Spank the Mint

Fall of 2020: I sit at my neighbors’ kitchen table with the TV muted behind me; it’s sharing the same stale news over and over again. Three days after the presidential election and they are still counting votes. That’s why my neighbors invited me over for a drink. 

Ryan and Marco moved into the apartment below me earlier in the year. They’re both graduate students at a local university who became friends when they played on the volleyball team. Due to Marco’s extroverted nature, or maybe just the fact he is from Italy, he’s been getting us all together for drinks every so often. Marco, Ryan, my roommate, and I have spent quite a few summer evenings getting to know one another over frosty glasses. 

Ryan sits across the table from me. Marco walks in from the kitchen. I have to look up at a sharp angle to make eye contact because he is so much taller than me. He sets the ingredients for a pitcher of mojitos down on the table: ice, limes, sugar, seltzer, mint, and rum. Three glasses in the form of old jam jars. 

“Ryan, prepare the mint,” Marco instructs.

“Okay, wait, remind me how to do it? Do I chop it?” Ryan asks.

“No no, don’t chop. If you chop it becomes bitter. You need to spank it to get the flavor to come out, the oils.” Marco picks up some of the mint leaves in one hand. He slaps his other hand down hard. I smell the mint. “Like that.” 

“Right, got it,” says Ryan.

“I’ve never heard of spanking the mint. I thought you had to massage it,” I say. 

“No, massaging also can make it bitter. So, you spank the mint,” Marco says, demonstrating once more.

“Oh,” I swallow and stare at his hands, watching the moment of impact. My cheeks flush as I immediately picture those big hands on me instead of the mint. His tall, lean, tan, muscular body, taking control of my soft, short, blushing, curvy one. Hearing him tell me I’m a good girl in his gorgeous Italian accent. I’ve been crushing on him for months already, but this whole spanking the mint situation is pushing me over the edge. Oh god, is it obvious? Act normal, act normal, stop thinking about this. I look away and take a big sip of my drink when he hands it to me. 

~~~Three weeks later~~~

An anxiety fueled dream come to life: My heart is pounding out of my chest and I’m frozen. Thoughts race through my mind: Should I go in? Should I scream? Should I leave and call 911? Should I call my mom? I’m paralyzed by indecision. I force myself to take a deep breath.

“Hello?” I call tentatively. Then, the doorbell rings, and I jump about a foot in the air.

“Who’s there?” I ask, unsure if I’m addressing the person who could be in the apartment or the one ringing the doorbell. 

“Rena? It’s me, could you open the door please?” Comes a familiar voice from downstairs. I can tell from the accent that it’s Marco. 

“Okay, I’ll be right down!” Still scared, I hurry down the stairs and open the door. Marco stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets.

“Hi, sorry, I’m really freaking the fuck out because I just got home and my door was open even though I know I locked it when I left this morning and I don’t know what to do,” I blurt out. I cover my face with my hands, embarrassed. 

“That’s weird,” Marco frowns. He peers apprehensively upward. “Are you okay? Do you want me to go into the apartment with you, just in case something happened?”

“Yes please, that would be great,” I say. 

We head upstairs and cautiously walk through the apartment together. We find absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. No serial killers waiting to murder me, nothing stolen or damaged, no trace of snooping. Honestly, it’s eerie. I double check that all the windows and doors are locked, and curtains drawn, but I’m scared. I imagine the best case scenario: I somehow failed to lock the door when I left that morning and no one had been in the apartment until I got home. And I imagine the worst case scenario: a creepy stalker/murderer/burglar broke into my apartment and knows how to get in, and can get in whenever he wants. No way am I going to be able to sleep tonight.

I usually find it challenging to ask people to do things for me. Tonight, though, I only waffle for a few minutes before getting over myself and texting Marco. I tell him, in a nervous and probably convoluted way, how I’m feeling creeped out and unsafe in my apartment, and ask if he could come back over and help me calm down. He knocks on my door shortly after. I wipe the sweat off of my forehead before going to answer it. 

“Hey, I’m so sorry you’re scared after what happened today,” Marco says. “I mean, I would be too probably, though I’m sure it was nothing bad! I don’t think anyone would come here and leave everything perfectly.”

“Yeah I know, you’re right, but also, I’m like dying of anxiety and I really appreciate you being here, it helps,” I ramble. “Do you want tea or a drink or anything?” I shut the door behind him, lock it, and we go into the living room. 

“A glass of water would be great, if you don’t mind,” Marco says, taking a seat on the couch. The couch is so low to the ground that his tall frame seems comically oversized in comparison. He kicks off his flip flops, leaving him clad in just a soft gray t-shirt and jeans. His dark hair looks damp from a recent shower and sticks up a little bit. His feet are paler than the rest of him, and I assume it’s a sneaker tan from all the time he spends outside playing volleyball. I notice his deep set brown eyes following my movements. Acne scars dot his effortless scruff; he’s gorgeous with his full lips and easy smile.

“Of course!” I respond. I pour a glass for each of us and sit down on the other side of the couch. I immediately regret sitting so far away from him. Our hands brush as I hand him the glass. A tingle runs through my arm. 

We decide to watch a movie, but I’m not really paying attention because I’m too busy making tiny, incremental movements toward Marco, hoping I can eventually sit close enough for us to touch again. After the credits roll, we stand up from the couch. He reaches out and gives me a hug. I wrap my arms around him. My face only comes up to the middle of his chest. He gives me a quick, tight squeeze. When I don’t let go, he rubs my shoulders a little bit while I lean my forehead against him. He smells faintly of sweat, the outdoors, and fresh laundry. 

“Thanks for being here and being so nice to me,” I whisper. Tears well up in my eyes. 

“Hey, of course,” he says. I look up at him. He wipes some tears off of my cheek and strokes my hair. 

We hold eye contact. Neither of us moves for a long moment. He leans down and kisses my forehead ever so softly. A sound escapes, something from the back of my throat—a cross between a sigh and a moan. I shiver. 

“I’d really like to kiss you,” Marco whispers in my ear. 

“Yes, please,” I breathe in disbelief. I stand on my tiptoes and his warm, soft lips meet mine, completely obliterating all other thoughts from my head. 

His big hands cup my face and I trace my fingers along his neck and shoulders. We return to the couch, but this time, instead of sitting a polite distance apart, he pulls me onto his lap. I sit facing him with my knees on either side of his hips. I lean forward, kissing his neck cautiously at first to get a sense of the shifting energy between us. I take a deep, shuddering breath before kissing his lips again. Until this point I’ve mostly been leaning on the couch, but he pulls me closer, forcing me to rest my full body weight against him. He runs his hands over my thighs. I sigh with pleasure. His fingers slide the collar of my shirt to the side, revealing more of my sensitive skin for him to tease.

I continue exploring, touching his hair, rocking back and forth a tiny bit to appease the growing need between my legs. I feel him getting hard even through his jeans. Marco’s hands grab my hips and slip down to touch my ass. His untidy stubble feels abrasive against my face, but I don’t care. I’m fueled by the chaotic energy of the day. I lick his left ear, bite his bottom lip, and lightly brush my tongue against his. He grazes a hand against my chest, lingering near my nipple. 

“Is this okay?” he asks. 

“God, yes,” I answer. I reach down and rest my fingertips on his bulge. “Is this okay?”

Marco leans his head back and groans. Feeling encouraged, I add more pressure and move my hand over his length. He tugs at my shirt. 

“I think you should take this off,” he says.

“Only you if you take yours off,” I counter. I’m not wearing a bra, so taking off my shirt means I’ll be naked from the waist up, with just my panties and sweatpants left. I bite my lip and pull my shirt off over my head. Marco makes an appreciative sound as he takes in my soft, rounded belly, sprinkled with occasional freckles, and generous tits. He tosses his t-shirt to the side and I lean forward to kiss his chest. I nuzzle the expanse of dark hair and warm skin. I hear his heartbeat. I inhale his scent, more potent now that I can press my face right up against him.

“Are your nipples sensitive?” I ask, licking one.

“A little bit. Are yours?”

“Yes.”

Marco guides me off his lap so that I’m laying down on the couch. He bends down and kisses my lips, my neck, my collarbone, before caressing my tits. He brushes a thumb over my right nipple and begins to suck on the left one. I touch his hair and his broad, muscular shoulders. 

“That feels good,” I whisper. 

Marco smiles at me and kisses the space between my tits. My hands slide down his back as he moves up and looks me in the eye, his gaze playful.

“Good,” he replies. 

I blush and look away. He touches my chin and tilts my face back toward his.

“What else would make you feel good?” he asks. 

“Mmmm,” I moan, stalling, and wrap my legs around him, criss crossing my ankles against his back. 

“Tell me.” 

“Would you spoon me, please?” I ask. I bite my lip, worried he’ll find my request boring or tame. 

“Yes, but I don't think we can fit on your couch. Could we go to your bed?”

We get up and walk in a haze down the hall to my room, where I quickly lay down on my bed and pull a blanket over myself. Marco pauses to turn the lights on before laying down. He gets under the blanket and snuggles up behind me. I raise my head up to give him a spot to put his arm. He hugs me against his warm torso, and I shimmy around a bit to make sure there’s as little space as possible between us. He drapes one leg over mine. 

Marco’s six foot five frame takes up so much space sprawled around my comparatively tiny height of five feet and one inch. His feet dangle off the edge of the bed. I grab his top arm, weave my fingers through his, and place his hand on my chest. The comforting weight both calms me and arouses me further. I feel more relaxed and more turned on, especially when I feel his cock next to my ass—still covered by denim, still quite noticeable. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

“Is this what you had in mind?” Marco asks. The vibrations of his deep voice travel from his chest and throat to my back. 

“Mmm, yes,” I answer. 

I hear his breath catch. I feel a thrill knowing I can have that effect on him. He starts caressing my tits like he did before, rubbing my sensitive nipples, even pinching them slightly. Emboldened, I move my hips in a tiny, circular motion. My thighs, held firmly together with the help of his weight pressing down on me, squeeze tighter to enhance the sensations in my pussy. I’m wet. 

Marco’s body responds to my movements. He begins to grind against me, and I push my ass back against him. We move as one in a heated dance. His hand slides down from my tits, over my waist, settling on my hip, with just his fingertips underneath the waistband of my pants. All of my focus lands on that one spot. I bite my lip. I haven’t been touched like this in such a long time. 

He withdraws his fingers from my waistband and I feel a wave of disappointment. My pussy is aching for his touch. But I feel his knuckles brush up against my ass, and realize he’s just adjusting his cock. He runs his hand softly along the backs of my thighs. The pounding of excitement between my legs intensifies. 

“You don’t have to be so gentle with me, you know,” I tell him. 

“Oh, really?”

“Really.”

“Then you’d enjoy it if I did this?” Marco asks as he grabs my ass more firmly. 

“Y-yes,” I stammer. 

“And what about this?” 

He smacks my ass. I gasp as my pussy gushes with heat and moisture. 

“I really like that,” I admit in a small, shy voice. 

“Me too,” he responds mischievously. He rubs each of my ass cheeks and then smacks again, harder than before. I let out a squeal. Marco laughs and reaches up to stroke my hair. He nuzzles my neck until I turn my head to look at him. 

“Fuck,” I murmur. I close my eyes while he lightly traces a finger across my lips, down my chest, and finally beneath my sweats and between my legs. I gasp when he presses firmly against my panties, knowing he can feel they are soaked through. 

I roll over to face him. We both lay on our sides, legs intertwined, blanket tossed aside. Again, Marco slips his fingers under the waistband of my sweats, only this time he goes further and lets his whole hand rest there. He pulls me tight against his body and I start grinding against him shamelessly. He kisses my neck and leaves a trail of kisses and tiny bites across my collarbone. His strong fingers dig into my skin as he grabs my ass firmly. He licks the space between my breasts. I sigh. My body melts into the bed. Marco’s attentive caresses are turning me into a wet, desperate mess, and he probably knows it. He kisses my belly and the dip of my waist. No one has ever kissed me in that exact spot before—I never realized it could make me tremble and shiver with desire this much. His breath warms my tender, sensitive skin. I’m safe.