Page 42 of Poetry On Ice
“Are you done, or can you take a little more?” he asks breathlessly.
“More,” I groan. “More, more.”
He thrusts into me again. I’m sensitive in a different way now. The pendulum swings and lands closer to pain this time, but I like it. It makes me feel alive. Like I matter. Like I have a purpose. It gives me something to cling to. Decker thrusts into me powerfully. Determinedly. It’s clear what’s happening. He’s going for gold, and he’s using my hole to get him there. It doesn’t take long. He has a hand on my hip, fingers digging into me, and isbracketing me in place with his other hand on my shoulder. He fucks me hard and fast until his movements become spasmodic.
He struggles to smother the sound of his pleasure between his teeth as he floods my chute with a massive load that sends a fresh, overflowing wave of pleasure through me. When he’s unloaded every drop of himself into my guts, he pulls out of me slowly and carefully. His breathing is erratic, and when he talks, he sounds nothing like himself and, at the same time, exactly like himself. His voice is hard and soft, smooth and coarse, almost wistful.
“D’you want a memento, Princess?
“Mmmemento of what?” I slur.
He smiles into my neck. A sweet smile and a quiet hum that almost lulls me into a false sense of security. Almost, not quite. “A memento of the first time you got cunted, Pussyboy.”
The word shocks me. Offends me. Ravages me. Turns me on so hard that I turn inside out and there’s nothing hard left to protect me. Nowhere to hide.
“Yeah,” I reply from a faraway place.
“Close your eyes, I’m going to turn on the light.”
I do as he says without question.
He flips on the bedside light and my field of vision under my lids turns orange and red. He moves my top leg up and spreads it a little more than it was. My chest and face are mashed into the mattress. My back is arched, and even though I’ve repeatedly told Decker I’m a slut, believe me, I’ve never done anything this slutty before.
He tosses a pillow over the back of my head and says, “Hide your face. Don’t look back.”
He gets something from the bedside table, his phone maybe. Yeah, it’s his phone. I can tell by the sound of fingers on glass. He’s silent for a few beats, and thenthere’s a hand on one of my ass cheeks. He pats me just hard enough to get my attention. Firmly, friendly, almost.
“Show me,” he croons, taking my cheek in his hand and spreading me open. “Show me that pretty pussy I drilled into you.” I whimper from under the pillow, struggling to stop my hips from writhing at his words. “Come on, Princess, do it. Push out and show me what I dumped inside you.”
To my endless surprise, and perhaps even interest, I find myself doing exactly as he says.
I bear down and relax my ring a little. I do it carefully. I do it tentatively—you better believe I do it motherfucking tentatively—but I do it.
“Mmm,” he murmurs as a hot, creamy load spills out of me, “good girl.”
17
Ant Decker
“Um, what the fuck?”I say.
The initial shock of the mind-bending orgasm I just had has worn off, and I’ve come back to myself. As always, reality has landed with all the aplomb of a hard slap to the face.
I let him use the bathroom first because I have a nonnegotiable set of principles about how to treat a guy who just bottomed for me. First and foremost among said principalsis don’t be a dick,and second isdo be a gentleman. I’ve just returned to our room from cleaning up, only to find Robbie McGuire happily ensconced in my bed. He’s on his side, facing the wall, with the covers draped loosely over his waist.
“My bed’s flooded in cum,” he says matter-of-factly, without bothering to look back at me, “there are two wet spots the size of Delaware on my sheets. No way I’m sleeping in that. You can take my bed if you don’t mind it. Otherwise, you’re stuck with me.”
I let out a long, exasperated sigh. It’s not that I mind spunk. It’s that I mind when it’s gone cold. It’s not even that, really, it’s that McGuire’s in my goddamn bed. I’ve already let him run rings around me, I can’t have him throwing me out of my own bed as well. It’s too much. I have to draw the line somewhere.
“Move up,” I say tersely.
He makes a big show of wriggling his shoulders and hips and bouncing around a lot, but best I can tell, he doesn’t actually move up. If he does, it’s by no more than an inch.
I get into bed and kill the light. At first, I lie on my side, facing away from him. He’s left me so little space that I have to cling to the edge of the mattress to stop myself from falling off. Neither of us is wearing clothing, so our bare asses are smooshed together. I looked for a while, but I couldn’t find my pajama pants in the carnage we made of his bed, and honestly, there comes a point where clothing becomes arbitrary between two people. If you ask me, that point is when you’ve lain behind a guy naked and reamed his anal virginity into the wild blue yonder.
I roll onto my other side, mimicking McGuire’s position and taking great pains to leave a margin of space between our bodies. It’s been a hell of a night already,and I’m pretty sure nothing good can come from me having McGuire’s satiny smooth ass cheeks touching any part of my body at this point.
His breathing is that of a man who’s wide awake. One who has no intention or inclination of going to sleep anytime in the next seven or eight hours. I close my eyes and do my best to ignore it. I can’t, though, because he won’t stop blinking, and every time he does it, his lashes scrape against his pillowcase. It’s a soft scratch, hair on linen, that gets louder and louder as the minutes tick by.