A dusting of snow blows across the concrete of the airport arrivals terminal, a dervish of crystalline white spiraling up into towering form, then collapsing into component motes. I pace back and forth between my pile of luggage and the taxi stand, realizing how nervous I am. Hardly an absurd thing to be feeling, given the circumstances, but definitely out of character. It’s been years since we’ve seen each other in person. Years since I’ve run my fingers down the gentle curve of her neck. Years since I’ve felt her lips against mine. I shiver despite my heavy new winter coat. Nerves.
When things ended the first time, I figured that was it. I had a choice to make, and I chose. With a single agonizing decision, I parted our lives. Even knowing what I do now, I still believe I did the right thing. But that’s not to say it’s been easy or there haven’t been regrets. Hardly. I longed for her, in ways I had previously thought to be the realm of trite fiction and breakup songs. Still, as it can almost always be counted on to do, life went on. She lived hers and I lived mine. I tried to force myself to forget, to focus on what was in front of me. It didn’t work.
The How and Why of my arrival at this new place, physically and emotionally, isn’t the story I’m here to tell. Suffice to say, things changed. When I reached out for her again, years later, I didn’t expect much. After all, I had chosen to abandon her, to live a different life. I had always imagined she would hate me for that. She didn’t. It was just as it had always been between us. Almost effortless. It wasn’t long before we were talking every day again, resuming all our private rituals. When the tides of life inevitably shifted again, I didn’t hesitate. We had frequently talked about it, in varying degrees of seriousness. Now it was happening.
The sky is a uniform battleship gray above the distant mountains. I can’t tell if snow is actually falling or just blowing around. It’s already colder than I’m used to. My phone buzzes. She’s about to arrive.
—
We fall immediately back into place, like lego bricks clicking seamlessly together. It’s always been this way, but I’m overwhelmed with how good, how right this feels. She drives us to her house, empty now in the middle of the day. I collapse on top of the cool, clean sheets of her bed, exhausted from travel. I must fall asleep for a moment, because the very next thing I know, she’s on top of me. Naked. Holding her collar from years ago. I blink through tears and sit up to embrace her, kiss her. I can feel her shift as I buckle the patterned leather tightly around her neck. Our official, legal marriage comes months later with more fanfare but less emotional gravity. It is in this moment I claim her permanently, exclusively, as my own, my girl, my bride.
Then several things seem to happen at once, a multilayered quantum event that must have been minutes but feels like bare seconds. My sweater is instantly off, the t-shirt beneath pushed up to my chin. My belt unbuckled and my jeans immediately pushed down my thighs. one boot is kicked off, while the other remains awkwardly half on. She lowers herself on to me, a flood of wetness soaking us both. As she rides me, I drink in her body. Ideal curve of breasts and belly, cream-white thighs squeezed against my hips, the meticulously smooth parting slit between her legs blossoms wide for me as she leans back, knowing exactly what I want to see. Gestalt of animal lust and adoring love coiled together, blanking all thought.
Hard hands and teeth against the soft pink of her nipples. She’s wordlessly begging me for bruises, but that’ll have to wait. I need all of her in this moment, my face pressed into her chest as she bounces gently on my lap. My hands down her back now, fingers kneading into her flesh in ways I know she finds painfully ecstatic. On her next downward stroke, I match the thrust in reverse and push myself into her as deeply as I can. Her sharp gasp transmutes into a low moan as I hold her there, hands on her hips, filling her in the first of three ways.
Warm intimacy of skin against skin as she curls her body into mine. We hold each other for a span of heartbeats, stretched into an infinity of lifetimes. Human chemistry of mingled sweat and wetness and cum alchemized into a singular and refined sexual pheromone. I’m not finished. Not even close. She senses this, pushing her ass into me with a teasing giddiness. She begs me for it. I imagine a lot of girls’ relationship with anal is one of begrudging tolerance; something for birthdays and special occasions, circumstantially allowed but rarely enjoyed. Not my girl. With her, it is far beyond a matter of want. She needs it.
I can tell the instant she loses herself. Her squeaks and moans drop half an octave. Her head slumps, her shoulders collapse to the mattress. I can stop moving. Her face buried among the puddled blankets, she slams herself on to me, brutally stretching herself on my significant girth. Barely lubricated with lingering wetness, I know this hurts her. That’s more than half the point. The pain, the submission, the violation are all wrapped in her need, the craving to be so forcefully and mercilessly used. She is a true slut for this, and I give her nothing less than what she deserves.
—
The Power of Three is well understood throughout human storytelling. There is a family of three bears who sleep in three beds. There are three gruff goats trying to cross a bridge. Three chances are given to guess an unlikely name. There are three furies, three wise men, and three witches tormenting a cursed king. The genie grants three wishes, the sphinx asks three questions and three strong drinks are needed to seal any godly compact. Twice have I claimed my collared bride today. Tradition demands a third.
She gags at first. I slow but don’t stop. I know she enjoys this. All the way in now, I can see the satisfaction in her gorgeous brown eyes looking up at me. My hands cradle her face, tracing the elegant line of her jaw before winding into her hair. Hold her there. Another choking gag followed by a moan of submissive pleasure. All the way out, then all the way back down. No more gagging. Such a good girl. I use her throat this way, relentlessly, until the inevitable conclusion. She hates this, I know, but it’s well out of my hands. She doesn’t get a choice, either. There’s no chance for her to swallow, every drop is forced straight down. Still, no gags. My fuckin’ girl.
Finally, laughter. Jokes about soreness. Playful slaps, some gentle, others less so. Plans for dinner. The spark of a lighter and the shared sacrament of smoke. Somewhere amongst the effortless banter and staggering incredulity that, yeah, this is real, we’re really going for it this time, bound by the Power of Three; somewhere amongst it all, a moment of uninhibited clarity, like bells echoing across a clear, frigid morning-
I’m home.
(Thanks for reading.)
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/qvksyf/a_dream_worth_having_mf
Love, love, love ❤