It’s a dark East Williamsburg bar. The music is too loud and everyone is drunk. We both should be home, it’s 2am, but we’re not. Our eyes lock for the first time in months. There’s a flash of anger in his. Then sadness, then that warmth, that cozy charm. It’s almost a twinkle. It’s disarming. He looks different.
Our awkward exchange goes, “Hey, how are you?” “It’s nice to see you.” Is it? Silence, sideways glances. I order us drinks as a goodwill gesture, “Sorry for breaking up with you like that.” Of course I don’t say it. A whiskey for him. He doesn’t drink vodka with me anymore. We down our drinks, quickly order another round. I’m silently thanking a god I don’t believe in that I saw him tonight, that he didn’t turn away from me. He should hate me.
The bar is closing soon, we’ve had three together, but many more before, separately. We're talking, carefully avoiding triggering topics. We walk out together, into the neon smash of Grand St. We’re not far from his place, also not far from mine. But we always went to his. I offer to walk him home.
We arrive at his door, and linger under the ugly bright light and the big sign his landlord put up that says NO SMOKING because I smoked so many cigarettes there. We stand uselessly. I wait for him to invite me in. I’m aching for him, thinking about his cock in me again makes me ache. I can still recall the way he filled me, the wholeness. The immediate verge of orgasm he kept me on while fucking. He starts to shake his head, reading my mind, knowing we were bad together, but wanting me anyway. I always reveled in the moment when he’d fall for me again, when I could watch the sense leave his face, and something more animalistic and honest enter his eyes. He was weak for me. I see it now.
He shakes his head and then pushes my hips against the wall, feeling my bone and the fat around it that leads to my ass. He leans into my neck and produces an angry growl, then inhales deeply. He’s sedated. “You smell like love,” he always said to me.
I melt into my victory, grab his cheek and press my lips on his. We pull back to look at each other, making a silent plan, and he turns and fumbles with his key. The door shrieks open the same way it always did. It’s a warning that we do not heed.
The acid trip pastel hallway is the same and the stairs are the same and we’re walking a walk we walked a hundred times except this time is different. This time I know I will never walk it again and I know that once inside his room seeing all the life he’s lived without me will kill me, and I’ll be dead in a dream where we’re fucking once more. I can only exist in that space for the length of a fuck, but I always came quick with him.
I tell him to take off all his clothes and wait for me in bed because a wave of emotion has hit me and I don’t want him to see it. “Go,” I tell him, and he does not protest. I enter the bathroom to look in the mirror. I’m exploring a childhood home that has been sold to new owners. Everything was once mine, and I don’t know who it belongs to now.
I stare at myself. My hair is wild and sexy in the reflection. “We both have really good hair,” he said to me, on our second date. I see myself and turn away because I don’t want to watch myself get hurt. Instead, I check my manicure and decide to dig my nails into him tonight. I’m going to leave a mark.
I stand in the doorway to his room and study his body while leaning against the door jam. I look confident, but I’m really just drunk and deliriously hopeful we can somehow fix everything that went wrong by having hot sex tonight. He is on his back waiting for me, his hard cock pointing straight up, his hand lightly massaging his balls. I think it’s a little funny how familiar it all is, and I let out a mischievous laugh. I know how to do this.
“Sit up,” I order him. He does.
“Get on the floor,” I tell him, still standing in the doorway. He scoots off the bed.
“On your knees.”
I reach up to the strap of my dress, and slide it off my shoulder. Then the other shoulder. I pull down from the hem slowly, against all my impulses, knowing this tease will undo him. I peel the dress down my legs and step out of it. I brush it aside with my foot, and linger with my leg outstretched watching him savor my arch, my toes, my ankle.
Because this is a fantasy, I’m wearing his favorite stockings, the kind with the built-in garter. The kind that are so cheap and sheer, a hangnail can destroy them in a single encounter.
I walk toward his face, and feel his mouth against my pussy, still clothed in panties. I grip the back of his head, give that thick hair at the nape of his neck a tug, and push him into me. He inhales me again. His breath is hot on my wet underwear, and he starts to lick me. I push my panties aside and hump his face. He shrinks beneath me.
I edge onto the bed and bring my foot to his face, caressing his neck, his cheek, and pushing it into his mouth. He sucks my toes through the stockings. I twitch, I’m ticklish.
My foot in his mouth delivers some new strength to him, because he rises from his knees now, bringing my leg up to his shoulder kissing from my ankle down my calf to behind my knee. His cock is hanging in the air, so hard I can’t resist grabbing it. I lead it to me. He slides right in.
I wince a little, his size spreading me, hitting me deeply.
He grabs at the cups of my bra, and watches me spill out of it, my tits shaking as he fucks me. We adjust positions and I climb on top of him, situated against the wall of his bed to reflect in the mirror for both of our enjoyment. He catches my nipples in his mouth as I bounce over him. I look down at my sweet fuck. I’m softened by his infant-like hunger for my breasts.
I push him fully down on the bed, straddling him, looming over him. He reaches for the clasp of my bra and finds it, releasing my breasts into his hands. I lower down onto him and my tits are right in his face. I fuck him with long, slow gyrations. I want him to remember all that he is missing. I moan in his ear. He turns away from me when he feels he’s about to come. I grab his face and force him to look me in the eyes. His anguish turns me on.
I want to come but I know it will make him come and I’m not sure I’m ready for the fantasy to be over. All that’s left on my body is the stockings. I watch him watching me in the mirror. “Don’t cum yet,” I whisper. “Don’t cum yet.” It becomes a chant.
I’m bouncing on his cock, squeezing him inside me. I feel pressure mounting, and finally, I pulse on him and come. I manage to rise off of him in time so he is denied his climax, and decide to finish him a different way.
I reach over to his bedside table, pulling out my harness and our toy. I feel the leather of the harness between my fingers and the rubbery firmness of the dildo and assume a new mentality. I want to make him cum fucking his ass, watching his face in the mirror.
I step into it and tighten the straps. Seeing this makes him soften in anticipation. He rolls onto his stomach and gets up on all fours. I mount him from behind, playing in his crack with the lube soaked dildo. I scratch lines down his sides that make him wiggle in pain and delight, he is arching his back, begging me to enter.
I ease myself into him slowly, teasing him and letting him open up for me. Then I fuck him with long, slow motions, just like I fucked his cock moments before. I tell him to touch himself, and I watch him cradle his cock together with his balls in the reflection in the mirror, before he starts to jerk himself off.
I’m fucking his ass, murmuring “Do you like that, baby? Do you like the way I fuck you?” He’s gasping with pleasure, managing to get out the occasional “yes, baby, yes”. I like hearing him call me baby again.
I get aggressive and start pulling his ass into me as I push into him. “Oh my god, oh my god, baby, I can’t hold it,” he begs. I don’t let up, I want to watch him come as badly as he wants to come. He does, shooting all over the bed, shaking with pleasure, falling into it all, still saying “Oh my god, baby.” I slide out of him, and squeeze his ass as I do. The fantasy ends.
AURORE CALL FOR PITCHES:
Aurore aims to publish voices that help reframe what eroticism and desire look like for a wide variety of people. Think: the kind of sex education you wish you got. We want stories with fully developed characters, palpable emotion, and graphic descriptions. Stories should be empowering and feminist, or explore and reflect on situations that were less than. We encourage writers to reimagine scenarios and rewrite endings so they come out on top. Writing real erotica is a healing exercise.
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