what I thought about hardest.

She began to slide down me like a fireman’s pole.  I still couldn’t believe what was happening, so I let her.  She kissed above my bellybutton.  Kissed my bellybutton.  Kissed my little lumpy tummy.  Kissed above my hairline.  Kissed the hairy places, and then spread my lips with her fingers.  The warm, hard tip of her nose touched my wetness.

She made the sound again: “Mmm.”  Then her velvety tongue began to move across me in tiny strokes.  In my head, in my heart, I promised her everything.

Sometimes, Lizza lifted her head just long enough to say, “I love you, Bluejane.”  She always went right back to me.  Sometimes she slipped a finger inside me where I was wettest.  Mostly she sucked me and licked me and stroked me with her impossibly soft tongue.

I was afraid to come.  Just at the right moment, she said, “Come, or else,” and I had to.  I did a lot of coming under covers, but this was a new level of tender satisfaction.

I heaved and squirted.  I arched my back while I hoped I wasn’t splashing her chin.  I heard Lizza’s perfect lips smack together and her giggle filled my ears as she tumbled forward onto me.  “You are delicious.”

I touched her over and over.  I kept trying to think of ways to assure myself she was real, but only her skin satisfied me.  “Oh,” I said.  Shame was the most natural reaction.  “Do I need to—”

She put a finger to my lips, then kissed me like a butterfly.  I tasted my lips and my own orgasm—unafraid, I thought.  I don’t care what she thinks.  “I don’t mind that,” I said.

“Then whenever you’re ready,” Lizza said, “we’ll see if you like how I taste too.  But I don’t care if it never happens.  I want to taste you and kiss you forever.”

“Okay,” I said.  I didn’t feel afraid with her.

She pulled the blanket up around us and tucked it beneath my other side.  “Forever is a long time,” she said.  It was the only time that night she sounded anything but happy.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” I said.  It was true.  “Until further notice, I’m going to keep it.”

“Okay,” Lizza said, wriggling like a puppy in my arms.  “Lucky me.”

Lucky me, I think.  Every day, for four thousand, three hundred and eighteen days, I’ve thought about these words.  I still can’t believe it.

She’s in the house now, too, shutting the door.  I walk backwards towards the couch, watching.  She loves to pounce.  “Cheat,” Lizza says, and laughs and pounces anyway.  We tumble onto the couch in a tangle.

I squirm so I’m behind her all the way.  I’m usually the big spoon.  “Consider yourself cuddled the fuck out of.”

“That’s a terrible sentence.”

“Shut up.”

She giggles and I squeeze her tight to me.  I feel so protective of my little Lizza.  I’m small, too, but I’m wiry.  My brothers forced me to learn how to fight.  She only had one brother, and he was always sick, so she knows how to be gentle.

She settles in.  My fingers just barely roll her nipple between them through her shirt as she flips on the Apple TV and we start debating what we are least against watching.

To be continued…

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Collaboration

I’m not un-artistic. I’ve got a pretty good eye for colors and a decent sense of taste in fashion and interior decorating (at least, no one recoiled in horror from most of my living spaces, so I’m calling it a victory. small victories. yes). but I don’t have the time or inclination to get good at it. I knew a long time ago that someday I was going to have to find myself a willing artist/victim/collaborator if I wanted to render my wild, colorful ideas.

so along comes this man with whom I fall irreversibly in love. we buy an iPad. he starts sketching. we get married. he starts doing 3-D art and practices at least ten hours a week at drawing, painting, and sculpting digitally.

suddenly…I have my artist.

I’ve made it clear that my dearest has no obligation whatsoever to indulge my silliness and brainstorming kicks, but he seems to love it. he’s been designing me space fighters, bubble cities, ornate weapons, and alien species. almost every day, he asks me what I want to see him draw, or what he can model for me.

some time I’ll write separately about watching his transformation from frustration with a pencil to innate confidence with a stylus. that journey, in and of itself, is going to make for some inspirational material. for now: he’s mine and he’s talented and even if neither of us ever make a dime off our work (too late, for both), we can play in our shared sandbox for the rest of our lives.

<3

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some (very) personal writing I just uncovered on my computer. read at your own TMI risk. 500 words, 1 sentence.

I have often been charged to write 500 words, though the best thing I’ve ever painted in so succinct a frame was one sentence long – an invigorating, life-filled sentence, the kind I read often to remind myself how sex with words feels, the triumphant tang of conquering language not only in your mind but between your fingers and an electrical pulse of some kind: keys, scuttling like your lover’s fingernails down your back, or a pen, languorously stroking the page until yes, yes, YES – the mindfuck makes you come; then you recover, perhaps with a blanket corner tighter under your chin or a sip of your cooled tea, to read it again on the hour, because once more you’ve defied flesh to become one in an overwhelming submission to communication and you can’t yet bear to tuck the evidence away in a folder, physical or otherwise, like a cold streak when even your fingers don’t do the trick, not even to release what’s built up inside, the inexorable need to conquer or be conquered, to fuck and then fight or flee, or just to bury your nose in their salty armpit, drinking in the rush of togetherness chemicals like you’ll never hunger like this again, because next time it might be even longer that the howl builds; and now, without warning, I am here, not just we, but I, because you reach out in the middle of the night with your seeking hands and you croon to me with your sleepy breath that you see me, me: that hair on my nipple, the way my lower lips lie, the curls of my toes, now absent from my hair; you see me and you make me more with every clenching of me to you, every swelling of you in me – you tighten my lines and smooth my curves to make my self-ness even more evident even as I devote myself at your feet, wishing I had the hair of Magdalene to coax the oil between your toes, my tongue curling greedily around the tiny muscles and bones that carry my love, my master, my charge through his days and back to me at the end of them, when we are both caked with the ire and criticism of people whose eyes we have never met and return to our room, to pillows, to late night love in the ways our legs twine and our lips stick together and our musk smells like home; and in the day I try to toss you tiny slivers of the nobility I see in the tilt of your chin when you sing of angry men, try to slip them in between the pictograms and us-isms like your kisses between my thighs, reminders of how our affections are not just in grand sweeping gestures like the artwork on my side or the star-burned ring on my finger, but the tiniest of movements of the same muscles I use when you make me smile.

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Vivid

Bree was going crazy.

Sanity wasn’t her strong suit anyway, but normally she could channel it into creativity or restless energy or, at the very least, a long, abusive hour at the gym.  But everything she tried failed to clear the cobwebs in her head.

She wasn’t even sure she could pin down why she felt like the world was spinning out of control.  It wasn’t: the bills were paid, the house was peaceful, and her husband was about to arrive home after what sounded like a good day at the office.  Still she found herself staring blankly into nothing for long moments, or trailing off while doing some essential task.

The makeup smear was the last straw.  Bree deposited herself on the couch, buried her face in her hands, and wept.  She cried until her head ached and her heart felt wrung out, then flopped over onto her cheek and stared at the blank TV screen until she drifted into a fitful nap.

A key in the front door brought her awake, though she was too groggy to rise.  She wondered if she should fix her inevitably disheveled appearance, maybe wipe off the makeup instead of adding to the new stain on the couch, but her energy level would not comply.  So she kept staring until her husband came into the living room to set his bag down.

Micah stood over her, bringing with him his special brand of deodorant, sweat and cool breath that drove Bree wild.  Her pussy tightened with familiarity and longing, but she could barely raise her head.

“What’s wrong, pet?”  Micah stretched out a hand and ruffled the hair sitting on her ear.  "Bad day?“

"No,” Bree said.

Micah waited a beat.  She heard the half-smile, the affectionate exasperation, in his tone.  "Then what?“

"I don’t know,” she said, sing-song.  "I hurt, kinda.  Nothing makes sense.  I’m tired but I can’t sleep.  If I were a hard drive I’d want you to reformat me.“

"But I like your partitions.”  He tickled the spot between her rib cage and her hip bone, and she managed to squirm.  Micah squatted down beside her head and kissed her forehead, brushing her hair away from her face.  "You’re THIN32.“  He made sure the capital letters were clear in his voice.

Despite everything, his playful voice reached out and tugged the corner of her mouth into a tiny smile.  "Kiss-ass,” she said, but didn’t mean it.

He took her hand.  "C’mon.“  A tug.  "C’mon!  I can’t reformat you without access to your slots.”

Bree oozed off the couch and flopped onto the floor, face in the carpet.  "Mmmph.“

"Bree.”  Firm, unwavering, invigorating.  "Get up.“

She obeyed, heaving herself to her feet and shooting a startled look at Micah.  He wasn’t the quietest person she knew by any means, and he loved to make nasty jokes and spin scathing commentary.  But it was mostly for his audience’s sake, and never in front of the people he was teasing.  And when it came down to it, he was kinder and more open than most people she knew. Right now, though, there was little trace of that in his voice; he was the consummate commander, leaving no room for questions.

But not quite, she thought as she twisted around the tight hallways and entered the bedroom.  Underneath it, I hear him loving me.

She sat down on the bed, turning around in time to see Micah walk in and close the door with a firm hand.  His golden-green eyes were steely.  "Hands and knees.  On the floor.  Now.”

“Micah,” she started, but he crossed the room in one stride and clapped his hand over her mouth, so tight that when she tried to suck in her breath, she was sealed by his salty skin.

“Enough.  Don’t speak again until I say.  Nod if you understand.”

Bree bobbed her head, searching his face.  The giver of orders.  The man she strove to please over all others.  His eyes burned into her.

“Good girl.”  The fire flickered and she knew she had nothing to fear, before the flames roared back and he shoved her away.  "Hands and knees.“

This time, she obeyed without hesitation.  She gripped the carpet with her fingers and ground her bony knees down, willing her back to straighten as Micah tugged her pants down to her calves.  In the reflection of the as-yet-unhung mirror sitting on the floor, she saw herself: silky hair wild about her face, makeup still smeared from sleep and tears, green eyes begging for sense to be made.

Sense asserted itself on her ass: Micah’s hand came down firmly across both cheeks, the slap resounding against the walls.  Bree quivered but did not cry out, pursing her lips together.  Micah brought his hand down again.  Again.  Until her whole ass pinkened and her wrists were trembling under the strain.  She maintained her silence, and for the first time that day, a gleam of triumph was born in her eyes.  She saw it in the mirror and found that she could draw a deeper breath.

Micah’s hands descended to the back of her neck and pulled her upright.  He held her suspended for a moment, looking her up and down with rough assertion of his ownership.  Bree was standing under her own power, but she felt like a kitten clenched, dangling, between the jaws of the lion.  It took a few blinks, but she steadied her chin and gazed back at him courageously.

At last, he nodded his approval and tossed her onto the bed.  She sprawled and lay without moving, trying not to wince at the lump of quilt digging into her back.  Micah retreated to the closet and rummaged around.  He returned momentarily with one of her bandannas in hand, rolled up to a tube.  He pushed the fabric between her lips and loosely knotted it behind her head.

"Now,” he said dangerously, right beside her ear, “not a sound.  On your knees again.”

Bree’s pussy was soaked; she felt a patch of cooled moisture on the quilt as she rolled over and presented Micah with her ass.  He made it tingle by running his fingers along the sensitive skin, and where he had slapped her harder, he bent to kiss.  Bree closed her eyes with every touch.  The coiled springs in her shoulders began to loosen.

He filled her without warning, grabbing her hipbones like handles and slamming into her.  Bree bit down on the gag with all her might; she was leaking natural lube, but she had not been prepared for the sensuous violence of his descent into her and his cock worried at the back wall of her pussy.  The pain was excruciatingly pleasurable.

Micah slapped her on the cheek and leaned over her to grab her chin and twist her face up and to the side.  "Look at me,“ he demanded, and Bree opened her eyes.  His was a conqueror’s face – her unstoppable Irish warrior, who never settled for no.  The sum of her fantasies washed over her, flushing her to an insatiable heat.  So often she had drifted into dreams dreaming of the highland soldier who came to take the peasant girl away.  She gave herself over to the minutiae of their coupling as he shoved her away and resumed his unquenchable thrusting:

His arms, thick with muscle, to protect and claim.  The hairs on his corded legs making her soft skin rage as they pressed together, together, together.  The chest that pillowed her when terror came in the night, always a barrel full of fervid love from which she was privileged to drink, now the impetus of his assertion over her.  She drooled around the bandanna and tears slipped down her face.  The bliss of powerlessness was unbearable.

He slapped her once on each cheek and she clenched.  His fingers closed around the knot of the bandanna and tugged her head up, up, back, leaning over so their faces were less than an inch away.

"Tell me,” he said, his voice shaking with the strain of keeping his orgasm at bay, “who you are.”

The question froze the scene.  His words were crystals, delicately suspended in the air.  They formed a bridge over the vast crevasse between her and clarity.

“Yours,” she breathed.

“Again,” he said.  They were still frozen, their words locked out of time.

“Yours,” she said, stronger this time.  "Your girl.  Your property.  Your slut, your servant, your lover.“

"Again!”  His forearms were shaking now, but he clamped her jaw in his palm.  His fingers squeezed down to the bone.

Tears came.  They were not the tears of earlier; those were self-pity and confusion.  These were tears of certainty, of purity, of a braid of emotions she did not care to define.

“I am yours,” Bree said as the world fell into place and time began again.

“Good girl,” Micah said, and he too let go.  "Now come.“

He arched his back and clenched his fists, disappearing into the higher plane of consciousness.  Bree tightened and followed suit, her hot juices spattering the bedding, mingling with his cum in and on and around her.  With his heat came a slow, overwhelming need to curl into him, be devoured by him.

Slowly they unfolded.  Micah kissed his way down her spine, lingering on each cheek of her reddened ass.  Bree let her head fall, her sweaty forehead against the quilt.  The exhaustion came flooding in, but her head was clear.

"Tell me,” Micah said, settling into the mattress beside her and untagling her hair with his fingers.  The conqueror was gone, replaced by the comforter.  "Do you understand?“

"Understand?”  The bridge he had just built her wobbled as she reached out to rest the tip of her finger on his nose.

He smiled.  "Understand why I did that.“

Bree nodded slowly.  "It’s a play on words, right?  You gave me orders.  But really, you gave me order.”  She scooted across the quilt until her lips were almost touching his.  "You make my world make sense, Micah.“

"You make my world worthwhile, Bree,” he said, and love made his eyes greener as he enfolded her in a hug that encompassed her entire world.

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A Rousing Tail

In the significant pantheon of things she hated, what Maxy hated most of all was her birthday.  She hated the idea of taking a day out of the year to celebrate her existence.  She hated surprises that disappointed because they were presents from people who didn’t care.  And most of all, she hated the Facebook posts.
But this year, she thought on the eve of March 16, it was going to be different.
Maxy thought about it all day at work.  A few weeks before, she had met – and was now dating – a lovely older man named Curt, who was well-off but had not yet insisted on buying her much.  He had asked when her birthday was and, when she confronted him with her hatred of birthdays, smiled a cunning smile and promised there would be only one present.
Just one.
Maxy itched with curiosity.  She went into the bathroom at lunch and scratched a different sort of itch, rubbing herself over her underwear until she was panting.  She took a picture of her disheveled pants and texted Curt: Thinking of u babe.
He texted back an hour later: Hot.  Hotter 2nite.
When she got home, Maxy hefted her purse across the living room and went to stand with hands on hips in front of Curt, who was channel surfing on her couch.  "Okay, big boy.  Spill.  You’ve been driving me crazy all day.“
"Uh-huh.”  He didn’t look up, still glued to the television, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Curt,” Maxy whined.  Before she could go any further, he was on his feet and had her wrist in his hand, pulling her in close.
“Listen to me,” he said in a low voice that left no room for argument, “you little minx.  Go into your bedroom and sit on the edge of your bed with your eyes shut.”
Maxy stared back, but her hesitation was minute.  "Okay,“ she said, scurrying off to comply.
To her horror, when she sat down, her cunt was soaked.  The commanding tone Curt had used had made her gush uncontrollably.  She folded her legs and waited for him to join her, her hands folded gently in her lap and her eyes squeezed tight.
She heard his footsteps, and then something cool and rectangular slipped into her hands.  "All right,” Curt said, “open your eyes and open it up.”
It was a long, black box with a bow on it.  Trying not to hate the idea of a gift, Maxy slipped off the bow and lifted the lid in between uncertain glances at Curt.  He stood with a stoically serene smile.
Inside was a winding black tail.  It was lush, about as thick as Maxy’s thin wrist, and glowed with luster.  Attached to the end was a slim length of smoothly pointed glass.  Maxy stared at it and then gazed up at Curt in wonder.  "A tail?“
"For you,” he said, then made a very clear “turn-around” motion with one finger.  Maxy did so, squeaking in surprise as he pulled her pants down to her knees.  He pulled her underwear down too, and she bit her lip.
“Already wet, I see.  Soaking.  Good girl.”  This last was right in her ear, and she arched back into him even as a cool, smooth surface caressed her asshole.  She hissed in her breath as the tip pressed inside of her, then backed out, then pressed in again, this time deeper.  She rocked back against it, trying to relax so she could take it deeper.  Maxy had never put anything in her asshole, though Curt had played with her with his fingers before.  She marveled at the cool weight and the feeling of security it brought.
At last it was in all the way.  Curt backed away and patted her on the head, then gave her ass a gentle swat.  Maxy leaped up onto the bed on all fours and looked over her shoulder, unable to hide her smile.
“It’s–so perfect,” she said.
Curt was busy pulling his shirt over his head.  "C’mere,“ he growled, and pushed her onto her back.  Maxy writhed upwards, the tail pushing even deeper into her ass.  She wondered idly if she could wear it at work.
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Dirty Counters

“Aren’t you done?  I’m done.  Done done done.”  Alexa swung the whisk around, flicking bits of egg mixture everywhere.  "We wake up, there’s something to do.  We come home, there’s something to do.  We go out for a couple of hours, and we get back and we get glared at.“

Jensen hunched over his own mixing bowl, his fingers worrying at the half-frozen ground beef.  "Shhh.  Baby girl.  You think I’m not in the same boat you are?  Of course I’m done cooking for ungrateful people.  Just – light at the end of the tunnel.”

“I just – wish there was something we could do.”  Alexa tapped the whisk on the side of the bowl and dropped it into the sink.  "Y’know, for our own evil purposes.  Or whatever.“

"We could fuck on the counters.”  Jensen said it so quietly she had to lean towards him to hear it.

“What?”

“You heard me.”  He didn’t look up at her, but the corner of his mouth twitched playfully.  "I’ll fuck your brains out on the counters, and every time they cook, you can laugh to yourself.“

"Iiiii,” she said, drawing out the word as she slunk around the island towards him, “like it.”

Jensen slammed the bowl down on the stovetop, looking her hungrily in the face.  "I didn’t ask you if you liked it.“  He reached for her and took her shirt in both hands, wrenching it off over her head.  His lips locked with hers, and their tongues danced as he undid her pants and yanked them down her legs.  She went for his shirt, tugging it over his glasses, careful not to let it catch.

Jensen caught her up by the waist and hoisted her onto the counter; Alexa’s toes curled into the waistline of his pants and pushed them down over his ass.  His cock emerged, aching towards her.  She pushed aside some dishes and ignored the crumbs digging into her thighs.  Tugging her towards the edge of the counter so she was just balanced, Jensen teased her entrance and then entered her.

Alexa tossed back her head and laughed wildly.  "Sweet, sweet fucking revenge.”

Jensen grunted in reply.  He held her waist with one hand and the counter with the other, while she grabbed onto his shoulders and rested her other hand next to his against the polished counter surface.  Their skin slick with droplets of dishwater, they rocked until the knife block rattled.  Alexa tossed her head back, panting and laughing.

“Harder!” she cried out, and Jensen doubled his pace, his cock swelling and sweat beading on his brow as he strove for Alexa’s satisfaction rather than a quick finish.  She obliged, her inner walls clenching him to her, reminding him of her closeness.  He took a deep breath, thrilling at the smell of her hair and skin, and came.  He dropped his hand to make circles on her clit, bringing her to climax again, and they shuddered together.  She collapsed against him.

“I’m not cleaning the counter,” she giggled into his ear.

“Me either,” he murmured back, then drew back, touched her chin, and kissed her.

“I love you.”

“Always,” she said, kissing him back.

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On Your Knees

Kenza slumped through the doorway and tossed her shoulderbag onto the couch.  It fell open and her new library books tumbled onto the floor.  "Shit,“ she said, kneeling to pick them up.

Orion’s soft footfalls made her glance up and clutch the books to her chest.  He yawned and rubbed at his scruff, taking her in.  A slow smile spread across his face.

"Home so soon?”

“Yes sir,” Kenza mumbled, trying to put the books back into the bag.  "Didn’t mean to wake you.“

"Well.  Now that you have,” Orion said, sprawling on the couch with his legs open, letting his cock dangle from the gaping leg hole, “you can make up for it.”

“Yes sir.”  Kenza pushed the last of the books out of sight.  Orion’s eyebrow rose.

“What did you check out?”

“Nothing,” she started, but then shook her head and said instead, “Technique books.”

“Oh?  Technique on what?”

Kenza slowly raised her eyes, finally letting a little mischief dance in her eyes.  "Better serving you.“

"Oh.  Oh I see.  Well.”  Orion threaded his hands behind his head and gazed back at the ceiling.  "I assume you pawed through them while you were browsing.  Why don’t you get up here and show me what you’ve learned?“

Kenza took her hair down and contained herself between his open legs.  She tugged at his waistline and he obligingly sat up enough for her to slip off the boxers.  His cock lay against his thigh, dark and warming.  She put her lips to the head and began to swirl her tongue.

Orion suddenly twitched.  Kenza froze, worried she had done something wrong, but then he had his fingers under her chin, gently tilting her head back to study her face.  "Hey.  Are you okay?”

The facade was gone.  A tear slipped down Kenza’s cheek.  "No.  Not really.“

Orion sized her up for a moment longer, then nodded decisively.  "Okay.  Then you can tell me about it after you finish with me.”

Warmth spread through Kenza; her dom – the love of her life – always knew exactly what she needed and when.  "Yes sir.“

"On your knees, bitch,” he said, and pushed her forward, pulling her yoga pants and thong down her ass.  Kenza closed her eyes, smiling and wincing at the same time.  He slapped her on each cheek, then licked his hand and dragged it across her pussy to moisten it.

“Take it,” Orion said, and thrust into her.

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Road Trippin’

Jess passed the pipe discreetly over the center console.  I took it without looking down.  "How’m I doin’?“

"Hang on,” she cautioned, her fingers dancing on my bare arm.  Then a sharp tap.  "Okay go.“

She leaned over and held the wheel steady while we rocked down a straight stretch of freeway, the ‘82 Benz pleased to be running again.  I ducked and took a hit, blowing the smoke out the cracked window.

"Ahhhh.  Much better.”

“Rest stop,” Jess said.  She squirmed in her seat.  "I need to pee.“

My buzz kicked in as we pulled off into the empty parking lot.  I got out enough to lean on the door and air out the car while Jess scampered in and out of the ladies’ side of the shingled building.  I took another hit from the pipe, keeping my eye on teh entrance in case any late-night truckers showed up.  Apparently no one else within a few hundred miles had decided to go for a 2 am ride.

"Boo,” Jess said right in my ear, and I reached out and caught her around the waist.  I planted a huge wet kiss on her temple.

“Hey, cutie.”

“You’re high as fuck, huh.”

“Yup.”

“So c’monnnn,” she said, grabbing my hand and dancing to the back door of our massive car.  I followed her a couple of steps before I realized what she was after.

“Jess!  We’re not allowed.”

“Yes huh.”  Her eyes sparkled.  "I made the last payment just now.  See?“  She held up her mobile phone.  I had to squint to see it, but the Total Amount Due number was unmistakable: $0.00.

We could finally fuck all over our car.

"Hell yeah!” I said and dove, taking her under me so we sprawled across the back seat. She giggled and bit her tongue in concentration as she felt for the door handle with her foot.  I heard it close behind me without even hitting my shoes.  "Nicely done.“

"Make out with me,” she said, putting her hands on my cheeks and pulling me down over her.

I fumbled with her pants in the dim light cast by the one rogue streetlamp until I got to the thong beneath.  I swept the little triangle of fabric aside and fingered her.  She moaned but could hardly have gotten wetter.

“Did you – ”

She put a finger that smelled distinctly of pussy to my lips.  "Shhhh.  Just fuck me.“

"You beautiful slut,” I said and wriggled until I could go down on her.  My tongue drew letters on her clit, slow, thoughtful ones that made her sigh and tremble and ask me what I was spelling.

“Important things,” I said, raising my head and licking my chin.  "Things that I dare not say out loud because maybe this is all just a really cool dream.“

"Okay,” Jess said.  "Then go real slow and I’ll figure it out.“  She rubbed the bare tops of her thighs and giggled nervously.  "And hold the extra tickles or I’ll have no idea.”

Gently, I spelled it out: I W-A-N-T T-H-I-S A-L-W-A-Y-S.  She missed the As and the Y, but I could see from the look of peace on her just-visible features that she had figured it out.

“I love you,” she said, her fingers in my hair.

“Ditto,” I said, and when she threaded her hands through the door handle I began to thrust.

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I’ve been a little down with a head cold and stress from work, and last night I was chilling and doing some StumbleUpon. I came across one of those silly lists called “ways to melt your girl’s heart,” and the first one was dancing spontaneously with her. I kind of smiled at that, but Jake isn’t a dancer at all; we had that conversation recently, and I cheerfully said it was fine, I’ve always danced alone.

mind you, I didn’t mention that I’d read this.

a few minutes later, with Pandora playing some piano music in the background, I got up and so did he. “are you doing okay?” he asked me, and I smiled and nodded.

then suddenly we were slow-dancing.

for several minutes.

I definitely melted.

and afterwards I told him about the list and he just smiled and winked in that mysterious and sexy way.

damn, he’s good.