This won't be a scene. There won't be an elaborate arrangement. Or even a less elaborate one. I won't lie out tools and toys. I won't have anything prepared. There will be no anticipation and there will be no plan.
This is how it will be.
I open the door and say "Hi" because that's what one does, isn't it? You look at me, smile, or maybe even not smile if you're in one of your more sullen moods, but we catch each other's eye and perhaps you see something in my face that even I'm not aware of. Yet.
I dump my coat and bag on the floor by the door, make a step towards you just as you make one towards me.
This is when I might kiss you briefly somewhere in the region of your mouth's left corner, or hold you close and let the tired tension of the day slide off my body. But this time, I make another step, around you, place my right hand on your right shoulder, press a little. You stop mid-move.
"Upstairs. Now. "
I can hear a deep breath you take in, and feel just a briefest of shivers pass across your back. My thumb runs along the vertebrae of your neck, my hands moves lower between your shoulders. A light push and you're on your way. I kick the shoes off, flex my feet free, follow you.
The bedroom is dimly lit by what reminds of the day's light coming in dusky pink ribbons through the blinds of the small west facing window.
"Strip. And on the bed."
"Lean against the wall."
"Yes, like this. Good."
I'm standing about three feet away from the end of the mattress, my thumbs hooked in the pockets of my skirt, my fingers drumming a gentle intro on my hips. Looking at you. Not thinking, not planning, or not consciously anyway, but just slowly taking the moment in, inserting myself in it, allowing myself to acknowledge how much I want this.
How much I want you.
You're naked, silent and nearly still, your legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, your hands flat on the covers, your upper body leaning against the wall, supported by the pillows. Waiting.
Maybe I was wrong about the anticipation part.
I hitch my skirt up - it's too tight to allow for much movement when worn normally - pull the hairbands off, run my hands through my hair briefly, then lunge down. It's not a particularly graceful move and possibly made less effective by my loud giggle, but effectiveness isn't really my main concern now. Couple of seconds later I am not laughing any more.
I am straddling your thighs, my left hand in your hair, pulling your head back and sideways, my right one stroking your cheek, the line of your jaw, fingers curving as they move down to the side of your neck, and lower, scratching down the middle of your chest. They are neither long nor sharp and only leave white pressure marks, turning pale pink when I apply myself more. I'm impatient, somehow unsatisfied, and do it again. And again, harder and faster, pushing you down the pillows, pulling your head back and up by what I can grab of your hair. Your breathing is shallower, quicker. You grimace in pain, then groan, but your body arches towards rather than away from me.
I scratch the side of your face lightly, then harder but still short of brutal, move a little higher so I'm pretty much sitting over your cock, manoeuvre you sideways so I'm able to push you flat down on your back, my hair spilling over your chest and arm when I lean down and lick your collar bone, slowly, all the way from the sternum to the shoulder. Then back, and again, but this time stop at the shoulder and take a fold of skin in my mouth, suck it in, close my teeth on it, sharp and sudden. You yelp at that and my palm finds its way to your mouth, clamps it flat.
"Quiet, boy. Lick."
I move up a bit, now slower but more focused, my left hand never leaving your mouth, the right one on your chest now.
Your tongue moves slowly on my palm, between the fingers, alternately soft and pointedly stiff, the air hissing as it flows through your nose, each breath felt intimately in the slight rise and fall of my other hand, in the changes in pressure of your lips and tongue on the first one. I can feel your cock bulging under me, rubbing against the silk of my pants when I shift my ass a bit lower.
I'm letting the carnal part of my desire rise up, crawl over my skin, manifest itself. The brief slow interlude passes, I remove my hands from your neck and mouth, lean down lower again, shift my ass down, move my legs so I'm not straddling your hips any more but rather just one thigh, my left knee pushed between your legs, and then I'm not sure how I'm positioned at any given time because it keeps changing.
It's quick, abrupt, grabby. My hands all over you. Touching. Stroking. Scratching. Pinching. Pulling. Slapping. Stroking. Tweaking. Scratching. Touching. My mouth too, tongue and teeth, teeth and tongue, lips and teeth. And the rest of my body, shifting, adjusting, pinning you down, moving you around for better access.
I'm so turned on I'm not sure what I'm thinking or if I'm thinking much now at all. I can taste your moans, I can feel the way your skin turns pink then red. I twist your nipples, you cry out and it makes my cunt clench. I grab your cock and rub it, rough and fast, then slap. Again. Again. The next one lands on your balls and it's hard. Harder then it should have been perhaps because you don't just yell but scream. It's getting almost-random, almost-chaotic, almost-uncontrolled.
Today it's much less about the state of your mind, usually so important for me, the act of yielding central, the rest merely its confirmation and expression. Today it's much more basic, the immediate and still astonishing intimacy of violence, the immediate violence of intimacy, the every possible way I want to touch you. Some gentle, some brutal, most in between until I can't tell which is which, until the distinction between pleasurable and painful is blurred, then lost, and maybe it never even existed.
There is a part of me glad that my nails are short and blunt, glad that there are no implements handy, glad that I know - I still know - that you could push me off, stop me if you wanted, and this knowledge allows me to do more.
''Turn over, ass up'' I pant, shove your head down on your folded arms, place my left hand between your shoulder blades, smack your butt, fast, hard, flat, until my palm starts to smart. I don't care about that, though, I like it better that way, my own pain a small reflection of yours, adding to it, building up just like the pink hand prints build up to a flush of inflamed skin, just like the sounds you make rise to a higher pitch when I rake my nails over the red of the fleshy parts and the untouched area of your shoulders, then settling down, just like the sounds you make slide back into lower, breathier moans when I kiss and lick your back, stretch my body next to yours, hooking my leg over your thighs, run my fingers through your hair, my lips nearly touching your ear.
I'm panting, moaning, swearing, switching from blasphemy to profanity and back again, ohh gods and ohh fucks bleeding together into one, the murmur of voice merely a background hum to the assault on your body, given, touched, tasted, marked, torn apart, consumed, taken.
The arousal is all over me; electric, hot, sweaty need. I wriggle out of my pants, touch my cunt for the first time, hot and flushed, my clit so hard it's almost painful. My wet fingers make their way into your mouth.
''That's how doing this makes me, boy. You know it, don't you?"
You lick, I push them deeper, you keep sucking, your eyes rolling back, your body arching into mine.
''Turn back over.''
Your cock is hard when I touch it and gets harder, precum appearing in small droplets at the tip when I lick around it. I straddle you again, take it in, push my ass down onto you as I lean down, one hand on your forehead, the other taking a swing, not a wide one but a flick of the wrist, a slap. You reel, as much as the hand on your forehead allows, a groan escaping your mouth.
"Cry for me."
I slap you again, not because you did anything wrong but because I fucking love doing it and because you let me do it, my cunt clenching on your cock at the moment of impact, my breath turning into a gasp when I see your eyes glazing.
I move my right hand not-quite onto your throat, its heel between your sternoclavicular joints, fingers and thumb spread on both sides of your neck, the left one still holding your head in place.
Your eyes are fluttering, but remain open. I fix your gaze, exhale rapidly through my nose in what's nearly a snort, my lips curve in a smile, nearly a skew-whiff grimace showing some of the teeth on the upper right side.