I walked home with my thumb slung in my blazer jacket pocket, fingering the tip of my favorite pink packing cock, the ridges on the head, mostly to keep it from poking out of my pocket. Its spine is now broken at the base but I think I could still fuck with it.But, if it’s broken, well, what a way to go.
And really, opening this story with discussion of my cock is very self-centered. The night wasn’t about me at all. Once the boundary was broken, once the floodgates were open, the last six hours of foreplay and teasing rushed to the palms of my hands, and the only thing I could do was take her down.
“You’re going to come for us, aren’t you. Aren’t you, pretty girl.”
She moaned and writhed and melted. I held her down by her wrists and shoulders and whispered in her ear. “You like the way she’s sucking your clit?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Yeah? I like the way you say yes. Say it again.”
She paused, swallowed. “Yes.”
“Say it louder.”
She resisted me a little. “Yes.” Told me later that she had to add her own twist to what I told her to say. I liked the way she took direction.
She wriggled her way from one end of the couch to the other, head eventually pressed against the arm, the living room a mess of clothes and blankets and pillows thrown everywhere. Gasping and twisting.
“Oh my god, oh, my god. No one has ever – fucked me – like this before. No one has ever – I mean ever – ohh, my god.”
She was stripped bare, skin flushed and freckled, mouth red and open, lord, she has the most gorgeous mouth I’ve ever seen.
“I like the way you suck my fingers,” I said, working two fingers in and out, pressing a little on her tongue, holding her jaw with my thumb under her chin. She bit down on the nail of my fingertip. More than once. Hard. Ow. Oh I loved it.
Those were my favorite sounds she made. The way she moaned through whatever was in her mouth. Fingers. Especially my cock.
I worked her mouth and my aural skills while her friend worked her clit and gspot for an hour, almost two. Hips slung over shoulders, arms underneath, wrapped around to her hipbones. Sounds from her throat, mumbles, delicious little noises, mouth full, eyes open.
Two butches and a femme. I was not in charge, did not orchestrate the evening. In fact, it never occurred to me that we would actually return to her house and fuck. I spent the six hours – six! – at the second bar resisting their advances, allowing them both to play with my packed cock, her butch friend grabbing my cunt, working her fingers under my harness, and later biting my neck; and then there was that moment where my hipbone place just below my waistline was exposed and the femme licked and sprinkled salt for a body shot. Her mouth so close to my cock. That pretty, pretty mouth.
Later she took it in her mouth. Not properly, on her knees in front of me, but me above her, sliding it in.
It happened the third or fourth time she was oh so close to coming. I kept whispering things like let go and come for us, pretty girl and I want to hear you scream. There was (forgive me) something happening energetically, and I moved down behind her butch friend and grabbed her short hair, ran my hands over her back and ass, still covered by her cute boxer briefs.
And oh the view from below her. Getting fucked on her back on the couch, body all smooth and soft, curves and I could see the muscles rippling under her skin when she contracted, when her butch friend thrust harder, when she found the good spots and didn’t let up.
“Is that it?” I’d ask as the femme writhed more, reacted, moaned. “Did she find the right spot?”
“Oh she’s got it, she’s got the right spot, she’s had it all along. Ohh, my god. Seriously. God, oh god.”
I liked her hips all splayed open, thighs exposed and pressing her pelvis deeper into her mouth, stomach doing that crunching-contraction thing, shoulders off the couch, arms reaching gripping pressing into anything around her, head and neck hitting against the edge of the couch.
“Move back,” I told her friend, pulling on her thighs. She slid backward a foot or so. “Slide her down, too.”
They gave me just enough room to come back up to the head of the couch. I took the femme’s wrists in my hands again and pressed them over her head. She opened her mouth, closed her eyes.
“I want to fuck you,” I told her. She opened her eyes, looked at me clearly. “I am grinding my hips into the couch right now, I want you so bad.”
She reached for my cock and gripped it, milked it with her fingers. “Ohh, that’s good,” I said. “I like your fingers around my hard cock. I like the way you touch me.”
“You could put that in my mouth again. That would not be a bad idea. Seriously, you could put that cock in my mouth, right now.”
I did. Of course I did.
I don’t prefer blow jobs from above because I like her to control how deep to take it (despite my occasional fantasy otherwise – it’d need to be layed out, consentual. I digress; more on that another time).
But. She took it. Impressively.
“Ohh I like watching my cock slide down your throat,” I said. “So beautiful, watching you suck my cock, oh god, yes, suck it, suck my cock, fuck, fuck.”
I locked eyes with her butch friend, mouth still full on her cunt, watching us. Can you fucken believe how hot she is? we asked each other with glances.
“She is hotter than the center of the goddamn sun,” her friend told me later.
She was a defiant, wily bottom, but good, so good, at submitting, at taking what we gave her. Later, when I told her I liked how she took direction, liked telling her what to say, and she told us both that she had to make it her own, I had the urge to break her of that. I want to direct her, I want her body to be my tool, my instrument to play. I want her to feel the consequences of stringing me along at a bar for six hours, of her tongue on my hipbone.
She is powerful, so commanding and present, in charge, all heart and command, that I want to take her down, I want to break her in.