A Night In and Out

Jayne Renault
13 mins read
Published about 1 year ago

My boots crunched into the icy sidewalk as I made my way up the block. It wasn’t all that late, but the city was shrouded in the calm, muted black of a midwinter night and had been for a couple of hours.

Like always, I texted him to announce my arrival. He didn’t like to have me lingering on the front porch. Despite the darkness and my unassuming esthetic, you never knew who could be watching.

He opened the door before I could knock, greeting me with that same smile—warm, welcoming, and a little weary like he just woke up from a nap.

“Hi.” I stretched the length of the vowel as far as it would go and stepped over the familiar threshold into his home.

“There she is,” he said. “My favorite girl.” He closed the door behind me as I kicked off my boots, careful not to dip my socks into the bits of snow I'd tracked in. When I turned to face him, he scooped me up into his arms and we kissed like it had been too long. “Mmm, I’ve missed you. How are you?”

“I’m very well, thank you.”

“Shall we?”

He gestured up the stairs. I ambled up ahead of him, deliberately slowly because I knew he was watching the sway of my hips. The years had not diluted the performance art of my seduction; I was more confident and alluring than ever.

I followed the well-worn trail to the living room where everything was exactly as it always was. The bottle of Chardonnay with two glasses. The pack of cigarettes with the lighter and pre-rolled joint perched on top. The ashtray. The neat pile of magazines. The small stack of bills that I never touched until right before I left. The remote control for the television. The tray of tiny snacks that somehow never succeeded in tempting me.

Under my coat, I was wearing a button-down shirt with a bolo tie under a fitted leather jacket and tight black skinny jeans—my new uniform for when I wanted to leave a sea of prostrate queers in my wake. It worked well with my pixie cut, freshly inked.

“Wow,” he said when I made the reveal. “I love this look. Very K-pop meets punk rock.”

“Thank you, that’s exactly what I was going for,” I said plopping myself down on the couch next to him. “I have a party to go to right after this.”

“And here I thought it was for me,” he said with a touch of faux-dejection. 

“Oh no, it is mostly for you. But I needed something that would be the right amount of sexy for both occasions.”

“Well, I think you nailed it.”

“Thank you.”

Like always, we unwound and caught up as old friends. He poured my wine. We toasted to the ourselves, to the impending holiday season. I weaved myself into him as our talk turned to murmurs of reunion—my legs on his lap, the fingers of my free hand kneading through the curls at the base of his skull. He melted into my hand; he was always powerless to my touch.

“I love the way you play with me,” he swooned through a distended exhale.

“You make it so easy.”

I untangled my limbs and placed my glass down on the table. When I came back to him, I climbed right up into his lap and straddled him where he sat. Wrapping my arms around his neck, we kissed long and deep. His loose pants did nothing to hide his burgeoning erection. He moaned into my mouth as I rocked into him.

“Alright, come,” he said. “I can’t wait any longer. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

“Lead the way, sir.”

Like always, poppy radio dance beats played through the television in the corner as I entered the bedroom ahead of him.

I made my way to the far side of the bed to put my glass down on the nightstand. I used to do this to have the excuse to steal peeks at the clock without being accused of doing so. But by now, it was just another part of the comfortable routine.

He closed the door and we stripped ourselves down to our underwear. All smiles, we crawled up onto the king-sized bed from our respective sides and met in the middle where he welcomed me into his embrace. The contrast of the warmth where we connected and the slight chill of the room on my outer edges was deliciously pleasant. A shudder ran through me, into him.

The softness never lasted long though because his hunger for me was always a ravenous one. Horizontal reconnection make-outs transitioned quickly to more pressing desires. “I need to taste you,” he demanded.

He noticed the slight strain to my neck even before I did; he adjusted my pillow for me and invited me to lie back as he wriggled down to nestle himself between my legs. He was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and how we wanted it, but that never took away from how generous he was with me in turn. We had been well-matched from the beginning, both sympathetic to our non-verbal cues as much as the words that we used whenever necessary. 

His tongue and his fingers gradually worked their way into me with familiarity and precision and I cracked wide open.

“Mmm…” He jiggled my ass with both hands like he was trying to shake himself loose from my dripping cunt. “Mmmygod, you always taste so fucking good.”

I laughed. He used the exact same lines every time we’d met over the course of many years. Yet somehow, they never lost their authenticity.

Perfectly in tune, he pulled away just as I pushed him off. I needed a moment’s respite and besides, now it was my turn to taste. 

I laid him back into the dip I'd left in the bed and hovered the weight of my breath around his cock, nuzzling into the crook of his groin. I knew how wild it made him to be teased like this, that slight denial; so close yet not quite close enough. He had been waiting all day for this. I liked that I could taste every ion of charged need before even putting my tongue to him.

Finally, I slid the flat of my tongue from the base, along the shaft, all the way up to the circumcised tip. A shudder ripped through his whole body and his leg twitched as I eased the crown of his cock past my lips, working him without any haste, deeper and deeper until I couldn't take anymore. He rested his hands lightly on either side of my face, holding me there at my limits. His thighs shook violently in approval when I grabbed at his balls.

“Ohhh, yeah, play with my balls, yes, that's so good, I love that.”

I know you do, said the squeeze of my smile around the base of his shaft.

When he released me, I found my own rhythm again, taking him faster and harder than before. That sensation of control, governance over someone else’s pleasure, giving it to them to make it my own, it all has my cunt throbbing and prepared for the next transition.

“Oh my god,” he groaned. "I’m going to come in two minutes if you keep doing that.”

Not one to talk with my mouth full, I merely laughed through my nose and looked up at him.

“You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth. Turn around so I can taste you again.”

Happily, I flipped around. He buried his face between my folds. 

I admit, I always found this part of our script a little trying—it’s difficult to stay focused on cocksucking and enjoy what’s being offered to me simultaneously. Furthermore, the more diligent he was, the further I’d be pushed down his torso until my mouth could no longer reach the tip of his cock. But his intentions were good, and I liked looking at myself in the mirror directly across from me in that position.

I pressed my cheek to his inner thigh, making eye contact with myself while I stroked his shaft with my spit-covered palm until he got his fill.

“Mmm, fuck. You taste so good. I could eat you all night.” 

“Well, your enthusiasm is always much appreciated,” I said as I peeled myself off him. I took a languorous sip my wine while he slid the condom on.

When he was ready, I raised an eyebrow in question and he pat the mattress in front of him in responsethe signal that he was ready for me to come back to him.

I crawled back up onto the mattress on my hands and knees, eyeing him in a way that was playful and predatory all at once. He leaned down to kiss me and then urged me to flip over, onto my back. I laughed and squealed with genuine glee when he dragged me in my hips to pull me in close and align. He bowed over me and though I was plenty wet, he slapped a glob of saliva onto his cock for good measure before sliding his sheathed head past my fleshold.

“Oh, my god,” he groaned as he filled me, “you’re always so fucking tight…”

I consciously pulsated my muscles around his girth a few times and smiled. “The better to squeeze you with, my dear.”

He back leaned in, kissing me harder than before as he pumped harder and deeper. 

Spreading my knees wide; ankles up on his shoulders; folding me onto my side… Every shift got a better, different angle than the one before.

But there always came a point where both of us needed a little more brutality.

I pushed him off me and got on all fours to present my ass to him. While he moaned approvingly and found his place behind me, I took a another sip of wine to rinse my drying mouth.

Now, doggy-style has been a long-time favorite of mine for a lot of reasons, primarily because both parties can really dig into it, and I have the leverage and power to push back harder than any other position. But very few people in this lifetime have been able to fuck me from behind as this man did. 

He was perfectly endowed to reached every millimeter that yearned to be pummeled without any fear of going too far. His hands grabbed at my hair, my hips, my ass with gruff determination. He dug his short nails into the flesh covering my hipbones with the conviction of a bull rider. I pounded back into him, urging him on, while my hand raced rapidly around my clit. I knew I wouldn’t come yet, but the fires were definitely stoked, burning hot and bright.

He could feel it too. The heat was too much and he pulled away, sliding out of me with a quick slap on my ass. From that angle, he wouldn't have been able to see how it made me bite my lip without any irony.

“Come on,” he said, breathlessly. 

As he stood, he took a long swig of the juice in his glass by the bed. I grabbed a bottle of water from the same table and downed half of it. We both held hard eye contact and soft smiles while we caught our breath and reined in our racing heart rates.

He moved to the corner of the bed and pat the edge to signal the next act. I smiled and assumed my position obligingly—on my back, hips and ass dangling just over the corner. He got down on his knees and ate me out as any good lover should. With one hand, he clasped my breast while the other stroked himself beyond my field of vision. I closed my eyes and lay back to receive his offering. 

When he curled his fingers up inside me and began to thrust, I traced deliberate circles into my clit. With his diligent, generous hands, he urged me closer and closer to my brink. My hand flew harder and faster over my clit; my walls grasped at the absence of something to strangle.

“Fuck me,” I grunted. “I need you to fuck me.”

I felt his grin press into me right before he rose and slammed his cock into me without pomp or splendor. I wailed my approval and grabbed his ass with my free hand, encouraging him deeper.

He fucked me with the strength and stamina of a soldier while I stroked myself feverishly, teetering on an increasingly frustrating plateau. I could already tell that if I got there, it would be ruinous.

“You look so fucking gorgeous when you touch yourself like that.” 

The tension of being held on the edge, looking down into uncertain darkness below, waiting for the signal to jump is almost more pleasurable than the freefall that follows. Every corner of my being collapsed in on itself. My eyes scrunched closed and burst wide while he did his best to keep going. His pace slowed; my grip on his cock was threatening to end him. He buried deep into me and held himself there, squeezing and massaging the insides of my thighs with both hands. 

“That’s it,” he urged. “Come all over my cock. That’s it.”

And I did. I came harder than I’d ever known with him; more than I’ve ever known with most. I wailed as the long, hard, form-shattering wave washed over me and birthed me anew. I felt disconnected from my physical vessel; my head rocked and rolled from side to side while my eyes and tongue lolled around without my consciousness there to keep them in line.

He pulled away and got up on the bed with me. Lying back, he invited me to do the same.

“Shhh, it’s okay," he said. "Take your time.”

I was shaking and shuddering. I lay down next to him. I sat up. I was disoriented. I fell over. I pressed my cheek to his thigh. I curled into a ball. I began to weep.

“Wow,” I hiccupped. “Thank you.”

He said nothing, but I heard the smile in his sigh. He removed the condom and put a careful hand on my shoulder, though I flinched inadvertently.

“Sorry,” I gasped through my light sobs of delirium. “Everything is so sensitive.”

“No, no, don't be sorry,” he said. “That was amazing.”

He gave me the time and space to recover. My orgasms have the tendency to be powerful enough to momentarily erase my mind and demand a moment of recovery. But this was exceptionally debilitating. My nerves were firing all over, forearm muscles spasming as I came back into my body. I clenched my fists and extended my fingers, trying to remember what they were supposed to feel like.

When I started to feel a little more solid, I lazily played with his cock again, with my hands, then my mouth. I stirred him back to hard. He assured me that he wouldn’t take long at this rate. I took him hard and deeper, tugging his balls in one hand with all the force he demanded until he came hard into the back of my throat. I choked down as much as I could, though some of it trickled out the corners of my mouth, mixing with the tears still streaming down my face. The makeshift cocktail pooled at the base of his shaft to coat the soft, dark curls there, down past the crook of his groin, and into the mattress beyond.

I rinsed my mouth with Chardonnay again while it was his turn to come down.

We snuggled indefinitely, me playing with his hair and scratching down the length of his body. He nuzzled into me while I held him there. “There’s never enough time with you,” he breathed into my chest. I felt the subtle leak of his tears on my breastbone. I said nothing; I smiled and held the space for him while painting him with nurturing strokes.

After a long silence, he came back to me. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning away to erase his tears as subtly as possible. 

“No, never apologize,” I cooed softly. “Not for that.”

I slipped into the bathroom to piece myself back together again the best I could. I had a party to attend, after all.

When I was ready, I found him, back in the living room, wrapped in his robe and smoking a cigarette. When I sat down next to him, he asked if I wanted one. I don’t smoke often, but like everything between us, it was part of the ritual and I gladly accepted.

Our chat was loose as our time together came to a close. My phone vibrated in my pocket. My friends were wondering when I planned on arriving at the party.

I gathered the stack of bills and tucked them into the side pocket in my bag without counting them while he refilled my glass one last time.

At the bottom of the stairs, I slipped back into my boots and we shared a lingering embrace and soft kisses.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said.

“Until next time,” I agreed.

“Have fun tonight.”

“You know I will.”

I heard the door shut and the porch light flicked out behind me as I skipped down his front steps. With wine warming my belly, bliss and nicotine buzzing softly through my nervous system, and the scent of his cock on my hand, I traipsed down the frigid sidewalk. The mixture of our aromas sat somewhere at the back of my throat rose at the bottom of my deeper exhales. 

A streetlamp flickered burst into darkness as when I passed under it. I laughed softly to myself and merged once again with the night.

More by Queen Jayne:

The Birthday Bash
Conservation Area

Diamonds and Pearls

The Dinner Date
The Edge of Glory
Just Keep Going
Strangers on a Train

Taking My Time

Written by
Queen Jayne Renault

comma chameleon. word witch. smut queen.