Greet me at the door

March 20, 2008 at 4:17 pm 7 comments

I was working on papers. The papers on my desk. The paper tiger. I’d been working from home all day, and after a while it becomes like swimming in an aquarium. More and more ungrounded, sure, getting work done, but never feeling like it’s enough. Missing the touchstone of coworkers and cubicles and printers whose cartridges you don’t need to replace yourself.

He rang at 6ish. I greeted him at the door. With a kiss. And then the kiss became another kiss, and then the heat was there, always there, distracting, maddening, delicious.

“I’m drowning in papers,” I said, and he put his arms around me. Maybe he was wearing that Scally cap I think makes him look kind of old and silly, I don’t know, but his face was kind.

“Why?” he said. And I tried to explain but it didn’t matter, and then I was running up the stairs, knowing he was looking at my ass. The door was open, the radio was blaring something about our civil rights being eroded, or how Hillary is a bitch and by implication shouldn’t be POTUS, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention really, because then the door was closed and I was kissing him there in the front hallway, and my arms were around his neck and he was biting me, biting my shoulder and giving me that sweet pain. Or maybe I was biting him, I don’t know.

He slid his hands into the front of my pants. That wasn’t part of the plan. We were supposed to get dinner and see that movie down in Kendall Square. But his hands, and the heat between us, and I was wet, and then I was unbuckling my belt and fumbling with my fly. Feeling him through the fabric of his corduroys.

I pulled him up against the wall, to feel the weight of him pushing me against it. I pulled his shirt out from his belt — the professional button-down shirt with the undershirt under it, so respectable and confidence-inspiring to his clients. And I was reaching under, to feel the curve of his stomach and his chest hair and to pinch his nipple, always erect. And he made that sound, that harsh intake of breath. Once, he said it was like a bolt of lightning when I pinched his nipples.

But he grabbed my arm and pulled it up over my head, down the other side in some kind of wrestler’s hold, I don’t know. I was kissing him and I didn’t care about anything anymore but the heat between us and the lust and the openness.

“I thought you were going to collar me,” he said, teasing. “What happened?”

As if he didn’t know. As if it’s not why I love to be with him, to wrestle with him, fight him, as if his strong, strong arms that have worked harder than mine or anyone else’s I know, as if they didn’t fill me with desire just as much as his mouth, and his eyes, and the stubble on his face, and his taught ass, and his lovely cock, that pleasing appendage that stands at attention for me even when I’m on the other side of town and we’re saying naughty things to each other via IM.

“I want you to fuck me against the wall,” I said. I wanted it rough and dirty, up against a tree, in the alleyway behind the pub. I wanted him inside me. I ran into the bedroom for a condom, and then back to where he stood, stroking himself through his pants, unzipping them. Kneeled down to unroll it, not even give it a proper suck, because he was pulling me up then and guiding himself between my legs (when did my pants come off?). I was wet and he was almost in, but the angles were wrong — he’s just that much taller than I, and while he’s strong he’s not so strong he can support the whole weight of my peasant-stock thighs and hips. So I pulled back into the kitchen, hiked myself up on the edge of the sink. And he was pulling off his shirt, now completely naked. His tattoo stood dark between his shoulder blades.

“No, leave your clothes on,” I said, but it was too late and I didn’t really care, and now the sink was just too high for it to work.

“I need a phone book,” he said, and I remembered the obsolete volumes downstairs — downstairs in the lobby, and there was no way I was putting my clothes back on to retrieve them. We tried the step-stool, but that didn’t work either.

“Get on the floor,” I said.
“You first.”‘
“Make me.”

Which he did, and I put up a fight, but not entirely too much of a fight, and he was on top of me, and I was scratching his back with my stealthy little nails and he was inside me, fucking me.

Fucking me.

I wasn’t warmed up enough to come properly. But it didn’t matter. I came anyway, not as forcefully perhaps, but because I wanted to, wanted to come with him inside of me, there, on the kitchen floor that needed mopping, in the doorway between the front hallway and the kitchen.

And he was coming inside me too, with his face–you know you can’t really describe the way someone’s face looks when they’re coming. You have to just experience it.

I didn’t want him to pull out. I wanted to feel him there inside me for a while. With my arms around him. The aftermath. Of fucking him hello.

Then we put our clothes back on and went to a movie.

Entry filed under: being a bad bisexual, Bran, fucking, pleasure, pr0n, sluts have more fun, submission and why that's hot, switching, tremblers. Tags: , , , .

Puppy play Quickie

7 Comments Add your own

  • 1. AC  |  March 21, 2008 at 2:11 am

    but no campari?
    no exchange of quick bon mots?
    o well. the next time.

  • 2. omnivoresdilemma  |  March 21, 2008 at 10:51 am

    campari, alas
    would make the writer quite ill
    and ruin the fun

  • 3. V  |  March 21, 2008 at 3:39 pm

    This is the kind of sex I’ve only seen in movies; for instance that scene in the movie Body Heat where William Hurt thows a chair through Kathleen Turner’s glass doors and they just jump on each other.

    And even though you’ve said that your ejaculations can be annoying, I’m still envious because I myself have trouble self-lubricating and relaxing enough to enjoy intercourse.

  • 4. omnivoresdilemma  |  March 21, 2008 at 3:48 pm

    I don’t really find it annoying. I mean, the coming itself is pretty awesome. It’s just the cleanup that’s annoying. Incedentally, when I ejaculate it’s actually NOT good lubricant. The stuff before it is, but not the ejaculate itself.

  • 5. Rogue  |  March 21, 2008 at 8:15 pm

    Delicious. There’s nothing quite like having a tawdry interruption when one is at work, no? The papers can wait.

    It’s nice to be added to your blogroll. Thank you.

    I miss Boston. I have so many hot memories from that city. Lovers, playparties, events. Yum.

  • 6. Hope springs eternal « Omnivore’s Dilemma  |  April 10, 2008 at 7:09 pm

    […] you just a tad greedy? After all, you’ve got that delicious Bran playing puppy with you and fucking you hello, not to mention that young new boy who likes to kneel at your feet and sort your […]

  • 7. Kink/BDSM dating sites « Omnivore’s Dilemma  |  May 20, 2008 at 12:25 pm

    […] you ask, “where do you find all these kinky people to hurt and order around and do other perverted things […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Trackback this post  |  Subscribe to the comments via RSS Feed

The search for truth, love, beauty, and mind-blowing orgasms

This blog contains sexually explicit material. If you are under 18 or offended by sex-talk, smut, kinksters, liberals, bisexuals, queers, poets, switches, bitches, or outspoken women, it's a free Internet (mostly) and you can go someplace else.

Sign up for email notification of new posts (you don't have to have a WordPress account).

Join 5 other followers

Click here to explore Good Releasing's various lines of adult titles and educational films representing independent artists who create authentic and diverse content.


%d bloggers like this: