Big Dick

I got back home late—1:34, blinking on my bedside clock—but earlier than the rest of the house. The evening had begun in the living room, where the coffee table was now littered with empty cans and open bottles. I was drunk, overwhelmingly. I smoked a joint in the garden to mellow out. The night air was wet and cold, but I didn’t mind. By the end of the joint things had become slower, softer, headier. I poured myself a glass of wine and walked down the rough carpet of the steps, and opened the door into your room.

The room is a large basement studio, sectioned in two with a curtain slightly to the right of the stairwell. No one comes down here but us, so privacy isn’t a concern. Your room is dark and cluttered with sketches, books, trash and clothes. Your bed takes up most of the space; a dark four-poster frame with a boyish set of jersey blue sheets and a mismatched comforter. It looks so comfortable, and I consider climbing into it for a moment before I notice you sitting at your desk.

Your lamp wasn’t on; that’s why I missed you. You’re illuminated instead by the electric glow of your laptop. Hello, I say, heavily slurring. You don’t answer. I’m heartbroken until I see a thin black cord dangling by your side. Hm, I think, he must be busy. Suddenly self-conscious, I part the curtain and walk into my room.

Everything is awash with the pink lights which hang above my bed, nestled in a sheer white canopy of fabric. My bed is not like yours; it is smaller, and lies on a low, simple frame. The sheets are soft, cool and white. I take a sip of my drink as I walk across the room to a small couch and open my laptop to play music. Dreamy doo wop plays softly as I change out of my clothes and into a nightgown. I feel like Hedy Lamarr and imagine you as Clark Gable, taking me into your arms, spilling my wine, kissing me passionately…

I wake up to a weak knock on the wall. I’ve fallen asleep on the couch, wine in hand. A small panic rises in my heart as I wonder if I’ve spilled, but no, I don’t see any stains. I take another sip and realize I haven’t sobered at all. How long had it been?

You call my name. How do you make your voice sound like that? So distant but so warm.

Are you drunk?

I am very drunk.

You walk to the couch and take the wine in your hand. I look up at you, my face warm and flushed from sleep, and imagine that I must seem very demure in this position.

You smell like weed, you say.

I smoked weed, I say. A fleeting expression—of disapproval, or maybe just consideration—goes across your face. You say it’s mostly in my hair, and pendik escort ask, why don’t you shower?

I am so tired, it can wait until the morning, I say, all I want to do is lie down and—

You laugh. It’s a rich, commanding laugh, one like a teacher might give a student. My stomach flutters. You take my hand and drink the rest of the wine in a single gulp.

Hey! I say, I wanted that!

I’ll make you something stronger, you tell me. You take my hand and lead me back through your room, to the bathroom.

We walk in. The room is thick with humidity—and warm, so warm. I realize the bath is full, and almost complain that he hadn’t emptied it, until I realize he must have drawn it for me. I want to hug him and tell me that it was so sweet. I want him to brush his hands across the straps of my nightgown, slide them off my shoulders and pull down the thin fabric. I want him to lift me onto the counter and kiss me, kiss my neck, to pick me back up and bend me over and fuck me with his fingers while we lock eyes in the mirror and then to unbuckle his jeans, to fuck me hard against the cold ceramic, the hot, wet air making us sweat and pant. I want to take off your shirt and give your skin a hundred little bites, to unbuckle your belt and choke on your cock, to follow you into the bath and hold you and to take my honeysuckle soap and cover every inch of you in its lather.

I want to, but you say you’ll be just outside if I need you, and you shut the door behind you. Roy Orbison begins to sing quietly through the door.

I slip myself out of my nightgown and into the tub. You must have taken a shower recently because the air still smells like your shampoo. Instead of reaching for my honeysuckle, I grab yours—a black bottle—and squeeze some into the palm of my hand. I think I’ll wash my hair with it but instead I dip my hand into the bath, whirl it around, until the water around me is soapy and you-smelling. I smile and let the water warm my skin—every small wave is magnified and almost ecstatic. I sigh softly, and in the stillness of the room it seems much louder than I expected. Hm, I thought—and I moaned.

A few more times, all very slowly, all very quiet. My hands travel beneath the water, against my skin, enjoying the feeling. I thought of you listening, in your room. I thought of you hearing me and imagining me in here, wet and soapy and touching myself. I wonder if that would embarrass you. Roy Orbison stops. You must have turned it off. A minute passes, and I hear your music playing. I listen, and let myself sink beneath the water.

I kartal escort hear you knock again. I wonder if I’ve fallen asleep—but the water is still just as warm, the bubbles still new.

Yes? I say. More of an invitation than a question.

I made you a drink.

I giggle. Thank you, I say, will you bring it in here?

For a moment, I let myself picture you opening the door, walking to the tub, placing the drink in my hand, looking down at me. I picture you rolling your sleeve up, dipping your hand into the water, running it up my thigh. Your breath would taste like whisky when you kissed me.

You open the door. My mind freezes.

You walk in without even pausing. I suddenly feel so small and weak. You put the drink in my hand. It’s freezing, and I can smell the alcohol immediately. I look intently at your eyes. They’re pointed at the floor. My heart beats heavily in my chest.

Are you ready to get out, you ask.

I try to respond, mhm, but it comes out more as a faint moan. You leave and come back with a towel, and open it before me. I step into it and let you wrap the warm cotton around my shoulders. I hold it around myself like a little girl at the pool and look at your eyes. You finally look back up. I wanted to beg you to fuck me, right there, on the bathroom floor. You grab my towel and your fingernails press into my skin. A hoarse breath escapes my throat. You grab my drink before guiding me to my room and to my bed.

I don’t have my nightgown, I said.

You don’t, you said. You retrieve it from the bathroom and bring it back to me. I blush deeply, not certain whether you will look away this time or not. You do. I pull it on and ask for my drink. You take a sip before handing it to me. The damp satin of my dress clings to my stomach and my thighs and I wonder if you can see how hard my nipples are.

I lay back on the bed, sipping and adjusting. I make sure that you can see as much of my body as possible. I consider accidentally tugging the top of the gown down, or the hem up, exposing myself…but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t want to ruin this. I’m staring at you now. You sit on the bed at my feet.

You are a mess, you say.

I am?

Yes. You shouldn’t drink like you do.

You’re right. I should be punished.

It slipped out. I couldn’t catch myself before I said it. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I think, before I realize that you are a good guy and what I meant probably didn’t even occur to you. You smile.

Is that what you want?

Oh, no. You understood. I blush maltepe escort and pretend to be sleepy. Suddenly, I feel your hand, the comforter between it and my calf. You slide it up until you arrive at the back of my knee. I want to roll onto my knees and arch my back and pull my skirt up.

Hm? Answer me.

I look into your eyes. You’re staring into mine. Please fuck me. Please, please fuck me.

I’m sorry, I say, that was just a joke.

But you were right. You should be punished. Do you want to be? Tell me.

Your hand continues up my leg, running firmly along my thigh. You pull the comforter down, off of me, and push me onto my stomach. My legs spread and I arch my back, waiting in agony for you to—


I moan loudly, surprised by the sharp, stinging pain. You spank me again, and gently shush me.

Do you like that?

I want to scream yes, yes, yes! But instead I nod limply. It’s all I can do. I am already reduced to a sweating, panting, speechless mess. You lightly place your hand on my ass, spreading me. You drag a finger through my cunt and pause at my hard little clit, rubbing it in tight circles while you watch me scream and feel my muscles twitch beneath your hand. I ache for you inside me, I need it, please, please…

I asked you a question. Do you like that? Huh?

You punctuate the last ‘huh’ by sliding two of your fingers inside me, roughly and violently. I can hear my wetness as you slowly, torturously stroke them in and out of me. My hips move in disjointed rhythm with your hand, desperate for something harder, deeper, faster.

All I can manage to respond with is a breathy moan that sounds something like an affirmation.

You steady my hips with your free hand and keep your fingers deep inside of me, curling and uncurling them while rubbing my clit with your thumb. Heat and tension builds in my stomach by the second and I am moaning and tearing up and edging closer and closer to climax and you remove your fingers and slide down your pants and place the head of your cock against my cunt and I frantically push my hips back onto you, whimpering half in pain, half in pleasure, entirely in sublimity as I feel your cock fill me. Already at the precipice of climaxing, I let myself sink into the feeling and everything slowly turns hot, pink, and bright as an orgasm consumes me…

I wake up on my couch, covered in sweat, my hands and chest sticky with spilled wine and my slit dripping wet. I look blearily at my clock—4:24. Fuck. I don’t want to disturb you, but I need to shower. I part the curtain and walk into your room.

There you are. Sitting at your desk, earbuds in, scrolling some news site, probably. You notice the movement across the room and turn to face me as I open the door to the bathroom.

Are you okay? you ask, as I turn the faucet toward H.

I heard you moaning in your sleep.



Yorum Ekle

E-Mail Adresiniz Yayınlanmayacak. Zorunlu Alanlar *