“Isabella, what the hell do you want?”
“I want your hymen.”
Hi, men! His mind spun spellings and alternate definitions. His mental word play always got worse when he was nervous, a subconscious tic he couldn’t control. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”
“I want your cherry. Your maidenhead.”
He stepped backwards, away from the threatening member. “This is a joke, right?”
“You’re looking at the punch-line.” She took the hefty pink cock in her small fist. “Take a good look while you can, because you’re not going to be seeing much of it the rest of the night.”
Ironically, Isabella had never seemed less womanly than with this jutting member thrusting forward from her thighs, her queenly power visibly concentrated in this vengeful scepter. Orlando was hot. Inflamed. Also terrified.
“Isabella. Christ. Here?” He glanced around the deserted bar. The bartender had started to set the chairs on the tables halfway through Orlando’s last set. His mediocre and distracted performance once he’d caught sight of Isabella in the audience had encouraged few to remain through to the last number. The bartender had waved goodnight before Orlando’s last note faded, calling out for him to lock up on his way out, adding that he’d mop in the morning, unless Orlando wanted to do it for extra cash.
“All the better if someone sees you for the asshole that you are,” Isabella said.
“Fine! Fine.” Orlando tore at his belt buckle and thrashed his pants to his ankles. “I’ll play your little game. Whatever you want, Isabella.” He turned his back to her before lowering his boxers, so she couldn’t see the eager state of his cock. Orlando didn’t know if he was angrier at Isabella or at the betrayal of his own dick, which rose up in direct opposition to what he thought he didn’t want. But he did know that he wanted her to stay, to connect with her. On any level. He bent over the barstool he’d perched on for his show and reached around to spread his ass cheeks. “Come and get it.”
Her dress rustled as she stepped close behind him. He smelled her, an oasis of bubble bath clean in a stale swamp of cigarette smoke and beer.
“You know what I want,” she said, the tip of her dick hovering in his delicate pucker.
“Why is it so important?” he shouted over his shoulder. “Christ, you know how I feel. Isn’t it more important that I show it? Express it? Don’t I do that?”
She pressed deeper, the tip of her cock just kissing the tight fist of his asshole. “I want you to say it.”
He grunted. “It can’t possibly mean the same thing to different people.”
“You’re holding back out of fear. Just like with your music. You won’t commit the last three per cent. That’s why you’re still playing dives like this.”
“We’ve been over this a thousand times. It’s worthless to say it.”
The tight bud of his asshole opened at her nudging insistence. “I know it’s what you feel. Just say it.”
“It’s meaningless if you have to ask.”
“It’s everything.”
He made an incoherent noise as she slipped in a centimetre, then another. Isabella still worked with metrics.
“It won’t kill you,” she said. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m done talking. You… uhn, you just do what you have to do to make your point.”
“I’m not stopping till you say it.”
Crafty Isabella had just thwarted herself. Her cock crept its slow, methodical way into his body; Orlando didn’t want her to stop. Considering his preoccupation with rear ends, it now struck him as odd that he’d never considered his own. His morning post-coffee toiletries and a vigorous scrubbing were all the attentions he’d ever thought of bestowing upon it.
“You’re pressuring me,” he quipped, disguising his level of enjoyment with the sort of response that had incited her to this in the first place.
She slapped his ass. “Say it.”
Orlando was silent.
Slowly Isabella worked her slippery dick in. She was being careful, he could tell, cautious not to really hurt him. His ass now pressed firmly beneath the swell of her belly. The front of her thighs nudged the back of his. Her high-heeled feet, calculated for the height she would need for this manoeuvre, were wedged between his scuffed cowboy boots, swathed with his jeans and boxers like the base of a Christmas tree. The hem of her dress tickled his lower back. Orlando had never experienced the blindness of having someone make love to him from behind, never felt the surprise of every touch by their hands or body. Isabella often mounted him while he lay on his back, telling him to hold still until she’d used him for her own friction, but he could still participate, teasing between her legs or massaging her breasts, communicating with facial expressions. This was powerlessness of another order. Total abandon, at her mercy. An absolute trust and giving of oneself. And she had done it so boldly, so baldly, so often.
She grabbed fists full of his scant hips, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Say it.”
Orlando pushed back against her.
Isabella began to fuck him in earnest. Her breath changed to short pants of hot steam on his back. Her movements became more calculated. She had gone from anger to arousal. He sensed her surprise, that this fucking would afford her pleasure, too. She picked up her pace, forgot the metric system and took a quantum leap. Isabella gave him her last three per cent, going deep.
She grabbed his hair. “Say it!” She punctuated her repeated demand with the insistent sound of her belly slapping against his ass. If someone had peeked through the steamy front windows into the dim bar, all they would have seen was the flapping red tent of her dress, the spread wings of an exotic bird.
Orlando opened his mouth but couldn’t catch his breath.
“I love you,” Isabella said softly. She broke through his barrier with her thrusts.
“I… Damn it, I love you,” Orlando half sobbed. She had burst some dam within him. Some massive, concrete structure that had allowed only trickles of truth to get through, leaving those on the other side thirsty and parched. The granite crumbled, and years of pent-up, churning water deluged the desert. “I do. I really do.”
Isabella abruptly stilled.
“Don’t stop! Don’t.”
“Say it. Say it.”
“Jesus,” he bit his lip. “I fucking love you. I fucking love you. Oh, God, fuck me, I love you. Christ. Let me love you.”
She was right about his music, about everything. He had cassette tapes crammed with serious songs. Lyrics that expressed his ache and longing and, yes, his love. But he feared they were sappy, that he would be laughed at, and so he made laughter at his humorous songs a certainty. No risk. Isabella’s thrusts knocked those tunes loose, setting free a flock of singing birds in his head. Stored up inside him for years now, they tumbled out.
“I love you, I love you, I love,” he said, in time with her thrusts. She arced. He knew her sounds, could tell how close she was. She slapped against him, harder and faster. He was so full of her, to the depths of his core, that he could hardly stand it. And he couldn’t believe it, but he was coming. Without a touch from her on his cock, he was coming, too. He cried, and came, shouting that he loved her. She burst, and he burst, and they stood shuddering. The red dress shimmered with the trembling of their joined bodies.