“That’s it, whore. I’m not done with you yet. I need your mouth on me. Yes, right there.”
I watch her eyes as I fuck her mouth. I thrust deep into her throat and she can’t breathe, and I hold it there, relishing the sight of her eyes bulging again.
“Yes, you are mine. My precious whore. My hole to fuck. I know, sweet bitch, I know. I know you can’t breathe. I love watching you choke on my cock. Yes, my fiesty bitch, choke it all down.”
I slam into her throat and she gags. It’s relentless and I’m not stopping, and she is scared. I can see the panic start just as I ease off. Her eyes soften a bit and she gently suckles me as she calms herself, breathing, sucking, breathing, my hand gently stroking her cheek.
“That’s my precious whore. Yes. Your mouth feels so good. Open for me. That’s it.”
I drive into her throat again, and it is good. She becomes a mouth, made to serve me, a hole to open for me, and she takes me all the way in. I can feel her throat moving around me, and she’s moaning around my cock, and I am at home in her throat. I have her by the base of her neck now, and I am rotating slowly. Her throat is the sweetest hole in the world, and it is all mine to use. I thrust into her rapidly as I shoot, and she drinks down every drop of it.
“My good whore. My sweet bitch. Yes. Take it all. Very good.”
I slide out of her mouth and hold her for a long time. Then I raise her up to meet my eyes.
“You have pleased me very much. You may sleep at my feet tonight.”
She curls up at the foot of the bed and sighs contentedly. This is where she belongs. This is who she is. My precious whore.
THE THIRD KISS
Kiki DeLovely
I had a dream about you last night.
I pushed SEND before I could second-guess myself. I fretted over it for two seconds before my phone rang, startling me into nearly dropping it on the floor.
Immediately I was greeted with an “Oh, really?” There was a playful flirtation in her voice but something else too.
“Down, boy. I shouldn’t have even told you.” I was regretful only because my mind turned to her girlfriend, sweet as apple tartlet.
“I’m glad you did. My morning was crap before you sent me that.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I’m writing at the coffee shop. Meet me here? We could catch up, get some writing done, over-caffeinate ourselves…”
So I slipped on my shoes and slid out the door, headed toward what might as well be the only coffee shop in town. As I walked through my neighborhood, still uncomfortably excited from my troubling vision, I wondered where this dream had come from. I thought of our history, and there really wasn’t much to tell. When we met, I wasn’t her biggest fan. She drank too much, was continually high, flirted unabashedly with me… well, anything in a skirt really, which could have been her only positive attribute I knew of, except that it was always in front of her girlfriend, sloppy and disrespectful. Because of this, I found her incredibly unattractive.
One night, out with a huge group of friends, I made it evident that I was far from impressed. It must have embarrassed her because after that, while her flirtation never ceased, she definitely cooled it a bit. A month later, I started to see her around more. She had clearly been working on cleaning up her act, and she quickly grew on me. Witty and spot-on with the humor, courteous and sharp as hell—sobriety had transformed her—she won me over.
The last time I saw her, she asked me to dance. At first I refused, but then I had no choice—she gave me those sad puppy-dog eyes one second, and then the next I was being led to the dance floor. We had fun but, like always, it felt very innocent. Like always… that is, until that dream last night, so vivid I had woken hot and wet. At the memory, I felt the same hard pulse in my clit, making it not exactly uncomfortable to walk, but definitely difficult to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Luckily (or unluckily?), I had reached the front door of the coffee shop. Now I just had to walk inside and actually face her. I was sure she’d give me that devilish grin, able to read the lust all over my face.
She just looked up and gave me a smile, waving me over. She rose from her chair and hugged me—making my heart race a little. For once, I felt as though our interaction was more innocent on her part than mine. It was difficult to be that close to her with the shadow of the dream lingering. After what felt like two hours, thirty-seven minutes and about five billion seconds, I was free to sit down on the bench at her table. She plopped down next to me, too close for my comfort, and it made me jump the tiniest bit.
“So tell me…” she started, but I spoke over her, asking why her day was so awful, changing the subject before it could even be brought up. A cloud came over her, “Oh, you know. Same ol’, same ol’…” Then, with a spark in her eye, she returned to the main subject. “I wanna hear about this dream.”
“Actually, I don’t know. Thinking about it made me realize, I really don’t know all that much about you. We’ve been writing buddies for a little while now, but I don’t know much about you outside of the casual day-to-day and what you put down on paper.”
“Okay, well, it goes both ways then. If I share, you have to, too.”
Knowing full well what she wanted, I agreed, though I had no idea how I would fulfill my side of the bargain. I could hardly look her in the eye.
She told me about her writer’s block, which led to talk of school, then on to open relationships, which blended into politics and back around again to writing. I felt the conversation winding down, so I quickly asked, “You’re on a deadline, huh?” She nodded. “Better get back to work then.” And I popped up, headed for the restroom.
Finally alone and shielded in the small bathroom space, I exhaled thinking about how I had avoided telling her. For the moment. So I took several more. I didn’t have to pee, I just needed an excuse to remove myself from her side, the tension being too much for me with her lips so near. Returning to the table, I sat down across from her, safely out of direct contact with her skin.
She was staring at her screen, willing it to give her something. I opened my laptop, aware of how small the table was, how the backs of our screens had to touch. Even that felt too overwhelmingly intimate for me. I squirmed a bit, busied myself by clicking away: opening a new page, selecting just the right font, then opting for another; making the font size smaller and smaller.
My screen slowly began to descend, as she pushed from the opposite side, and I was forced to meet her mischievous, curious gaze. “Don’t think I forgot—it’s your turn.”
“Sorry, we talked for too long and now we both need to get to writing.” I flipped my screen back up.
I had almost recomposed myself when an IM appeared on my screen, her words glaring in my face: You need to write? Fine then. Write it.
No. You need to finish your article.
I’m blocked. Need inspiration.
Okay… but only because it’ll make a good story. And I really should be writing anyway….
And just like that I began to pour out the secret of my subconscious that had arisen the night before, typing nasty things to her, about her. Things that my mouth would have never uttered, at least not to anyone but a lover.
In my dream, it all started with an auction. Somehow I had agreed to have myself auctioned off at some type of fundraiser. The gay boys in the back bid high on a beautiful MTF before me and I was nervous, knowing I wouldn’t bring in quite that high a sum—only the gay men usually have that kind of money lying around. But I braved the stage with a smile and my price tag rose into the hundreds. It came down to a bidding war between you and my ex, and it was soon apparent that you were not backing down. So my ex bowed out graciously and you won.