Black Coffee

“I heard girls who drink black coffee like to be choked.”  

In tandem with his words hitting my ears, I indeed choke on my coffee. This is not how I thought our study group was going to start. He had a way of taking my breath then, and he would do it again.

We met for the first time in trades school. As the only female, I made an impression. Unapologetically broadcasting myself as the token Lesbian in a trades lab full of straight dudes. Out of all the toxic testosterone, I noticed him the most. The way his deep voice was simultaneously quiet, yet demanding. The way he never raised his voice to anyone, yet everyone listened when he spoke. The expert movements of his calloused hands as he taught me how to thread gas pipe. 

Ream. Lubricate. Thread. Lubricate. Wipe. 

I lost track of my mind when he told me what to do. Mesmerized by his calm, intense way of going about every aspect of life. He intrigued me in a way I hadn’t had a man intrigue me in years.

I had become quite comfortable with the label of Lesbian. The baggy cargo pants, the carabiners, and the rolled up t-shirt sleeves. It tended to keep away shitty men so they couldn’t be shitty to me anymore; and it pissed me off that he broke down that door. I hated it with every morsel beneath my shield of androgynous skin. Still, I couldn’t resist falling into submission for him. How I melted in releasing the pressure of having to be the driver. A pressure I always felt when dating feminine women. How erotic it felt to revisit the sex I had in the closet with the confidence of the woman who reigns now. The girl who always just wanted rope around her wrists, a cock in her ass, and a vibrator on her clit. The girl who always wanted something a bit harder. Someone a bit stronger. 

~~~

“Here” 

I read the notification bar on my phone alerting my attention to him. I peek out my front window and see his white Ford truck. I quickly slide on my shoes and hurry out the door as to not keep him waiting. He always harassed me for my lack of punctuality. I open the passenger door to his truck and immediately inhale his atmosphere. The leather scented car freshener mixed with the faint smell of gasoline and lubricants. My ears are surrounded by his impressively shitty taste in music. I step up into his lifted truck and sink into the oversized passenger chair. 

“Hi Eliana.”

He used my full first name. Nobody did that anymore. Ever since moving to Calgary I introduced myself as Ellie. There was something raw, honest, and transparent the way he called me by my full name. 

“Hi, Joseph James Hoffman,” I sassily retort the formality he throws at me. He picks up on it and smiles. I pick up on how his hard exterior melts 10% more near me. I see his bright forest green eyes light up in the sunlight. His eyes pierce into me, injecting anticipation across my senses.

He lives in the oldest neighborhood in the city. It’s fitting to him and his vintage soul. It all made sense, the old hearty truck, the welding garage, the bondage tables that he built out of steel pipes. The steel pipes he displayed while he explained to me how he planned to tie me up to them. 

I choke on my breath a second time. 

I feel the warmth of his hand on my lower back as he leads me into his kitchen. He reaches his hand for an empty glass on the top shelf. My eyes indulge as I notice his shirt lift up, I take in the band of his black underwear, the top of his pubic bones sinking into a mountainous crevice. 

He mocks me cheekily, “You’re going to want some water, aren’t you?”

He knows how his body is about to take my breath and if he gets me water now then I don’t have an excuse to take a break from his dick later. Which, I can now feel pressing against my ass, trying to escape the fabric barriers of our pants.

He wraps his arms around my body and turns my torso; whispering next to my ear 

“We’re going downstairs…”

Downstairs to the bedroom that greets me with white ropes sprawled on the bed. A spreader bar with velcro black cuffs on it. Off to the corner I see he even pre-plugged in the Magic Wand for me. His bedside table displays his outrageous collection of large alien dildos.

“Cute set-up,” I joke with him. 

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d notice,” his words drip in sarcasm.

“The giant alien dildos are kinda hard to miss,” I reply.

 I’d become acquainted with his love to rub his own prostate with them, which I found to be incredibly impressive, and in turn, strangely hot. To see a straight, blue collar, bald and bearded man want to be fucked in the ass and be completely void of any shame in it—fuck. He knew what he liked, and he had learned what I did, too. And neither of us felt shame in expressing it when we fucked in this bedroom.

Before I have time to create any bullshit, pre-sex, small talk, like a magnet to metal his hand hits my throat. My breath dips heavier and stutters as it attempts to leave my mouth. Shocking all the senses in my body with an entrancing painful pleasure. I can feel his desperate cock bulging out of his jeans. His dick wants me, and I fucking hate that I want it.

He pushes my shoulders down to the bed with force; following my falling body with his own. I sense the heat of his bare chest collapse onto mine. A lightness surrounds me as his weight forces the oxygen from my lungs. He rips my pants and panties down in one strong swoop. I feel his stiff shaft move fittingly between my legs, kissing my lower lips. Resting on the pubic hair I refused to shave for him despite knowing that’s how he liked it. I relish in its rebellion and the movement of his cock across each soft but stiff hair, sending domino shock waves across my entire vulva. injecting me with the desire to submit. 

His patience for further foreplay diminishes and I see him reach for his rope. Pinning my arms above my head, I focus on the feeling of his rough hands grasping around mine. I savor in the the soft abrasiveness of his bondage rope as he swiftly wraps it around my wrists. The blood rushing from beneath the rope, beneath the skin, tingling and traveling into my clit. As he finishes his knot, his palms find their favorite spot around my neck. I lose my breath again until I feel him back off me to grab a condom. I take the chance to unpeel from the bed sheets and stand up straight. He tackles me back to my spot. 

“Nah, you're not going anywhere.” 

He grabs the black spreader bar and rips open the velcro of the cuffs before hastingly spreading my ankles from each other and firmly strapping me in. The soft interior cushioning of the cuffs firmly holds my legs hostage. I sink into the vulnerability of giving him my everything.

“That’s better, now I want to watch you try to squirm away.”

He reaches for the vibrator and turns it on. Excitement emanates out of our eye contact. He dances the vibrator across my nipples and trickles it down the valleys of my hips. 

“You're torturing me,” I frustratingly pronounce to him. 

“I know,” he cockily retorts.

I hate giving into the pleasures he knows how to torture me with, but for this unique moment giving into a man feels so good. I feel him brush the vibrator to the top of my clit, I arch my hips up to meet it and indulge the rush of pressure as my pussy's delicate skin rubs into its head. He pulls it away from me. 

“Fuckkkk!” I shout. 

Theres a space of silence before he rumbles out of his smug mouth;

“Okay.”