The mid-August sun breaks through the cracks in the curtains. You’ve already been up for an hour, while I’ve stretched lazily in bed. You enter the room with your hair still wet from the shower. I like watching you like this, damp and naked, as I pull my lazy body toward the edge of the bed and sit up.

“Come here,” I whisper, and you do.

I press a kiss to your belly, then spin you around. Your ass always does me in, and I know you enjoy it when I fill my palms with your flesh and squeeze hard. I love feeling how you settle into my hands. I think you like it even more when I lower my mouth and press a kiss where your spine curves into your ass. But what really gets you is when I bite.

“Oh, well. Hello there,” you chirp.

I let go of my grip and slap you a little teasingly, and with enough sting for you to shudder.

“Bend over,” I tell you.

“Fuck,” you answer, but there’s no hesitation in the way you comply. You stretch forward, open yourself for me, offering your body without resistance.

Already, your cunt starts to drool.

I don’t care about your cunt. You know what I’m after, and when I press my tongue flat against the tight rim of your ass, you loosen. You gasp, and you open.

I tongue fuck you just enough to make you ready.

I don’t need to lube the plug, but I do it as a courtesy. This time it isn’t to undo you. It’s to ready you for the day.

It’s still a tight fit when I press the silver drop against you.

“Relax,” I whisper as I press another kiss into your soft flesh.

I let you steady, and then the plug stretches you with ease. I love watching how you take over and swallow it when the widest part splits you, until the base with the blue crystal sits flush against your skin.

Your cunt weeps with need.

“Good girl,” I whisper. “Now get dressed.”

“You’re not going to fuck me?” you whimper, almost hurt.

 “No,” I answer. “Not yet.”

I watch you erect yourself, and I catch the small whimper as the plug settles with finality.

“God,” you say. “You’re really intent on ruining me, aren’t you?”

When you ask me what to wear, the answer is simple.

“The blue dress,” I say. “And nothing more.”

It’s sheer, your blue, and it lets anyone who lingers too long on you catch every shape of your body—from the pin in your nipple to the curve of your ass, and the place where your thighs dip into your beautiful cunt.

I watch you in the sunlight as you pull the dress over your head. The fabric slides down your body slowly, catching on your hips before settling, sheer enough to betray you when the light hits it just right. You smooth it down with your hands, deliberate and aware of my eyes on you the entire time.

“Oh,” I say when you stand barefoot before me. “The boots. The white ones.”

You’re a little self-conscious as we get in the car. You hope the neighbors don’t catch you, and at the same time, you hope that they do. You hope they linger long enough to notice that your nipples are erect, that the sight of you is enough to make them forget about gardening and end up in bed, both thinking of you as they fuck.

It’s a thirty-minute drive to your favorite bar. It’s a little quiet this early in the day, but the cigarette smoke curls into your nostrils like an invitation.

“You’ll need a cigarette,” I whisper, offering you a Camel.

You smile because you kicked the habit years ago.

You shake your head, but say, “But I fear… I’ll be needing one later.”

Still, you inhale deeply, drawing in the cigarette smoke curling through the bar. I know you want it.

I nod to the barkeep, Eric. He grins, pours the scotch, and then leans back without a word.

You settle onto the stool, and the plug does its silent work as it shifts. You’re calm, your eyes steady on Eric as you lift the glass to your lips and let it linger there for a moment before you take that first sip.

When my hand lifts the hem of your dress and finds room to trace your thigh, you don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge the hunger in Eric’s eyes. You stay with my touch, though there’s a faint shiver in you that betrays how much you feel it.

Your legs part with ease as I search for your heat. I don’t have to work hard, because your body guides me.

Your spine tightens when I find your clit. I feel it. You live it, and Eric sees it.

You take another sip, bigger and warmer, and your spine loosens.

My finger teases your nub, and your breath catches. Eric shifts subtly as he catches it, the smallest change in you as your composure loosens just at the edges.

You press your hips forward, grinding into my touch, letting me know just how soaking wet you are. Your eyes turn a little hazy, a little clouded.

“Look at him,” I whisper.

You gather your composure. Your eyes are clear, and you finish your drink.

That’s when I push a finger inside you, frictionless against your slick, almost burning from your heat.

“Fuck,” you whimper, loud enough for both of us. For all three of us.

The door opens, and the couple enters, nodding toward Eric before settling into a booth by the fake fireplace. They might have lingered on the couple at the bar a fraction longer than necessary. Their attention catches on the woman in the sheer blue dress, on how perfectly erect her spine is, and on how her gaze is held, briefly, in her own flushed reflection. They might notice how her legs sit too wide apart, and how they tremble down into the mismatched, white boots.

God, you’re delightful.

“I’ll be right with you,” Eric calls, but his eyes never leave you.

He steps forward and pours another fill, never once breaking his gaze.

I lean in and suck the soft of your ear between my teeth.

“How long do you think you’ll last?”

“Jesus…” you whimper.

Eric finally lets his gaze fall away, just for a moment, as he approaches the new arrivals and takes their order.

I slip another finger inside you and feel the press of the plug and how tightly it holds you.

“Drink,” I say.

You down it in one big gulp.

When Eric returns, his eyes find you again.

My free hand tugs at the deep cut of your dress, and your breast spills into my palm. I cup you and give you a slow squeeze before freeing your other tit as well.

They sway with the quiet roll of your hips.

Eric grins as he prepares the couple’s order and refills your drink. His eyes linger on your bare chest, exactly as intended and exactly as you crave, steady and unashamed. You feel witnessed.

You’re so close now. I feel the way you tense. He sees it, leans in, and you close the distance, catching the scent of his cologne. I know you want to feel his stubble against your skin.

Your lips part. I know it’s heat, almost involuntary.

I wink at him, and he grins back.

“You can’t cum in my bar, gorgeous,” he whispers, before pulling away.

I pull out from you.

“Fuck you,” you hiss. “Both of you.”

I get up and stand behind you. In the mirror, I catch the couple watching us and watching you. I don’t think they can see your tits in the reflection, though maybe they can.

I cup you again and bite into the nape of your neck, just enough to remind you of my hunger for you. I squeeze your nipples, a little too hard, before slipping your tits back into the dress.

“Finish your drink,” I whisper.

You just sit there, still grinding your cunt into the stool. Letting the plug do the work. Then, slowly, you go still.

I offer you a cigarette again, and this time you accept. Eric leans in with the lighter, close enough for you to feel the warmth before the flame appears. You meet him halfway, your palm resting against his stubble, steadying yourself as he flicks the wheel.

The flame blooms between you. You draw in slowly, deliberately, your lips barely parting as the tip catches. For a moment, none of us move. Not me. Not him. There’s just the sound of your inhale, deep and controlled, as you pull the smoke into your chest and let it settle behind your ribs.

The exhale slips out of you like a breath you’ve been holding too long. “Fuck.”

“Do come again,” Eric grins as we stand to leave.

I have to steady you a little. Your legs seem to have lost their shape.

The restaurant isn’t fancy or pretentious. It’s familiar. We have a private table, set back toward the rear, and we order drinks.

Something warm and something settling. We toast.

“Happy birthday,” I tell you.

You blush a little.

“Tell me,” you whisper. “What did you get for me?”

“Later, love.”

I tell you what to order.

“What?” you ask, a little confused.

I don’t answer. I slide underneath the table, and you understand my intent, already too open to think about stopping yourself. Your need to cum is consuming you.

“Fuck,” I hear you whimper.

I pull the skirt of your dress up and bunch it around your waist. You push forward a little, seeking my mouth.

Fuck. You’re dripping. There’s already a smear coating the seat beneath you. The blue crystal is glistening with your slick, and I struggle to get a firm grip on it. I only pull a little, just enough to watch you stretch around it.

Our waiter arrives, and that’s when I suck your clit between my teeth.

I love how you moan.

I love how he clears his throat.

“Ma’am?” he asks.

“M…miss,” you manage. “Miss.”

Your hands find my scalp. I think you mean to push. I love how you end up pulling.

You stutter through the order.

He asks you to repeat the items that don’t come out cleanly. Clearly. Understood.

The throb on my tongue is—

God, I love your cunt. I want to suck you through it. I want to fuck you with my tongue. I want you to cum on my face the way you’d normally do. But not now. Not today. Not yet.

—intoxicating.

He finally leaves. And I hear it. Your guttural groan.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

It’s loud enough to wake the dead. I catch the tremor. I stop.

You try to claw me back in, but I pull away. You stay wide-legged, and I take in the full view of your cunt. The pulse. The wet leaks out of you, coating the crystal sticking out of your ass.

“Fuck you,” you whimper as I sit up and wipe your slick from my face on the napkin.

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

There is not much conversation during our meal. You’re molten, answering in moans.

I lean close and whisper, “You want me to fuck you?”

You shake your head just enough to beg, “Don’t tease.”

I smile. You don’t.

I love it when you’re frustrated. I love it when I can spend a day denying you.

“Our hotel is just around the block,” I say.

“Hotel?” you ask. “Fucking let’s go!”

“Not yet,” I say.

“Please?”

I look at you, reveling in how gorgeous you are. “Pull your dress down, gorgeous. Let them out. They deserve to be witnessed.”

“What?”

“Trust me,” I whisper.

I don’t know if it’s the desperate need—the horny inside you taking over your brain—but you do. You pull the straps and bare yourself, a little hunched at first.

“Sit up,” I encourage.

It takes you a moment, but you do. You sit there with your back arched and your chest pressed forward. I love your tits. I want you to show them off. I want everyone who looks at you to know. They’re mine. You’re mine.

I love how poised you are when Alphonse comes to ask if there’s anything else.

“Yes,” I say.

“Oui?” he asks.

“Cup her tits.”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t be a pussy, Alphonse. I know you’re gay, and I think a gay compliment is exactly what she needs.”

He grins slightly, “Certainement, Monsieur.”

The stare you give me when he approaches is the exact tension I was hoping for. He places his manicured, soft hands on you.

“Squeeze the nipples,” I tell him. “She likes that.”

He doesn’t stop. He fills his palms with you, and when he closes around your nipples, you moan. When he pinches, your eyes draw shut.

“Exquise,” he mutters and earns himself a large tip.

You stay like that for a moment after he’s left, eyes closed, nipples taut.

The ring dangles from the bar in your nipple. You only notice when you cup yourself.

“Really?” you whisper.

“Will you?” I ask.

“Always,” you whimper.

The August night doesn’t offer much cool. I don’t think anything could cool you off at this point.

At the corner, you pull me in and kiss me.

“Fuck me,” you whimper. “Make me fucking cum. I beg. I fucking beg.”

I press you up against the brick wall.

“You want to cum?” I ask.

“I have to.”

Maybe the passersby think we’re a little drunk on love. Maybe just a little inappropriate. But the way I’m pressed against you means they can’t possibly see my hand under your dress, my fingers knuckle deep.

They might catch your breast as I unveil you and suck you between my teeth, but only if they linger long enough. The question behind your breath is this: do they?

I have only one intent: to make you cum. Cum enough to get us to the hotel.

You moan into my scalp as I hold you up on my fingers. Your eyes flicker. The girl at the crossing. The taxi driver who slows a little too long before the intersection. The man reflected in the store window across the street.

And still, you soak me. My entire hand, slick with you.

It’s a short walk to the hotel. I drop my name, and I’m handed the keycard to a room on the fourth floor with a view we don’t intend to take in.

The elevator ride is more torturous for you than for me.

As soon as I flick the card, you pull me into the suite.

“Fuck my brains out!” you almost yell.

“Patience,” I grin. “Don’t you like the room?”

But you’re out of patience. All done. Just how I hoped to find you on this night. You pull me into the bedroom, tear off your dress, claw my clothes off with hunger.

You spread yourself like a feral cat on the bed, your boots planted against the mattress.

“Fuck me!”

I want to. I want to sink inside you, take you as deep as you need me to, as deep as I need to take you. But that would ruin your birthday gift.

I fumble through my discarded pants and find the blindfold.

You sigh.

“Of course,” you whimper.

Blinded, you let yourself fall flat on the bed.

“Please…” you moan.

I shift and sit above you, stretch your head back just enough to let you find the shape of my throbbing cock.

Now you feel the air change slightly. Just presence. His cologne slips into your senses like a memory you chose to keep. Eric’s been waiting in the other room and assigned to give you your birthday fuckgasm.

“Scotch,” you murmur.

You draw your legs together at the touch of his hands on your knees. A brief jolt of surprise, and then you fall open again.

You whimper.

“Ikke…”

But you don’t mean it.

Eric is a little bigger than me. I like that. He’s also more violent, the way he pushes inside you. When you gasp, I push inside your mouth, and your throat opens on instinct.

I love the way he stretches you, fills you, makes you try to moan around my cock. That’s when I start fucking your throat slowly, at least at first.

I pull out just enough to let you breathe before sinking back in. You don’t gag. You’ve memorized the shape of me, but his is different.

When your legs curl around him, and the soles of your boots dig into his back, I pull out. I watch you. I watch the way your belly tightens slightly when he pushes in, how tension gathers with each slow thrust and stays inside you when he pulls out. What I watch the most, though, is how you suck the blue sapphire of your ring through your teeth. The name you moan isn’t his, but mine.

I pull your arms back against my hips and watch the arch build slowly in your spine.

He lowers himself so close that you can feel the heat of him against your cheek. Your whimpers, silent at first, grow in volume and in tempo. They turn a little ragged.

I wait for it. I wait for when you break.

“Cumming…” you whimper. “God.”

You lick his cheek with greed, allowing his stubble to rasp your tongue sore. Your legs lose their grip on him, soles pointed toward the ceiling, before collapsing beside you. Then you fuck back, perfectly arched.

When you cum on his cock, stretched and full, I let you scream through it.

When you collapse back into the mattress with Eric still pounding you through the last tremors, I let you breathe.

“Good girl,” I murmur.

The ring slips from your lips, wet with drool, and you try to suck me back in, not interested in anything but sensation or complete fullness.

I pull back.

“Ikke!” you yell.

Eric lifts you up on his cock, pulls you on top of him, and makes you straddle him while you are still blindfolded, still confused.

I grin as I watch the stretch of your cunt, the blue crystal in your ass catching the light.

I find the base of it. I listen for your moans as I pull. I watch your ass stretch around the fullness. I feel the tremor as another orgasm rides your bones.

I know your mind’s gone blank.

I love how your ass refuses to let go of the plug. How you clench. How your breath comes out ragged. How words become nothing behind your teeth. How you drool on his face. How your body is tuned to orgasm, and orgasm alone.

That’s when your body takes over. He slows, and you take the reins. You’re beautiful when you ride. Your cunt clenches tight on the downstrokes, eases perfectly on the upstrokes.

When you remove the blindfold, it’s not by permission but by intent. You’re so obscene when your hand finds your clit. I know it’s intentional how your ringfinger is the one you use. How you show your ring off to him. You don’t care about Eric; you only care about what his cock can do to you. Right now, it’s not doing enough.

“See this, Eric?” you murmur. “This cunt belongs to my man. You’re here by his permission, and by mine. Your purpose is to make me cum.”

Your clitwork has always inspired awe in me. Admiration for how tuned you are to your own body. You make yourself cum violently. You coat his cock in your release. You don’t scream now, but release a guttural groan.

I watch you sink down on him, onto his chest. I wait for your body to relax again. I wait for your breath to even. I wait until your ass has enough give to pull the plug free.

“Fuck…” you whimper. Or maybe you cry.

I don’t really care. I need to fuck you. I need to bury myself in your ass. You’re locked so tight to Eric’s body that it’s a shame to break that apart, with your boots pointed stubbornly into his thighs, as if intent has planted them there to stay. I grab each of them and pull you wide. When I push in, you’re not crying.

“Jesus. Fuck me!”

I pull you up by the hair, press my hand against your throat, giving you just enough room to breathe.

Your lips find mine. I don’t need to fuck you. His cock pounding into your cunt does all the work. You clench. Another wave, as he pushes all the way inside you. I feel this cock throb through you. I feel your cunt spasm.

And when he’s drained, I push you down.

You suck the ring back between your lips.

“Stay there, Eric,” you whisper. “Make me tight for him.”

I fuck you. Hard.

You’re utterly spent, and I only have to think of my own need.

“Fuck…” you whimper when you sense me tighten, when I push inside you so deep it’s got to hurt.

You always make me cum hard.

My mind goes black. I’m just sensation. My body is just one fucking orgasm.

I collapse on top of you and stay there until my cock slips out in a wet plop.

“Happy birthday,” I whisper.

You’re dozing. Stretched over a cock that’s only borrowed you for this one night. Better yet, a cock borrowed for a purpose.

You turn your head toward me. Your eyes are a little cloudy.

“Cigarette, my love?”

I find my coat on the floor. I fish out the pack of smokes, then perch myself on the bed, back resting against the headboard. You watch me light up and inhale. There’s a hunger in your eyes as I exhale.

Then, you crawl off him and onto me, straddling me as you did him. I hand you the cigarette. Watch you fill your lungs.

“I’m staying right here,” you say. “And when I wake, I’m gonna ride you like it’s our wedding night.”