It is the last time.
You press and strain against your clothes to feel me, make contact with me. The hardness of your nipples against mine starts to make me feel giddy and sick. It’s too much. We have to stop this. It’s really not a good idea.
But I couldn’t stop now if I tried.
You pull back from me abruptly; your eyes look menacing. They’re pleading, and they’re violent—and I can’t look away.
“Fuck me.” Your eyes are black. I’ve never seen them like this.
I stare at you. Saying nothing. A different feeling is taking hold. And it’s between my legs.
Your face grows angrier, and you’re scared I’ll say no.
“Fuck me… please.”
I pull back still farther for a moment and watch you. My hands travel from your neck down the front of your body, moving over your agitated, heaving stomach faster than my mind can process what’s happening. Pressing my fingers into your abs, I hesitate for a moment, and then let my hand rest at the button on your jeans. Your breath is hot and damp in my face, and the shaking that you’re trying to suppress is taking you over.
“Turn around. And do exactly what I tell you.”
The words come out of my mouth before I can think better of them. There’s no argument from you, just an escaping moan that signals you’re already soaking, and you obediently turn around and bend over the bed.
“Down.” I push down hard on your back.
You know what’s expected of you, and you don’t argue. My big, strong butch needs to be topped one last time. Your back quivers as you become more and more unsure of yourself. Feeling vulnerable goes against your every instinct. I know this. I also know how much you need to. Hesitating for a moment, you try and compose yourself. Then, whimpering softly, you reach down to pull open your own belt.
“Good choice, baby.” I notice my own breathing is heavy.
You turn to see over your shoulder and catch my eye with a frantic and longing look. I’ve seen that before. This time though, it’s different. Flashes of anger and rage meet my gaze now. And this time, I’m not going to give you exactly what you want right away.
Freeing your jeans, I pull them down as far as your knees and kick your legs apart. You can’t move because of the way I have my legs between yours, so you resign yourself to what’s going to happen and press your palms into the mattress.
Sliding my hand into the front of your boxers, I find what I suspected. You’re soaking wet. Slowly stroking the hot, sticky juice over your clit, I enjoy the feeling of your desperately hard organ straining against my fingers. I know you could easily come now. But I’m making my rubbing maddeningly light, my languishing strokes toying with your hard-on. I feel the blood rushing to my own clit as I’m pressing and buffing your distressed nub, just enough to really torment you. You buck and grind on my hand, angrily attempting to get yourself off against it. That’s not happening this time either.
“You’ll come when I’m ready for you to come.” I withdraw my slick fingers from your swollen folds.
“Fuck you.” You spit at me through clenched teeth.
“Ah, there’s my girl. That’s not very nice, now is it? You’re not fucking me, baby. I’m fucking you.”
I smile at you darkly when your eyes meet mine.
“You bitch. Give it to me.”
You’re not happy. I can’t say I’m not. My own clit is throbbing with the need to be inside you, though. I’m holding it together, painfully conscious of the ache that’s building up in my belly. You’re vulnerable and pissed off, and watching you offer your ass up to me could throw me over the edge and make me come in my jeans.
I bear down on the cramp that’s building and feel a throbbing in the deepest part of myself. I have had about as much as I can take of making you wait, and I need to fuck you now.
The room fills with the sound of you gasping as I push three fingers inside your sopping hole. Twisting and grinding them into you, I use the full force of my arm to bury myself in you. Your greedy pussy meets me hungrily, sucking and lapping at my hand. I’ve always loved how sweet and tight you are. And I love it now, as your small pussy opens over my knuckles, slurping and spilling your juices over me. With my free hand, I push you facedown into the bed, and you obey, taking solace in the softness of the pillow while you thrust back up against my arm.
“More, baby, please.”
“Aren’t we a greedy girl?”
My girl.
For a second, my thoughts are interrupted by the reality of the situation, and I run my nails angrily down your back. As you cry out in pain, I put my mouth to your skin and lick the sweat from you. I can taste blood. This is my territory.
“Give it to me!” Your arms are erect and pulling at everything in reach. Dragging the sheets beneath you, you press and push yourself out violently to fuck me back. You know I’m gonna make this one hurt.
My jeans are soaked with the wetness escaping from my boxers. Adding my fourth finger and my thumb, I watch in awe as my fist disappears inside you, and I push down hard on your back, trying to steady myself as the sensation overwhelms my head and my heart. You gasp and suck at the air as my fist rolls and turns beneath your womb. I’m aware of sounds coming from my throat and I’m aware, too, that I’m about to come.
Guttural sounds escape from your chest as you cry out and thrust against my arm. My fist goes deeper into you, pushing you farther open as your tight ridges contract and throb around my hand.
Suddenly, I feel your swollen cunt gushing and spitting into my palm, pushing me over the edge completely. Cum flows over my tightly curled knuckles and down my wrist onto the bed beneath you. My clit finally finds its relief against my jeans as I press against you, and I fall against your back over our bed, for the last time. My fist is still buried in your belly, and you hold my arm to keep me there, rolling back and forth on me softly, lost in your thoughts.
There are tears in your hair.
And on your back.
I don’t want to move.
MY FEMME
Evan Mora
I’m standing in our garage, door shut, single bulb burning, which might seem like a strange place to be on a hot summer night in the city. But I heard her, my boi, a couple of blocks away, and I know it’s her ’cause the rumble from her engine, the biggest, baddest sound around this organic-Pilates-Prius-loving neighborhood.
“My Femme” is what my boi calls her. The Femme is a 1978 twenty-fifth-anniversary edition, vintage teal-blue Corvette. She’s got a 5.7-liter engine and can do 0-60 in 6.6 seconds flat. Not that I care about any of that technical stuff. No. But the Femme sure is pretty. She’s got more curves than a Playboy Playmate, and she turns heads like nobody’s business.
When I’m behind the wheel, T-bar roof open, Farrah-locks flowing, I’m like a straight boy’s wet dream come true. Sid calls me a cock-tease, which may or may not be true, but it does make me giggle when boys stop in their tracks and mouth a slack-jawed “Whoa” as I cruise by. A femme in the Femme…
When Sid’s behind the wheel, it’s an entirely different story. The boys, they give her a thumbs-up and want to know what’s under the hood. But the girls—I’ve seen them, biting their lips and flashing their smiles, wondering who this butch Daddy boifriend is and how they’re going to get themselves a ride.
And she’s given plenty, I know, in her bad-boy, back-alley, late-night past. But not to me. Never to me. Sid and me, we met in the winter, when the Femme was sleeping peacefully, dreaming dreams of spring. By then, we’d U-hauled it to a tree-lined street in the East End, setting up house like respectable thirtysome-things and sipping chai lattes with the neighbors.