fiction

Titrate My Urges, Chapter 1 (continued)

This is a continuation of chapter 1 of the unpublished, unedited, untitled novel. Read the first part of chapter 1 here.

Content warning: breakup, sex scene, spanking, brat, dirty talk.

Chapter 1 (continued)

I try to focus. I will my hands to be present, will my mind to stay and be with Tally, with this body, with her skin and her naked vulnerability. She is vulnerable here, she is still naked here, despite my desire for more, this is as much as she can give me in this moment and I want to take it willingly, gratefully. I want to earn it, deserve it. My negative thoughts are certainly not helping my own focus or presence. I breathe, run my hands gently over her ass and thighs, soft, soft touches where she’s pink and swollen and a few little finger imprints are starting to darken.

Electricity runs through me as soon as I focus, as soon as I gather my energy back to me and direct it to her. Her body softens and I can feel her focus, too. In response to me, or just out of coincidence, I don’t know, but I like it. I feel attuned. I feel more connected. Maybe it’s me, maybe I’m the disconnect. Maybe I’m asking for too much. Maybe I have unrealistic expectations. Who really wants to give over like that? Honestly, wouldn’t they all rather be submissives when it suited their own needs? Who wants a strict Dominant, barking orders, demanding perfection? Perhaps someone. But what if I never find her? There must be someone. It is my belief that our desires are not that unique, that we all fall within the range of human desire and expectation and experience, so thus there must be our equal and opposite out there somewhere. “Just make sure your scars line up, equal and opposite,” that’s what X says.

The Magic Wand buzzes in my hand, I can feel it vibrating my shoulder and the bones of my arm, even the right side of my chest and neck and face. There’s less buzz in the handle than there is in the head, that soft plastic bulb the size of a tennis ball. I suppose it’s good for working kinks out of the body, too—the big muscles, the thighs, the back, the bottoms of the feet. X even told me that he got a little addicted to pressing it against the side of his temple or on his ear, and it felt just so so good, but it started to feel like he was rattling his brain. He probably was.

I press it against the backs of Tally’s knees, first. Just barely touching, a whisper. Just a little zzzt and then gone, just to surprise her, just to get her ready and remind her of the feeling. She yelps, jumping and jerking her body, her thighs jiggling. Oh I want to grab them, grip them hard, claw into their softness. I press it again into the backs of her thighs, harder this time, for longer, but then taking it away, moving up the back of her legs, alternating between the left and the right. She wants it on that sweet spot between her legs, she’s rubbing them together and I can see how it’s rubbing her pussy lips, too. She’s so wet.

“Good girl,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. I’m not sure she can hear me. Her head is down, hair falling over her shoulders and past her ears. It’s so thick I think it probably blocks the noise fairly effectively. She’s breathing heavy. Her skin is flushing, her cinnamon color is a little pink.

“Please, Harrison, please give it to me, I’ve been good, I promise I’ve been good, I need it, please … please, sir!” She remembers the “sir” at the last moment. I do like it when she begs. She hasn’t been good, but hearing her promise like that makes me want to coo to her how good she’s been, even if it isn’t true. The game of it, the play, is sometimes more powerful than the truth.

I position the toy right over her cunt, bouncing it gently off of her ass cheeks and that sensitive spot where her thigh meets her ass, just so she can feel how close it is. She gasps, begging some more.
“This what you want?” I growl in her ear, leaning over her body. I get a whiff of her shampoo, something floral and clean that reminds me of the girls in the early-morning classes I used to take in college. Intoxicating, for some reason. What is it about that girl shampoo that is always distinctive, always inciting desire?

“You have been very good, Tally. I’m proud of you, baby girl.” I don’t call her that often, or lightly. She mewls a little and softens, relaxing into the leather horse and rubbing her skin of her arms against mine where they overlap. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you. You know I do, right?” I touch the toy softly, as softly as I can manage, to her vulva directly, letting its bounce and vibration shift the sensation. I try to hold it still as she writhes and tries to get it in the right spot. She tries to nod and say yes but it comes out hmmmm, but I get the message. “You’re gorgeous, girl. Glorious. Your body is so fucking sexy.” I’m growling in her ear, starting to undulate my body on top of hers, she’s getting a rhythm down against the leather and against the vibrator, I can feel her thighs against my jeans, we’re getting a rhythm together and it’s working, it’s working. “I like the noises you make. You’re so incredibly hot. You know it’s hard for me to keep these jeans zipped, don’t you?” She nods, says mmmm in agreement. (This is what she wants to hear.) “You want my dick, girl? I know you do. You’ve asked for it before. You’re not going to get it tonight, but I know you want it. This is what you get, Tally, this right here, this vibrator and this orgasm, this is what you get. Go ahead and come girl, I know you want to. Can you do it yet? Can you do it for me?” She moans and thrusts harder, she’s getting the right spot finally and I can tell she’s so close by the way her whole body tightens and clenches. I don’t know if what I’m saying is going to help, but it probably won’t hurt. Probably. Though who knows what will set her off, sometimes it is the smallest thing I say.

We’re not a good match.

I try not to dwell on it while she’s coming. It might be the last time I get to watch her go through this tightening and releasing, this quake, le petite morte. That thought makes me immensely sad. She’s so lovely to watch. She should really do porn, I would watch her come all day. Maybe I should’ve had some orgasm endurance scenes with her before … before it became so obvious that we weren’t going to work. The way she cries out with her throat, pursing her lips and growling through her teeth, jaw clenched, hands gripping and tearing, she’s so gorgeous, collapsing everything down onto the horse when she comes.

I hold her and stroke her skin, getting lost in the magic of connection as my fingertips marvel against the curves of her and my head swims with the endorphins of endurance, of coaching someone through an ordeal scene that might be pushing just a little harder than they would like me to, but ultimately they are grateful for the encouragement. I can’t help it. I want to push, want her to take it for me, want her to want to please me with her body and her service and to take it just because I want her to. I suppose it’s lucky that our desires line up—that I want to spank her, and she wants to be spanked. That works, even if the games we’re playing underneath it or on top of those interactions don’t quite line up accurately. It feels dishonest. I can’t keep doing this. But her body … her beautiful lips, her smile, the way she kisses, the way she nestles into me and hums, content … I can’t get enough of it. I crave her when she isn’t around.

I crave something. I’m not certain it’s her.

Tally smiles up at me and peels herself off of the leather. “I’m ravenous!” she exclaims. “What have you got in your fridge?”

*

She putters around my kitchen wearing my button-down shirt. I didn’t know girls actually did that. When she raises her arms above her head, the shirt comes up just enough to show off her round, plump ass, and I find myself rubbing my lips with my thumb and watching intently. She has the sleeves rolled up to her elbows and only the bottom buttons buttoned. The crisp white of it contrasts against her skin.

After a few minutes she has a grilled cheese sandwich on the stove, smelling heavenly. She finds mustard and roasted red peppers, and adds those to the sandwich, pouring us both water and giving me quick kisses as she flutters around. I sit at the breakfast bar, my eyes following her every move. Am I staring? Is that rude? No, I’m paying attention, listening to her stories, connecting. This kitchen isn’t exactly the best place for that, but I’ll take it. The cabinets are cheap veneer, a light wood color that I’m certain isn’t real, and while I do feel lucky to enjoy many luxuries in this apartment, the kitchen isn’t really one of them. It’s cramped and not well laid out, with the stove against the refrigerator on one side and the sink on the other, with barely any counter space aside from this breakfast bar, which serves as my only table. But I love that I get to have my own dungeon, and I can’t afford most two-bedroom apartments. I’ve been here long enough to have rent control, so I won’t be leaving anytime soon.

“What was your favorite part?” Tally asks, pausing and resting her elbows on the counter across from me, swaying her ass side to side just a little.

“Of tonight?”

She nods.

“You know I like how you come. The way you thrash and cry out.”

She smiles shyly, reaching for my hand across the table and tracing one finger down one of mine. “I liked when you called me good.”

“When I said ‘good girl’?” I say softly, feeling that growl in my throat rising.

She nods again, steals a glance up at me from under her long lashes. “You don’t call me that very often.”

I nod a little in acknowledgment. “It seems like you want a daddy,” I say slowly. I don’t really want to open this up again, but it always seems to come up.

“I know. And you aren’t that.”

“More like, I don’t want to be. I can be, I have been. I want … more than that, now.” I want a 24/7 submissive, I want to tell her—but I swallow the words back down into my chest and hope they get planted there to grow something stronger tomorrow. I don’t know how to tell her what I want, and that she isn’t that. It doesn’t seem fair. She is so lovely, sexy, willing. I want that to be enough. But it isn’t.

She looks away and goes back to the stove, flipping the grilled cheese and moving it with the spatula, staring at it intently as if it’s going to do something brilliant any moment. “Why isn’t that me?” She asks in a small voice, still staring at the stove.

“I … really like you, Tally. You’re amazing. Plus, you make a mean grilled cheese,” I grin, trying to lighten things, but I can see it’s not going to blow over so quickly. Tally’s face doesn’t change, she has a whisper of devastation and a stripe of deep pain and rejection that I can’t overlook. I move over toward her and wrap my arms around her from behind, kissing her head. She’s almost as tall as me—probably at least 5’6” to my 5’8”—but I have a lot more bulk, and when I fold around her she seems so small. She leans her head back against my shoulder and nuzzles a little, but I can feel her upset.

She sighs and pulls away from me. “Yeah, well.” She flips the two grilled cheeses onto plates and sets them down on the breakfast bar, leaving me standing there, arms empty.

I guess there’s nothing else to say.

Tally takes a long drink from the water glass and picks up her grilled cheese, contemplating it as she takes a bite. The toasty bread crunches between her teeth and her eyes close a little, mouth turning up at the corners in a happy grin. I take a seat on the swivel bar stool next to her and try to focus on my sandwich.

We had fun. We’re not a match.

What else is there to say, really.

Tally and I finish our sandwiches mostly in silence, with the occasional polite post-sex conversation of lovers that are probably not going to see each other again. I second guess myself, and then make up my mind again. My dick is still hard and it doesn’t seem to be lessening anytime soon—I’m eager to take care of it. Maybe I’ll get some decent sleep tonight.

I wash the few dishes we’d used as she goes back into the dungeon to get dressed and get her things. Two small round blue plexiglass plates, the flat griddle from the stove, a quick rinse of the water glasses. I’m getting a little chilly, as midnight sets in and I’m still shirtless in jeans, but the warm water feels nice on my hands.

Walking back down the hall toward the dungeon, I snag my robe off of the back of the bathroom door where it’s hanging and slide my arms into it, wrapping it around me. It’s short, coming down just past my butt, and a dark blue terrycloth that feels like a big bath towel or a hug. It’s comforting. I don’t often wear it around other people, but then again, Tally isn’t just “people.” She’s always felt special.

See, there I go again. Ambivalent, wavering, weak. I need to make a choice and stick with it. There is part of me that is afraid of losing her, that I won’t find anyone better. I could enjoy her, I do enjoy her—I just have this craving for more. Is that unreasonable? Maybe I’m way out of my league here, maybe I shouldn’t be expecting so much. I don’t want to demand more than I deserve. And yet, in another way I kind of do. I want to be able to be so demanding and have someone else take it, figure it out, despite it being unreasonable or too much. Aren’t we all afraid of being “too much?” And aren’t we all, at some point, actually too much for someone else to handle? Maybe it’s wrong to turn that into a fetish, but I also can’t help what I like. X would say, “You are what you are. The trick is to figure it out, and be it, one hundred percent.”

I guess I’m just still figuring myself out, so no wonder it’s so hard to be it.

Tally is standing in the doorway at the dungeon, taking a long, forlorn look at the room like she knows she isn’t coming back here. She’s fine, I tell myself. I don’t have to protect her. I don’t have to make this anything other than what it is. She has her short red pencil skirt back on, her low T-strap heels, her white blouse and her black bomber jacket. She looks like a thousand bucks. Her purse is a patchwork of different colored leathers, sewn haphazardly together with a short strap. She gathers and flips her hair.

“Okay,” she says. “Time to go.”

I walk her to the front door. She turns in the doorway and looks at me, a crooked smile playing on her mouth, as if she isn’t sure what to say. I catch myself fidgeting with my robe and try to be a little more solid, a little more stoic. Come on, Harrison, you can do this. I step toward her and slide my hands around her waist, up under her shoulder blades, holding her close for a moment before pulling away to kiss her, tenderly, my lips on hers.

“Well, Tally …” I start.

“Yeah. It’s been real, Harrison. I’ll see you.” Her eyes are a little shadowy as she pulls away and slips out the door. I hear her shoes on the stairs down to the first floor and watch her cross the apartment building’s small lot to her car, a little two-door white 1980s BMW. The city has calmed down since the busy din of the day, but I can still hear the rush of cars from the nearby freeway, the hum of the streetlights, some people yelling drunkenly down the block. Tally gets into her car and pulls out of the lot, and I turn back into my apartment, locking the door behind me, and head into my bedroom to jerk off.

Published by Sinclair Sexsmith

Sinclair Sexsmith (they/them) is "the best-known butch erotica writer whose kinky, groundbreaking stories have turned on countless queer women" (AfterEllen), who "is in all the books, wins all the awards, speaks at all the panels and readings, knows all the stuff, and writes for all the places" (Autostraddle). ​Their short story collection, Sweet & Rough: Queer Kink Erotica, was a 2016 finalist for a Lambda Literary Award. They identify as a white non-binary butch dominant, a survivor, and an introvert.

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