Smoke and Flame

Cowritten with reddit user thedevilisadyke.

Content warnings: Daddy kink, heavy cannabis consumption, humiliation, light choking, language like dumb slut, pathetic, whore, bitch, and good boy

Don't like Daddy/boy lesbian stuff? Don't read!

"Fuck, I can't believe we're so broke we can't buy weed for two more days," I groan.

"At least we still have weed."

"What are we smoking?" I ask.

"Sweet, sweet, Blue Dream," you answer.

"How much do we have left?"

"Like, a gram."

"Fuck, dude. We need the ice bong to make this shit last."

"You're right."

You get up to retrieve the bong, filling the base with cold water and the stem with ice cubes. I get to work on grinding the weed. My fingers grow slightly tacky with resin and the scent of skunky pine starts drifting into the air as the grinder tears the flower.

"If you didn't have a little bitch grinder, we could at least save some of the kief," you rib me, tapping the bong slightly on the table to settle the ice cubes. "I mean, who uses a two piece anymore?"

"Shut up, dude," I mutter, unscrewing the top half of the grinder. "Just gimme the bong."

You pass the bong to me and start searching for a lighter. You just bought a five-pack of Bics with goofy prints last month, but somehow we're already down to the last one.

I pack the bowl carefully over the grinder, trying to preserve any bits of weed that might fall away. This bowl piece is pretty big; we can get, maybe, another bowl out of this gram. Two, if I pack it really loose... but then we risk snapping some of it into the downstem.

You're coming to the same realization, biting the inside of your cheek as you eye what remains in the grinder. "So, how are we gonna do this? Cornering the bowl as much as possible?"

I grimace. "I mean, makes the most sense, I guess."

You move to take the first careful hit, but I say, "Wait." And I wonder if I'm going to regret what I say next. "Maybe we should... shotgun each other? Make the most of it?"

You lock eyes with me for just a second, and then shrug. "Yeah, whatever. Why waste an exhale, right?"

"Right," I agree quickly, relieved that it didn't make it weird.

Your thumb ring clicks against the flint as you spark the lighter. I watch the smoke fill the base of the bong -- slowly at first, then it spirals and thickens around the ice. You clear the hit, turn to me, and lean into my space.

You pull just short, though, at the last second, and blow a small ring of smoke into my face.

Smug bastard, I think. I want to laugh or say "fuck you" or something, but I'm too eager to get my mouth on yours -- I mean, too eager to shotgun your hit. I close the distance and your warm mouth is on mine and I'm inhaling slow and deep, trying to take it all in.

And then -- I need to cough. Fuck. I pull away from your mouth and exhale as much of the hit as I can before the cough hits me. I'm overtaken by my coughing fit, my sensitive lungs trying to expel all of the smoke, and I rasp a shaky inhale before coughing some more.

You laugh, reaching for the water bottle opposite the bong. "Dude. You're a little bitch."

"Fuck... you... dude..." I say between coughs.

"Fuck me? Maybe," you shrug. "If you beg for it."

A jolt of electricity strikes through my spine and lands in my gut. You have no idea how badly I want that -- to fuck you, to beg to fuck you.

I keep coughing -- my excuse to not reply to you.

You roll your eyes as my coughing fit continues, but your jaw's tight. You set the water bottle between my spread thighs and nudge the bong toward me with the lighter. "Hurry up and recover, or I'm taking your turn," you joke, setting the lighter down.

I concentrate on breathing, in and out, until my lungs clear and I can inhale without another cough. My body buzzes with the high of the hit, the oxygen deprivation of my coughing fit, and the proximity of you. I lick my lips, thinking of your mouth on mine again.

I should say something to fill the silence, but I can't think of anything to say, so I just move to take my hit off the bong. It's markedly smaller than yours, but I clear the hit and lean into the couch, my eyes falling on your soft lips.

Your mouth meets mine, and you inhale the smoke almost greedily. The hit's gone quicker than I'd like, and I go to pull away.

Your hand on the back of my neck stops me; you pull the last wisps of smoke from my mouth, and your teeth tug my lower lip a little as you withdraw.

"Wasn't finished," you tell me, a scarce two inches from my face, eyelids heavy with the hit.

And then you grab the bong from the table and push the scant remaining green in the bowl towards the center with the bottom edge of the lighter.

"Try to take this one without coughing your lungs out, bro," you add, raising an eyebrow at me as you lean toward the mouthpiece of the bong.

"Fuck you, bro," I retort, and you've already started your hit so you can't hit me back with your sarcasm or your innuendos. But you have a point. I have to concentrate on relaxing my lungs and not fucking this one up.

This time, the bubbling sound of you clearing the hit sets off a spark in my gut. My heart flutters in my ribcage like a tiny bird, and my breath comes fast. Shit. I have to keep it together.

You lean into me, and I close the gap, letting our mouths fit together like puzzle pieces. Before I get lost in the sensation, I remind myself to breathe, to inhale -- Hello, this isn't a kiss, this is a shotgun, what the fuck are you doing? I take the hit from you for as long as I can stand it. I pull away regretfully, already missing the sensation of your soft lips brushing mine.

I exhale smoothly this time, with a couple of small coughs at the tail end.

"Not bad," you approve, your voice a little hoarse. And then you qualify it, like a son of a bitch: "Like, eight out of ten."

You ash the bowl, hands moving a little more quickly than they really need to -- or else time's slowing around the smoke settling behind my eyes. I know we're stretching out the last of this gram now, and so do you, but you pack the bowl anyway. Just enough for a single snap.

"Think you can finish this off, or do you wanna leave it to the big boys?" you ask, tapping the lighter on the edge of the bowl piece. You're not looking me in the eyes, though; you're staring at my mouth. The tension pulls taut for a moment, like hemp rope wrapping and pulling around the stem of a piece. The fibers of time and space tighten; you lean towards me, just a few degrees.

You set the lighter down between us and wait.

I want to take the hit. It's a matter of dignity. Of butch pride. But I'm looking at it and I know my own lungs and I know I can't take the damn hit. Fuck.

"Whatever. You take it, dude."

You shrug, retrieving the bong and the lighter. "Watch and learn." Dick.

You snap the hit, a rush of smoke surging up to meet your lips as you inhale. The crackle of the burning weed is so loud in the dead silence of the room. When you lean into me to exhale the smoke, you grip my jaw -- just lightly. Just a bit. Just enough to direct the path of the smoke down into my mouth.

I could whimper. I don't. I look at your dark eyes and your lips and then your mouth is on mine and my body is on fire and I'm forgetting to breathe again, forgetting what this is meant to be. Finally, I breathe in the smoke from your lips, going slow, drawing the moment out as long as I can. When I pull away to exhale, you don't let go of my jaw. You lock eyes with me and we both exhale, the smoke circling around us in a cloud. My heart pounds.

You pull back firmly, with purpose, and the suddenness of your withdrawal is dizzying. I watch, jaw a little slack, as you ash the bowl again and scoop the absolute last of our weed into the bowl. There's an edge of urgency to your movement as you spark the lighter a final time, and I don't understand why you're so eager to torch the last of a gram we were supposed to be saving.

Not until you climb into my lap and pull me into you by the shirt collar.

Smoke spills from your lips to mine, and I feel one of your hands move back to my jaw; your thumb moves slowly, so slowly, down my jawline as you exhale into my mouth.

I breathe in deeply, taking all of it, all of you. I don't know where to put my hands so I put them in your hair, pulling you into me, letting this hit drag on until I run out of oxygen and have to pull away.

"Seems... pretty gay, Pat," you murmur in my ear. Before I can respond, your teeth are grazing my neck, then nipping at my earlobe. "Pretty fucking dykey." Your voice is gritty, harsh with smoke and lust. "If I didn't, like, know better..." Your hand trails back down from my jaw, hooks into my shirt collar and tugs. "I'd think you were trying to kiss me or something."

I can't see your face, but I can hear the smirk.

Fire is licking at me from the inside. My heart is going a million miles a minute. I have no comeback. I have no fucking comeback for you. All I can do is tug on your hair, bring your face back to mine, and drag my mouth to yours.

You pull me into you, chasing my lips and then my tongue in what the buzz in my brain tells me must be slow motion. My hands tighten in your hair momentarily, and you groan into my mouth. Our kiss hardens; your teeth tug my lower lip again, sharper this time, and the hand not gripping me by the collar hooks into my belt loop.

I feel the tug on my belt loop in my cunt, and I moan a little into your kiss. I want your hands on other parts of me, I realize, and I want to ask for it but I don't. Instead I let go of your hair with one hand and let it drift down to your throat -- not really choking, per se, but holding you there while tongues and teeth mix with your soft lips and the smell of your cologne -- earthy, woodsy, dark.

My little moan spurs you on and you release your grip on my belt loop just to tease a hand slowly over my hip, then over the waistband of my jeans. A couple of your fingers tease just an inch or two under the denim, and you roll your hips into mine.

"I meant what I said earlier," you tell me, pulling back for just a moment.

Either my high or the heat in my blood keeps me from understanding until you clarify:

"If you want me, you're gonna have to beg for it, prettyboy."

"Fuck," I curse. "Call me that again."

Your hand reaches up to tug on a tuft of my hair. Your lips brush my neck, my ear. You whisper, "Yeah, prettyboy? You like that?"

I hold in a whimper, try to breathe.

"Beg for it, boy."

"Please," I whisper. "Please call me a prettyboy."

"Such a prettyboy," you oblige, drawing your hand up my thigh.

"And what about you, prettyboy?" I say, turning it around on you. "What do you like?"

Your grip tightens in my hair and your jaw clenches. You like being called a prettyboy too; I can work with that.

"You know what I like..." you growl, eyeing me like you want to eat me. "Daddy, and Sir. Are you gonna pick one and stick to it like a good boy, or do you need to be told?"

Fuck. My core clenches at your demanding tone. "What if I... like both?"

You bite your lower lip, your eyes burning so hard I can feel your gaze scorch my face. "Then you're even sluttier than I thought," you shoot back, hand trailing over my jeans, inches from my cunt.

Without meaning to, I begin grinding my hips the slightest bit. I catch myself, but not before you notice.

"Eager?" you ask, voice deep and slow.

I lick my lips. Breathe hard. "Maybe..."

You laugh. "Maybe? Then maybe I'll let you grind on my hand."

You bring your palm to my crotch, holding it just out of reach.

"Okay, yes..." I whine.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'm eager."

"Who are you eager for, prettyboy?" you ask, rocking your hand ever-so-slowly into my crotch.

"Fuck," I gasp, the headrush from your touch stuttering my thought for a moment.

"That ain't my fucking name," you chide, pulling your hand back for a second and biting my neck. "Try again."

"Ohh, fuck," I moan. "You. You. I'm eager for you."

Your breath comes out a snarl as you start rubbing me through my jeans. "Good boy," you praise, voice deep. "That's it. You ask for what you want all nice and pretty like that, and you'll fucking get it."

My cunt clenches beneath my jeans and I grind helplessly into your hand, throwing my head back and moaning, "Fuck yes, Daddy."

"God, yeah, that's right, prettyboy," you hiss between bites, kisses, dragging your tongue up my neck like you're trying to taste my pulse beneath my skin. "You look so fucking good, thrashing into the fucking couch like that. So fucking cute." The pace of your hand speeds up; your mouth on me, your hand on me, is dizzying. "Look cuter with my marks on you, though. Do you want that? You want me to mark your chest up while you grind on my fucking hand like a little slut?"

"Oh, fuck. Uh. Yeah." I swallow. "Yeah, I want that."

"Beg for it," you tell me while you unbutton my shirt.

"Um," I say. "Please. Please, Sir. Please mark up my chest and touch me." I want to say fuck me. God, I want to beg you to fuck me right now.

You curse and sink your teeth into my collarbone, pulling my head back by the hair for better access to every inch of my skin. Your other hand finds the button of my jeans, then the zipper.

"Jesus Christ, Pat," you groan through a mouthful of me when your fingers rub slowly over the growing wet spot on my boyshorts. "That's a good slut."

I'm whimpering helplessly as your hand rubs me through a thin layer of fabric. "God... Jesus... fuck... Daddy... please." The words drop from my mouth like coins in a water fountain, one at a time.

Your mouth moves to a spot on my chest, teeth and tongue leaving a harsh red mark that will surely purple later. I groan, digging my hands into your hair and tugging hard, giving a little of what I get.

Then your mouth goes soft and gentle, and you lick the red mark soothingly, make your way down to my nipple, teasing and savoring me. Your hand grazes my clit through my boyshorts with the same soft insistence, and the words fall from my mouth in a whisper, "Jesus fucking Christ, Riley, god dammit that feels so good, holy shit."

You hum your appreciation around me and move to my other nipple, sucking a few smaller bruises into my chest along the way. Your fingers pick up speed as your touch softens, teasing my clit with light, quick strokes. "God," you mutter between slow, insistent licks around my nipple, "if your fucking skin tastes this good..." You trail off, sucking my nipple into your mouth; your hand finishes your sentence for you, anyway, flattening the fabric against me and tracing up my cunt, around my clit, with gentle, determined pressure.

"Oh, God. Oh God..." I moan and tighten my hands in your hair, making you groan against my chest. "Oh, God, Riley..."

"Fuck it," you hiss, almost to yourself, as if my grip on your hair has you abandoning some last bit of self-restraint.

You slip your hand down the waistband of my boyshorts, teasing your fingers just around my clit, chasing the wetness you find.

"Fuck, Daddy, fuck yes, fuck, oh fuck, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me..." I trail off, repeating myself, begging for it like the helpless little slut you've turned me into.

"That's it, prettyboy," you encourage, stroking a finger into me as your palm rubs against my clit. "Let me hear it. Give me those fucking noises."

"Mmm," I moan. "Careful what you wish for, Daddy. I can be fucking loud."

Your finger curls inside me at the perfect spot and I moan with abandon, crying out for you as loud as my body wants to be.

You groan hearing it, your underbreath curse harmonizing with my cry. "God, yeah, Pat, sing that slutty fucking song for me as loud as you can. Let the goddamn neighbors know how good you feel." You're curling your finger with every stroke, coaxing the tongues of fire surging through my body to burn hotter.

"Oh fuck yes, oh fuck yes, yes, Daddy, yes, yes!" Every yes grows louder until I'm screaming my climax for you, for your neighbors, for God, for whoever else can hear.

You fuck me through it, your finger slowing -- not stopping. Slowing so, so much, torturously slow, but not stopping -- until the last wave of it leaves me gasping and gripping you by the hair so hard I can see you grit your teeth against the tug.

You pull your finger out of me, drenched, and drag it across my lower lip before slipping it into your own mouth.

"Damn." Your tone is something between awe and reverence. "I guess the prettier the slut, the sweeter they taste."

I blush, and the compliment makes me feel bold.

"Take me to the bedroom and fuck me," I tell you.

Your eyes narrow. "If you think that counts as begging for it, I got some bad news for you."

But before I can respond, you pull me into a fierce kiss, all teeth and tongue and the taste of my cum, and scoop me off the couch. We might be two days from payday, but I guess the extra welding shifts are paying off in one way or another.

You carry me down the hall, walk through the open door of the bedroom, and throw me on the bed. You follow me down, pinning me beneath you with the weight of your body, your thigh between mine.

"Are you gonna beg for my butch cock right, or do I have to pull it outta you?" you ask, gently pushing your thigh against my clit and wet cunt. Your pants will be soaked through with my cum, I'm certain of it, but you don't seem to notice or care. You're too busy teasing my nipples, slowly twisting and tugging them as you stare me down.

"Oh God, Daddy, yeah... Yeah, I'll beg for your cock. Please..." I moan.

"Is that all you've got?" You laugh.

"No..." I say, flushing hot, searching for words. "Please Daddy, please fuck me with your butch cock, please fuck my pussy with your cock, Daddy. Please fuck my tight little cunt open for you and split me open on your cock. Please..."

I rock my hips into your thigh, desperate for the friction.

"Shit," you chuckle, "if I'd have known you were this desperate for it I would have hard packed." You withdraw your thigh, and when I whine, you pull my hand to my clit. "Keep yourself busy for thirty seconds, you little slut, Daddy's gotta get their cock on. Give me a show while I do that."

You turn, pulling a drawer of your bedside dresser open, and withdraw a leather strap harness and a thick cock from the depths of the drawer.

The order to give you a show makes my skin burn with heat. I rub my clit a little bit and rock my hips, and I feel my pussy clench from the sensation. "Fuck," I moan.

"That's it," you praise, getting into the leather harness. You haven't bothered undressing, but for some reason, the thought of you fully dressed, fucking me open while I'm half naked underneath you is making my blood simmer.

I can't help it; I slip a finger into my waiting cunt and moan loudly for you.

"God, you can't even wait for it?" you tease, your fond mocking tone belied by your hands, which shake just slightly as you slip your cock through the o ring and tighten your harness. "Poor prettyboy, gasping for it like you've already had the sense fucked out of you. You need me that bad, huh?"

My face burns, but I can't lie to you. "Yeah," I moan, knuckles deep inside myself. "I do. I need you." Oh God, did I just say that? "I need your cock, Daddy, please."

Your eyes close for a long second, like you're bracing yourself against a wave, and when they open again they're locked on mine.

"I wanna fuck you from behind, Pat. Feel that prettyboy ass under my hands while I fuck you open on my cock." Your voice is low, hoarse, tight with tension as you approach the bed. "You want that? You wanna get fucked on my cock like a filthy little slut?" You stroke your dick, eyes roaming my body, drinking in every mark, every movement of my hips and my thighs and my hands. "Maybe, if you're really good, I'll let you lick your cum off me."