CW: casual sex

Chapter Three
Throughout the early part of the day we were flirting back and forth pretty heavily. Talking about the evening. Certainly in more specific terms than we had over dinner. Delighted to be able to introduce him to the world of sexting. And while I offered to send him a nude as well, he declined. Saying that he wanted me in one big bite in the evening, not just in a snapshot throughout the day. Decided that was wonderful of him.
I wrapped up work a few minutes early. Hopping into the shower again. Prepping some dinner, just in case he wanted to stay a little bit.
So when he let me know he was coming up, I stripped back down again, because I was hoping to knock another one of those surprised chuckles out of him.
Instead, as I opened the door, posing a bit, hand over head he grabbed me. Upraised wrist in one fist, his other hand going around my waist and pulling me right against him. Gasping as he kicked the door shut. Hiking me up his torso until I was up on his shoulder. Ribs balancing on his left shoulder, legs feebly swimming above the floor. Carrying me into the front room and dropping me into my armchair.
“Well, hello,” I panted, reaching out for him.
“Hush,” he said, snapping off his belt.
I couldn’t help it though, wriggling happily in the chair. I’d been thinking about him nude since I’d first seen him. He ran his free belt back through the buckle, dropping the loop around my still outstretched wrists, tying my hands smartly together. Lifting my arms high above my head until I almost was lifted off the seat cushion.
I giggled, a little giddy. Not expecting him to be so rough, even though we’d talked about it. I assumed he’d been merely talking about fantasy. Further that even if he was presented the opportunity he’d chicken out. But apparently not.
One-handed he undid his button-up. Finally letting my hands drop, though still bound before me. I reached out for the button of his slacks. He slapped my hands away.
“Do you want me?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” I said, trying to reach again. This was rewarded with both his hands going into my hair, giving me a brisk little shake.
“How’s my good little girl going to take it?” he asked.
Still sort of on the verge of laughter, but just because of how unexpected it was. Though also feeling that low-down thump in my guts that I hadn’t felt in forever.
“However you want to give it to me,” I said, smiling up at him and feeling devilish.
Knowing that my eyes were continually flickering away from his to get a bigger eyeful of his chest. Already in love with that. Hair still silver, neck yoked, upper arms rounded and bigger looking bare.
“No,” he said, giving me another shake. “I asked you a question and I want to hear the answer.”
Struggling against the leather of his belt, I slid open the dress hook of his pants.
“In my mouth,” I said. “I need you in my mouth.”
That got a grunt of pleasure from him. He helped me finish getting him undressed. I leaned forward instantly and got him buried in me. Already swollen between my legs, shifting uneasily through it. He tasted good and felt better. Besides, I loved him for how helplessly he moaned as soon as I had a mouthful of him. As though he were surprised. He kept my bound hands raised above my head, keeping them out of our way. His other going to the back of my head. But gently, just caressing me.
He stopped us quite suddenly. Lifting me up and out of the chair by my hair and the belt. I squealed– both from my suddenly empty mouth and the strain in my shoulders and the tug across my scalp. Finding myself very unceremoniously turned and bent over the armchair. Just as suddenly, he thrust into me and I groaned, face mashing into the back of the chair. Rolling my hips back and matching him beat for beat though, once he got into a rhythm.
“Good girl,” he panted from behind me. “Is this what you needed?”
“Yes,” I moaned.
Rewarded with a heavy, double handed spank across both of my hips at once. And then again he withdrew from me. I groaned, feeling achy with emptiness now. Grabbing me by my legs, he pushed me down to the floor. And began fucking my face again. I’d never had that. At first, panic-stricken or nearly disgusted, I reached out for him. Suddenly realizing I liked it, feeling a now-useless gush between my legs. Tangling my bound hands around his knees and giving in to the invasion.
“Tell me you need me,” he said.
I looked up at him, filled edge-to-edge. Needing to crank my head back rather far to catch his eye. But he didn’t let up, and I barely had the space to breathe, forget speaking. A muffled moan came out as an exhalation through my nose.
I had tumbled all disorganized limbs to the floor, sitting a little splay legged with my back against the chair. I spread my knees and then dropped my bound hands between them. Spreading my lips, hoping he’d see how wet I was. Since I couldn’t speak.
“Good girl!” he said, jerking me up by my hair again.
Once more squealing and feeling disoriented like I was being tossed through the air. Once more tossed into the seat cushion. I spread my legs wide for him again, hooking my hips up and back.
“Please,” I begged. “I need you. I need you to let me come on you. Please.”
“Exactly,” he said, patting my backside gently before entering me slowly.
Now he moved leisurely. Hardly at a pace to get me off. I began whining miserably. Too wound up by the back and forth to put off orgasm.
“What’s wrong, girl?” he taunted, breathing hardly heavy because he was barely moving.
“I want to come,” I whined.
“So then come,” he said.
“I can’t,” I cried back.
“Make me give it to you,” he said.
I started battering myself back against him. Knowing that I’d be bruised the next day and not caring. Showing him the speed I wanted and what I needed. Reaching around me, he grabbed his belt again. So that the only part of me in connection with the chair was my face. I was free floating, impaled on him and still rocking wildly. With a growl he started matching me. I came, sounding miserable because he neither stopped nor slowed. Collapsing forward, face muffled in the seat cushion. Ass still up, legs shaking wildly as he continued.
“Are you already giving up?” he teased again, but at least sounding breathless now.
I was entirely without power, unable to move but for trembling legs. Useless between my legs after orgasm. But unfortunately not numb. Body trying to keep up and worse, climbing the hill back up to another orgasm. But I thought my heart would pop if I had another. I started trying to wriggle away from him. Reaching around me, he laid his palm on my stomach. Rolling me back into his hips again and again.
“Please!” I said.
“Please what?”
“Use my mouth again,” I said. “I can’t take any more.”
“Too bad,” he sighed, but didn’t stop.
The hand on my stomach slid down, his middle finger stroking across my clit, and I squealed loudly. His free hand went to the back of my head, suffocating me into the seat.
“Hush,” he said, almost laughing.
Breathing into the seat, my breath making my face hot and damp, I almost started crying.
“Oh no,” I said, turning my head under his hand. “Oh, please don’t make me.”
“I can’t believe you’re already giving up! After all the work and chasing you did, and you’re already done?” he asked.
I turned my face back into the cushion of my own accord because I was going to scream. I did, orgasming like something that was hooked and pulled from me. My legs collapsed and he slid out of me. He groaned, irritated by the interruption. He let me slump to the floor, panting and shaking. Caressing my hair for a second. I turned around, kneeling comfortably on the floor. Taking him back in my mouth. He grunted appreciatively.
“Good girl,” he said, very gently now. Holding my hair off my sweating face.
I was really falling in love with the soft humiliation of tasting me on him. Now feeling him thump on the back of my tongue.
“You’re so pretty,” he said, still brushing my hair off my cheeks. “I love seeing you dripping on the floor. All used up.”
I moaned, totally brainless, loving what he was saying. He must have felt the vibration in my throat. Suddenly crushing my face in his palms, holding me in place. Exploding into my throat. I gulped hungrily. Breathing deeply once he let me go.
He crouched, hefting me up on his hip and then into his arms. Usually I would have squeaked or tried to escape him. Unused to be up in the air like that. Instead, I just settled into his chest, feeling our sweat between us.
“I should have told you,” he said, making his way back to the bedroom. “I need to cuddle afterward. And I won’t do it on the floor.”
“Okay,” I sighed.
We dropped into my bed. Laying on his side, he locked an arm and a leg over me. Burying his face into the crown of my head. I breathed deeply, hand on his upper arm. Smelling him, feeling how hot and heavy he was. And sort of dozed off.
“Hey,” I said quietly, shaking him by the shoulder some time later.
The sun had moved several inches across my floor through the window. And become more of a bloody red than a gold.
“Yeah baby,” he said, sounding very sleepy.
I could feel my stomach eating itself.
“Early dinner?” I asked.
“Mphf,” he said, everything on him getting heavier on me, pinning me to the bed.
“I’m hungry,” I whined. I wriggled underneath him until he gave up and sat up against my headboard.
I stumbled out of my bed, heading into my kitchen. Mostly everything for dinner was already done, simply a matter of bringing it up to temp.
I heard him going into my front room, heard the shush of fabric and knew he was getting redressed. I hadn’t bothered. I liked being nude, so long as it was warm enough. It had been frowned at previously as being either scandalous, childish, or a purposeful and base baiting.
He sat at my table, watching me work. Looking happy and tired. Leaning on his fist again.
“I can’t get over you,” he said.
“In what way, sir?” I asked, playfully.
“I like that painting of the municipal building you have in your front room,” he said, as if that were a clear answer.
I liked painting this city. Especially the older buildings. The one he was talking about was somehow both monumental and squat. Like a fat man with great aplomb and charm. I’d painted it several times, the one in my living room was simply the largest one.
“I paint Maplewood… A lot,” I said. More embarrassed by this than my nudity.
I pulled the casserole out of the oven, thumping the door shut with my hip.
“It made me think I ought to look at this place differently,” he said. “I’ve been noticing all the bad smells and garbage. How is there always a puddle on every sidewalk? It hasn’t rained in two weeks, but there’s always a wet spot. Why do so many places not open until 11? I’m an early riser. Every place to rent is without laundry facilities. But you make the whole place kind of… It’s always the golden hour. There’s always a rainbow in the puddle. There’s always a good place to stand outside impatiently as you wait to get in. There’s something good to see while you walk your dirty laundry down the block… I can’t get over your happiness.”
I paused, standing by his knee before turning to get us drinks, plates and utensils. I’d never thought about it that way. I hadn’t known that my affection was so obvious. All my colors warm, all my feelings on display. Resting his hands on the flare of my hips, he tilted his chin up for a kiss. I gave it to him quite willingly.
“Besides,” he added, beginning to laugh again. “I’ve never had someone make me macaroni and cheese in the nude. What a treat.”
I laughed myself, and then we sat down to dinner. Taking our time. Guzzling water. Trading hot sauce back and forth. Talking about what next. How. I told him it could be harder. More hitting, more restraint.
“It wasn’t too much?” he asked.
“I get the feeling,” I said, looping up another bite out of the dish. “That if you sensed I wasn’t enjoying myself, you would have stopped what you were doing and begun crying. You know I was having a ball.”
“Do I seem that soft?” he asked, chuckling.
“Softer even than that,” I said.
We discussed our schedules. He knew I had my routine and liked sticking to it. He wasn’t working full-time any more. But he was “poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted” as far as his son was concerned. Namely, showing up for any events at the school, half-uninvited.
Killian himself had been a college athlete. His son, Jonas, was as well. He’d show up at matches, get an eye-waving roll from Jonas, and have to be content with that.
“It’s strange,” he said, refreshing both of our glasses. “I used to know every minute of his day. What he wanted to eat and when. How he sounded sleeping and how it felt to face the door of his room and know he was inside, and he was angry. To fearfully memorize every morning what outfit he was wearing in case he should go missing. To know what he was going to say before he said it just from the set of his shoulders. And now… now we can go days without talking.”
I took his hand across the table, sighing with him. It wasn’t an emotion I’d ever faced. Not really. The closest was suddenly realizing my romantic partner and I were no longer aligned. Not in any way that was real. We no longer saw things from the same angle, or saw each other at all. That we’d disconnected in some very serious way– an astronaut leaving the pull of gravity. He seemed more upset about the separation from his son than his wife. Outside of brief clues, he didn’t speak of her. When he did, it was comfortably neutral. I wasn’t neutral yet about my breakup. If I talked about him it was as “The Asshole” so I was admiring of his neutrality.
“The trouble with parenthood,” he said, standing up and beginning to clean my kitchen. “For me, at least– it felt like an endless series of letting go of him. From holding the whole of his body to just his hand, and then not even that. Of course that’s the goal– obviously that’s the goal. But it’s hard working toward that when all you want to do is cling desperately.”
“You feel things big,” I said. Feeling very small-hearted in comparison. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“That’s true,” he said, finishing the dishes and wiping his hands on a towel. “And now that I’ve utterly turned you off, I guess I’ll take my leave.”
I laughed.
“No, you haven’t,” I said.
Though all this was well outside of any of my personal experiences, I liked hearing him talk. I liked him. I didn’t like anybody. But him, I liked. I’d always rather be the watcher from the window. But getting more of him than that was delightful.
I walked him to the door. Thinking about taking a long hot shower and maybe even going to bed early. I felt that loose and relaxed after him. Happily at ease in my body, drained below the belly button. Tension I hadn’t known was in me had bled away.
“Kiss good night, little girl,” he said, tapping his lip.
I went to my toes and gave it to him. Almost leaning back against the door and sighing romance-novel-style before giving myself a brisk shake and heading toward the bathroom.
Things were cranking along merrily. Doing the final edits on things. Back and forth with my publisher. Working on the next book in earnest. Having fun falling back into that. Knowing I was playing imagination games most days. Having to drop my mop or put down my weights or stop chopping a pepper to write down a note for myself. Because even when I wasn’t sitting at the desk I was thinking of the stories. New characters and little vignettes. Moments and jokes and visual gags. Happy to be doing this again. No promises until after seeing the numbers for book one. But still. Always better to have one in the bag, regardless, I figured.
Killian was good at keeping me on track. And he liked doing the imagination part almost as well as I did. I’d tell him about a character I was thinking of, and he was good at coming up with actions they might take. He laughed at all my jokes. I hadn’t played like this with anyone else in a while. I realized, whether or not he’d done it intentionally, he’d been studying human nature. Likely because of his career. But he was pretty astute when it came to people, the things they’d say and do. He asked me what I used to do before the book while we were on the phone one night. I was fixing a blouse, headphones in. I was always pretty hesitant to tell people I didn’t know very well.
“How do you feel about porn?” I asked, nervously laughing.
“Were you an actress?” he asked. “I don’t think of it much. I don’t have a problem with it. But remember, I’m an old man, Nika. When you say porn, I think beaded curtains and tapes.”
I laughed, thinking that like sexting and nudes, I’d have to introduce him to the exciting world of commissioned porn.
I jokingly sent him three old pages of mine. Listening to his quiet on the other side of the line, and then he laughed.
“This second thing you sent me,” he said, still sniggering. “That’s your ass. I know that ass. You drew your own ass.”
I laughed.
“Well, you don’t very often have models available, now do you?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Though I imagine that to be the case.”
And that was the end of that conversation. I wasn’t ashamed of it, but it wasn’t a nice conversation usually. Especially with men.
We spoke fairly frequently. And still emailed a lot– especially if we wanted to discuss sex. Most frequently starting things with “I was fantasizing–”, “I thought about you last night doing–” and the like. Juicy little paragraphs.
I liked talking with him. Just being on the phone was kind of friendly. We’d talk while doing our errands. Hearing the sound of the sidewalks around him as he went to dry cleaners and to pick up groceries and the like. He’d listen to me cleaning pages or coloring. Conversing for hours about everything. We didn’t pry– we just let the other person speak. About whatever it was. I tried to mimic his kindness toward his ex. But I could feel bitterness when I did talk of him. We talked about the book. He would listen to me being shy and weird about all the extracurriculars I suddenly found myself doing. He asked what my specific problems were– boredom, shame of talking about myself. And offered good advice. Even saying we could play through the upcoming interview I had, if I thought it would be helpful.
Occasionally I was concerned about the level of care he took about everything. Asking if I was eating, if I was happy, if I needed coaching for work-related things. I had the sneaking suspicion he’d make himself a martyr. It seemed that he had in the past. And I wasn’t interested in having that from him.
Still though, he remained fun.