“I’ve…” she started hesitantly. “I’ve never taken a cock up my ass.”
“It’s not an obsession,” I told her. “Honestly.”
There was a pause. Then a whisper.
“Maybe not to you, darling.”
—
I’ve never been much for Valentine’s Day. Not until I met her.
I woke to the ease of her against my chest, and it took me a while to settle into the reality of everything. I might have blinked twice before my eyes settled on her smile.
“Good morning, babe,” she said before she kissed me.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I whispered into her mouth.
I can’t help myself. I always have to touch her and feel her skin under my fingers. I have to fill my palms with her flesh, her tits, and her heat. It always ends the same way. My head between her legs, mouth on her clit, and fingers inside her. She’s the kind of woman you love to make cum, because she does it so generously.
Second breakfast was more decent, less decadent. Fresh-brushed teeth, properly dressed, and a generous hotel breakfast buffet with perfectly crisped bacon. I sipped my coffee and watched her across the table.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re gorgeous,” I answered.
She blushes as if compliments always hit her as something new, the kind of blushing you did in ninth grade at the wrong time, just because someone smiled at you.
“More coffee?” the waiter asked, clearing the plates off the table.
“Yes, please,” I answered, because it’d give me a few more minutes to rest my eyes on my girl.
She wasn’t quite done with her bacon anyway. She’s the kind of woman who eats what she enjoys, and enjoys what she eats, but you wouldn’t know by looking at her. Me? I enjoy coffee in the morning. Coffee, and watching her. It also gave me time to feel the want behind my ribs rise, because I knew something she didn’t. My eyes might have been giving me away.
“What?” she asked again.
“I just love you,” I said.
“Oh, babe…”
I finished my coffee, but I could never finish watching her. Her attention drifted toward the neighboring table, not quite catching the conversation, just the voices. I think she felt comfort in hearing someone finally speak her language in this strange, cold place I call home.
We should never have met, never have talked, never have known each other. The site we found ourselves on made it unlikely. And yet, one morning, I had read one of her stories and found a voice I couldn’t quite let go of.
My first message to her was an apology. And as I sat there, I realized it had been the same kind of apology I had offered her the day before this one, when I couldn’t stop touching her.
“You want to go back upstairs?” I finally asked her.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I do.”
We hadn’t planned her visit around Valentine’s; it just happened to fall in the middle of her stay. As we walked toward the elevator, the voice in my head reminded me of how she’d spent her last Valentine’s Day with what turned into an insignificant other. Two sloppy burgers she’d had to pick up at a fast-food joint herself, to be greeted by someone who barely registered her coming home.
And within the next week, she’d found the messages on his phone. The pictures.
That’s not even why as soon as the elevator doors slid closed behind us, I pulled her in and kissed her. No, it was to taste the same hunger on her lips as the one pounding in my chest. When the elevator doors opened on our floor, I think we both were thankful no one was waiting in the hallway outside. I think we both blushed at the idea.
“After you,” I offered.
She didn’t know it was so I could rest my eyes on her butt; she has the kind of ass that gives me comfort even in watching her leave.
Our room lay at the very end of the hallway, and this particular Saturday morning felt silent, as if the rest of the world had adjusted to our day. I caught up to her, took her hand, and kissed her again.
When I swiped my card, when the light flicked from red to green, she was quick to slip inside. I managed to grab the Do Not Disturb sign and hang it on the handle before closing the door behind us.
As soon as we closed the world out and that door clicked shut, she stood at the foot end of the bed and peeled her clothes off. I watched her, as I had done the day before, and she let me. I think she invited my stare, but I could never be sure. She stripped down to her bra and panties, seemed to think about it, then let her bra fall as well. Then her panties.
I know it was intentional when she bent over her luggage and pretended to look for something.
I’m an ass-man. I know it, she knew it, and that’s how I knew it was intentional. I was still standing at the entranceway separating the little hallway and our room, but closed the distance in four long steps.
“You know better,” I said, hands landing on her hips and pulling her towards me.
“I do?” she teased without showing any signs of moving.
“You’ll get yourself fucked real quick, teasing like that.”
She stood then and kissed me.
“Mhmm, babe,” she said, half-sucking my tongue. “Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”
There’s a tease in her that drives me crazy. It’s how she smiles, retreats, and lets herself get comfortable between sheets and duvets. It’s a half-rejection, half-invite. She knows exactly how to push my buttons.
I undressed and let my clothes fall to the floor, but didn’t lie next to her. Instead, I walked over to my suitcase and found the toiletry bag I’d prepared days earlier, while she was still in her desert and I was impatiently waiting for her. I put it down on the nightstand as I sat on the bed, then rolled over and kissed her.
She doesn’t kiss like any other girl—she invites. A little embarrassed, I realized I was squeezing her tit. The right one. I had cupped her face, I had traced her shoulder, and now the perfect shape of her filled my hand, and as soon as I realized, I apologized.
“Hush, babe,” she whispered. “I like the way you touch me.”
“I love touching you.”
She sighed. “I can tell.”
I only half-caught that. I was busy tasting her breast. She has perfect nipples, the kind that perk proudly when they’re kissed, and invites lips, tongue, and teeth equally.
“Turn around,” I whispered. “On your stomach.”
She looked at me, a little confused, but obliged me with a smile.
I reached for the toiletry bag and sat across her butt, then fished out the bottle of massage oil. Blackberry and lime scented. Flavored. Edible and lickable.
It was cool to the touch in my palm, but I made sure to warm it to my temperature before finding her shoulder blades and rubbing it into her skin. Her voice was warm like hot chocolate syrup poured over French vanilla ice cream when she moaned.
“Babe…”
“Hush,” I urged. “Just relax.”
I found the first tangled knot, just where her neck became her shoulder, but only warmed it with my thumb. It could’ve been stress, maybe anxiety, or perhaps sleeping in the wrong position. There was an equal and matching one on the opposite side, then a multitude of others.
I gave them names, personas, identities. The cheating boyfriend, the online menace, and the weight of being a woman on the internet. I rubbed them all out, and not once did she complain about the pain. I kissed her neck before I dragged my thumb down her spine as if counting every vertebrae. Her back became my altar, and I made sure to infuse it with the scent of berries and citrus, and not leave an inch of her untouched. If I found a knot, I exorcised it. If she moaned, I circled back, then kissed the spot that triggered her soundtrack.
I lowered myself down her shape and found rest above her thighs, then filled my palm with a rich serving of oil. I had to pace myself. The small of a woman’s back, the curve into an ass. I’ve never been able to resist it, and still—
Resisting the first urge is like swallowing sand. My mouth turns dry, my gut feels heavy, and my pulse turns slow. It feels like a lonely kick drum in an empty arena, the soundcheck before the crowds ruin the sonics. The natural delay of space, and the echo of concrete against concrete.
—my thumbs traced the shape of her, just at the rim where softness begs for bite. There’s a set of muscles along the spine, fittingly called the Erector Spinae. Helping the blood flow and releasing the tension made her moan deeply, and push her ass slightly upward.
I drew a hard, heavy line along the small of her back until I found a grip at her hips. I pulled her upward as I swung myself around, straddling her back. I let the softness of her butt fill my palms before pressing my thumbs into her flesh.
I am an ass-man, and now I had the full view of her perfect curves, the full feel of her warm softness, and the intense greed growing in my gut. I doused that ass in oil and kneaded it into her flesh.
She drew a deep breath, and under my hands, I could feel the deep knots in her glutes begin to surrender. The thick, heavy muscles were still holding so much of her tension, but now, they started to melt. I felt it in how she sank down underneath me, and how her breath found a deeper spot to settle. With every slow, deep knead, another layer of tightness released until the last stubborn knots finally gave way, and her ass became loose and perfectly relaxed in my hands.
I bent down and kissed her. I let the sweetness of the oil fill my mouth when I offered her a bite, stretching for the toiletry bag.
She’d once shared a laugh with a friend of ours, where she called me vanilla for being such an innocent slate in my teens, whereas they might have been chili and fire. I argued that vanilla isn’t a flavor, but an enhancer. It grows slowly and requires attention and care. And when it hits you? You want more.
I grinned at the bottle of lube and its vanilla flavor.
I filled my palm richly with the clear slick and let it warm in my hand. Her breathing was deep, as if she were dormant underneath me. She woke, though, when I slid the palm of my hand through the entirety of her crack.
“Oouuufff!”
The sound escaped her more as breath than a word, and she clenched a little. But it was more out of surprise than recoil. I waited for her buns to relax again, then massaged her crack with the same care I’d given the rest of her. I applied more vanilla and a little more hunger before splitting her open like she’d been waiting for it.
I leaned forward and took in the shape of her, then let my tongue find the trail from her tailbone to the soft angst pulsing at her deepest, most intimate. I let my tongue stay flat and resting until she started to loosen. Her breath came more ragged now, but her body?
Maybe for the first time since I’d gotten to know her, her body belonged fully to herself.
I sat back up, lubed my fingers thoroughly, then followed the path down to her tight butthole. I had expected some resistance, but there really was none as I pressed my middle finger against her tightness. It gave. With ease.
“Babe…” she breathed. “Oh my…God!”
I had meant to see how, or even if, she’d take me. Maybe the first joint of my finger, but she swallowed me. The growl in my gut pulsed downward, and my teenage greed whispered in my head.
Fuck her. She wants it!
I tempted another finger, and she let me in as if her need was buttered, and her lust had been baking too long behind her ribs. I moved slowly, afraid that anything else would break the magic. Her ring stretched willingly around the shape of my fingers, and the sounds we made were warm and filthy. The slick slurp of her ass as she took my fingers, the whimpers that escaped her, and the steady thump of my heartbeat.
I stalled my hunger and slid out of her, applied more oil to my hands, and shifted focus down her thighs. Her legs are a story of their own. The kind of luxurious long that you want wrapped in fishnets, and inviting your stare like a mirage in the desert. And when she walks away?
It’s a quiet, sinking disappointment. A kind of grief I’ve seen on other men’s faces.
My cock hung heavy between her cheeks as I moved down the length of her, rubbing soreness out of her calves. It felt almost sickly, sliding between the slick of her cheeks, as if I was intruding with no spoken invitation.
I slid off her and told her to turn around before I settled between her legs. She opened beautifully for me, the hypnotic legs spilling wide and curling like perfect arches around my kneeling body. I know she wanted me to lick her cunt—maybe fuck her—but she had more tension I needed to rid her of.
The invitation in her eyes made it impossible not to lean in and kiss her. The hunger in her lips matched the one pounding in my chest, and her mouth ate every breath and word I gave her. I sucked her lip between my teeth and looked for the strength to break free—not for wanting, but for needing to.
Gravity seemed tenfold as I tore from her lips and lifted myself from her. She smiled. It was the kind of smile that told me her happiness was blissful, and I want more.
Her shoulders are the framework around which the art of her is built, but the tension that lingered in her serratus anterior threatened to pull the shape of her down into Gogh’s At Eternity’s Gate rather than Monet’s Water Lilies. I pressed her shoulders down and told her to relax, then found the point of her tension and pressed my thumbs down a little harder than she expected, a little softer than I intended.
I worked my thumbs into every knot, every inch of her pain, present or past. When I released, her exhale was breathy and a little sad, as if the years of being misunderstood or perhaps forced into a shape that was never hers finally left her.
I continued down her arms, mostly to satisfy my own need for her skin. I was indulgent when the shape of her breasts filled my palms. There’s something hypnotic about the way she fits in my hands, the soft firmness they offer. The way her nipples perk to my touch. Once again, she invited my mouth, and the sweet tang of blackberries and lime was the perfect accompaniment to the stubborn swell of her on my tongue. I could suck those tits for hours, but my hunger had already left her raw two days before.
She arched into my touch, sought my lips with her chest as I pulled off and let my hands trail down the outside of her ribs, over her stomach, and landed on her hips. I let my thumbs trail inward, and she split herself wider. Her cunt dripped wet, but it wasn’t her time yet.
I worked more oil into the large muscles holding her legs apart for me, making sure I was slow and thorough when I reached the center of her. She was pulsing now, her own arousal pulling her open, my thumbs stretching her wider, but I let her sit with it. Let her exhale part want and part frustration while my hands worked further down her legs. She has one rule only: Don’t touch her feet.
I finished with her calves, then worked my way up again, as slowly as my fragile patience allowed. I wanted her cunt no less than it wanted me, and now, my patience was hanging at the frail end of its rope.
It was my thumb first, just a slow glide through the slick of her, but my mouth followed quickly. Greedily. Her hands found the back of my head instantly, and her hips jerked forward, letting me know she had waited patiently, but that enough was enough. Hungry as I was, I licked the entirety of her, then went straight for her clit. Sucking it into my mouth, my fingers soon followed. Penetrating her slowly, the way she wants it, but certain enough to let her know I meant to ruin her.
“Babe…” she groaned, but I’m not sure it was to me, the room, or just herself.
She coated my fingers, two of them now, and started rolling her hips to meet them when I pushed in. I know when to curl them, and where, but more importantly, I know when not to. It wasn’t time for her to cum. Yet.
I pulled my fingers out of her, still sucking her clit between my teeth, letting my tongue dance over it the way I know keeps her right on the edge.
She kept repeating the same word. Babe.
This time, it sounded surprised and a little desperate. Disappointed.
It didn’t last long. Not when I lifted her legs up and pressed them against her chest, not when my mouth abandoned her clit, ignored her begging entrance, and landed on her butthole. I didn’t lick, I didn’t poke. I sucked her puckered hole tender. Filthily, as if trying to suck her clit through her ass.
Babe turned to fuck.
Fuck was followed by me.
But when I sank my fingers into her, it was Christ’s name she spat. Again, I found myself mesmerized by the ease with which she took me. How she wanted me.
It’s not an obsession.
Maybe not to you…
I eased down to get a better view of her, not knowing if she’d come to her senses and tell me to stop and—
She didn’t.
The sounds she made were as filthy as porn. The kind of porn you shouldn’t be watching, but can’t take your eyes off. I slid my thumb in her cunt and started finger fucking both her holes, and she? She fucked me back.
Greed overtook me. I pushed a third finger up her butt, and she didn’t even flinch—didn’t make a sound as I watched her hole stretch perfectly around the shape of my fingers.
Someone gasped. It might have been me.
“Babe…”I exhaled. “I’ve got three fingers up your ass.”
“Oh. My. God.”
It was a molten breath of release.
“Yeah…you like it, don’t you?”
It wasn’t dirty talk. It was genuine surprise and awe.
I was mesmerized by her and by how she took three fingers, slowly gliding in and out of her asshole. She only tightened when I pulled almost out, as if she wanted to trap me inside her. With each thrust, I sank deeper inside her, until I found myself knuckle deep in her. She clenched hard. Around the shape of my fingers, around the shape of my thumb buried in her cunt.
I had pushed my thumb up girls’ asses before, but they had tightened, made it painful, and asked me to stop. Even the one who came like that.
Now, I found myself with a woman with the conviction that you should try anything at least once, and determined to try twice if she didn’t like it the first time. She didn’t tighten up and invite pain, but she must have felt it. And welcomed it.
“I’m cumming,” she whispered.
“You’re such a good girl,” I answered as my mouth sought her clit again.
I held her through it. Sucked her through it. Fucked her through it.
She was still riding out the last tremors of her thighs, and the last knot in her stomach was still trying to untie itself as I pulled out of her. A desperate groan escaped her, but when I slid on top of her and fed her cunt what it had been begging for since my fingers touched her back, she fell apart beneath me.
“Yeah,” she groaned. “Fuck me.”
Morning turned to afternoon. It was a cloudless winter day, cold enough to make the air itself crackle. Behind the sheer curtains, tangled in sheets, sweat, and cum, we drifted off to sleep. I’m sure St. Valentine shook his head slightly, maybe he giggled.
And maybe he promised the night held so much more.
