Handprints on the Hotel Window

Kristen and I spent the weekend in Chicago, in part to attend a concert, and in part because tomorrow, December 13th, is our third anniversary. This story does not involve daddy/girl play specifically, but there is once when she calls me Daddy. Because that’s what she does. It does involve some rough sex. Just a warning.

While Kristen showers, I put my cock on under my boxers, leaving my tank top on. She emerges with the white hotel towel wrapped around her, hair wet and dripping onto her shoulders. When she sits onto the bed I stand between her legs and pull her towel open, then grab her hand, lifting her to stand.

“Come on.”

I pull her to the hotel’s floor-to-ceiling window that looked out onto the Chicago river, Lake Michigan, and a dozen other skyscrapers nearby to our hotel, leaving her towel on the bed. I take each of her wrists and press her hands into the cold glass, feeling the outside freezing temperature through the thin barrier.

“Leave your hands there,” I say. I press into the back of her body, kissing her neck. She shivers, a ripple up her spine, and I feel it. “I’m going to take you down. You can stop me anytime, but you’ll have to safeword out. I don’t care if you cry or fight me.” She’d been emotional all day, it is possible she’ll cry. And I’m guessing she needs the release.

So do I.

She nods. “Red?” She doesn’t have a usual safeword aside from yellow and red.

“That’s fine.” I reply. “Okay?”

She nods again. I kick her legs open, press harder into her, and drag my hands along her naked body, the curve of her ribs down to her hip, then over her ass, and I plunge two fingers between her lips, hard and right deep into her. She gasps, arches her back a little to push against me harder. I pull my fingers out and spit on them for lube, inadequate but better than nothing, and work them back in. Pushing deep. Fingering her g-spot and cervix and reaching around with the other hand to touch her clit.

The first time she comes, she drops her hands from the window, tits still pressing into it, cheek against it, her breath fogging up the glass. “Who said you could drop your hands,” I growl at her, and she raises them back up to shoulder height, moaning.

“Come for me again.” I work my fingers inside, mouth on her neck and next to her ear. “You see all those windows out there?” She opens her eyes, looking. We’d remarked the night before that we could watch the TV in the person’s apartment across the way. It wasn’t close enough for much detail, but shapes and people surely.

She swallows. “Yes.”

“Wouldn’t take much for someone to notice you here, getting fucked, getting played with. My little toy. Pretty girl, you think someone is watching you right now?” She comes again, twice more, shuddering against the window, torn between wanting to press into it to hold herself up and pulling away from its chilling temperature.

I want to get rough with her. I know it’s easier to do that—for her; she can take more—if she’s already come a few times, hence the warm up. I want it quick, urgent, and dirty.

I pull back, twist her shoulders to swivel her body around. “Down,” I said, pushing on her shoulders. She almost stumbles down onto her knees on the scratchy hotel carpet. I pull my cock out, the big one I like to fuck with, my favorite, the one that is a little too big for blow jobs, especially in her tiny mouth, even considering her skill.

But right now, I couldn’t care less.

I feed it to her, sliding it onto her tongue. “Put your hands behind your back.” She doesn’t need to be doing the work, this time. She is just a hole. She closes her lips over the head but not much deeper. “Get it all wet.” I pull out and rub it against her mouth. She swallows, works her mouth for more saliva, and opens again, and I push inside, deeper this time.

“Come on, you can do better than that. Take it. Take it down, good girl. Let’s see what you can do.”

She tries, but it isn’t enough. I grip her hair at the base of her neck and push, trapping her between the pressure from my hand and my cock. I thrust in a little deeper each time. I can see the teeth marks in the saliva on my cock. I almost tell her to stop using her teeth, but I don’t really care. I can’t feel it, anyway. If she needs to regulate that way, it’s fine.

I push too deep and she gags, closing her mouth, twisting away so I’m not lined up anymore. “Come on,” I urge again. “You’re fine. Do it again.”

She parts her lips and I shove in. Deep again, more, in and out, until she gags again. I give her a moment and touch my cock back to her lips. “You’re not done yet. Again.”

She looks up at me and swallows, hands still behind her back. “Stick your tongue out,” I say. She does, and I slap it with my cock, four, five times, then shove it in. She closes her lips and sucks, and a jolt of something goes up my spine.

“That’s good. That’s my good girl. That’s right.”

She sucks it well and I grip her head again, forcing it in deeper, holding her against my cock at the deepest point until she recoils. “Breathe,” I remind her. She gasps, regains her breath. I slap her tongue again, slap her cheek, and shove it back in.

I’m hard and thick, pulsing, in her mouth. I can smell the come on her thighs, dripping. Her cheeks hollow as she sucks and looks at me with pleading eyes.

I pull out and shove her again. “Down.” She flattened onto her belly, twists, on to the carpet. “Hands and knees,” I say, kicking at her thighs. “Crawl. Go.”

She moans and picks herself up, slowing moving the short distance from the window to the bed. I shove my heel into the flesh of her ass, knock her off balance. “Keep going.” I get a few kicks in with my bare foot, light and easy, but I feel it reverberate through her. She has been so quiet so far, dropping so quickly into that space of submission and giving over, barely talking, and I suspect this—making her crawl, kicking her—will just exacerbate that. But she is in it, feeling every touch and every inch, showing me everything with her eyes and the flushes on her skin.

“Up,” I say, and she slowly moves to stand, faces away from me, and I shove her, bend her over the bed, hand finding her hole again, spreading her lips open with my hand and positioning my cock. I spit down between her legs, into the crack of her ass, as low as I can, and make circles with the head of my cock to rub it around before pushing inside her. I pull her hips up as I thrust. “Arch your back. Give me that hole.”

She pushes back into me just as I thrust and I get that angle, that tension, that friction that I love, that shoots energy right up through my core and into my heart, throat, and up and out, back into her. I reach around for her clit while thrusting and I thrum it and she comes again, I feel her tighten around my cock but she doesn’t push me out. But the bed is not quite the right height, my knees are bent and I’m pulling her hips up to me, and I need another angle.

I pull out and pushed her legs together. “Turn.” She does, quickly. I shove her back onto the large king hotel mattress and grip her thighs, pushing them apart as I climb onto the bed between her legs and palm my cock, rubbing it against her slit again.

She moans and arches her back. Her cunt is pink and swollen. I spit again but she doesn’t need it, she’s wet and dripping with come.

I keep my cock in my hand and thrust in and out of her, shallow, a few times. She opens her mouth, hands above her head, fists reaching to grip the sheets, pushing against the headboard. I slide closer to her, in the deep V of her legs, pull out and slap her cunt with my cock, aiming the ridge of the head right at her clit. It works, and she comes quickly, come spraying as I keep slapping. I see it splash onto her breasts, onto my boxers. Good thing the hotel towel is under her. She convulses, thrashing against the bed.

“That is so good. So good baby girl, you feel so good.” She whimpers, crying out as I get harder, releasing and open but not in a big dramatic display. “That’s my girl. Come for me again, come on pretty girl—right on my cock, do it for me. Come on.” And she does, almost on cue, thrashing between me and the bed. I take her wrists into one hand, push against her, keep fucking. I’m close, working my clit against the harness strap as much as I’m working into her.

“Thank you Daddy, thank you Daddy,” she manages. Her low sweet voice sends a jolt through me.

“Open your mouth.” I release her hands, though keep my forearm on her shoulder, holding her down, and slide three fingers into her mouth. Her tongue is wet and soft. “Come on, do it. Suck me down. Take me in to all your little holes so I can fill you up. Come for me again. Come on, do it.” She does, mouth open around my fingers, body rattling, legs kicking on either side of me, gasping. My cock stays inside and I work it. “That’s not enough,” I growl into her ear. “Again. More. Come on, I know you can do it.” She comes again, bigger this time, yelling out, spine undulating. “Good, yes, that’s what I wanted, very nice. That’s my girl. That’s my little toy to play with, my little holes to fuck. Such a good girl.”

She quiets and I pull up to slap my cock against her cunt again, making her come a few more times before I’m done with her, pulling back.

I didn’t come. I am still dressed, wearing the boxers and tank top I slept in. She barely touched me. But I’m as satisfied as if I came twice (a rarity), content and buzzing as I lay down next to her and gather her into my arms.

We kiss, curl into each other. When she gets her voice back, she takes a minute to tell me what she liked—”I liked it when you kicked me, made me crawl,” “I liked being against the window,” “I liked coming over and over for you,” “I like when you tell me what to do”—which she knows I like to hear as part of my aftercare. Lessens my top guilt. I hold her close and stroke her skin.

We lay together a while as our bodies quiet and calm, then I strip and get into the shower. Later in the day, doing one last sweep over the hotel room before we leave, I notice her handprints still on the window, and a lip print where her face was pressed up against it. Usually I hate leaving the oils of my hands in prints on glass, too aware of janitorial jobs that must clean up after carelessness, but this time, it’s so pretty, I can’t bring myself to wipe them away.

All Five Senses (Part 1)

Did you forget about the Sugarbutch Star Contest? I didn’t – not that you could tell, since the last story was in October. I’ve been working on this one since I finished Maze. Here’s part one – part two will come later this week.

Sugarbutch Star: Matt
ALL FIVE SENSES

It started in the Brooklyn library, the back row, the classics section; the air so thick with ink and brittle paper and crumbling paste. I pick up a worn leather copy of Antigone, its cover so oiled down with decades of fingers and hands opening, turning its pages, breaking its spine. So soft it feels like suede.

I sit on the industrial carpet and flip it open, easily absorbed: Nothing painful is there, nothing fraught with ruin, no shame, no dishonor, that I have not seen in thy woes and mine.

When I look up, a few minutes later, there she is: sitting on the floor in a row I can hardly see, at first she is only visible by her bare legs on the dirty carpet, seated like I am on the floor, knees all bent, one tucked under her gray skirt which is a small mess of cover for her thighs. I slowly shift my body further into the aisle. Her back is to me, and she holds up a mirror in front of her – I catch glimpses of her face reflected. The dark nerdy frames of her glasses, the line of her jaw, her chin, then her mouth.

She takes out a tube of lipstick, twirls it erect, and paints the perfect outline of her lips. Slow, real slow. She presses them together and presses them forward in a kiss, makes an O with her mouth and touches just the tip of her finger to the edge.

I hold my breath.

I find my hand brought up to my face without really noticing. Pads of my fingers against the butch stubble on my chin, I didn’t shave this morning, I didn’t think I’d need to, and now the tiny hairs are strong as teeth and my fingertips are burned with the day-old five o’clock shadow. I watch the soft smooth pillow of her lips over her shoulder in the mirror. I imagine smearing that lipstick across her cheek with my thumb, hard enough that the trail of red would feel like it was made without paint.

Carpeting scratching at the palms of my hand, I’m leaning so far forward that if I was in a movie, this is the moment I would knock over a pile of books and she’d look up at the crash. Instead, I feel a tickle in my nose and the ink and paper and dust smell is suddenly amplified. I scurry back to my small stack of collected books and satchel, but I don’t get to my handkerchief in time, and I let out a strong sudden sneeze.

“Bless you,” I hear, softly, from across the aisle. I can hear each letter in her words. I imagine the way her red mouth looks forming the shapes of the sounds.

I swallow, blow my nose gently, mumble, “Thanks.” I don’t look back over to her, but go back to the library stacks, sifting through the Dewey decimal numbers on the spines, fingering the worn covers, the different textures, letting my fingers stroke the books as I take a few steps and follow the books around the corner.

Soon I’m in the next aisle from her. I can see right through it and I try to justify that I’m here looking for books, classics, something to support a recent article’s thesis that there were some butch/femme roles for women in ancient Greece and Rome. The library is so quiet, I can hear when she shifts on the floor, still reading, now with her back to the stacks of books and both feet on the floor, knees bent and separated, short skirt sliding up her thighs.

I’m going to get caught, I know it.

But it is as if hands are pressing on my shoulders and I sink lower, eyes wide, praying my knees won’t creak or pop as I crouch, strain my eyes to get a look at her thighs. I quickly grab a big picture book out of the stack to flip through, to cover up my voyeurism.

She’s pinching her dark brown hair that is falling over her shoulder between thumb and forefinger, swirling her fingers around it, twisting. I see her eyes darting across the page of the book she’s holding in her other hand, the cover against her thighs. I can’t tell what the book is, but it looks modern, it does not live in the dust of the classics section, it is paperback and skinny.

She glances to where I just was and sees my small stack of books, but she lost track of me. Her eyebrows curl for just a moment, and she glances around the other direction but there’s no one there either. We’re alone – she thinks she’s alone. I hold my breath and try not to move. I know it’s voyeristic of me, but she is in public. She must know someone could possibly see her. That must be part of the thrill.

She shifts, knees together, pulls her feet closer to her body, and I catch the sight of her simple white cotton panties between her legs, thin, so thin I can nearly see through them. She pushes her skirt up her thighs just a bit farther and slides her hand into them. The fabric strains.

Her fingers move slowly and she keeps her eyes on the pages of the book. Clearly a good one, I wonder what she’s reading, if its contents are queer or kinky, if she’s thinking about the taste of sweat and salty skin, the sounds of moans that emerge out of places where bodies collide, the sight of a fist disappearing at the wrist, the sting of an open-palm smack on the ass or cheek or cunt, the scent of desire, like musk, like the ocean, like a fertile ground.

Her fingers move faster. Hair falls into her eyes and her jaw drops open just a little. (Really, this is really happening?) Her lips pinken, eyelids flutter as her eyes dart across the page. Her strong thighs are quivering a little and I can see if I fucked her she’d want them pressed together, bent deep at the hips. It’s the way her knees want to close but her hand is in the way.

My hand goes to my zipper. (Should I?) Hard packing today, as I often do on weekends, just for me, to feel the weight and bulk between my legs, the strain of the seam of my jeans. No one has to know, no one usually does; just a private, personal experience between me and my cock. I run my finger down the shaft of it, through my jeans, remember its girth as I watch her bite her lip, hand still moving slow and vigorous between her legs. I thumb the head, the little ridge, catch it in the instep of my hand between thumb and forefinger. I get enough of a grip to press it back into my clit and start pulsing against it.

I feel a stab of guilt and fight the impulse to unbuckle, unzip. Nearly unbearable. I can barely breathe.

She’s getting lost in the sensations, spreading from her pelvis to her thighs and belly and down and up. Her breathing is getting faster, hand is faster between her legs, fingers working her clit, I can see through the thin white cotton through the stacks of books. She leans her head back and closes her eyes entirely, lets the book start to slip from her lap as her thighs squeeze and close and she presses her hips forward. I have a perfect visualization of how her back would arch if she was on her stomach on my bed, ass in the air, thighs and knees strong together, my own hand buried in her cunt.

I stroke my own cock harder and feel my breath quicken to match hers. She’s gasping as she breathes in, I can hear her. I watch her hips buck, face flushing, as she comes in a quiet flourish, calm and sudden, eyes closed, head bent back. She brings her fingers to her lips and sucks, then opens her eyes, looking straight forward for the first time, right at me.

Panic. Does she see me? She glances right back down to her book as her eyelids flutter and adjusts her skirt and glasses, gives herself a minute to catch her breath, picks up her book and purse, and, slightly wobbly on her feet, leaves the classics section.

I let out a breath, lean back against the stacks, take my hand out of my pants, zip up, and head toward the checkout.

It’s nearly dark outside by the time I gather all my things and make it through the line. I finger the spines of the books and flip my wallet in the palm of my hand, remembering my cock just minutes before, thinking of this girl and her strong legs, swift fingers.

That should’ve been the end of that.

But ten minutes later, picking up take-out extra-hot red curry at my favorite thai place, I hear behind me: “Well, well.”

… continue reading Part Two of All Five Senses.