Please

"Sit" he orders me.

'What am I, you're fucking dog?' I can't help thinking. But my glossed lips stay shut. Lips he hasn't even kissed. Lips that he camethisclose to when he greeted me, only to pull away after his warm breath hit them with his hello.

We are in his study. The walls are green and the light diffused so it seems den like. As if I stayed too long I'd never extricate myself. He takes the leather chair only after I sit in the wooden one 5 feet away.

Tonight he's not wearing a belt. I remember it pressing into my belly cold and thick,
how he pinned my arms when I fumbled with it. "Patience" he'd hissed in my ear.

So there is no metallic interlude before he starts on the buttons of his fly, one- two- three- he looks at me to see how much I want it. It must be enough as with a few more tugs his thick cock is out, nestled by the soft pillow of his balls. I bite the insides of my cheeks, wanting to kneel in front of him, to lick, nuzzle, kiss, worship him. As if he can read my mind he shakes his head, and starts to stroke.

A bit of pre-cum leaks from the tip, I lick my bottom lip knowing it would be salty as I licked that soft skin. Skin so soft there's nothing like it. No food, no fabric, no liquid or solid can match the luscious softness that is a man's cock.

"Please?"

"No"

He grips himself harder, his cock surging red. He grabs the lube he knows I like and
drizzles some on the treat that should be mine.

"God, didn't know you were such a showman."

"Being a brat won't get you anywhere."

He forgets about me for awhile, his head leaning back, eyes closed, hand jerking a steady rhythm. When I let out a whimper he opens his eyes but doesn't lose the beat.

"Okay" he breathes heavily. I stand,

"No"

"But,"

"Crawl"

I hit my knees with a speed I didn't think my dignity would allow. My eyes don't leave his cock as I crawl to it. My hands find his knees and his hand is in my hair. As I lean in he pulls me back by my curls. I look to him brow furrowed,

"What do you say?"

Don't be late..

I am pissed. I am a catty, bitchy, pissed off nag, woman scorned; I am epic on the small scale. I shove the last dirty dish into the washer, “Well at least you’re getting some housekeeping done,” my inner positivity chirps. “Shut up.” Snarls the rest of me.

He’s late, 12, 24, 30 minutes late. “He could be reasonably caught up.” Soothes Reason calmly. “Fuck you.” I snap back at her. Pick up the phone, let it ring till I hear his machine, hang up, continue cleaning. “If he comes now, I’m not answering.”
“Uh huh.” chortles Disbelief.
“Now, now..” tuts Reason.
“Whatever” my inner child says with a slight roll of the eyes glued to her Gameboy.

The phone rings.
“Its me.”
“Uh huh.”
“What apartment are you again?”

Then he’s there, and despite everything I’m kissing him. He’s dressed in a trench, a sweater, trousers, all against the rain. All more than I’m used to seeing him in. Damn he looks good in clothes. I’m wearing white cotton and yellow silk, previously chosen for seduction, kept on for functionality.

We continue kissing. I keep thinking.. never a good sign. I lean my hips in, hyperflexing my back, and stroke against him. Hands never leaving his face, wherever his may roam. Its so close, why can’t he just tell, I want, I want.

“Push me against the wall”
“What?”
“Push me, oh never mind..”
“You mean like..”

With a whoosh of fabric and a pivot of heel, he has me pinned to my door. The imbalance of power is not lost on me (given his dressed state, and my half dressed one), nor is the proximity of my neighbors. My door shudders audibly with each shove of aggression, he bites, I moan, the silk is lost.

My hand is at his zipper a second after his, one hand as the other is clutched at the back of his skull busy trying to get his mouth ever closer. When his cock is free of the pants, he shoves me to my knees. ‘Yes’ I think as I suck at him gracelessly, pointedly, passionately. I gag, drool, slobber, all because I know he likes it and I want it to be about what he likes. His fingers tangle in my hair, grip my skull, and push me even farther.

He grabs my white cotton clad arms and drags my mouth back to his. I hear my neighbor vacuuming the hallway as he plunges his tongue into my mouth and fingers into my cunt. His mouth is spring sweet as I hear the rip of a condom wrapper. “Smooth!” admires the inner observer seconds before he silences thought with one solid stroke.

We pound against each other, against the solid door; I wrap my legs in the swirls of cloth getting off on our non-nakedness. He swivels me around, unto my feet, ass in the air, palms on the floor. I grapple for something to squeeze, pinch, grab, so as to silence the moans that threaten to alert the neighbors. One hand supports me, as another acts as muzzle, my shoulders ache.

Kissing we back into my room, bed is swept clear of debris, he struggles with the buttons of my shirt; I wrap my legs round his hips like a possum gripping a tree. He pumps into me again and again, more position changes, more aggression, tenderness, biting. Till we’re both flat on out backs staring at the chipped ceiling.

“Well,” I huff on the breath I’m trying to catch. “that will teach you for being late.”

(© Alice Ginsberg)

The dominant submissive

So here’s the thing:

I am no blushing wallflower, no coy flirt, I am nobody’s pushover. I argue like its my raison d’etre, I spare no breath in telling perfect strangers they're wrong, I laugh louder than most think is necessary. Yet I’m submissive.

Nothing does it for me more than being overpowered, but you have to prove it to me first. You have to show yourself a worthy opponent, for if I were to bend to the will of a being less powerful than I… Well really, where’s the fun in that? Its like oohing and aahing at the strength of someone you could bench press.

And while I will let you take my body, tie my down, mark me red, blue, and bruised, pound me till I can barely take it… I won’t give up my pride. That’s mine, I earned that.

Call me a whore (please), grab me roughly, throw me down and fuck me like you don’t care, but tell me to crawl and you’ll get no more than a raised eyebrow and a sneer. Slap my face and you remind me of my mother. Disrespect me, give me no consideration, and I’ll find my shoes and the door.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

dark

He quickly snaps off the lights.
“I don’t think we’ve had sex in the dark before” I whisper
“I don’t know that I remember how.” He jests, coming closer as my eyes adjust and he goes from formless to lit by night city light and moon.
“That’s okay, I’ll show you.” I assure him.

He proceeds to fuck me sweetly, roughly, gently, mundanely. Somehow we manage to twist every experience into a few hours. I love him on top of me, being free to just be fucked, or to swing my hips into him with whatever momentum I can gain, or curling into him trying to get closer, closer, closer.

“Mark me, please” I whisper. I want to walk through the day with bits of him remindered into my skin with circles of bruised flesh. I want those bruises to be my secret, underneath the layers of good girl I want to remember tonight.

He shoots on my stomach, his cum like salve to the wounds he’s inflicted. We collapse onto his bed in a tangle of pale, soft, moonlit limbs. Petting each other gently, I look at his face and realize that I really like this man. Perhaps that’s novel as its the first time I’ve had the realization without an accompanying rush of terror and disbelief.

A line of prose comes to me and I need to write it down, I grab my notebook and attempt to write without turning on a light. The process unwraps my legs from his, and brings my cum laced stomach to kiss his bed.

“What are you doing?” He asks. Licking and biting my ass, crouching atop my prone body to nuzzle his face in my hair. “Well,” I want to say, “I was trying to write. Now I’m just doing whatever the hell you want me to be doing.”

His lips trace my back, dragging gasps, shudders, and goose bumps. He picks a bit of flesh and digs his teeth in, the pain is intense. I want to cry uncle, but something keeps me pinned beneath him, moaning and writhing, till he lets go long enough to choose another spot. When he's done I'm breathing like I sprinted to catch a bus, and his body's weight feels like all that is keeping me in my skin.

(© Alice Ginsberg)