The other night he turned to me, as I was on the verge of sleep, and asked:
“Will you tell me a story?”
“Mmrrgh,” I replied. “Tired.”
“Go on,” he said. “One of your dirty stories. Tell me one.”
I paused for a few seconds, trying to kick my brain into a hotter gear, trying to conjure the angry dominant guys and filthy, horny girls that populate my waking dreams. The cast that has starred in so many stories I’ve told to him before.
I was tired. I failed. I slept. But to make up for it, here’s what I should have said.
Please put your hand over my mouth. Hold your hand tight and hard so I can just about breathe through my nose. Push your palm into my lips to keep me quiet while you fuck me.
I love it when you cover my mouth, because it takes not just my breath away but my voice. My words. I love being forced to be silent for a while. To hold still and breathe steadily while you fuck me with deep, long strokes. While you grip the bed frame with one hand and my face with the other, and put your mouth right next to my ear. I love being made to just listen to you: when you tell me to spread my legs. When you tell me to squeeze. When you whisper ‘ssssh’ in my ear and when you grunt with pleasure – that delicious moment when you’ve pushed in as far as you can go and stretched me right around you.
When you say ‘that’s it,’ with aching satisfaction as you slide your dick in right up to the hilt. I like hearing your words.
You don’t paint the same pictures as I do, with characters and back story and a narrative arc that ends with one girl filled with three guys’ worth of spunk, but you do better than that: you make the noises that make my cunt shiver. The groans and moans and grunts as you fuck your way to satisfaction.
With your hand clamped firmly over my mouth.
When I’m silent I’ll listen better to your instructions – not focusing just on biting back squeals and gasps as I clench myself tighter to feel every inch of you. I close my mouth and feel more – hear more.
‘You’re so fucking wet.’
‘That’s good. Squeeze tighter.’
‘Lie down on the floor, I want to really go at you.’
As I lie on the floor, feeling the cold hardness of the tile on my back, and the warmth of you pressed on top of me, I want to spit something out: some word or phrase that will tell you just how hot this makes me. How much I love the feeling of you fucking me for the sake of your own satisfaction. How hard I’m about to come around your cock. But with your hand over my mouth I can say nothing, so I just listen and feel and enjoy all the things that you do to me when your dick is hard and you need to fuck harder. When all that matters is those final quick, sharp, deep, hard strokes that’ll fill me with your spunk.
And I can feel them building. I can feel you tense up – speed up – and you shove your palm more tightly against my mouth.
‘Good girl,’ you say, and ‘that’s it.’ So I tap you gently on the back, twice, and you let go. I open my mouth just as you empty yourself into my cunt, breathing deeply, gasping in air, clenching tighter around you so I can feel the full force of you pouring into me.
As I rub out the last few movements that push me over the edge, I can let out a sigh, and a breath, and a deep and heartfelt ’thank you.’
Then I can speak: at the end. I can speak when I’m done: when you’ve fucked me.