Tonight We're Deities

He’s waiting for me in the grass outside his house when I walk up. He yells, and I jump into the air before setting down my stuff and joining him on the cool lawn. It’s only around 10:00 pm, but the summer is slowly giving way to a gentle fall that we can only feel in the evening.

The slightly crisp air is weaving around my red-checkered mini skirt and tiny white t-shirt. I wore a black bra underneath so he can see my tits before he feels them; their round full shape, the way they grow aching and heavy as I wait for him to touch me. The lace has been well-worn because it's my favorite bra, so what brand-new would have been scratchy, is now soft and comfortable. I like dressing up for him.

We talk about our days, I tell him about the gossip I’ve been saving. A man in my group project deleted what everyone had been working on for over a week, and replaced it with his own writing instead. On top of that, he had the audacity to write in the groupchat, “I make no apologies.” My boyfriend makes a small incredulous gasp at the actions of this nameless, faceless group member. I like that he knows I always want him to be on my side.

He has calloused hands that I love. As we talk, his hands roam my body. They scrape against the softness of my skin and drive me wild with quiet, unrelenting wanting. So even as we carry on conversation, his right hand is exploring the curve of my thighs, his left hand grazing my ribs just underneath my breast. My whole body tightens when his palm finally engulfs my tit—despite his big hands, I know some of my breast is slipping out. 

It’s been days since we’ve seen each other, and my body is sensitive and alive for him. I moan and he kisses me, as if he might catch the sound. The stars above us, faint considering the light pollution in the city, seem to brighten. The houses in suburbia were already quiet, but they still as my world narrows to the feeling of his lips on mine. It’s soft at first and gentle—but as I part my lips he takes his opportunity, sliding his tongue inside my mouth. I suck on it softly. 

I arch involuntarily into his hand and he pinches my nipple, a sensation that travels down my body in a thousand tiny volts circling then landing in my clit, fluttering there. My pussy throbs, a deep guitar string vibrating through the speakers of my body and into my orbit.

Without talking, he takes my hand and leads me inside, grabbing everything I’d set down on the front step earlier in his arms. The air around him has shifted—he’s taller, somehow, standing more in his body now than he was a moment ago. He’s settled into a confident, relaxed air that spreads to me. The tension between us, like a rope, goes taut. And when he turns his head towards me, checking to see if I’m following, I know he’s stepped into a part of himself more aggressive, more assertive. Without hesitation, my core follows suit—bending to that confident will easily. I follow him, quiet, suddenly feeling like the innocent girl who doesn’t know what’s in store for her inside, as if I didn’t notice the hardness of his cock through his pants. 

I feel wetness between my legs already, and as he gently puts down my things on the floor and resumes my hand, the throbbing inside me rapidly increases. I’d like him to bend me over the countertop. I’d like him to make me scream his name.

We have a joke that he somehow knows what I need and want, without me having to say anything at all. He sees it in my eyes now. He kisses me deeply, and then my white shirt is off my head and on the floor. His eyes take in my black bra, sheer, lacy—my hard nipples showing and my full, heavy tits exposed. 

I shoot him a glance that says—what are you looking at?

He grabs my neck, choking me softly, and pushes me until my back hits the wall. My bra is gone, somehow, and he’s pinching my nipples until it hurts. A throaty, high-pitched, female noise that I’ve only heard in porn before escapes my mouth, and he chuckles against my lips. 

“Does that hurt, slut?”

The harsh words make my entire body turn to molten lava. He was hesitant to call me those things when I first met him for fear of hurting me—but after repeated reassurance, he’s found a part to play during sex that he enjoys as well. I get to let go and be in the moment, and it’s the most intoxicating thing in the whole world. Suddenly I’m not thinking about my group project, or finals season creeping up on me. I get to hand over my body, my mind, and my safety to the man I completely trust. I get to belong to someone other than myself, for just a little while.

I nod, my hand hovering over his, part of me wanting the pain to stop and the other part willing to give myself to his command completely. I trust him—he doesn’t ever hurt me beyond what I can handle. My back is pressed into the wall, but I’m arched into him, every point of contact electric and thrumming with love. 

His hands give me a moment of reprieve, he moves to brace them against my thighs, and I touch his chest, his back, his hair. I nip at his bottom lip and that seems to snap the leash he’d been keeping on himself. My panties are ripped off of me forcefully, and I kick out of them while reaching for his belt, his shirt.

The skin of his chest hits my tits and he groans softly, the sound absolute fire to my blood, I rub them against his pecs just enough to make my clit pound in excitement. He once told me he loves to feel my breasts on his chest, and I take advantage of that knowledge as much as possible.

He pulls me off the wall and moves us to the counter, my skirt doing little to protect my ass from the coolness of the marble counter as it rides up around my thighs and eventually onto my waist. I wrap my legs around him, bringing his pelvis to the wetness building between them. 

I wedge one of my hands in between our bodies so I can stroke his cock, and he takes a small step back, just far enough to allow it. I unbuckle his belt with deft fingers, and soon his pants and underwear are around his ankles, until he’s naked in front of me, a god staring down his equal with a heaving chest. 

His cock is rock solid. I trace the line of it with my finger as he comes back in to kiss me, teasing him with a feather-light touch before tightening my fist and flicking the roof of his mouth with my tongue. He groans so loudly that all other sounds are lost. I melt. 

“You’re so wet, just like a good little slut,” he says as he nudges at my pussy’s entrance. I push my hips forward to meet him, but he doesn’t slide it in like I’m expecting—instead, his strong hand pushes me down onto the countertop. His other hand braces behind my head, sweetly. Even as he’s being aggressive, he can’t help but make sure I’d never actually be hurt. 

Without saying anything, he lowers his tongue to my clit and licks me ravenously. 

I collapse into the feeling, his tongue on my clit is a thousand wildfires of pleasure. The pressure in my spine builds and builds, and he doesn’t stop. One hand is pinning me to the table, the other is flicking my nipple lightly, and my orgasm creeps up on me so fast that I find myself reaching out to grab something, anything, to tether me to the table, to his mouth, to his hands. 

The climax bursts through me and I become stars in the sky, pulsing with light, the beginning and the end of time, complete. 

I shiver and shake and he doesn’t stop until I beg him, “Please, please,” and then he only moves to a different spot, slightly less sensitive.

I say his name, hoping he’ll know what I want. But he doesn’t stop licking me. 

“Please,” I beg again, squirming to emphasize my point, “I need you up here.”

Finally, he rises to full form in front of me. Maybe it’s the coming-down from the orgasm, but at this moment he looks god-like to me. I feel like a lucky fucking sex goddess.

I’m about to thank him, to tell him how good that was, when he pushes inside of me all at once. Seven inches of rock-solid cock entering my body without warning—though I’m dripping wet, I moan in harmony with him as my body seizes in the pleasure-pain that comes with taking that sheer size all at once. 

“Does that hurt?” He asks, the condescending, degrading tone in his voice back in full force.

“It does, it hurts. But don’t stop.” It’s on the edge of pleasure-pain.

“Because you can take it?”

“Yes, I can take it, whatever you need, just, please, keep—” I ramble, agreeing and rotating my hips to get some friction.

“Good girl,” He praises and begins to fuck me, hard. I might be screaming, I might be moaning, but he’s fucking me hard enough that I’m barely aware of myself. He pulls me upright while staying inside and kisses me, and I lick the taste of myself off his face. Everything tastes better once it’s on him. My nails dig into his shoulder muscles.

“You like to taste your pussy on me?”

I moan a ‘yes’ and then I’m laying back down on the counter, gripping onto the side as my legs dangle from his shoulders, his cock hitting deep inside of me. 

“You’re so big, you feel so good,” I say, breathless and incoherent.

“You take it so well,” He praises, running his hands along my body to keep me pinned. “Thank me.”

“Thank you, thank you, I came so hard, thank you.” I oblige him happily. 

“You taste so fucking good, little slut. You’re welcome.”

I have my eyes closed until suddenly something cold and sharp touches my nipple, and I look up to see him holding a knife to my chest. The adrenaline that immediately shoots through me is real, as my body can’t distinguish between real and pretend fear. But I can’t help but be grateful that he somehow knows how to read my mind, even as I focus on staying still for him. He forces my neck back down with one hand and grips me tightly. This is something I’ve given him permission to do ages ago—and I have a safeword if I need it, but as a fresh batch of wetness creeps onto the counter, I give myself further to the fantasy.

“Do not move your fucking neck. Can you feel that, slut?”

“I can feel that.”

“Tell me you’re a slut for liking that.”

I find myself shyly admitting to the words, “I’m such a slut for liking that.”

His praise sends warmth into my stomach. “Good girl.”

I didn’t think it was possible to be more turned on, but I nearly come again just from the sight of him holding the knife. I can’t help but smile, and the thought that I really am a slut hits me. I was always taught it was a bad thing to be, but lying here, so much pleasure licking along my bones and muscles…I don’t mind being a slut at all. So dirty that I liked to be fucked with a knife to my throat—and all I can think is how good it feels. How free I am.

He drops the knife, as if it interests him much less than holding me, and picks me up. I wrap my legs around his waist tightly, holding his back to try to relieve some of the weight of me.

“I’ve got you baby, relax.”

He sets me on his couch and enters me again so swiftly that it’s like he was never out of me at all. It’s softer now, the angle different, and the pleasure builds up slow until I’m shattering again. This time I come softer, more complex—I see colors and kaleidoscopes fracturing in my vision, I grip his shoulders to steady myself, his hands on my ass so that I’m as close to him as possible. His face is buried in my shoulder, my inner muscles clenching around him so tightly that his breathing changes. 

We fuck like that for a bit, listening to each other breathe and the sounds he pushes from me as he slides in and out.

“I’m going to fill you up,” he says.

My blood heats when he says that, I love to feel like I’m nothing more than a toy for him to drop a load in. He groans from deep in his chest, completely undone before me, and I whisper in his ear.

“You’re doing so well,” I say as I grab him with my pussy. I massage his scalp and back as his thrusts slow, his come already dripping from me. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, and butterflies flutter their way up from my toes to my nose. Sometimes, when I’m really happy, my body takes over and I squirm a little bit. As if all the happy energy, the happy chemicals, bubble over and need to escape somehow. He smiles into my cheek.

“Was that a happy wiggle?” He asks, having bestowed that name forever ago when it first happened. 

“It was,” I say and kiss his cheek. His voice has changed, and I know we’re both back to being ourselves. I love him playing the dominant, degrading part during sex—but I love my sweet boyfriend more. 

He’s still inside me, though I can feel him less well by the second. I want to stay like this forever, him collapsed on top of me. His heartbeat is steady against my chest, his breathing consistent and calm. His smell claims mine, and I’d bathe in it if I could. 

Photo by Alexander Krivitskiy