It prolly ain’t particularly pretty (I’ve written it mostly one-handed lol) but it’s done now, so that’s good and maybe I can move on now, haha.
Hope you’ll like it!
For content warnings, please check the tags before you read. Thank you!
***Part 1***
Dylan’s hand has come to rest on the inside of my right thigh, low and down, so that the tips of his long fingers touch the swell of my ass cheek, and his thumb is in the hollow where my leg meets my pussy.
I shiver with heat and burrow deeper underneath the coat he has thrown over us. The Gore-Tex hides our movements completely from the other partygoers — the angle of his arm, the slow back and forth of his hand as he strokes my skin, as well as my surreptitious pumping of my hips.
I’m humping the air. I can’t help it. I am so, so needy. My whole belly is throbbing.
Cuddling into him, nosing the side of his neck below his ear, I mumble, “Please, babe.”
He glances down at me. His handsome face is so… pleased.
Smug.
I should loathe him for it — I loathe this sort of attitude in any other person, especially in other men — but I don’t. I can’t. Dylan Keene’s commanding self-confidence has always been the flame to my moth.
His condescension makes me feel small, but never in a bad way. Not at all.
He watches the dance floor where several couples are shimmying together to some old-school Spandau Ballet. The lights are low, hiding the two us even more from sight, with only the occasional colorful sparkle skittering across the vast room.
“Dylan. Please,” I repeat a little louder, a little whinier, when his fingers loosen and then re-grip the skin of my chubby inner thigh. “Touch me, babe. Please.”
I’ve been so turned on the entire evening. Seeing Dylan in his suit, the way it hugs his beautiful body… the touch of his hand to mine, or to my shoulder, or my lower back… the intensity of his focus on me this whole evening… I’m already drunk on him and still so thirsty.
“I am touching you,” he says softly, evenly. Unlike his cursed fingers, his voice and attitude reach straight between my legs, and I don’t know why I don’t hate it.
His thumb sweeps up and down, pulling my skin gently, probably feeling the slight stubble of my hair there — I last shaved a week ago. I’m a little embarrassed even though I know I shouldn’t be – and gripping my plump skin and pulling, pulling so that my pussy lips part a bit.
God, I’m so swollen. Itching and burning up. Everything twinges and aches.
“Touch my pussy, please,” I whisper, feeling my face go red with embarrassment and arousal, and rock my pelvis. My muscles clench and squeeze out a drop of moisture.
I can feel Dylan’s cock under my ass. I want to grind against it so bad.
My boyfriend gives me a look out of the corner of his eyes. “I can’t, Lizzie,” he says and sounds a little sorrowful. “You know I can’t.”
I do, really. Intellectually, I know, but right now, I am merely impulse, affect and need. This needy beast can’t hope to understand why he doesn’t want to help me.
“Whyyy?” I whine some more. Don’t you love me?
I have given him dozens of hand jobs, blowjobs. He has rubbed himself on my ass and between my thighs, has fucked my boobs and sprayed my throat with his cum.
But he has never touched my pussy. Not once.
Our encounters were always heat-of-the-moment things, furtive and hasty. He’d signal that he has an itch, and I was willing — very, very willing — to scratch. There were interruptions, or he or I had pressing appointments, places to be, stuff to do, no time to clean up. We are both busy people. I never minded that he got off when I didn’t.
Until right now.
He sighs deeply, and it strikes me as somewhat melodramatic and overdone. Patronizing? “My belief… Liz, you know that my faith…” He trails off, shaking his head. “The Vow says that female pleasure is a husband’s to give. His and his alone.”
His fingers slide up and along the right leg seam of my panties, and I startle hard when one fingertip suddenly hooks into it and pulls forcefully enough so that the gusset lifts off my labia. I physically shudder from the sensation. I am so wet that my juice forms strings between my lips and the fabric.
“I’m not your husband, Liz. I’m not even your fiancé. It wouldn’t be right.”
His index finger slides down and up the inside of the gusset, undoubtedly feeling the thick drool there, and spreading it all around the fabric.
I shiver again. His finger is so close. So close. I can feel the heat of his skin so near my core.
“Don’t you want me?” I almost sob. My muscles pulse unhappily.
A smile touches his lip. “You know I do, babe. My cock has been hard all evening.”
The mention of his sex only reminds me of the imbalance of our sexual relationship. I sit up a little, pouting. “It’s so unfair, though. You get to take pleasure from me all the time and-”
“First of all, you give me pleasure, Liz,” he interrupts, chiding me. The smile on his face is a little deprecating. “No need for me to take, or even ask. You’re always offering readily.”
I press my lips together. He’s… he’s not exactly wrong. My face must be beet-red.
“And secondly: It’s a physical necessity for me, Liz. I’m a guy. Guys’ orgasms are more of a chore than anything. You know that,” he explains with great patience. “Lack of ejaculation causes us physical pain.”
“I’m in physical pain,” I grouse, burrowing against his neck again, wanting to bite him with sheer frustration. And lust. He smells like heaven. “Dylan, my pussy is aching sooo bad. Please, please touch me?!”
Again he merely sighs. “That’s only in your head, babe.”
Up and down his finger slides on the crotch of my panties. Just centimeters from where I need him. I can feel my clit twitch with anticipation. Idiot thing doesn’t understand that there’s no way.
“Do you know why you’re feeling ‘pain’ right now?”
I lift my chin enough to look him in the face. “Why?” I challenge, thinking that he’s going to tell me some bullshit fact about female anatomy that has been disproved hundreds of years ago. Maybe something about hymens, or hysteria, or feminine energies that come from the moon and need to be preserved or some such humbug.
He pulls his hand out from between my legs, from underneath my pretty skirt, and then gently, ever so gently, puts his index finger to my lips.
It takes me a second to register the dampness, the smell, and I jerk my head back, but his thumb and other fingers clamp around my chin and jaw and hold me still, then — when I gasp his name — prize open my mouth so that his index finger can slide over my lips and inside.
His wet finger wedges between my teeth and then the taste is on my tongue. He rubs it in, stirs it around in my mouth. I whimper a little, from revulsion or from the slight pain of his hard grip, I don’t know. My hands are pushing against his chest, but he’s holding me tight with one arm and I’m not very forceful about it because I don’t really want to slide off his lap and land on my ass.