Bully

Filed Under pushing the edges | Leave a Comment

You are face down, ponytail bobbing, wrists and ankles tied to my bedposts, the simple steel I won from my last breakup. Since then, I have fucked five women in this bed. You are the sixth.

Does it matter how I got you here? Whether I wined and dined you, bought you indulgent fruity mixed drinks, a delectable dinner, your body now satiated but wanting other fullness, wanting me to stop fingering my fork spoon knife glass napkin ice cubes and begin placing my hands carefully on your skin.

Or perhaps I simply ordered you over here, sent a car to your apartment and was waiting downstairs when you arrived at mine, paid the driver, removed my dark tie from the tight collar of my baby-blue button down and slipped it over your eyes. Leading you up two flights of stairs without your sense of sight.

No matter. You’ve been here before. Nothing really to see.

I am tempted to rip seams, pop buttons open with force. You know how you bring that out in me.
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Lipstick …

Filed Under the art of seduction | Leave a Comment

… on my cock. Red, a mess of it, and on your mouth, wiped to your cheek where I smeared it hard with my fingers. My hand in your hair, pressing deeper into your throat. Under my desk maybe, or in the board room on that big oak table with huge windows that look over the shopping center. Black leather chairs with high backs that roll. Glass water pitcher in the corner. Ice cubes.

I bet the table height is just right. Bend you over it, push the mess of fabric out of the way to smack your bare ass, hard, leave a red imprint of my hand. Tease your lips, thrust my fingers in. Press your cheek down onto the smooth oak wood, hand tangled in your hair. I think the door is locked; there’s a conference call phone unit in the center of the table. Perhaps it’s on. Perhaps someone is listening in. They could be.

In the server room. Against a mess of wires and humming of machines, gasping, fast movements of desire. Your hands under my shirt. The thrill of your fingers. Mouths wet and hungry.

There’s an empty office down the hall. Still the desk is a mess of paperclips, a stapler, binding clips, an empty inbox. Lift you up to sit on the edge and pull myself close, between your legs, in an blue office chair with wheels. A letter opener rips through whatever thin fabric you might be wearing so I can taste you. Your hands on the back of my head, knees bent, head bent back. Shoulders against your thighs.

I can’t look at any of these flat surfaces without thinking of bending you over it, lowering you onto it, lifting my knee to it for leverage. Empty rooms, hidden corners, chairs all become enticing. Wracked with lust. Please, work me over till I’m spent, pull it from me, leave me empty instead of always bursting.

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