“He’s good with his hands,” she said once in response to her friends asking her what she saw in him. He was poor, only slightly above average looking, but fit and an artist, specifically a sculptor. They’d met at the post office. He had a large, heavy package and she helped him with it—one of his works of art that he was shipping overseas. She’d always had a soft spot for artists and the international label and his accent were just too adorable.

When they undressed in front of each other for the first time, she noticed his eyes focused more carefully on her body than guys usually did. And it wasn’t a lascivious stare, it was more than that. It was…appreciative. Inspecting. Approving. They got to the bed and he kneeled down by her head while she sprawled out, comfortable. She noticed he was only half erect and wondered what he had in mind.

Then he touched her and she felt immediate warmth and care. He smoothly applied his rough hands over her body, carefully. He was feeling her. This was new. It quickened her breath. He wasn’t awkwardly mauling her, or trying to arouse her, or paying some kind of toll to get compulsory affection out of the way before sex.

He was touching her. Touching. The way he caressed her jaw, smoothed her breasts, slid toward her sex. Warm, rough, and soft.

By the time he’d completed his tour, he was fully aroused, as was she. Foreplay had been compressed into hand gestures without their lips ever touching. They never said a word.

She never thought of herself as a size queen. She mostly believed the line about it not being the size but the skill, because she’d not given it terribly much thought. Dicks were dicks, nothing to be done about that—if precision was desired then toys were the answer. The two were separate issues.

Then she met him. And he was…a toy. She hadn’t even considered that when she first set eyes upon him in the t-shirt that hugged his pecs, pointed out his shoulders, and matched his eyes. Yes, she wanted to fuck him immediately, but his actual size hadn’t even entered her mind.

But when he did enter her, there was a shift. He filled her so thoroughly it was as though he was everywhere at once. The feeling of snug satisfaction was overwhelming and as she rocked on top of him, she knew that the staid line was false. Bigger was better and she should ask for more from now on.

It extended their relationship. She was tiring of his personality—but that cock had to be kept close to home because who knew how many more like that were out and about? Kept very close, like tonight. Chained and kept and corralled and used. He was stretched out and cuffed, her favorite, and already anticipating a fun night, by the look of him.

She couldn’t wait to run her palms and fingers from his shoulders slowly down to his underwear and free it. God damn, he was hot.

Maybe she would give him a treat before cutting him loose.

They were having a fight and he instantly regretted saying “whore” as soon as it left his lips. He stopped cold after he said that, ashamed. He huffed, threw up his hands, and walked out, muttering something about the store. 

She saw the shocked look in his eyes when he said it, which deflated her anger. It was clear he was sad and embarrassed. He wasn’t so much storming off as running away. The fight seemed trivial, now. She had an idea to make it better.

When he came back, she was waiting for him in panties, his kneepads, and nothing else. She stopped him right inside the door and put a finger over his lips, then undressed him.

She kneeled, letting the kneepads clack louder than needed, and looked up at him. “Since I’m a whore, I figured I’d need these, so I borrowed them. I hope you don’t mind, sir.” She smirked as she said it, and he heard the playfully mocking tone in “sir” as she gripped him.

She knew she looked beyond gorgeous. Tonight, she was after one thing: a simple, stereotypical one-nighter. So, she’d gone to the stereotypical place, a hotel bar, and had at it. It took less than 15 minutes to find someone (who was in from out of town, no less), to close the deal. She didn’t even have to finish her drink.

A wry grin came across his face when they got to his room. She turned and leaned in to kiss him. His grin was contagious and she caught it on the way in, but he grabbed her by the hips and held her at bay, and still holding her, walked her backward to the side of the bed. 

He didn’t say a word. Neither of them had since closing the door.

He pulled his hands away from her hips and folded them over his hardness casually. The look in his eyes told her to strip for him.

There wasn’t much to that. She removed her dress, leaving the only things left: panties and shoes. She folded over the dress and laid it aside so it wouldn’t wrinkle, whereupon he grabbed it and pulled its decorative soft belt from it.

He held the belt in one hand and twirled his index finger once in a circle with the other. She looked at him with a raised eyebrow and his grin widened, charmingly. She complied and was blindfolded with her own belt.

He gently slapped her ass. She started to get on the bed on all fours.

As she did, she suddenly couldn’t remember much about his face. Just his eyes. She wanted to look at them more, later.

“What?” It was the only thing she could get out after the ancestral comment. Her jaw had actually dropped. Something neither of them had seen in real life. Then her mouth closed and her eyes narrowed. That, they had both seen before.

“Baby, don’t—” he stopped. Her eyes told him that he was getting nowhere by leading with “baby.” “Baby” was his word he invariably used for when he’d done something wrong and they both knew it, but boyish charm was about to be used to signal an end to the fight and makeup sex. There was no way to puppy-dog-eye out of this.

“Honey, c’mon, you said yourself that you thought it would be neat to try.”

She gripped her hips higher and tapped the toe of one of her stilettos on the floor, just once. Silence followed for a beat.

“No, I never said that. I said I wanted to be flirty with your friends to show me off and turn you on—not have a motherfucking gang bang. I Cannot Believe you just said that. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

She saw through his ploy. He was asking for something way high and willing to settle for merely having a threesome—even down to one with his guy friends, not her girlfriends. It wouldn’t work. 

She could tell he was nervous, that he’d really crossed a line this time. She took advantage and walked toward him, hands still on her hips. She was already dolled up and horny, this incident notwithstanding.

“What are you going to do for me tonight to make up for what you just asked?”

He reflexively looked down at her polka dots.

She tried to suppress her smirk. Maybe he didn’t notice.

All too easy, she thought before telling him to stay in the chair and take off his pants.

“Do you have any tattoos?” He looked like he already knew the answer.

It was obvious he’d married up and had been dragged to this ridiculous function. He wore his suit well, though. She’d had it tailored so he wouldn’t stick out.

But he did stick out. He had wonderful thick hair that was trimmed back just enough to look respectable and just enough to grab whenever necessary. She was there alone and that social vulnerability must have been what he keyed on. He’d come right up to her after his wife made him stand next to her for a few introductions. They must have epic fucks, she mused. 

“Just a couple,” she replied. He smirked. “Just a flower and some characters.”

He brought his champagne up and let his sleeve sneak up his arm more than necessary. A ring of tats completely covering his wrist peeked out. It probably went all the way up to his muscular shoulders.

She knew then and there that she was going to show him her tattoo.

He knew she would be covered in his.

They got home from brunch and he went right to his book. It frustrated her. She’d been making eyes at him at the restaurant and he was returning them. She’d almost kicked off her shoe and molested him with her toes, and would have if the booth had a tablecloth. He was hard when they paid their bill.

Mission accomplished, she thought.

But, no. By the time they got home it had worn off, or whatever. He usually did read after they came back from brunch, but she thought today would be different. Today had sex.

He collected his book then sighed into his oversized chair and clawed at the bookmark. She crossed into his field of view and took off her clothes right there in the living room, with the blinds open. It was a sunny, bright day. She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips. He looked over his book. She could see he was actually trying to decide between the two.

Fuck. That.

Before he knew it, the book was yanked from his grasp and borne down the hall by a giggling girl. He followed. She jumped on the bed, grabbed his spare glasses on the nightstand, straddled the book, then started to read aloud. She lowered her voice to mock his.

“The Tevatron accelerator clearly showed that even with its magnets operating at full power, look at my tits, take off my panties, then fuck me.”

She pulled the glasses halfway down her nose to look over them. His retort was to untuck his shirt and advance toward her.

guest post by Little Birdie

Over the summer, she never tanned. She got pink and freckled, or, if she forgot to wear sunscreen she burned then peeled. In the winter her skin became that flawless alabaster that you read about in romance novels. She hated it most of the time, except moments like this.

Looking down at him, watching his eyes close as he anticipated and awaited her next move, she stole a glance at how his dark cock looked against her white side. There were many things about him that made her feel like a woman. His muscle and her softness. His height and her petite frame. But this dark, almost animal hue of his body compared to her white, innocent pallor made her feel small, and weak, and overpowered in ways she couldn’t explain.  For now, she was in control… but only because he let her.

She knew he could see the same thing and she knew he probably loved this contrast in their bodies as much as she did. It’s why she was so willing to go along when he had told her that tonight, she was in charge.

She wondered how long it would be until he stopped her and turned the tables, taking what was his by force.

She shivered.

It wasn’t an original fantasy—in fact she thought it was bourgeois. A quick fuck in a fitting room? Might as well just get it over with and watch reality TV with a hot dog and a Big Gulp™. Her enthusiasm waned at the last minute.

He wouldn’t have cared even if he knew. He turned her around and lowered her pants. He didn’t waste a moment and pushed in.

She caught a moment of watching herself in this situation, being whore fucked in a fitting room, arms braced against the sides like they would ever get that physical, and mouth open but trying not to make a sound. She owned it and threw her head back as he hilted.

No wonder reality TV was so popular.