Moving In (Lauren & Beck #3)

“Please Beck, please put it in, please,” Lauren says, pushing her hips back to encourage the tip of Beck’s strap-on cock to slide inside of her. She’s on her knees, hands gripping the headboard of the bed for support. Beck has Lauren’s hair tight in her fist like reigns and a bridle.

Beck grins. She wants it excruciatingly slow. She wants it to last. She wants to savor this rare moment, this time when Lauren actually asked her to strap on and fuck her. Please Beck, will you fuck me with your cock? Lauren doesn’t usually ask for more than fingers. Beck’s hips are quivering.

They have been working all weekend, moving all of Lauren’s worldly possessions from her small apartment in Berkeley up to Beck’s house in the Oakland hills. Luckily, they had a lot of help: Lauren’s roommate, a few of her friends from work, plus Beck’s gaggle of friends who follow her around anywhere. Mostly big, burly butches who like to be useful—they had the heavy furniture moved in practically before Lauren even got out of the car. Fast and furious.

The move has been a long time coming. Beck has been wracked with anxiety these past few weeks, as the August 1st moving date got closer and closer and the reality of no longer living alone started setting in. They spent fewer nights together, savoring their own rooms and own space. Lauren finished packing early, the bulk of her objects being kitchen gear and clothes, and relatively easy to pack away. She even had the audacity to suggest that they rent the moving van a week early and just go for it—but Beck quickly stomped out that idea.

After three years together, the topic of moving in together came up frequently, but Beck became adept at changing or skirting the subject, deflecting or, eventually, out-right saying no. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” Beck used to say. “I just need my space to be the way I want it to be. I know we spend most of our nights together. But those one or two nights we don’t spend together are important for me to have.”

“I understand,” Lauren says. And she did. But she also wanted their books mingling on the same bookshelf, she missed her good set of knives whenever she was cooking at Beck’s house. Which was practically every day.

But things changed in the six months since Mallory died. Beck softened, somehow; everything about her is a little more raw, a little more exposed, a little less together and buttoned-up. Even her fucking has become more raw, more full of tears and growl. They weren’t that close, not since Beck moved to the opposite coast, but as soon as Mallory got sick, Beck almost moved back. Mallory was the one who told her no, who told her to live her life out in San Francisco the way she wanted to. They were practically the only family each other had, so the loss has turned Beck’s life upside down in the weeks since.

Now, Lauren’s fancy memory foam mattress is on the bed frame that Beck inherited from Mallory, a family heirloom of dark carved wood. It is practically the only thing that is put together in the whole house, with Lauren’s boxes and a few pieces of furniture haphazardly placed all over Beck’s usually neat and tidy home. Beck can feel the chaos of moving, even though it wasn’t her who moved; the suspension of security in order to become something new, something bigger than what she was before. This has been a year of letting go, of letting things happen, of accepting the gifts that the universe is offering, of learning how to ground and comfort herself.

And Lauren, Lauren, Lauren. Such a beauty, how lucky Beck is to have her as a partner, as a friend, as a lover. She has been supportive, in her own way—which is not always the way that Beck wants her to be, but is a way, and ultimately, it works. Whenever Beck straps on, she wants to pour herself into Lauren and swing around inside until she’s wrung out. She knows those tight muscles of Lauren’s so well with her fingers, her tongue; she can envision them around this temporary fake cock, is starting to feel what it’s like to thrust inside of a girl and feel her clench.

Beck enters her slow, so slow. Lauren breathes in, breathes out. Beck closes her eyes, holding on to Lauren’s hips with both hands. She applies more lube and slows down even more.

Lauren is on her stomach, legs squeezed together, Beck’s thighs on the outside, thrusting in still so slow. Lauren is moaning into the sheets, hair falling in her face, hands clenching. She flexes her feet, her toes are curling. She tries to get Beck in even deeper by moving her hips. Beck responds slow and they are dancing, meeting each other’s rhythms, tension building.

“Please fuck me, please, do it harder, please baby, please,” Lauren says. Half of them are into the pillow and she’s drooling and Beck can barely tell what she’s saying, but she thrusts in a little harder now, a little faster, picking up speed as her own pleasure builds. She has these micro-orgasms, spasms that clench and release, every couple of thrusts, but she wants to go after the big one, too, wants to feel herself emptied into Lauren’s beautiful slit.

Beck holds on and focuses on the tip, just the tip of her cock, where it touches Lauren inside, where they meet and merge. Lauren is gasping and pressing back into her and it makes Beck crazy, it makes her hips tremor and thrust, it opens up new wanting in her pelvis like a bowl of milk. “Fuck, Lauren—fuck!” Beck starts to say as she comes, shaking and pressing harder inside, spilling out and deep into her.

“Baby, baby,” Beck murmurs into Lauren’s hair as her thrusting slows.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, more Beck, just a little more—” Lauren works her hand down under her body and touches her clit, moaning out and thrusting her hips back again. Beck adjusts the strap-on so it’s a little higher, not so directly against her cunt anymore, and starts thrusting again. A little bit higher this time. “Yes, there—there—”

Only a few more thrusts, and Lauren is done. Flying and coming and screaming into the pillows, her own hand furiously touching her cunt as Beck smoothly slides inside at just the right angle. Her whole body tenses, so tight and hard, every muscle and joint contracted, even holding her breath, until she lets it go, releases everything, breathes out with a huge sigh, and inhales sweet new air. She moans, her body still jerking a little from the electricity running through it. Each breath gives her a little more spaciousness, a little more relaxation. Beck is still inside, and Lauren shifts her hips to ease her out.

“Was that what you wanted?” Beck asks, after Lauren has curled on her side and Beck is smoothing her hair back from her face.

“Yes, oh god yes,” Lauren says, kissing Beck lusciously with thick lips and fervor.

“Mmm, I’m glad.”

They’re quiet for a minute, gazing and touching, bodies still sensitive and heightened.

“Baby?” Beck starts.

“Hmm?”

“Can we unpack now?”

Lauren laughs. “Is that going to bug you basically until it’s done?”

Beck looks a little sheepish. “Yes.”

Lauren ruffles her hair. “I know. Yeah, let’s start. How about with the kitchen!”

Beck nods, starting to peel herself off of the bed to face her chaotic house. “It will make it easier to make dinner later.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Lauren started, digging into a box for her silky robe, the blue one that goes to her mid-thigh. “Ricky is bringing over dinner later. He found some new Ethiopian place he says we have to try.”

Beck’s mouth waters. She didn’t realize how hungry she was until they started talking about food. “Sounds great.” She grins, pulling on her boxers with the Superman S and not even caring that her clothes are strewn all over. It’ll come back together, soon, she tells herself. It won’t be the same as it was before, but it’ll be better. They’ll be stronger individually for being with each other. I’m ready, she thinks, as she watches Lauren’s ass in the thin robe as she walks out of the bedroom, lifting her hair out from the neck of the robe and letting it cascade down her back. This is it.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode #185, James Darling & Juliette March.

The Last Night (Asher & Jesse #5)

The envelope from UT Houston stayed hidden in Jesse’s file cabinet for a week before she even had the nerve to tell Asher it had arrived. The other rejection letters from Seattle Pacific University and Seattle University and University of Washington were thinner, only containing one page and a quick ‘thank you for your application,’ a band-aid ripped off clean and swift—but this one from UT was thick. That had to mean something, right? That was a good sign. Jesse wasn’t really even sure she wanted an MFA when she applied, but then when there was more than no chance at all hiding in her very own drawer, she is pretty sure she wants nothing else in the world more.

Except …

“Asher, call me back when you get this. Love you baby.” Jesse leaves a voice mail. Asher is probably still with clients, 6pm on a Tuesday, but it was worth a try before Jesse goes in for her shift at the store.

Would Asher go with her? Would she want to? What if they got married? Is that crazy? What if they broke up? How would sex ever be this good with anyone ever again?

Jesse’s mind raced with stress and change and all the options in the history of options that ever there was. She finally stripped her jeans and boxer briefs off and dropped them next to her bed, pulling her vibrator out from the box on the bookshelf that held her harness, Shilo packing and playing cock, and the nipple clamps that she’d brought from Asher’s house, and she pulled back the covers and slid between the sheets. The bed had a chill underneath the fabric, something that turning up the heat never seems to help, as if the bed had a secret draft that is always letting out warmth. Maybe that’s why they always stay at Asher’s house.

Jesse put a pillow over her forehead and eyes to block the light, wanting to only feel and let her mind think and wander. She turned on the vibrator and touched it to her cunt, using the broad side of it to work the wet out of her and ease her into wanting.

She thought about Asher, whose dresses and layers of skirts and fluff of fabrics make her mouth water and palms sweat. And that one shirt of Asher’s, thin as the skin of dried grass, the one she always wears with extra bright colored bras under so everyone knows it’s on purpose. Jesse thought of that time she’d crawled under the table, dug through the layers of crinoline in Asher’s princess-cut dress, and worked her mouth up Asher’s stockings until she reached the wet between her legs and lapped and lapped until Asher banged on the table and squeezed Jesse’s head with her thighs so hard that Jesse couldn’t hear anything. Jesse was so dizzy with lust and permission, so intoxicated by Asher’s bold shamelessness, so in love. Just the memory made her almost spill over the edge of orgasm, so it only took another minute for Jesse to put the vibrator in exactly the right spot, and come.

After Jesse got off, she fell asleep, dreaming that she was swimming out to an expansive horizon on a perfectly calm sea. Her swimming was easeful, as simple and known to her body as walking, as calm as laying in the grass under dappled sunlight through bright green leaves. She woke refreshed and clear, and put the envelope and looming decision out of her mind, holding instead to the expanse of blue as she squeezed back into her tightest and stretchiest skinny jeans, and headed to work.

Jesse knows she’s not supposed to want Asher to beg her to stay, but she hopes she does. She’s not supposed to want Asher to drop her whole life here and come with her, but she wants that too. Maybe she’s supposed to want to stay, but she doesn’t. She’s been in Seattle her whole life. It’s comfortable, easy, simple. But since Asher, and since the kind of sex she’s been having with Asher, Jesse’s world has been split open—like it was thrown off of something really tall. So why not reassemble it in a new configuration? She hates the dreary rain, hates that she can never quite get warm and always ends up shivering in the dark under clouds splashed orange with city streetlight glow. She wants tropical fruit and thunderstorms and a thriving metropolis. She wants to discover who she’ll be when she’s states away from her narcissistic step-mom who has never quite allowed Jesse to separate, and who still expects “this gay thing” to be a phase. What would happen then? What if Jesse could remake herself from scratch? The idea feels like a betrayal somehow, a secret she shouldn’t reveal for fear of being so shamed she’ll never share herself, even to herself.

“Got your message. Meetings ran late. Still coming over after work?” Asher texts Jesse after her shift starts, so she doesn’t reply until she’s off the floor for her break.

“Sure. Be there around 10, I’m closing.” Jesse texts.

“Bring your dick, I really wanna get fucked hard tonight,” Asher replies right away. Jesse hesitates. She doesn’t have it, will have to go home to pick it up. She isn’t sure she can get it up to fuck, but then again, Asher always seems to be able to inspire her, even after almost a year together. But sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter that Jesse is the one fucking her, that as long as Asher gets fucked, that is the real desire.

When Jesse goes back to her apartment, past where the neighbors doors are always leaking pot smoke, up the stairway with the lamp out and around the dark dark corner where Jesse always holds her breath, slides her key into the lock that always sticks, she grabs the strap-on and the harness, the nipple clamps, and the thick envelope from its hiding place in her file cabinet, and pulling the hood of her sweatshirt up, she heads back out into the grey Seattle night.

*

Two hours later, Asher is worn out and giddy with endorphins and Jesse is sleepy but still wet and swollen. Asher works her mouth on Jesse’s clit, sprawled naked between Jesse’s open thighs, sheets and blankets long tossed onto the floor, tangled around the bed. Asher bends her own knees to lift her feet in the air, parting Jesse’s cunt gently with her fingers, and expertly uses the smooth inner parts of her own mouth to suck.

Jesse is having trouble letting go and relaxing, but coaxes herself through it gently in her own head. It’s okay. You’re safe and you can do it. Just focus on how good it feels. It feels so good. Give her direction if you want more or less of something. She’ll listen. It’s okay.

She doesn’t need to change what Asher does, once she can relax. Asher has done this before, not tons, but probably a dozen times in the last year, and enough to get a feel for what Jesse’s body craves and how she likes to be touched and tongued and held. Asher works her mouth, gently sucking, flicking her tongue over Jesse’s clit, tugging and parting and opening. It feels to Jesse like it is taking her a very long time to get off, and she tries not to let her brain yell at her for being so slow, so unresponsive. It’s okay to take a while. This isn’t a race. Nobody’s in a hurry, Asher’s not in a hurry, she tells herself.

When Jesse finally comes, Asher’s arms are underneath Jesse’s thighs, Jesse is pushing her cunt hard into Asher’s mouth, her hands on Asher’s head and tangled in her hair. Asher is sucking and flicking with her tongue and pulling with her fingers. Jesse feels all that tension well up and up and up in her, until her pelvis feels so full of pressure from all sides, inside and outside and all around, until something gives way and it pours open, her whole body shuddering, crying out, gasping, moaning Asher’s name.

Asher softens her touches and rests her head on Jesse’s thigh for a minute, then wipes some of the wet from her mouth and slides up next to Jesse, tucking her head onto Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse kisses her, tasting her own musky sweetness and just some hints of Asher’s orange and cream lip gloss.

“Was that … okay?” Asher asks finally, in a small voice.

“So good,” Jesse moans out the words, limbs still liquidy and soft. “I love how you use your mouth. I love how you hold me so well. Thank you. That was … just right.”

Asher snuggles closer. “Good. I want to do it how you like it.”

“I know,” Jesse yawns, body spent, wrung out, tired from her retail shift and from staying up late last night finishing an essay. She wants to bring up the envelope, the future, what they’re going to do. She wants to ask Asher what she thinks, what she wants, what kind of life she could possibly envision them having together, what her next tattoo is going to be. She wants to hear Asher brainstorm about places they could live or adventures they could take, elaborate meals they would make together for brunch on the weekends, what kind of TV shows they would watch while they were winding down from their jobs and lives and stresses of being queer in the world. She wants to brainstorm herself about poems she’ll write, essays she’ll submit to online magazines that will go viral and say important things, teachers she’ll work with, kinky conferences they could attend together. She wants to do all these things. With Asher. Asher, the girl who lit a fire inside her pelvis and told her exactly where it belonged. Asher, who instigates and entices, with a flip of the hair or the way she turns her knee in or how she spreads her legs. Asher, who isn’t shy, and isn’t afraid of looking at the truth.

“Goodnight,” Asher whispers, and puts out the light, kissing Jesse on the cheek and settling back in. Asher’s thick blanket has magically been pulled up over them both.

Jesse can’t get her mouth to open and her eyes to wake enough to form words, let alone to say them aloud, but she is ready to talk to Asher in the morning. Jesse starts drifting to sleep even as she’s imagining what she’ll do: She’ll get the envelope out, she’ll tell Asher it arrived, they’ll open it. And they’ll figure out what will happen next. Together.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

Luscious & Wild (Asher & Jesse #4)

“Sexually, I have a fetish about truth telling. I find it profoundly arousing to watch somebody struggle to articulate their desires. One of the things my girlfriend and I say together is that you can have anything you want if you have the courage to ask for it. But having that courage to ask for it, wow! So we set up situations where you can have anything, honey—you just have to be able to ask for it.” —Dorothy Allison, from Writing Below the Belt

Jesse plunges three fingers into Asher’s cunt, splitting her open, pushing hard past any resistance. Asher is on the tips of her toes, back arched, ass out, legs long, hands and arms and cheek and even the tops of her breasts thrust against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling hotel window. She cries out. She drools and it slides down the glass, leaving a wet trail. Downtown Seattle’s skyline and Puget Sound are glittering beyond the glass, the night as clear as a realism painting, and just as romantically blurred around the edges with the damp ocean air salting the city’s lines.

“Oh fuck, oh my god …” Asher can’t much speak. She babbles words and mostly sounds, guttural and low, come from her throat. She is being taken apart from the inside out.

Jesse is sweating and so sweet on Asher she can barely stand it. Even Asher’s skin is sweet: she leans in for another nibble at Asher’s shoulders, and Asher gasps and leans back into her in response. Jesse reaches around her to twist and pull on her dark brown nipples, so hard and stiff after being pressed up against the cool glass.

The hotel is sleek, modern. Mostly grey, some black and white highlights dot the room. One whole wall is windows. It was a gift, this hotel weekend where they have been holed up, giggling on the pillows and fucking leisurely, with nowhere to be and nothing to do, for Asher’s Master’s graduation and her final completion of her practicum hours. Now that the summer is over, she’s even got an entry-level position at a clinic on Capital Hill. Jesse starts her senior year of college in a few days.

But for now, there is only each other, luscious and wild, so eager for the other and so hungry for more.

Now that Jesse has opened up this dominant thing, it is blooming in her like the Arboretum after the first stripe of sun growth in March: colorful and vibrant, and made to be there.

When they first settled into the hotel, Jesse tied Asher to the bed and blindfolded her, then left her, spread eagle, while Jesse put away their clothes and unpacked the bag of groceries they’d brought. She planned on spoiling Asher every minute of these three celebratory days and two nights. Asher kept talking, guessing, asking Jesse questions, but Jesse only answered simply: “Mhm,” or “Yes, I think so,” or “If you ask for it, honey, you can have whatever you want.”

When Jesse finally felt situated, she strapped on and slid inside Asher slow, fucking her gently and sweet, bodies rocking together, as Asher sucked Jesse’s fingers into her mouth and Jesse touched her clit, in that soft-fast way she’d learned Asher liked, until she came.

Jesse had big plans for the scenes in this room for the weekend. And what would they do with those amazing windows? A vision started coming to Jesse as she worked out her third orgasm since the elevator.

When it was time, Jesse waited until Asher asked for it. It didn’t matter how—she just had to form the words. It was what Asher most wanted, most of the time: To be confronted with her own desire and made to look at it directly, befriend it, to stop pretending like it was someone else’s want that was driving the scene. It wasn’t that Jesse was overpowered by lust and just had to take her, right there right now, though that was fun too—it was Asher’s craving for being torn up, filled up, degraded, humiliated, and used that was the impetus for most of their play. Jesse loved seeing her so filled to overspilling with her own lust that she would draw courage from some unknown well and finally start bubbling with request after request. Maybe it’s why Jesse used so much bondage—to keep Asher still and seeping in it when she finally spilled open. Being tied up is restrictive, sure, but it can also be profoundly meditative, and take someone into a safe holding where more things are possible.

Jesse loved unlocking Asher’s tongue.

She had also discovered that one of Asher’s most favorite things is for Jesse to get off. Maybe it’s that fetish for being used, but Jesse to lower her own cunt down over Asher’s mouth, to fuck her, to jerk off over her chest or face or even right next to her cunt, and to have some spectacular orgasm, yelling and moaning, and then to leave Asher there, panting and waiting—that, that was what got Asher writhing and squirming, begging to be used again.

So it was with great mutual pleasure that Jesse wracked up orgasms like points in a pinball game during their hotel weekend. She kept track, telling Asher aloud how many times it had been.

In Asher’s ear at the hotel window, Jesse whispers, “Seven, Asher. I’m all the way up at seven, and how many times have you come?”

Asher whimpers. Her clit is hard and swollen, her lips puffy and thick. Her mouth is red from sucking.

“How many?”

“Once,” Asher whispers.

“That’s right, once. And you weren’t really supposed to be coming, were you? You just couldn’t help it?”

“I couldn’t help it! You made me do it, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I like following your rules, I just, it was too much. I couldn’t help it!” She thrums the words in that husky low tone she gets when she is so turned on.

“Shh, it’s okay baby. I know. It was my fault, I don’t expect to fuck you that much and not have you come … at least sometimes,” Jesse laughs a little to herself, thrilled and giddy. She strokes Asher’s cunt, every contour, every swollen slick place. She gets juicy enough as it is, but Jesse still adds more lube, more wetness. She traces lines with the pads of her fingers and uses her fingers to pinch and apply pressure, catching the head of Asher’s clit between her fingers, palming her whole vulva, pinching her lips together, which makes Asher squirm and shiver.

Jesse slides her fingers in again, in and out, stopping in all the spots that she knows Asher likes. “How many times are you going to come for me now, if I let you?”

“How many … times? Two. Three. Five. How many do you want me to come?” Asher’s words aren’t quite making sense, but she thrusts her hips back toward Jesse and presses her chest and cheek into the glass, offering herself up, willing Jesse not to stop.

“Five, huh? That’s a lot. Could you come on demand, if I just tell you to come right now, could you do it?”

“Could I come … right now? I don’t … really know,” Asher puzzles a little, gets distracted by Jesse’s fingers, then starts thinking again, trying to figure out how much her mind has control over her body. “Maybe? I think so. Yeah, actually. Tell me to do it! Jesse, tell me, and I’ll do it, I’ll do it for you, whenever you say.”

“Really? You think you could?” Still, in and out, slowly, with Jesse’s thumb circling Asher’s clit.

“Yes! Oh yes I’ll show you, I can do it for you.”

“Okay, baby, ready? Come … right now.”

“Ohhhhhh,” Asher cries out, pulses her cunt hard, pushing and contracting and pushing until she gushes onto Jesse’s hand.

“That’s one. Can you do it again for me? Can I keep going?”

“Yes, yes keep going, don’t stop don’t stop …”

“You’re so fucking hot, Ash. I love watching you like this. Come again girl, do it, let’s have it all. Now!”

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck!” Asher yells, arms sliding down the glass as if she can’t hold them up any longer. Her knees and thighs shake. Jesse pushes her hand farther inside and Asher gasps, pushing her hips open.

“Two,” Jesse growls in her ear. “Keep going. Ready to do it again for me, slut? Didn’t get all you needed yet, huh? Can you do it again?”

“Yes, yes yes yesssss,” Asher moans, wet dripping down Jesse’s hand and wrist.

“Three,” Jesse is practically giggling now, high and strong and she could do this for hours: keep Asher poised on her fingers, begging and coming.

“Four! Please four, Jesse please, four—” Asher begs. She squirms and tries to close her legs, trying to back off from the orgasms that still want to claim her cunt.

“Now. Do it,” comes Jesse’s reply, low and growly at Asher’s neck. Jesse bites at her earlobe and Asher throws her head back to rest on Jesse’s shoulder, sighing, breathing, still moaning those sounds from her throat.

“One more,” Jesse reminds her. “One more, and then we’re all done. Can you do it again?”

“Nooo, no Jesse, I don’t think I can, I don’t know … it’s too much, I can’t.”

“You can do it. Remember how you told me five? Actually, you said, ‘How many do you want me to come,” but I want five. So five it is. That’s one more,” Jesse makes the gentlest circles over Asher’s swollen cunt, soft and fast on her clit, that way that she likes.

“I can’t, I can’t Jesse … oh god, oh my god, oh my fuck fuuuuck …” Asher trails off and comes again, legs shaking, body humming, throat humming, practically sliding all the way down the window to the floor if it wasn’t for Jesse’s leg in between hers. Jesse holds her up for a moment, then lets them both collapse down, catching Asher in her arms and wrapping around her naked body as she shivers and settles.

“I can’t believe you made me! You. You! Are incredible. I love you,” Asher nuzzles into Jesse’s shoulder and Jesse braces herself against the bed to hold them both upright. They laugh and talk and stroke each other, doing that post-fucking haze-y loopy thing where everything is hilarious and important.

Eventually, Jesse says, “My foot’s asleep. And also, want some food?”

Asher lights up. “I’m starved. I feel like I have never eaten before ever. I want all the things!”

Jesse starts untangling, and moves to stand. “Oh that’s good, because we bought all the things at the grocery store before we came. I’m hungry too. C’mon, let’s get up. You okay to stand?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Asher reaches up for Jesse’s arms and accepts help to get steady on her feet.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.

Reduced to Expletives (Asher & Jesse #3)

Turns out, Jesse is a natural. Topping comes to her like all the skills are downloaded right into her brain, like she is in a kinky version of The Matrix.

“Hey, want to try tying me down to the bed and fucking me until I scream for mercy?” Asher texts.

“Why yes, yes I do,” comes the reply immediately.

“How about blindfolding me?”

“How about it?” It goes on like this.

The quarter is almost over, and they walk through the Quad on the way to Psych together nearly every day. Asher whispers into Jesse’s ear. “Maybe I could wear those stockings you like, and you could slice them off of me with a knife—or better yet, rip them with your bare hands.” They’d stayed in bed late, fucking, exploring each other’s skin and taste and touch and eagerness. Jesse could still feel Asher’s pulse and breath and blood pressure synced up to her own.

She tries not to stumble and fall over. Fuck, this girl, this gorgeous creature, and she wants me to do all these fantastic filthy things to her? She feels drunk on gratitude. I Must’ve Done Something Good keeps getting stuck in her head.

“I have a surprise for you later. You’re still coming over after dinner, right?” Asher kisses Jesse’s neck as they approach the building.

“Mmhm, after my shift at the store,” Jesse closes her eyes and tilts her head to expose more of her neck. “Can’t wait,” she whispers, kissing Asher back and sliding her hands around her, along her trench coat. Asher may not be able to wear the fancy femme shoes she wanted to on Seattle’s rainy campus, but goddamn if she wouldn’t have femme rain gear. She even had a white umbrella with ruffles for particularly wet days. Jesse swoons.

*

“Fuck,” Jesse mutters, low and under her breath as Asher emerges from the bedroom in a tight white leather corset, white thigh-high fishnet stockings—the industrial ones with no finished top edge—held up by a simple white garter belt. Her panties, a blush shade of pink, were on top of the garter, a style she’d told Jesse is more British than American, and easier to remove while still keeping the rest of the outfit … intact. Her tits are pushed up and together, making her full figure nearly spill out of the top.

Jesse wants to climb inside her cleavage and snuggle and nuzzle for hours.
“Fuck,” she says again, sliding her arms around Asher’s waist as soon as she is within arm’s reach. “You look … goddamn.”

Asher giggles. “I like reducing you to expletives.” She reaches her arms around Jesse’s neck and switches her thighs, rubbing the stockings together and against Jesse’s jeans. Jesse feels so … clothed. She likes the strength she feels held up against Asher’s vulnerability. Asher kisses her, soft, their mouths at almost the exact same height, but only because Jesse is still wearing her boots.

“You brought the strap-on, right?”

Jesse swallows. “Yes.”

*

Jesse can feel her body getting close. That swelling in her cunt, the way she tightens and tenses every muscle and tendon, legs getting sharp and straight, bending less and moving her body more as a unit, one strong, long piece.

She plunges her strap-on dick in and out. Asher writhes on her back underneath Jesse, legs splayed open, wrists still bound by the rope she’d run beneath the mattress, that cheap baby-blue blindfold with the JetBlue logo on it over her eyes. Her mouth is open, breathing hard, lips and tongue wet. Asher raises her hips to meet Jesse’s and with each thrust, some little gasps escape.

Jesse isn’t sure how long she can stand it. The wetness. The hole. Being inside Asher. The feeling of being enveloped and held, safe, contained. Jesse grips Asher’s hips and digs her knees into the mattress, mouth landing on Asher’s shoulder, sucking as she lets her hips follow that feeling there—just there—that one—that—

And with a few more thrusts, that’s it—she yells out, coming hard, shoving into Asher as she convulses and collapses on top of her.

Asher kisses the parts of Jesse that she can, her neck, her upper arm, letting Jesse move when she’s ready. Jesse reaches down to ease the strap-on slowly from inside Asher and only felt her own wetness. Fuck, what had happened? Her harness was loose and the dick sags … and probably hadn’t been actually inside of Asher for some time now.

“Was it—did this slip—aw, fuck.” Jesse blushes hard, fiddling with the dick, unsticking the leather harness from between her legs.

Asher can see out of one eye, the blindfold now askew. “It’s okay, Jesse—it was so hot to feel you come.”

Jesse starts undoing the rope bindings around Asher’s wrists. She’d pulled the knots tight and it took both hands to work them free. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “You could’ve told me!” Jesse whines a little.

“I guess. But I really didn’t want you to stop,” Asher’s voice was low and husky, playful.

“I’ve never … I think that was the first time I’ve been able to. Come, I mean. When strapped on.”

“Mmm, well I loved it. Let’s do it more, okay? I want to feel you filling me up next time.”

“Could you just … make sure to tell me? If it slips out. Maybe you could kind of, beg for it, like I’d slipped out on purpose to tease you?”

“Ooh yeah. Like, ‘No please wait, I want it back, come back inside me, don’t go yet.’?”

Jesse grins. “Yeah, like that.”

“Deal.” Asher nuzzles into Jesse and yawns. “You’re going to wear me out,” she sighs, clearly very pleased with this new idea. Jesse laughs a little, thinking, she’s the one who’s going to wear me out, hoping she can keep up with Asher’s lust and drive.


Featured image from Crash Pad Series Episode 89: Hilt & Rusty Nails.