You shake a sleeve of the dish water I’ve splashed across the sink. End of the night, it’s been left to you to tidy the kitchen… and, saint I am, I’m “drying” the dishes.
Well, I was—but as I snicker, you grab the spray nozzle and turn it on me. “Any last words?” Tongue to molar, I wrack for something clever. “You gonna blow me away?” (Not my best, but it’s nearly tomorrow, and all clever creatures have gone to sleep long ago.)
“I just might. I’m *crazy* enough,” you squint, and as you adjust your grip on the nozzle, you put just enough pressure that it sprays. All. Over. Tile, counter, me. Drenched.
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” you manage, nearly breathless. “You’re not sorry, you’re laughing!” “I’m laughing because I’m so deeply sorry,” you wheeze, “truly.”
As you lean back and cackle, my bones start to rattle; it’s January, the forest, midnight. As soon as you see me shiver, your joy shifts to concern, though with a smile.
“Go get something dry. Top drawer in the first room on your left.” You stay behind to sop up the mess as I navigate my way through the hall. I’ve only ever been in the big open spaces of your home—the public places. Your room is smaller than I imagined, but remarkably cleaner. I smile to see the trinkets I’ve posted your way across oceans scattered about: a collector’s picture book on a shelf between much more stimulating volumes; half a friendship necklace hanging from a dresser knob; a stuffed animal sitting slightly off-center of the bed, as if tossed to the side just before rising.
I find my way to your draw and rummage through for the biggest, smokiest shirt I can find. Cigarettes nauseate me, but yours always smell like home in a biologically impossible way. I look over my shoulder before peeling my soaking blouse off, rummaging for a hanger and tucking it against the front of the closet door. My sustainable but ultimately flimsy bra is useless, too, so I quickly shuck it and tug your tee over my shoulders.
I turn around just as you walk in the door and nearly hit the floor, I’m so spooked.
“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean—” “—Jesus, give a girl a warning—” “—Sorry.”
I catch my breath and hold my arms up to accentuate the bagginess of your shirt on my frame. “What do you think? Runway-ready?” “Never looked better,” you grin. “Let me throw your top in the dryer,” you say, reaching for the closet door, hesitating when your hands run across the pile of lace and straps glued to it. You gather yourself, valiantly, almost imperceptibly, and I follow you back to the kitchen, where you toss my things in the dryer. “Gentle? For the—?” You look halfway up. “The bra?” I smirk, “Yes, please.”
“Right,” you breathe, as I lift myself onto the newly-dry counter, finding my half-full glass of wine and bringing it to my lips.
You close the door and turn to me, arms framing my swinging legs as you laugh, “So much alcohol for such a little person. Don’t you have class tomorrow?” I finish a gulp before retorting, “Nope.” “Oh, well,” you shake your head, the arc of it landing squarely on my thighs. I feel myself still almost against my will, and with you frozen, we could be a photograph.
I watch you stare as you lift one hand, irritatingly slowly, halting before palm makes contact with my leg; instead, the hand flips as you run a single finger down the outside of my thigh, so softly if I wasn’t looking I might not feel it at all.
I’ll say it’s the wine, but it’s not the wine—I’m just happy, and I can tell you’re happy, and I think we both deserve happiness, even just for this little moment. “Close your eyes.” “What are you going on about?” You laugh, race redder than I’ve ever seen it.
“Close your eyes, or I won’t be able to do it.” You smile, but I can see a lump crawl down your throat as you swallow. Blink. Blink. And then you keep them closed.
I bring my slightly clammy hands up to your face, knowing you know enough about me not to find any part of me gross. My palms settle flat against the stubble of your cheeks, thumbs running up to your hairline, across your eyelids. You shake with your exhale, but you don’t move.
I realise a bit too far into the game that my short legs have me too far from your face. “Come here,” I whisper-beg, tugging on your face—and graciously, you step closer, planting your hands just outside my thighs, so that I can usher your face to mine.
At first, it’s gentle. Your lips are shockingly soft and I can’t help but think, “This is why people like kissing.” You aren’t still enough to *not* be kissing back, but you almost glance off me, as if savouring a dream you’re worried you might wake up from if you focus too hard on savouring. I’m so starstruck with the sweetness of you I part so I can rest my forehead to yours, look eye to eye. “You are very good at that,” I smile.
“Honey,” you laugh, and it’s almost a pant. You hold my gaze for what feels like a month, and then one arm goes to my shoulder, one under my knees as you scoop me up, craning your neck to press your lips to my neck. “Where are we going?” I giggle. I expected you would be fretting in this moment, trying not to make a wrong move or overstep, but you’re almost comically joyful. You glance around. “Sofa?” You pause, giving me the lay of the land. “Bed?” I ask, gingerly, and I have to push myself to make eye contact, and when I do, you’re just… shining. “Bed,” you agree, and march off.
It doesn’t even ruin the moment when you carry me back out to my rucksack, lean me over so I can extract my pills, put the sink nozzle (carefully) to my mouth so I can swallow them down.
When we get to bed, I expect you to chuck me down playfully, but I’m taken aback by the gingerly way you lower me to the sheets, and the even more faltering way you crawl up to hover over me. “You want this?” you wheeze, “… me?” I rest one hand up against your heart, clawing as if I could bring it closer. “I want you,” I nod, much more confidently than I ever dreamed I could. “Do you want me?”
You lower to your elbows, crowding up to my face, covering me over with you. “Yes.” You kiss me again, running your tongue across my teeth, and if I take it between them, hold onto a bit, who’s to know. I come up for air and ask the last thing I need to know, which is, “For a while?” Your face twists from confused to a smirk. “For a very long while.” You trace my hair behind my ear, your hand trailing down my arm. “I know you’ve just put this on, but would you mind if I take it off?” you ask, toying at the hem of your top.
“What, it doesn’t do it for you?” “It very much does it for me,” you confess, “and so I would like it out of the way, if your highness finds that agreeable.”
“I do,” I grin, and you sit back on your knees as I lift so you can strip my chest bare, tossing the fabric to the ground beside us, returning to me. I don’t know where to put my hands so I glue them to the bed around me, feeling a bit goosebumpy under your steely gaze. You reach both hands out at once, then stop.
“Can I?” you ask, and it sounds so childish I can’t stop myself laughing. “You may,” I manage, and you bring your palms up to cover my breasts, almost as if to trap the warmth in before it leaves me. Your thumbs run across my nipples, eyes darting up as I gasp, “Sensitive.” You nod, relocating to my collarbone, tracing it as I hike my shoulders, running the dips between bone. Down my sides, thumbs brushing my stomach.
“Too squishy?” I cringe, and I’m sure you’ll be lovely, but I can’t help it, I need you to say it, and I don’t know what it is until you breathe, “You’re perfect.” You shake your head. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so happy.” I light up and reach forward with lobster claws, going for your shirt hem; you block me with karate hands long enough to say, “Now, I, remember, am an old man—” I grab your wrists, hissing, “Oh, shut up,” as I crawl forward, coming to sit on your lap, tits dangerously close to your face—you come to kiss one side of my chest as I tangle your neck up in cotton, and I have to suction you away with an almost-tasteless *pop* to get the thing off you.
I run my hands across your chest, strong as I know it is, stopping to feel your heartbeat, willing myself to stay there. Moving up to broad shoulders, snaking my arms past them to pull your chest to mine. Your arms immediately wrap around my bare back, squeezing me close. You let me sit a moment before going for my jugular once more, just breathing together, skin-to-skin.
“I love you,” I breathe. “You don’t have to say it, I just. Do.” I find I’m not bothered by my confession as I hold you close to me—though I am startled by your breath just under my ear singing, “I love you too,” as your lips meet my neck.
We shuck ourselves quickly and comically out of our pants, unspeakingly aware that to divest the other of their jeans/leggings would be a disaster, and then crawl back together, you backing up to the headboard, hands around my hips as I come to rest on top of you, my ridiculously long tresses curtaining around your face to cut us off from the rest of the world.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, because I want you to know. “Look who’s talking,” you laugh, cupping my cheek as I smile down at you. “I do love you,” you breathe, gaze welling up with steel. “I know,” I mouth, pressing my lips to your palm as I roll my hips down and against yours in what some might call “merciless” fashion.
Your head drops back instantly, and I stifle a giggle, though you don’t. “Gotta be careful with that,” you say, “it’s been a minute.” “I am a safe space,” I smirk, leaning into it, into you, into the heat and hardness I can feel forming beneath me. “I’m just happy to be here.” “You’re happy!?” you exclaim, swallowing drily. “Jesus fucking—” you grab my arse so tight I welp as you flip me underneath you and grind unapologetically against me. “Not so smart now, hmm?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I choke, as you rut relentlessly slowly against me, “I—I’m just having a good time.” Your lips meet mine, tongue to tongue, twisting as our cores do, and it’s only moments before you stutter, “I need—that is, I want—” you pause, panting, eyes somewhere beyond me. I wait until they come back to meet mine. “I don’t want anything you don’t want.”
I wind my fingers through your hair as I do a gut-check—but, wondrously, I have no compunctions at all. I grip against your scalp as I say, “I think you should go for it.” You grin, coming a bit closer. “I’m a modern man. I need—” a kiss to my forehead— “explicit—” my nose— “consent.”
I breathe to steady myself. Look into your glittering eyes. Ask for what I actually want. “I would greatly enjoy it if you would make love to me immediately.”
Your smile grows ‘til I think it’ll melt off your face. “It would be an honour,” you profess, bringing your lips back to mine as you hook your thumbs under the hem of my underwear, wringing it down and around my legs. You raise up to take off your own, and I guess my eyes go a bit wide as your prick springs free, because you immediately flicker to that constant concern. “You okay?” I pull it in. “Yeah, yes, I just—” I force myself to look you in the eye and not crawl into my own stomach. “I’ve never actually. Properly.” Your face runs like under a tap. “So just. Go slow. Okay?”
You wedge a hand under my back, down to my tailbone, and pull me to lay flat on the bed. “Absolutely,” you say, “and you’ll tell me if it hurts, or if you want to stop, yeah?” I nod. “Okay, honey.” You start to wriggle lower on the bed, but I grab your arm. “That’s—yes, later, but—I’m,” I struggle, “good to go, actually.” You smirk, bringing a finger up to my cunt, brushing past my clit in a way that makes me shudder until you can run around the rim of me. I might as well be an ice cream in the sun. “You weren’t lying,” you laugh, wide-eyed. “I want you inside me. Please.” You nod fervently, wrestling a rubber from the bedside drawer and making quick work of it, then hovering over me. “100% positive?” you eye, “No stress.” I reach down to grab you, relishing your gasp as I bring your tip to my opening. “100 percent,” I say, laying back, “though you’ll forgive me if I make you do most of the work just this once.” You lean over me, lining up. “I’m a big believer in hard work,” you grin, wrapping one arm under my shoulder and pressing just inside me.
It feels like it’s immediately that I cringe, and you stop so quickly the rebound almost hurts more. “Alright?” “I’m fine,” I grunt, “Just wait there for a second,” you nod, “and *don’t move*.”
I’m worried to make you suffer or flag, but you just press your fingers against my back, singing softly as we wait, together. “Is that—*?”* I ask, wrenching my eyes open to observe how truly mental you are. “Absolutely. You said you watch it to sleep now.” My heart goes runny like butter. “I do.” You smile. “I know you. I know I’m not… good at it, all the time,” you sigh, “but I do.” I lean up to kiss you, grateful you make up half the distance as I reach a hand to your lower back, the other straight to your ass as I pull you slowly further inside me. You groan into my mouth but stay where you are, letting me usher you deeper as I’m ready, almost forgetting the stretch from the way you’re snogging me like a John Hughes protagonist.
You inhale all at once and I’m worried I’ve bitten you when you lean back a bit to say, “That’s it.” I rush up, knocking into your head with mine. “Really? That’s it?”
You rub your forehead where I’ve surely bruised it, hard-headed as I am. “Don’t say it like that!”
“No, it’s good,” I relax down into the bed, “I’m not very long, as it were. When anything touches my cervix it feels like I’m going to vomit.” You blink slowly. “I will definitely try not to do that, then,” you promise.
“Sorry,” I breathe. “I’m new at this.” “Not anymore.” “Not anymore,” I agree.
I think you’re going to start moving, but instead, you stay still and ask, “Are you glad?”
I am so in love with you. “I am *so* glad. Come here.” I open up my arms like I’m your baby, which I am, in a way, and you lower your weight onto me, fully locked in my body as I feel your heartbeat race through your cock, pressing against my walls. The upward wave of my hips is unconscious, but quickly met by your pushing back against me.
I’ve never felt so completely full, or seen, or comfortable, and you’re patient as I figure out when to move, when to take you in, the rising and falling of our specific brand of love.
The stretch where you burrow into me is warm like sunshine in the garden, and I can’t help melting underneath you as you seep into the furrows I’ve left behind, driving steadily into and out of me, always coming back.
Just like I always come back to you.
“Bring your feet up,” you breathe, guiding my legs to wrap around your waist. I cry out as you plunge deeper, and I can feel your self-satisfied smirk as you growl in my ear. Blood flows everywhere but mostly to my cunt and as it pulses around you, you moan, “Oh, honey.”
“Yes?” I manage, feeling the breath being literally fucked out of me.
“You feel.” You shudder against me. “I.” You shake your head, hair flying. “I’m gonna come.” Another rush, another squeeze, another groan. “Are you close?” You look as if you’re holding the world up by your shoulders.
“Yes, yes, just don’t stop, and don’t be careful with me,” I say, pulling you close as possible so as to feel every stroke of your torso against my clit, “and tell me when you come.” You nod, silent for once, thrusting in time with me, grunting with the effort of it. I feel you jerk once. “Is that the precome?” You nod. “Please, please, please come.” I look at you. “Open your eyes. I want to see you.” You obey, looking almost pained. “I want you to come. Bury yourself deep inside me. Let it go.” You nod, thrusting hard enough to twinge once, then twice, before you’re scrambling, “Honey, honey, I’m coming, holy fuck I’m coming, I’m coming in you,” as you press me up to you, holding me in place as you jerk forward. One last strong, deep thrust and I’m coming, grasping wildly at you, having just enough clarity to say, “I’m coming,” knowing you’d want to hear.
I claw into your back as you cement yourself to me, finally collapsing as one sweaty, glowing art project onto your bed. You turn us onto our sides, but I whimper and pull you closer—I don’t want you slipping out of me just yet. “Shh,” you breathe, petting my hair in absolute vain, “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” You keep a hand against my back as I curl into your chest, suddenly bashful and more than exhausted. We sit in silence like that, catching breath on cresting waves before I feel your finger under my chin, pulling my face to line with yours. “Don’t get shy now,” you admonish, but oh-so-gently. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I’m so glad you made me look at you.”
My face is on fire, I”m sure. “Thank you,” I say, mind swimming, “I love you.” You smile, wrapping arms around and pulling me on top of you so I can nuzzle to your chest. For the first time, it’s so natural—I almost forget to ask, until I’m halfway asleep, “Can I stay?” You crack one eye open. “You’re not getting rid of me now,” you say, tightening the vice of your arms around my middle. Faintly, from the kitchen, the dryer’s finished alarm plays on the breeze.
“Tomorrow,” you say, tucking your head into my hair. It’s the last thing I hear before the world floats away.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/hmmjzn/fuck_that_isnt_fair_fm_fluffy_soft