After Dark
I’ve just finished breakfast and am packing my lunch when Carlos texts me again:
seriously, come by. i’ll make it worth your while
One minute later: wear a skirt
A minute after that: something loose i can pull up easily
The muscles of my pelvis contract involuntarily: once, twice, three times. I look down at what I’m wearing: a boatneck black cashmere cardigan with shiny pearl buttons tucked inside the waistband of a bright yellow circle skirt and yellow ballet flats. My best friend from work calls it my “Audrey Hepburn bumblebee outfit.” I’ve threaded a white leather sash threaded through the belt loops and yanked it close because I am vain about the size of my waist. For a second, I think about changing into palazzo pants and a boxy tunic, just to be perverse, but that would make me late. I head to my car instead.
Forty-five minutes later, stuck in northbound traffic on the 405, I text back, What’s the address?
“You’re not going to go, are you?” my best work friend, Stella Nguyen, asks. I almost never think of her as Stella or my friend. She has a title: Stella Nguyen, my best work friend. For the past five years, we’ve made a point of meeting for lunch twice a week or else we’d hardly ever see each other. The university’s PR department keeps us crazy busy—me, as communications manager, her as a graphic designer. We generally bring our stinkiest food and go outside, knowing that neither of us will make weird, dumb comments about fish sauce or candied anchovies or my homemade kim chi, which smells pungent and salty as the sea. Plus, it’s more private out on the veranda, and we can be as disgusting and free in our conversation as we like while we eat our delicious immigrant meals full of salt and garlic and spice.
I point my chopsticks at her, which is the height of rudeness. I can feel my mother in the afterlife, glaring at me. “I am definitely going to go, Stella Nguyen,” I say.
She nudges my chopsticks away from her face so that the points turn downward. She frowns. “I thought you wanted to break up with him. You wanted to break up with him three months after you started dating, you never stop talking about breaking up with him, and now it’s been almost a year. I haven’t even met him.”
I frown back. “That’s not true! I brought him to that work mixer thing like six months ago. You met him then, I know you did.”
Stella looks at me from under her lashes. “Wasn’t me. I promise you, Mags, I’ve never met him. I don’t think any of your friends have.” She shoves a fork deeper into her salade Niçoise, hunting for more pieces of fresh tuna. She inhales deeply, and I can tell she is making a visible effort to change the topic. “Hey, Jerome and I know a great guy who lives in our building. He’s a graphic designer, he loves dogs—” I shake my head. “I’m not ready for that.”
Stella chews slowly. She’s such a kind person, and she has a way of telling you the truth that goes straight to your heart. I brace myself, knowing she’s going to say something I don’t like.
“You know you don’t have to settle for this guy. There are better men out there.” “He’s not a bad guy,” I counter. And that’s true. He’s not.
“Okay,” she says. She laughs, shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anyone so thoroughly dickmatized.”
I shovel jap chae in my mouth and speak through the slippery noodles. “I can’t help it,” I say. Which is true—but also maybe not. I suspect I could help it if I really wanted to. “It’s like his dick is filled with heroin, and I’m not ready for the methadone clinic just yet.”
Stella makes a face and throws an olive at me, which I duck, just barely. “Gross,” she says. But she’s smiling. “Maggie—you are truly gross.”
Rafael lives in Glendale, less than an hour’s drive from my work, even in heavy Friday night traffic. In Los Angeles, commutes are measured in time, not miles. For the umpteenth time I think about moving. Then I remember I hate my job and am going to quit, any day now. For the last few years, I’ve had an amorphous plan to start my own business, but I kept putting it off until I saved up a certain amount of money. I actually made my savings goal six months ago, but I’ve decided to wait another six months and save another couple thousand dollars as an extra emergency cushion.
I climb the steps of Rafael’s two-story Craftsman, located mid-block in a tree lined upscale neighborhood filled with other lovingly restored antique homes. Inwardly, I covet the manicured, drought-tolerant lawn, the ashwood swing on the porch, even as I decry the slate-gray-with-pops-of-orange color scheme and carefully placed succulents, an aesthetic that is boringly overused among upscale Los Angeles hipsters. I think of my tiny, dark Echo Park studio, and Carlos’ ramshackle two-bedroom North Hollywood flophouse where he lives nearly rent-free, thanks to his uncle, who owns the apartment building.
I take a deep breath and contemplate the view from Rafael’s porch. Spring is just about to slide into summer, and sunset has been pushed back until well after seven o’clock. The sun is balancing delicately on the horizon before it plunges behind the mountains, sending out pink-and-orange rays in a smoggy sky that is the pale gray of a dove’s wing.
I could turn around and go home. I am genuinely exhausted and at an age where a night of sleep is almost more enticing than a night of sex. Besides, Stella Nguyen is right: out of bed, things between Carlos and I are not good and slowly getting worse.
If I’m being totally honest, outside of bed things were never better than fine. We have fun–we go to the movies and cook dinner and have a good time. We make each other laugh. But that’s really all we have. Truthfully, after nearly a year together, we feel further apart than we did when we first met. Carlos and I never talk about anything real like, oh, say, how we feel about each other, what we want from life, goals of any kind, our families, our pasts. We talk about his dog and movies and books and funny interactions we’ve had with our neighbors and what we want to eat. That’s about it. He sends me memes. I pretend they’re funnier than they are. It’s almost like we’re work buddies, but with sex.
Come to think of it, I only really know two of Carlos’ friends, when I know he’s got so many more than that. That aspect of his personality is what first attracted me to him. I was pet sitting for some married friends and was exhausted by how many walks their hyperactive terrier needed, so I took her to the dog park. Carlos was taking his rescue husky for her weekly visit. It wasn’t hard to notice the tall, sexy guy who seemed to be the unofficial mayor of the place. As someone who is slow to trust and wary about meeting new people, I was dazzled by Carlos’ sociability: how affable and easy he is to talk to, how swiftly he makes connections, how interesting and funny and bright he is.
I think hard about the time Carlos and I have spent together over the last nine or ten months. We’ve had dinner and drinks a handful of times with Rafael and Carlos’ cousin, Danny. I met a handful of his golfing buddies at a backyard barbecue way back in May of last year, when we first started seeing each other. But I’ve never met his father, who lives maybe an hour away in Oxnard. I’ve never met his aunt and uncle, who live six blocks away from Carlos.
It bothers me that this doesn’t bother me more.
I realize that Stella’s right: he’s met none of my friends. (My family is out of the question; our relationship is, to put it mildly, strained.) That’s shocking, but just as shocking is how easily that can happen. In a city like L.A., it’s totally possible to compartmentalize the people in your life based on whether they live west or east of the 405.
And I have to admit that for the past few months, our dates have been getting shorter and our conversations more stilted. The last three or four times we’ve hooked up, we haven’t even bothered with going to the movies or making dinner. I arrive at his place after work, get high, and then he strips me naked and tells me what to do.
Once, after three months of listening to me explain, yet again, why I needed to break up with Carlos but couldn’t do it just yet, Stella had thrown a dinner roll at me and said, “A relationship is more than just sex. You do realize you could meet someone you have stuff in common with, and that might actually make the sex better than what you have with what’s-his-face.”
I made a scoffing sound.
Stella had glared at me, narrow-eyed. “But you won’t as long as you’re with him. Be honest—other than how freaky he is, what is so interesting about him?” Now, standing on Raf’s doorstep, I think about the last time Carlos and I saw each other, two weeks ago. I had arrived at his place wearing a bright blue cotton shift dress and bronze high-heeled sandals—one of his favorite outfits on me. Carlos took one look and demanded I hand over my underwear. He wrapped them around my wrists and told me to order takeout. He insisted that I actually call the restaurant instead of using a delivery app. He fingered me the entire time I was placing the order. Then he laid down on the floor in his entryway, told me to sit on his face, and ate my pussy for half an hour until I realized the delivery guy had his face pressed to the screen door, watching us. I came then, screeching loud enough to wake the dead. Carlos, lazily stroking his hard on, told me to go get the order. Tottering on my high heels, legs shaking, I obeyed. I’d been so dazed that I tipped twenty bucks on a thirty-five dollar order.
That, I think, is interesting enough for me. I wish I could go back in time and tell Stella.
But now I feel weird and off-balance. Why am I prolonging this situation? Stella’s right, I am dickmatized. I know in my bones that sleeping with Carlos again will just make everything more confusing. I need to go home and think. Making a plan always makes me feel better, and I need to plan how I’m going to break up with him.
Just as I’ve decided to go back to my car and text an excuse, Carlos opens the front door and my stomach flips, the way it always does when I see him. Too late, I think to myself. I get the same deer-caught-in-the-headlights feeling I always do when I see him.
He isn’t classically handsome—his face is long and lean and slightly askew, like a Modigliani portrait. But even though his aquiline nose and thin-lipped mouth are off kilter and at extreme angles, the overall effect is arresting. To change one feature or try to make him more conventional-looking would dilute his essential appeal. There’s wit and intelligence and ferocious charm in his dark, heavy-lidded eyes and the dramatic, thick slashes of his brows. Even his receding hairline works. He’s one of those guys who looks better with a shaved head than a full head of hair.
I survey his body: tall, lanky, broad-shouldered—the body of a former swimmer hovering at the precipice of forty, sleek muscles underneath a pleasing layer of fat, a slight belly balancing narrow hips and a temptingly tight, high ass. Carlos still swims and golfs obsessively—it’s how he and Rafael met, years ago, at the cheap course in Los Feliz—but he likes to eat. He can put away half a roast chicken in the blink of an eye. He used to be head chef at Corazon, a popular Mexican-Japanese fusion place in Culver City, although a back injury has kept him out of work for the last several months.
That’s another thing I appreciate about Carlos. He loves almost everything about being in a human body and all its wants and needs, from fucking to eating to taking a deep stretch after waking up.
Right before we met at the dog park, I had been dating a very handsome boxer slash-aspiring-actor, which made the ghost of my former gawky adolescent self squeal with delight. But, as it turns out, while professionally attractive bodies are lovely to look at, they can feel unsatisfyingly hard, shiny, and plastic when you get up close and personal–sort of like fucking an iPhone. Plus the boxer spent almost twenty hours a week in the gym—more if he had a match—and would lecture me about lipids and water retention if I ate ice cream in front of him. We’d been going out for maybe a month and I broke up with him a week after I met Carlos.
“I thought you weren’t housesitting for Raf until August,” I blurt out. He looks at me, taken aback, and I realize how rude and accusatory I sound. I take a deep breath. I soften my voice and my stance. I say, “Hello,” and raise my face to kiss him. Carlos is tall, about six-three. Without heels, I’m nine inches shorter than he is. I stand on tiptoe and give him a brief, almost impersonal buss on the cheek.
“I needed to use his computer,” he says. Carlos’s laptop has been broken for months. It’s what’s been keeping him from job hunting, or so he says. Really, I think he just likes having some downtime. Being a chef is punishing work for not much pay.
“Kiss me for real,” he commands. “None of this kissy-kissy on the cheek bullshit.” I shake my head no, smiling all the while. In general, I’m uncomfortable with flirting–I’m never sure how far to take it, or how to shut it down if I don’t want it. Yet I love playing coy with him.
He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. I inhale shakily and a shiver runs across the back of my neck. He smells so good, like chaparral and salt-filled ocean air. It’s not his cologne; I wish it were, but he doesn’t wear any. I make a noise deep in my throat and he puts his elegant, long-fingered hands around my waist, pulling me upward until my heels pop out of my secondhand J. Crew flats and I’m on tiptoe, leaning into the kiss, my mouth opening so his tongue can slide across mine, fat and fresh and slick.
Stella is wrong–freaky is the least of what Carlos is. He’s kinky. He might, in fact, be some kind of kink savant, at least with me. I have a safe word, but that’s about the only rule of kink that he adheres to. My experience of non-vanilla sex pre-Carlos was minimal (a little tying up, some playful spanking, two instances of same-sex sex), yet I know from hours of furtive online research that introducing your partner to kink should come with lots of communication, the setting of hard limits, a modicum of planning and collaboration.
Carlos does exactly none of that.
He started breaking me in a month after our first date. In the following order: he bound me in elaborate, Japanese-style ropework and fucked me on his couch, my hands tied to my legs with my body arched into an upward bow; taught me to deep throat him; fingered me to orgasm in a public park while a businessman eating an ice cream cone watched from the next bench over; introduced his tongue, pinky, and thumb to my asshole; took me on a tour of a local sex club where he spontaneously offered me up for a paddling demonstration that left my ass bright red and then fucked me in one of the voyeur rooms all while I had the noisiest, most embarrassing climax of my life. Each time I was eager and excited and unafraid even though I knew that what he was doing was at the very least disrespectful—possibly manipulative—and at the worst, verging on unsafe.
But I am loathe to give him up, unwilling to have The Talk about our sex life— about anything to do with our situation—even though it would be the grown-up and responsible thing to do. I’m too afraid of ruining what we have. When we fuck, I feel no hesitation, no shyness, no holding in my stomach, no wondering if I look hot enough or if he’s really into it. No performance is required on my part when we’re in bed, although I wish the same could be said outside of it. In bed with him, I’m fully present, fully alive, repeatedly astonished by what my body is capable of when I hand over control to him. I can no longer keep track of my orgasms by counting, but have to measure them in minutes.
It is a dangerous cliché, but it feels like Carlos knows my body better than I do. And each time he leads me down this garden path, shadowed and fragrant with musky, night-blooming flowers, it is such a bone-deep relief to escape all the heavy, dry responsibilities of my day-to-day life—an aging father, increasing distaste for a career that I’ve sunk almost nine years into, fractious siblings, friendships that feel more and more like obligations with every passing year—that all I want is for him to set my heart and cunt on fire until I feel plugged back into a sense of glorious purpose.
Carlos runs his hands up either side of my neck and tilts my head back. “No talking,” he says, his baritone rumbling through me. The soles of my feet are suddenly tingling. He takes his mouth away from mine, shifts my head so his lips are next to my ear. “Okay? Once you come inside. The only things you can say are yes, sir or no, sir or your safe word.”
Each gust of warm, moist air sends his words through the channels of my ear and straight down my spine. I feel as though someone were touching live wires to my insides. He bites my earlobe tenderly, like a mother cat taking her kitten by the scruff of its neck. Already I want him to fuck me; at this point I don’t care if he uses his fingers, his cock, or his big toe.
He starts to pull me inside, but I hang back. He turns and looks back at me, eyebrows raised.
“I forgot my safe word,” I say, astonished. It’s true; I haven’t uttered it, not once, and now it’s disappeared completely from my brain, like the pin code for a little-used credit card.
Carlos looks at me, his face deadpan. “Glitter.”
I look at him suspiciously.
His grin takes over his face. It’s a little like watching the sun come up over the mountains, that grin. “Like the Mariah Carey movie. You said that it was such a bomb it could stop anything in its tracks.”
I roll my eyes at my dumb joke. When I get high, I think I’m a stand-up comedian. I still have no recollection of choosing it, though.
“Remember?” he tilts his head and looks at me. “When we had bad movie night?” Right. I all but slap my forehead as memory returns: it was our sixth date and we had planned a guilty pleasure movie night—Boondock Saints for him, which he insisted was just “straight-up awesome and shouldn’t even qualify” and the aforementioned Mariah Carey opus for me.
He yanks me across the threshold so suddenly I trip and almost leave one of my shoes behind.
I glare at him, but he grabs my wrist and puts my hand on his cock, which is already half-hard and getting harder. I flex my fingers around it, my eyelids dropping as I take in the feel of his springy, burgeoning flesh. I squeeze and squeeze, my breath coming harder, enjoying the sensation, thinking about him fucking my mouth, fucking me. Carlos grunts and pushes into my hand, letting me continue groping him. He releases my wrist and squeezes my left breast, uses his other hand to lift my skirt and run his fingers very slowly along my thigh until he reaches my underwear.
He clasps my pussy in his big, warm hand and massages me through the cotton of my bikini briefs. For a moment I regret not wearing prettier underwear, but then all thought flies out of my head as he strokes my clit tenderly, almost sweetly, through the fabric, and then continues with rougher, deeper strokes. I’m almost embarrassed by how swollen and wet I am.
“You love getting fucked,” he says casually. “Don’t you.”
I nod.
His voice deepens, and he leans over to speak directly into my ear.
“You love it when I put my big, fat dick in your tight little pussy.”
I nod much more emphatically, my entire body vibrating with desire. He shakes his head slowly, slides his hand under the neckline of my sweater to tug at my nipple through my bra—almost, but not quite, to the point of pain. He doesn’t let go until I inhale sharply and say quietly, clearly, “Yes, sir.”
We walk into Rafael’s study. It is too elegant to be called a home office. I’ve met Rafael a handful of times, usually under a haze of alcohol. The only encounters I remember clearly are one when Carlos and I met him for drinks at Bigfoot Lodge, where we got in an argument about TV (he thinks sitcoms are silly, I said that’s the point), and one when I came to pick up Carlos after a golf tournament, where we got in another argument about The Fast and the Furious movies (he loves them, I told him my theory that Vin Diesel is actually a pile of sentient drywall). From the looks of this expensively furnished room with its beautiful Mission Oak executive desk, low slung dark-brown leather couch, the antique grandfather clock that looks like something from a haunted mansion, and custom-made bookshelves lined with heavy, calfskin-bound tomes, I would guess Raf’s profession is a lucrative one, possibly involving the law or some kind of rarefied academia. The curtains are partially closed with only a sliver of dim, encroaching twilight peeking through. Two green-shaded lamps cast wide pools of still, golden light at opposite points of the room, breaking up the gloom. It feels shadowed and important in here, as if I am about to be interviewed by the dean of an exclusive private school or be drafted into some kind of Masonic order.
Carlos pulls me behind the desk. He takes a seat in the wood-and-leather office chair and pulls the enormous screen of Rafael’s computer toward him. I halt in my tracks, startled. Carlos has all kinds of porn open, including the usual porn aggregates and OnlyFans pages. But my eyes widen when he enlarges a window and I see a shirtless Rafael and a dark-haired woman in what I suspect is the upstairs bedroom of this very house. I try not to gawk; my recollection of Rafael is that’s he’s a tallish, pleasant-looking man with symmetrical features and a truly beautiful head of dark, wavy hair. It’s hard to recall any details more specific than that. But this screencap of him shows that my memory is truly lacking: shirtless, unshaven Rafael is a revelation. He has the athletic build of a soccer player, all long, lean defined muscles that look like he built them in order to be used, not just to show off at the gym. His gaze, dark and lit from within, is intense. I wonder what it would be like to have his eyes focused on me, and something in my stomach drops.
What the fuck is going on? Rafael can’t have given Carlos permission to show his sex tapes to me. From our conversations, I know Rafael doesn’t even have any public social media accounts, that’s how discreet he is. I certainly wouldn’t let Carlos show our sex tapes to him. I try to remember if Carlos and I have ever recorded ourselves.
I open my mouth, wanting to ask, Are we supposed to be here? Is your friend okay with all…this? Actually, where the fuck is Rafael? when Carlos frowns and tips my chin up with the knuckles of his right hand so my lips come together. My questions die permanently at his touch.
He pats his lap, and I sit facing the computer screen. He puts his hands on my knees and pulls my legs apart so they drape along the outside of his thighs. He leans forward, his chest broad, warm, and heavy across my back. He slides the mouse across the desk. He minimizes the window holding Raf’s image and slants a grin at me. “That’s for later. If you’re good,” he says.
He moves the mouse in a wide arc. On the screen, the cursor matches his motion. Carlos hits play on a video. A heavyset man fondles a beautiful young woman, his fingers nimble, his mouth eager. She’s wearing tacky schoolgirl cosplay, and he’s clearly supposed to be her teacher. The volume is low, but I can hear that they are speaking in some Eastern European language, maybe Polish or Czech. We watch the whole video. I drift off a little at the end when it gets boring—the usual jerking off onto her face. Carlos registers my displeasure and finds another clip, this time of a man in his seventies sexually harassing a nurse.
Halfway through that video, Carlos lifts my skirts and roughly shoves his hand beneath my underwear. I suck in a breath, surprised at the abruptness of his movements. He dips the callused tips of two thick fingers between my lips, letting them linger for a moment, testing my readiness before he slides them all the way inside me. He presses the flat, wide pad of his thumb against my clit and begins pumping his fingers forcefully, almost carelessly, until my legs are twitching and my back is drawn tight. Just as things are feeling really good, he pulls them out and strokes my clitoris with heavy, demanding motions. I buck against him, overwhelmed by sensation.
Carlos pushes his fingers back inside me and pulses them against my inner walls. I moan.
“Not wet enough,” he pronounces and extracts his fingers with a slick popping sound. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I can feel fluid leaking down my inner thighs. “You don’t get anything more until you get wetter.”
I lift my ass and bounce on him in a way meant to hurt. He pinches my clit between his thumb and forefinger and tugs sharply. Everything inside me pulls inward and upward. I whimper.
“Eyes on the screen,” Carlos says softly. He slides his hands around my waist, making sure my sweater is tucked firmly inside my skirt. He grasps one end of the belt and pulls it half an inch tighter, making me inhale sharply and sit up straight before he moves his hands to my neckline. He strokes his hands over my breasts, down my torso, over and over again, until I feel as if I might start to purr. Then slowly, carefully, he undoes the top five buttons.
I’m breathing hard, watching the clip as I enjoy Carlos’ hands on me. The old man is now mauling the actress’s breasts, spilling porridge across them and licking it off. I like all of it, especially the parts when the man is suckling and plucking at her nipples. I can feel Carlos smile against my neck as my breathing quickens, and my hips flex. The actor’s genuine enthusiasm is obvious, the actress’ borderline disgust even clearer. The perverse disparity of their emotions gets me almost as excited as the contact between fingers and flesh.
Carlos closes the video just as I start to feel extra squirmy. I sigh, deflated, but perk up when he clicks someone’s OnlyFans.
I watch a redhead flog a Black girl. Their pupils are the size of pencil erasers. Both of them are wearing cat ear headbands and have their faces painted up to look like big-eyed kittens. Both have astonishing bodies, the redhead round and bouncy and full, the Black girl spare and elongated as a ballerina. I roll and press my hips onto his lap as he hooks the first two fingers of each hand in the neckline of my sweater and draws the cashmere slowly down my body, off my shoulders. The fabric grazes the upper slopes of my chest and drags across my nipples until he tucks it under my breasts. My arms are trapped, my hands dangling by my sides. I sigh with satisfaction. If I really wanted to, I could pull myself free, but this sweater is expensive, one of my rare extravagances. I don’t want to stretch it out of shape. Instead, I enjoy the curious, luxurious feeling of being held in place by such a plush and silky fabric.
Carlos runs the backs of his hands along the undersides of my breasts, drags the point of his chin across my shoulder. I shiver; his night beard is soft, but it prickles. I want him to take my bra off, but he leaves it on as he plays with me. I become so sensitized that when he finally thumbs my nipples through the mesh, pinching and squeezing lightly, so lightly, I wail like an animal in heat, the sound embarrassingly full throated in the hushed gloom. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the strip of exposed window. The sun has almost completely set. I press my ass against his erection, moving my hips in tight little figure eights, just the way he likes. His hard thighs move against me and his breathing speeds up in response, so I push a little more. His breathing gets even faster, puffing along the back of my neck. A low, grinding ache pulls at the muscles of my low belly, and I feel myself soften and spread. Carlos kisses the side of my neck, tracing a vein with the tip of his tongue, and that warm, sticky feeling spreads lower, until my pussy feels so slick and soft, it’s almost syrupy.
I wonder, wistfully, if he’ll put anything else inside me tonight. He knows just how much I love being penetrated. Sometimes, when he thinks I don’t deserve it or if he’s feeling extra sadistic, he makes me come over and over again just by playing with me for hours where I’m especially sensitive: my breasts, my neck, the backs of my knees, the base of my spine, my clitoris, the cleft of my buttocks, my asshole. It’s horrible and wonderful all at once, my body replete but somehow left essentially unsatisfied.
He moves one hand to the mouse and changes windows again, clicking on the still image of a shirtless Raf. He hovers the cursor over the play button.
“Do you think you deserve this?”
I nod emphatically. I suspect this is a shocking invasion of privacy, but I want to see it. I try to justify it: Raf must have told Carlos about the video—sex tapes aren’t exactly things you leave on your desktop, especially on your work computer.
That’s what I tell myself, but the truth is I want to see what Rafael looks like when he fucks.
Carlos shakes his head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been very disobedient so far.” He pauses and sinks his teeth into the tender spot where my neck meets my shoulder. I shudder. “What will you give me if I let you watch this?”
I twist in his lap and plead with my eyes. Anything.
Carlos hums deep in his throat, looks toward the ceiling. “Will you let me put it in your ass?”
I nod, then remember to say, “Yes, sir.” My voice is a husky whisper. “Will you get on your knees and suck my cock and drink every last drop of my come?”
I swallow. “Yes, sir.”
“Will you get on all fours and fuck yourself with my dick and stop when I tell you to stop, even if it means you don’t come?”
I’m breathing so hard I sound like I’m having some kind of attack. “No, sir,” I say pertly.
Carlos grasps my breasts in his big hands and squeezes tight, squeezes with all his strength. I inhale, wailing and moaning, almost on the verge of shouting glitter glitter glitter when he suddenly releases his grip. The cessation of pain is almost as shocking as the amount of force he was exerting. I can feel my face turn red, then go pale from shock. He locks his hands around my hips and lifts me off his lap. My legs feel boneless; he tightens his grip so I don’t stumble, then turns me around to face him. He looks up at me; I’m a few inches taller than him when he’s seated. His eyes are dark and glowing. He raises a hand and brushes the backs of his fingers over my check, my neck, the trembling muscles in my stomach before he pulls me close. He nuzzles my flesh through my bra and pulls one nipple into his mouth, sucking and kissing and lapping with such softness and sensitivity that warmth floods every part of me. My cunt feels so liquid that for a moment I worry I might have peed myself.
Carlos moves to my other breast and rubs his nose across it. I giggle. He smiles and kisses the underside, the interior curve, then presses his tongue to the very tip of it, pulsing the warmth and wetness against my skin. I murmur wordlessly and push my tit against his face, over and over again until he finally opens his mouth and lets me push my nipple inside, where he bathes it with his tongue.
Still suckling me, he reaches under my skirt and pushes the crotch of my underwear to one side. You could drown someone in my panties right now. I smile as I feel him trace the seam of my pussy, the glossy skin of my labia and inner thighs.
He releases my breast, takes his hand from my thighs. “Good girl,” he pronounces. “Now you’re wet enough.”
Carlos settles me again on his lap and hits play.
This is an excerpt from a novella called After Dark. To read it in its entirety, access through one of the links below.