Cheap Shot

"So?"

"So."

"Is the coast clear?" you ask.

I didn't even consider that factor. "I was still debating which one," I confess.

"Oh, I would think the women's room would be better."

"Really?"

"Definitely."

You're probably right. Urinals are gross, and vibe-killing. I hold up my finger to indicate I'll be right back, as I slip into the women's room. The space is still, and I instantly know I'm alone. But I open the doors of the two stalls, anyway. Empty. I pivot back around to the door I just walked through. A deadbolt. Perfect.

Just for good measure, I survey myself in the mirror. Not awful, particularly for not having planned any of this. I was just meeting a friend (who I now realize I've abandoned... but I did warn her, and she seemed supportive). I'm just thankful I did something with my hair tonight.

I smooth my clothes and reach for the door. With only a split second before I see you again, I realize I have no plan. We are improvising this whole thing.

But, weren't we always?

I crack the door, and fortunately, I lay my eyes back on you, and only you. No one has joined you. No one is asking you what you're doing there; why you seem to be waiting for no one. Since you are otherwise unoccupied, you are awkwardly playing lookout.

"Pssst," I hiss at you.

You turn back towards me.

I crook an index finger at you, to beckon you inside. You don't wait long. Only three long strides gets you to the door, and I need to step aside to allow it to open wider and get you in.

Once you join me, I lean my weight back on the door to shut it, and click the deadbolt.

I take it back. I had one plan. And that was it: to lock the door.

The only thing there is to do is for me to turn back to you, and I do. You walked slightly passed me when you entered, and there's now some distance between us in this small room. There is also a vanity with one sink and some counter space. Also, two stalls, which we likely won't enter. Some commercial items mounted on the walls. Standard stuff.

If you have a plan, yourself, you don't give it away. We stand and stare at each other for a moment. If this were any of our previous encounters, we would virtually attack one another; start devouring, and savoring. We often focus on kissing, and hand stuff.

You're so fucking good with your hands.

Right now, ironically, at a time where we should probably be rushing back to our friends so we don't raise any red flags or cause anyone to come looking for us, we seem to be taking things slow. At least, it feels that way. I see you take a lethargic step towards me, focussing your eyes on the door just behind me.

"Did you just lock that door?" you ask.

"Yes," I answer, more breathlessly than I anticipated. I'm embarrassingly weak for you. "There's a deadbolt," I needlessly explain.

"Good," you say, as you keep moving towards me. I see your hands raising up, and then they're around my face. Your fingers lace their way into my hair as I feel your hips meet mine, and our bodies come together. "I want you alone."

My knees almost buckle. Your hands on my face, even with a featherlight touch, might be the only thing keeping me on my feet. Even still, your statement hits me in a slightly absurd way. How else would you want me? In front of people?

You still haven't kissed me, except for briefly downstairs. Your face is so close to mine, your nose grazing my temple. I feel your lips on the side of my cheek. Then, my words come back to me.

"What else do you want?" I regain control of my limbs, and figure out where my hands are. They feel cold. Cold hands aren't unusual for me, but clearly the blood in my body is being diverted to other, crazier locations. I bring them up your body, skimming up the front of your shirt.

Perhaps it's my question, or my touch. You pull your face back to look at me, again, seemingly taking things more gentle and slow than we have in the past. Your words, however, elevate everything.

"I want your legs wrapped around me."

Without thinking too much about what I'm doing, I raise my arms up around your neck, as if we're about to slow dance. Your hands come off my face and begin to settle around my middle. My right leg comes up, to hook around your hip, and I feel your grip tighten around my back. We're on the same page.

My other foot lifts off the ground, and I know your have my weight in your arms. My left leg is around your other hip, and while this position does not seem especially sexy nor sustainable, you carefully swing me around to the small counter space we have to work with. After settling my weight on the surface, I can readjust my legs, and pull your pelvis back into mine properly. Your lips come with you. We're finally giving into this.

I rapidly feel everything all at once. Your tongue in my mouth. Your hands going inside my clothes. Your firmness in your pants, begging to come out.

I wasn't expecting for either of us to take off much clothing, but suddenly I'm undoing your shirt buttons, even though it seems totally unnecessary. My own shirt is coming off and you're fussing with my bra.

Damn it, what about these other details? You're probably going to have the luxury of staying standing, undoing your pants, and little else. I need to... remove my pants entirely? And my shoes need to come off in order for the pants to come off. You know, sometimes, just sometimes, I hate being a girl. In winter. We're lucky I'm not wearing nylons.

Or, would you enjoy that more?

I'll wear nylons another time.

Our hands are a bit frantic, and our mouths have barely lost contact with one another. I'm remembering how you taste, and how you move. You're delicious.

You like it when I undress you, and I like it when you undress me. I make a move for your pants, and you inhale slightly. Either in emotional preparation, or to minimize your waistline so there is some slack for me to work with and I can undo buttons, belts and zippers more easily. You're always so cooperative.

Before you can reciprocate, I move to my own pants. I think I know what needs to happen. While I undo my simple button closures, I kick off one shoe. It makes too loud of a noise behind you, and you glance over your shoulder. It's just as well. I have to open my legs back up and temporarily release you in order to pull off this next part.

"Sorry," I mumble to you, as you realize what's happening. You instinctively take a half step back from the counter, slightly unsure of yourself for the first time since we entered this room. I slide down from sitting, and stand on the foot that is still wearing a shoe. I slide one leg out of my pants, and return to my seat on the countertop, cushioning myself with some of the pant leg I just took off. I'm now only half-wearing them, so they don't have to be discarded on the floor, but I am also no longer encumbered by them. Hopefully, the fabric that I'm sitting on will help protect my tailbone, and be slightly more hygienic than sitting on bare tile.

This is either genius, or a recipe for sliding off and needing an ER visit. I guess we'll find out.

My legs wrap around your hips and pull you into me again. This time, your pelvis, with an open pair of pants, makes direct contact with my crotch. I'm still covered by my underwear, a simple pair of bikini panties. With this level of contact alone, I'm unsure if you can detect how wet I am, and how damp my underwear is by now. You must be wondering why I didn't just take them off, too, during my complicated dismount.

Your fingers ask the question for you. As your body comes back, your mouth back on mine, I feel one of your arms tightly wrapping around my waist. Your other hand begins to travel down to my newly exposed territory. You've been here before, but not for a while. The first thing you do is start to finger the edges of fabric covering my pussy. You could just go under it, or push it aside. It wouldn't be difficult. But you don't.

You're asking why. Why is this still here?

I already considered. I probably won't have to stand up or separate from you again to take them off. They're stretchy. Even if I overstretch them, I should be able to bend my knee, stretch the hip open to get the leg out, then slide them aside like I did the pants.

You are wordlessly asking why my panties are still in place, but you're also further elongating this torture by not touching me through my underwear. At least, it feels like torture on my end. Your fingertips are teasing underneath the fabric, dangerously close to both my clit and the opening of my pussy.

Fine. I can play, too.

I reach back out towards your pants, and find them hanging slightly open, the way I left them. I quest inside. The messy fabric of the boxers you insist on wearing would make it challenging to find your cock, if it weren't a) huge, and b) desperate to be found.

Or, maybe that's just my perception.

Either way, I find you. I put my hand around you, even though all the fabric. Jesus god damn motherfucker.

I read once, in an "ask a woman" online forum, a post where a man asked what it felt like to experience sex, and sexual desire, as a woman. More than one female responded with the answer that sexual desire often resulted in a feeling of physical emptiness, and a desire to be "filled." Literally, to be stuffed with something. It makes sense, from a basic primitive standpoint. Our anatomy is built to receive your anatomy. When we begin to become aroused, our body craves your body. It's one reason women use things like dildos, vegetables, and other long rigid objects to penetrate themselves for pleasure. It's an instinctive feeling.

Honestly, when I read those responses, I could not identify. I'd never had that feeling, that I could recollect. I've rarely, if ever, used my fingers to penetrate myself for pleasure. I don't own a dildo. I've never put a cucumber inside my body (like that, from that end... I mean, I'll put them on my salad sometimes).

But, you. You? In this moment, I understand. I feel cavernous and empty. Wet, slick, and hollow. And you're here to change all that. You're the only one who can do it. I don't want anyone or anything else. I just want you, inside me.

I no longer care about who touches who first, or who is teasing who for longer. I make a quick judgement call to free you through the opening in your underwear, which boys usually have.

Then, I feel you. You're bare in my hand.

Your lips float above mine for just a moment, before your tongue dives back into my mouth. I half expect your fingers to dive with equal force into my own underwear. Instead, you run your hand up, along the perimeter of my panties, up to where they're digging into my hip. You start lightly tugging at them, putting your fingers underneath the elastic edges.

I get the hint, and you also seem to know what the plan is. I reluctantly let go of your manhood, and firmly grab onto my underwear. I am more than happy to sacrifice them if it comes down to it. I hope I can pull this off. Literally and figuratively.

I raise my knee and stretch the fabric. Your hand becomes passive and you almost step back, thinking I might jump off the counter again. But no, I stay put. There is a small sound of strained synthetic fiber as my knee and foot make it out of the stitched hole. Then, I let the garment fall down my other leg, settling down where my pants start. I lower my leg back down, only slightly impressed with myself.

Your eyes meet mine. Your hand comes back to my skin at my bare knee, and starts to run up my thigh. I return my hand to your cock. You're still as firm as ever. More so, if anything.

Your arm around my waist pulls on my body just enough to scoot my tailbone to the very end of the counter, the way they tell me to do when I'm on the exam table at my doctor. But you need access for a different reason, don't you?

Your hand, moving up my thigh, is waiting to meet me. Whether you did it intentionally or not, I'm unsure. But it feels as if you slid my body directly into your waiting grasp. Your fingers, previously ghosting my upper thigh, are suddenly caressing my labia, and with one of them softly and easily finding its way into my pussy, as you start to get a sense for how wet you've made me.

But it isn't just that. My body also makes contact with your cock at the same time. The head of your dick connects with the area around my clit, and I can't stop my voice from finally activating. Some sort of inappropriate noise goes from my throat into yours, as we've resumed kissing again.

This is getting crazy. Have we ever been this raw before?

I have wetness to spare, at least for now. Most of your cock is safely in my hand, so I pivot you downwards slightly, as if I'm about to initiate the main event. But, no. I'm just looking to integrate our worlds, slowly.

Your fingers are becoming fully engaged in exploring my wetness, but I'm still able to drag the head of you down to my opening for a second, a moment, then bring you back to where we were. Now, you've brought some of my moisture with you. I can feel you gently sliding around on my clit, while I continue to work you with my hand. You're reciprocating, your hand moving between my legs, fingers fully inside.

You're so good to me.

As much as I might like to, I can't use my legs to pull you any closer, or else we wouldn't have any space to allow for what we're doing to each other. But I'm realizing more and more how chilly the rest of my body feels. You are lighting me on fire, as you usually do, but I'm also mostly undressed. I want to feel more of you, rapidly. All of you. Come to me.

I separate our lips long enough to breath, and say, "Babe, give it to me," into your face. I don't have to ask twice.

"Always," comes out of your mouth.

With a sexual confidence I don't think I've ever seen in you before, your hand leaves my pussy, and replaces my own on your shaft. Only a mild adjustment places you at my entrance. I sense you reposition your feet slightly, and I feel my legs able to tighten around you in order to draw you that much closer.

Then, you're there. You're working yourself into me, slowly but surely. I need a moment to accomodate you, regardless of how wet you make me. Let me bring you in.

We're looking at each other again, both remembering how this feels. We haven't been here in a while. When was the last time? It doesn't matter. Only this matters.

One of my hands raises up and hooks around your neck. The other, props up behind me to give myself more support and leverage. You keep an arm around my waist, and place your other hand on the countertop.

You try your first real thrust. It's amazingly fluid and easy. Your hips are a perfect height for this countertop, particularly when I'm placed on top of it.

Only now does your voice give in. I hear you try and suppress the word, "Fuck," as you bury your face in my neck. Your tongue and teeth make imprints on my collarbone, traveling down to my breasts. My body tilts back, unable to keep myself upright anyway. You are providing some support for me, with your arm still around my waist, your palm pressed against my back.

Your face keeps venturing lower. Your other arm abandons the counter, and also wraps around me. Your mouth is on my breasts. I no longer need my arm behind me, so I raise it up and lose my hand in your hair while your lips travel on my chest. You've always been a butt guy, but that's not to say you haven't enjoyed my breasts along the way.

You're just not usually this enthusiastic.

I'm not complaining. This is passionate. Hungry. I need you. I always need you. Do you always need me?

You pull me to you in a series of thrusts I'm only partially expecting, but fully participating in. I only have so much control from my current vantage point. I can rock into you a bit, by engaging my core muscles, leaning back into your arms, and if I gently pull you to me with my legs. But I will exhaust myself quickly if I overexert.

However, to borrow your own words: fuck.

I see your face again, as you raise back up from my chest and return to my neck. Your mouth begins to gnaw on my earlobe. We both have a slight weak spot for ear play, which we accidentally discovered in our younger years, while we experimented with innocent light petting. More than that, and you may or may not know this, it's what you send into my ear that often affects me more. The sound of your breath. Your voice. The rhythm of your panting. The words you manage to say, when you finally say them.

And then you do.

In what must be a moment of weakness or stripped-down purity, next to my ear, moments after letting go of my earlobe with your teeth, you say, "I can't stop thinking about you."

My pussy floods, and hugs you in a new layer of wetness. My muscles spasm, gripping you. I can't control it. It's not an orgasm. It's like a precursor. How do you do this to my body?

I had considered putting my arm behind me again, to help hold up my upper body. But now, I can't let you go. I just can't.

I also can't lie to you anymore. I've lied to you for years; kept this all hidden. My mouth is very close to your ear, and bravery finds its way to my lips.

"You're the only one I want," I breathe into you.

You enter me again, completely, but stay there this time. For a second, I think you may be climaxing, but everything is too still. Instead of pulling your hips back, you move your face, lips dragging across my cheek.

I wonder if I've made a huge mistake.

Did I overstep? Was that too much, too fast?

I don't have any more time to contemplate. Your tongue is back in my mouth, your lips on my lips. One of your hands drifts down to my hip and grabs my flesh possessively. I open my hips as much as feel my body can accommodate. My knees are locked around each of your sides, keeping you as close as I dare.

Then you start again.

This time, you're holding our torsos tightly to each other, keeping your thrusts gentle but deliberate. I feel your teeth on my lip, and your grip on my ass changes slightly. One thrust goes a bit deeper than the others, and pushes air out of my lungs in a reverse gasp. I try not to be loud, but it's difficult when you're doing these things to me.

You pause slightly, and pull your lips back.

"Okay?" you whisper.

"Oh, yes," I reply.

I feel your mouth smile against my lips. It's a subtle gesture, but one I can sense. Your forehead leans against mine, and I realize you're perspiring. I sweep my hands to the front of your hair, moving it away from your face.

Your hips have slowed again. After I clear your face of some of your rogue hair, you look me in the eye. We both exhale and take a moment to see each other.

You're so fucking handsome.

"I always want to last with you, but it's so hard," you tell me.

"It's so what?" I say. My ability to make bad innuendo in this situation is astounding, even to me.

"Stop it," you mutter, and thrust into me anew. If your goal is to punish me, I'm sorry to report that you are failing.

"I love you when you come," I half-growl at you, dragging a few nails down the side of your neck. I want you to know that you have my permission. You always have my permission.

Besides, I don't want to state the obvious or lead you to believe I'm not having an amazing time, but we can't stay here all night. I decide to not verbalize this aspect, though, considering the position we're in. You likely already know this, too, in the deep recesses of your rational brain (which is currently inactive, I'm betting). So, I choose to elaborate on the topic at hand.

"You know what I really love?" I have my arms around your neck, and you are still supporting my back. These two things give me just enough strength to keep my legs around your waist and continue to draw my hips into you, although I am beginning to lose stamina. Even still, I'm addicted to your touch, and can't stop wanting to get closer to you.