Just say it out loud
We’ve been seeing each other for almost seven weeks now.
Gentle mornings, long dinners, soft kisses that slowly turned into hours of slow, careful, flower-petal sex. Always tender. Always safe. Always beautiful — but never really raw.
Tonight the air in my apartment feels different.
The wine glasses are half empty, the lights are low, and you’re sitting cross-legged on my couch in that soft black dress that ends way too high on your thighs. You’re playing with the stem of your glass, looking at me with those clever, curious eyes.
“Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” you say quietly.
I laugh nervously, rub the back of my neck. “That’s a dangerous question.”
“I know.” Your voice drops half an octave. “That’s why I’m asking.”
I hesitate. You set the glass down. Then — without breaking eye contact — you slide off the couch and kneel between my legs. Your fingers find my zipper almost casually, like you’re unwrapping something you already own.
When your hand wraps around me, warm and sure, I suck in a sharp breath.
“You’re so hard already,” you murmur against the inside of my thigh. “And I haven’t even started talking dirty yet.”
Your lips brush over the head — just a whisper of contact — and my hips twitch involuntarily.
“Tell me,” you say again, softer this time. Your tongue draws a slow, wet circle. “What do you think about when you’re alone and you touch yourself?”
I swallow. “I… I don’t know if—”
Your mouth slides down, warm and silky, taking maybe half of me before you pull back with a soft, obscene pop. “Try.”
The next time you go down you take me deeper. Your tongue presses flat against the underside and you hum — just a tiny vibration — and suddenly the words are falling out of me like they’ve been waiting for years.
“Anal,” I breathe. “I think about… anal sometimes. And… threesomes. Two women. Watching. Touching. And… god… cum play. Seeing it on skin. On lips. On your face.”
You don’t flinch.
You don’t laugh.
You just look up at me with dark, glittering eyes, lips still wrapped around me, and give one long, slow suck that makes my vision blur.
Then you pull off completely, stand up, and — without a single word — peel your dress over your head.
Black lace panties. Nothing else.
You’re smooth, completely bare, just like I am.
You step out of the lace and climb onto my lap, straddling me. Your knees sink into the couch on either side of my hips.
You guide me to your entrance, slick and hot already, and sink down agonizingly slowly until I’m buried to the hilt inside you.
You lean forward, breasts brushing my chest, mouth close to my ear.
“Where do you want to come tonight?” you whisper.
I groan. You feel too good. Too tight. Too wet.
“Inside you?” You roll your hips once, luxurious. “Or…”
You lift yourself almost all the way off, turn around — reverse cowgirl — and reach back with both hands. Your fingers spread yourself open so I can see everything.
“…here?” One fingertip circles your tight little ring, teasing, pressing just enough to make it wink at me. “Would you like that? To fill my ass?”
My cock jerks hard inside you.
You spin back around, grinning like you just caught me stealing.
You cup your breasts, lift them. “Or maybe all over these?” Your fingers trail down your stomach. “Or here?” Lower. “All over my smooth little pussy?”
Then you touch your cheek, drag one finger across your lips.
“Or… on my pretty face? Ruin my makeup?”
I’m breathing like I’ve run a sprint. “Fuck… all over you. Your body. Your face.”
You pout — exaggerated, playful, devastating.
“Not inside my bare pussy?” You clench around me on purpose. “I’m disappointed.”
Before I can answer you slide off me, drop to your knees again, and take me back into your mouth — hungrier this time. Wetter. No teasing. Just pure, filthy suction.
You pull off just long enough to whisper:
“Do you think I’d like it? If you painted me with it?”
I’m shaking. My hands fist the couch cushions. “Yes.”
You smile around me — wicked, proud — and go back to work.
Faster. Deeper. One hand stroking what your mouth can’t reach, the other gently tugging my balls.
I try to warn you. “I’m— fuck — I’m close—”
You don’t stop.
You look up, eyes locked on mine, and suck harder.
I come with a choked groan, pulsing thick ropes across your chest, your collarbone, the upper swell of your breasts. You keep your mouth open, tongue out, catching the last few drops like it’s a game you’re winning.
When I’m finally spent you sit back on your heels, look down at the mess, then back up at me with the brightest, dirtiest grin.
“Good guess,” you say softly. “But…”
You crawl forward again, wrap your fingers around me, and start stroking — slow, firm, determined. “…I think you’ve still got something left for my face.”
I’m sensitive. Almost too sensitive. But your touch is perfect — insistent, loving, filthy — and somehow I’m hardening again in your hand.
You lean in, kiss the tip, then look up.
“I love this,” you confess quietly. “Seeing you lose control. Feeling you throb. Knowing you want to mark me.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “I want it on my face. I want to feel it hit my skin. I want to taste it after. And I want to do it again. And again. Whenever we want.”
That does it.
I pull you up by the arms, kiss you hard — tasting myself on your tongue — then guide you back down.
You open your mouth, tilt your head just right, and look up at me like I’m the only thing in the world.
I stroke myself fast, aiming, and let go.
Thick, warm streaks land across your cheek, your lips, the bridge of your nose. One perfect line drips from your eyebrow. You don’t flinch. You just smile — slow, satisfied, radiant — and lean forward to take me back into your mouth, gently cleaning every last drop while I tremble and curse under my breath.
When you finally pull away your lips are glossy, your face beautifully ruined, and your eyes are sparkling.
You lick your bottom lip, catch a stray drop with your fingertip, and suck it clean.
“Next time,” you murmur, voice husky, “I want it inside me first… then on me. Deal?”
I can only nod.
Speechless.
Completely, stupidly in love with the way you just claimed every single filthy thought I was ever too shy to say out loud.
You crawl up my body, straddle my lap again, and kiss me slow — letting me taste everything we just did.
“See?” you whisper against my mouth.
“I told you I’m up for almost anything… as long as it’s with you.”
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