a school night

I should have asked for my keys back but then again I should have returned her the keys to her own apartment, so fair’s fair— I just don’t show up unannounced— on a school night no less.

I must have fallen asleep on the couch, the sound of her on the phone— the voice loud and chatty in one half of a conversation not intended for me— slipping through the fog of sleep.

“Yeah, I’ll be back, okay like don’t leave without me— uh-huh, yeah— no, it’s okay— well— just hold on, okay?”

Then, clumsy steps outside my door and the fumbling of keys before I heard them drop and land noisily. She swore— again, loud enough to pass un-muffled to my ears. The keys jingled once more as she picked them back up. It was followed by the rake of the key inserted in the lock, and the turn and click with the door opening.

Her steps were rough and unsteady— another indication that she’d been drinking— a chaotic cadence first into the kitchen where I must have left the light on, then further down where her head poked around the corner into the living room. She glared at me, sitting on the couch, meeting my eyes still groggy in the flashes of the West Virginia basketball game. “There you are,” she shot her voice, husky and laden with imbibed alcohol.

The light switch was slapped upward and her heels clacked loudly against the floor and she crossed the distance quickly. The jacket she wore was disposed of on the coffee table, and she wiggled her hips and reached under her skirt, pulling her panties off, stepping out of them ungracefully before she turned to face me and suddenly straddled my lap. She reached down and yanked the waistband of my pajama pants down— finding resistance at my seated weight— then again at the boxer shorts, normally adept fingers reduced to clawing and inaccurate prods until she got what she wanted. Kneading my exposed cock with a grab and a rough touch, she nearly spat in my face.

“This is what I want.”

I tried to lift her up and off of me but shifting only helped settle my pants and underwear down, and she ground against me hard, pubic bone mashing into the skin just above my still-soft cock. It hurt, and made me wince. With her thumb like a makeshift splint— the rest of her fingers wrapped around the base— she pushed me inside her, my semi-soft cock consumed by the hunger of her cunt.

She kept her eyes closed and sunk downward, hand letting go as my body responded, firming inside her, growing larger and inflating against her inner pussy walls. She had let go and pushed against my shoulder down down with one hand, the other spread open wide with fingers against scalp from her hairline over the top and down to her nape— where she held on tightly, face turning now to bury her nose and agape mouth against her bicep, her hips rocking back and forth as she began to fuck herself on me.

It was sort of unbearable.

She moaned into her arm and even even bit down, her breasts heaving and her face turning even a brighter shade of red and the sweat beading on her forehead. The lights on, I noticed the heavy eye makeup— maybe even fake lashes— and blood red lipstick. Her blouse plunged in front of her chest and her bra unceremoniously shoved her curves together. Large hoop earings sagged her earlobes and the skirt she wore only met the middle of her thighs but it was now just crumpled around her waist. Her hand dug into my shoulder with her weight and i saw that she’d let her nails grow, painting them a pale, whorish pink.

I don’t know if I turned away but I wish I did and maybe she came, but I’d long since given up caring, my hands no longer on her hips just fallen to my sides until she climbed off me, wiggled her skirt down, collected her jacket, and led with more clacking footsteps down the hall and out the door while I decided I could ignore the spent panties lying on the floor— for now— and that I should just climb into bed, set my alarm, and hope it all would bring me tomorrow.

painted pink

She said she’d painted her nails a pretty pink, and that I’d see them soon enough. My phone buzzed about ten minutes early and it was really “soon enough,” I joked to myself, letting her in. Dressed in a white pea coat with skinny jeans and butter brown boots up to her knees and her blonde hair was messy in that intentionally-styled-flowing-carelessness that makes other women jealous of her on the subway and street, she carried a gaudy floral print duffel bag which seemed way over-stuffed, but I thought maybe she was planning for contingencies.

“Ta-da!” she said, fingers pointed down and showing me the back of her hand, but her wiggling fingers were to be the focus, and I’m sure that I said something clever, maybe even grabbed her hand to hold it still so I could see it better. But whatever touch came first it could not come faster, and even though we had the whole weekend (our first spent together like this), there was a rush movement of our hands, a hurry in the press of our lips.

I forgot who grabbed the bag and which hand led who, but we were in the bedroom next and on the bed with her coat thrown towards the dresser and maybe landing on top of an open drawer but definitely off her and my hands under the loosely crocheted sweater and tugging the tank top out from the waistband of her jeans as her hands were already pulling my t-shirt up over my chest and shoulders. Someone gave in first and maybe it was me because I was too preoccupied with my lips planted on hers and my hands on her bare skin.

Rolling on the bed we wrestled our way to her on top of me, her sweater was yanked half over her head and so she pulled it all the way off, my hands on either side of her hips and thumbs spilling over thighs with my fingers wide over the denim still cold to the touch. My erection rudely prodded upward and she grimaced knowingly. We needed to get rid of the pants.

Us both rolling away, I made short work of my belt, jeans, and boxers. Naked, I turned to her on her back, knees together and jeans only halfway off, the boots disposed of off the side of the bed. Standing and holding her ankles with one hand, I pressed between her ass with the other, wet fabric against the fingertip of my thumb.

Pushing harder, I felt the soggy fabric on either side of my finger with the wetness washing warm over it. Pushing harder, feeling pussy lips parting and slowly buckling to the pressure, yielding and giving way until the fabric pressed past it and those lips curled over the edge and touched my finger. Pushing harder, her eyes closed and arms now stretched wide on the bed with her chest rapidly rising and falling with ragged breath. Pushing harder, the slick of her wet soaking completely through the fabric.

My cock brushed against her leg she whimpered for it and I let her ankles go to pull at the waistband and she lifted her ass just enough so I could pull the now-soggy panties up around her knees and with the majority of the crumpled denim. I pushed in quick, shallow and strained thrusts with her legs still stuck at the knees and me unable to really fuck her the way I wanted but then I saw her fingers digging into the bed as she shook, tensed, and came, and the painted pink fingernails against the white sheets.  They really were pretty.

(17-February, 2011: Hello, Fleshbot!)

be mine

“You’re not getting me anything for valentines,” she said flatly, almost monotonal, and as unceremoniously as closing a door to shut out a draft. It was followed by a— seemingly— violent exhale through her scarf, the puffy cloud of her breath fading into the icy winter air.

“Is this a question?”

She didn’t answer me, and we took some more steps in winding paths over, around, and through the pitted-puddled-pitfallen sidewalks. Her hands were in her pockets, the thin knit gloves providing little to no warmth— I’d made fun of them many times before— and her shoulders were shrugged, pushing the scarf wrapped around her face and neck as high as it could go. Her eyes stayed far away from mine, instead very preoccupied with each step of her muddied faux-Eskimo footwear.

“No,” she said, with the cold air reclaiming the heat of her breath, swirling around us, swallowing us in the poverty of winter. She didn’t have to say anything else. It’s the history— it’s the future. More steps. More breaths.

And while I’d want to believe it’s because neither of us bought into the silly saccharine pink-white-crimson heart-shaped holiday in the middle of February, and that even if we did want to get each other something we could— the real reason was that it would hurt too much to think of a word like “love” when it came to us.

Her place was less than a block away and we’d still make it across the last street even though the light flashed “Do not walk” at us loudly. And like most things, we silently agreed to never bring it up again, letting the conversation disappear white-to-nighthawk-black in the night.

take and take

She was struggling with my boxers (and I half-ignored it), her hands reaching in from the waistband and fly at (nearly) the same time. I was preoccupied, however, with other matters, my hands spreading apart her (warm and soft) ass cheeks, thumbs pointed inward and pressing against the outermost of her (wet) pussy lips and my mouth making greedy sucking noises as I lapped down and up rapidly from clit to asshole, my tongue left to drag and split puffy pink skin.

It was punishment (really), her mouth bending down and fighting the fabric to wrap her lips around the head of my cock. She’d already ground herself against me (minutes before), legs on either side of my lap, leaning back so her breasts were out of reach, her hands on my shoulders pinning me back to the sofa back, hips rocking to some invisible melody. And it wasn’t long before the boxers became wet, my cock straining against them and pressing upward. Still she ground harder, spread her thighs wider, and flirted with the idea of fucking through my underwear.

Retaliation (now), of course, was the deliberate act of keeping my ass firmly on the couch while shoving my face into her until my tongue settled into that rhythm of slurp-slurp-twirl, the pad of my thumb pressed firmly against her asshole pulsing in time with the twirl, until she gave up, holding her upper body with hands on my hips and letting the weight of her body settle on my face and jaw, smeared with her surrender.

Hooking my other arm around her waist as she squirmed more (and more), I was determined to lick and suck until I was finished, my lips pursing and pulling at hers, sloppily consuming my way to her orgasm until she shuddered and shook (nearly kneeing my shoulder), body collapsing on top of mine. I continued to scoop and slurp, drinking in my fill of her taste and breathing in my fill of her scent.

“Take your time,” I finally said, unwrapping my arm around her and leaving her limp on top of me, a trust held in a grasp let go.

(24-February, 2011: Hello again, Fleshbot!)


I’ve never threatened to ask her about the bits of her body she subjected to permanence. I’d never seen her as the “type”— not that I still foolishly place too much weight in such arbitrary classifications— to get piercings or tattoos, and while it was certainly true that the double ear piercings and upper cartilage piercings were only just becoming fashionable — or at the least, “mainstream”— while we were in high school, other piercings were still a few cautionary looks away from being socially acceptable without any stigma— and we’re only talking about visible piercings, mind you.

So it was a surprise when we stumbled upon each other— our paths in college crossing rarely and randomly after freshman year— and I noticed the shiny crystalline stud on the right side of her nose. And maybe I had poked fun at her then— the fading sting of the high school crush I had harbored for so long— but I didn’t ever find out why she wanted to get that tiny sparkle on her nose. It’s still there, only today it’s a clearer and brighter stone— if not diamond, then a something simulated and very similar— catching and magnifying light. And in her left eyebrow, I can sometimes catch the remnants of a piercing— one I’ve never seen— removed and dulled with the heal of time.

There is ink on her body— too— in this strange knotted shape above the protrusion of her left hip, angular and curved at the same time. Seeing it first obscured by her underwear, I mistook it for a birthmark at first, but many casually close inspections later, I was certain it was a tattoo— deliberate, drawn, and marked. I’ve fantasized about its genesis, maybe some strange art she’s come across in her wildly liberal arts education, or maybe a stylized doodle to cover the name or mark of a past lover. I’ve fingered it gently, my mouth buried between her thighs and tongue moving in ways to shut her eyes so she wouldn’t catch my eyes lingering over the mysterious mark. I’ve caught myself focusing on it as I look down while my hips push myself in and out of her— but I’ve never brought it up, or asked about it.

And maybe that’s my problem with it all— I can’t gauge her willingness to bear permanent marks on her body— I don’t know the motives or decisions she’s made in the past— I’m not sure if they were conscious mistakes or not. But the bruises I make, the red flush of her skin, and the wetness between her legs are all just fleeting moments in the passage of time on the history of her body.


“Do you have anything that can kill me?!” she spat out in-between breaths escaping flared nostrils, her hand (already) at her (wet) pussy lips and awkwardly tugging at the ring of the condom that had slipped off me and stayed in her.

I, too, was catching my breath, our bodies close, her right leg folded up and knee (sharply) pressing into my chest with her weight on her back and mine on my side. I had felt the latex (slippery-ly) slipping off the quicker I moved my hips, and the deeper I thrust into her. That it slipped off (so) completely was a surprise, my cock feeling suddenly cool with wetness exposed to the air. That it stayed (so) deep within her tight pussy was not.

“No,” I said (with a grunt more than a response), already reaching towards the open drawer.

She needed no other word, flinging the condom somewhere off the bed, reaching back down and positioning my cock between her pussy lips before I could reach another inch. I stopped at once. Paused (arm outstretched), feeling nothing outside the grip of her fingers just below the head and the soft skin parting just before the pull of her body into mine, I closed my eyes and let everything go, the wetness and warmth swallowing me whole, devouring any last reserve, consuming sense after sense until there was absolutely nothing left.