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.
As I struggle weakly, vainly, my pussy constricts hard and the juice tickles and drips down my slit because my panties are too loose now.
“You are in pain right now, babe,” Dylan explains to me in a calm, assertive voice, his eyes fixed on where his finger is plunging into my mouth, “because you have spoilt your whore slit rotten.”
The words register in my brain and a hot flash zings through my whole body. Whore… slit.
He shoves his finger in a little deeper, tapping my soft palate with the flat of his nail, and I gag and cough. My eyes begin to water. Dylan takes note but does not pull his finger out.
“You have given yourself, and allowed past paramours to give you, orgasm after orgasm, to the point where it’s pretty much an everyday occurrence. Rote. Isn’t that right, Lizzie?”
The question is not louder than any of his other words but sharper. Demanding.
Not every day, I want to argue. Some days I’m not in the mood. And also–
“You are a slave of your whorish pussy,” Dylan continues, still calm, still sharp, with that easy dominance that has made my knees weak ever since the day I met him. “It’s quite shameful, Liz. I thought you said you were a feminist, all about empowerment and independence. Could it be that you’ve made yourself dependent on your own pussy’s satisfaction? Hm?” He cocks his head. “Suck it clean, babe,” he adds, wiping his finger more aggressively on my tongue.
With another whimper, I close my lips more tightly around his finger and suck. The taste of my pussy juice is fortunately diluted by my saliva. I don’t like the idea of swallowing my own vaginal lube too much… but Dylan wants me to do it, so I do it.
And in a shamefully right way, it feels so good.
My pussy creates ever more juice. I think I’m sitting in a puddle of my own bodily fluid by now. It must be so much that there’s a wet spot on the bottom bit of my skirt. The feeling gives me goosebumps up my spine. I clamp my legs together, which sandwiches my sodden panties oddly between my thighs and squeezes my juices into the last crevices.
Dylan finally takes his finger out of my mouth and lets go of my jaw. Still, he keeps touching my face, petting my cheek with his fingertips. Feeling my shivers, the heat of the deep blush there. I’m glad we’re mostly in the dark.
“If you don’t want to stay with me under these circumstances, I understand,” he says and sounds very earnest.
My heart gives a pang of pain. “Dylan, no–” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Liz. I’m serious. If you need someone to give you climaxes…” He shakes his head slightly. “I cannot be that someone. It’s against my beliefs. And if you need someone who will indulge your masturbation habits, I cannot be him, either.” He looks me in the eye, sternly. As serious as I’ve ever seen him.
He is magnificent to me.
I’m utterly lost to him.