Reversal

by Cara McKenna

  There’s hesitance as she whispers, “You can give me instructions. If I do anything that doesn’t feel right.”

  “Get me wet.” Such a female request—the words send a chill through me. “Get me ready, just as you are.” With that said, I suddenly don’t want my precious control. If we’re doing this, I want to submerge myself utterly. “Do as you want. I’ll say if it’s too much.” Though too much may feel perfect.

  Pressure suddenly. My lids squeeze shut. I force myself to keep breathing, calm my body and invite this experience. I wish she could feel this moment as I can, when I sink inside her sex. All that slippery, tight heat wrapping itself around my flesh, sensations wasted on a rigid length of unfeeling glass.

  “Oh.” The first surrender, that sudden, strangely gentle breaching.

  She’s good—doesn’t press farther, just moves the dildo with subtle twists as my muscles adjust. I gasp again when the pressure suddenly leaves and when the glass returns, slick again with oil, I welcome it easily. The room feels so quiet though. My thoughts so loud.

  “I want to hear what you’re thinking,” I tell her. Neither an order nor a plea, merely a request. She grants it.

  “I’m just admiring your body.” She runs her free palm down my back. “All these little muscles that tense.”

  Lovers’ Braille, I think. She reads my body as I so often do hers. The notion flees as the pressure returns. I clamp like a fist but only for a breath, willing my body to calm. To peel open the violation and find the pleasure wrapped inside. She holds back until I’ve relaxed then puts her palm to my hip, and pushes.

  I shudder, tiny hairs rising along my arms and back. The anxiety has finally fermented to excitement and I shift my hips, wanting more.

  “Does it feel good?” she asks.

  “Yes. It’s beginning to.”

  “How does it feel, exactly?”

  I take a moment to explore the question, settling into the intrusion. My muscles have adjusted and I find subtler sensations now, the smooth caress of the glass against those secret, private spots. I feel used and spoiled, resistant and eager. Should some stranger see us, I’d be flooded at once with shame and brazen pride. “It feels like many things. Dirty, above all else. Sinful.” I clear my sticky throat. “What does it make you feel, doing this to me?”

  She eases out the dildo and I groan. She doesn’t reply until the head returns once more, cool from the air and the oil. It slips inside with only the briefest twinge, lighting up a million neglected nerve endings.

  “It makes me feel…powerful, I think.” The dildo creeps deeper, another inch or more, its progress seeming to darken the room. My body wants this—faster than she’s giving. I roll my hips to show her, but she stills me with a firm hand.

  “I’m driving, remember?” The confidence is back in her voice.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you ever…” She trails off. I let her assemble the thought, lost for a few beats in her physical demands. My head’s grown light, my breathing fast and reedy.

  “You’ve done this before,” she says.

  “I have.”

  “Do you ever think about… Do you ever imagine it’s a man doing this? You know. Not a dildo.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  It’s an obvious thought, a natural question to ask, but I’ve never been at ease around men. Certainly not ones in a position to make me feel weak. Imagining opening the most vulnerable realms of my body to their graceless, sweaty male appetites is the last thing that would have me panting this way.

  “It’s far more exciting to me—and taboo enough—just being fucked by a woman.” I’d do anything for a lover, be anything she wanted. A hard cock to own her, a tight vessel to swallow her aggression. Just want me and I’m yours. Just look at me with hungry intention in your eyes and I’ll slip into any skin you hand me.

  Caroly takes me deeper, deeper, so deep I feel the brush of her knuckle. She eases back and there’s the clink of the glass stopper of the oil bottle, the soft rustle of a towel. She fills me again, again, finding a pace. Every push, I gasp. Every withdrawal, I shudder. Every worry dissipates, swallowed in sensation.

  “Oh. Fuck me.”

  The strokes quicken as she learns to intuit how deep to go. Her free hand squeezes my cheek the way mine has done when I’ve taken her from behind, the way I’ve clasped her hip when she’s beneath me. I straighten my arms to rise and crane my neck, savoring a glance at her feminine body, the slender arm flexing as she takes me. I wish I could see the dildo in her hand, see the cock she’s wielding to make me feel this way. I shut my eyes and imagine it strapped about her hips, both hands free to grip my waist or pleasure my own cock, to feel her thighs touch mine as she took this role-reversal even further. I’d watch in the mirror. Watch that slender female body fucking my larger male one. The image draws a moan from my lungs.

  She strokes my back. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “About watching you, doing this to me. How beautiful you’d look. How strong you’d look, owning my body.”

  “Is it just you here with me, now?”

  “Yes, just me.” I open my eyes, turning my head to meet her gaze. “Just us.” Just me, stripped of everything, stripped of my maleness, even.

  The motions slow, turning deep and focused. “Good,” she murmurs. “You’re all I want.”

  Her words caress me far deeper than any physical touch could. They cradle my heart in cupped hands. She can have that, that and so much more. Whatever she believes this malfunctioning man has to offer, it’s hers.

  And I’ll tell her so. Soon.

  Overwhelmed, I squeeze the strap tight. I feel even more exposed this way, weak and degraded, utterly naked. Each time the dildo slides deep, a fearful noise falls from my lips, chased by a groan as the glass caresses that electric, unseeable spot. My cock twitches with every pass.

  Her palm circles my hip, then my cheek, a light caress but blazing with heat, coupled with the penetration.

  Touch my cock, I want to say. A plea or an order. A pull or squeeze or the whisper of her fingers. To drop my hips and feel the brush of the covers. Anything. The intrusion is sweet but so intense. If she’d only rub my hurting cock. I might come in a single stroke, but at least it would end this exquisite torture. I keep my wishes to myself, begging only with my moans. Suddenly she slows.

  “I want…” She’s hesitant again. Shy.

  “Whatever you want, just ask.”

  “Can I use the paddle on you?”

  Fuck yes. “You can do anything to me.” I’ve let this woman take me outdoors, after all. There’s nowhere we can go inside this bedroom that will test my boundaries more.

  The paddle disappears from my periphery and I feel the edge of the leather whisper along my thigh.

  Hit me. Punish me for liking this. Deepen the shame that has me panting like a dog.

  Her hand stills, holding the dildo in place. “Show me how you want it.”

  Edging my knees a bit wider, I ease my hips forward and back, the strokes growing longer and quicker as I master my thrusts. It’s the same motion as when I’m fucking, and the mechanics tighten that pleasurable knot in my belly, reminding my cock all the more acutely what it’s missing, how backward all of this is.

  “That’s sexy,” she whispers.

  The first night we met, she watched me masturbate. I conjure the memory of her gaze and her parted lips, of the curious, fretful woman who came to me in search of an initiation. I can’t see her face, but I know what her expression must look like. Just picturing it triggers a pang of arousal, clenching my body around the glass. I falter.

  The paddle lands with a whap. My body bucks from surprise more than pain and I feel fire collect on the spot, seconds before the leather brands me again.

  “Oh.”

  “Keep going,” she says.

  I do as I’m told, eager for everything—the sensation, the orders, the threat and correction if I fumble. The pleasure grows wild
, too hot and frantic to control. My hips lose the beat and the second I take to recover is enough—whap.

  My moan is a pure sound, encapsulating every contradictory thing I feel. I defy her just long enough to earn another slap of leather on my ass, then comply with the strike still stinging.

  That burn on my skin. The trespass of smooth glass inside me. The fucking motion of my hips but with no warm flesh welcoming my cock. Too much. My thrusts are frantic, and the penetration in turn. I’m edging close to that most frustrating of mistakes—coming without my arousal even being touched. If she’d only stroke me, I’d die of pleasure. So intense I’d go blind, with the dildo filling me, if only she’d touch me.

  “I can’t…” I begin, but the words abandon me.

  “You need to fuck?”

  Yes yes yes. “Please.”

  “Okay.” So, so slowly, she eases the glass free. “You on top then.”

  She’s read my mind. If I don’t get a turn to be the one doing, I’ll die. I’m sure of it. But I want the dildo, and that makes it tricky. She leans over me, hands shaking as she fumbles with my buckles. I hear her labored breathing. She’s excited and I haven’t so much as warmed her sex against my palm.

  Who are you? I want to demand, but discovering is more fun than being told.

  Finally I’m free. “Lie down,” I say, sitting back on my heels.

  I nearly come just getting the condom on and for once I’m grateful for the dulling latex. I’m clad and above her before she’s even got a pillow and settled herself.

  “Keep your legs together.” I straddle her hips, guiding my cock between her thighs and finding her lips, pushing inside at a sharp angle. I have to ignore how she feels—hot and slick and snug. It’s not the easiest position, but this way she can still reach to give me what I want.

  “Give me the glass.” It’s exciting to issue orders, to feel my aching flesh pulsing inside hers.

  The arrangement has me spread wide open and the dildo slips inside, smooth and swift. I groan like a beast, the primal sound roaring from my lungs. I doubt I’ve ever worked so hard to suppress an orgasm. It’s a battering ram, every beat of my cock splintering my defenses anew. “Don’t move,” I mutter. “Don’t move.”

  We’re frozen for a minute or more, as though posing for the most lecherous sculpture ever commissioned. I feel the climax inching back, control returning to me one breath at a time. “Okay. Just hold it still.”

  She does.

  But I’m back at the edge in an instant—one push and I’m losing it. My head swims. I can let go and fuck hard and come so fast and deep I scream. Or I can hold back for her sake. Try to ignore the ache and risk neutering one of the most violent climaxes of my life.

  As lousy as I am at it, I have to be selfish.

  I fuck. I fuck with every thrust, get fucked each time I pull out. Rampant and filthy. My appetites have left her with nothing but a clumsy left hand to pleasure her clit and too many tasks to bother, it seems. Even if she could, I won’t last. We’ve been teasing my body inside out for the better half of an hour.

  Suddenly, fire—the mean scrape of her fingernails where the paddle stung my cheek.

  “Fuck.” My hips race. The climax is rising, rushing, boiling. Any second. Any second.

  Caroly’s eyes are wild and bright, darting like lightning bugs. “Jesus, you’re hard.”

  Any second. “It hurts,” I tell her through a gasp.

  I need to come.

  Why can’t I come?

  I buck with another drag of her nails. Years now I’ve been trained to wait for permission—begged or ordered or implied with the tug of eager hands on my ass, my hips, my cock. Hard as I am, as much as I’m suffering, I need to be told.

  “Please,” I moan.

  “Come.”

  I do. I drop to my elbows, press my sweaty forehead to hers with a thump, jam our bodies together. I come like a dam bursting, the most violent, uncontrollable relief. The pleasure in my cock feeds the sensation from the dildo and back again, doubled, deepened. Each wave of it tenses me anew, each flash surely the last, until I feel the next on its heels.

  I lost myself, but now there’s her hand gripping my arm, the twinge of pain where my thigh grinds against her hipbone.

  I push up onto my palms and she eases the glass out, drawing a final shudder from my throat.

  “Oh fuck.”

  I’m drunk.

  I’ve died, surely. The orgasm killed me.

  Caroly combs her fingers through my hair, strokes my neck. She smiles.

  She hasn’t come. “I’m s—”

  Two fingers still my lips. “Don’t you dare.”

  I nod and swallow my apology.

  Her smile sharpens to a grin. “Wow.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. That was… I’ve never seen you like that. So nuts.”

  I get control of my legs and flop down alongside her, peeling away the rubber. “Come here.”

  She does as my hands ask, letting me pull her to me, her back to my chest.

  “It’s your turn.” I can’t even be bothered to strip her. I just push my hand inside her panties, finding her as wet as I’ve ever felt. She gasps, the softest, sweetest noise.

  “All this for me,” I mumble, “and I haven’t even touched you.”

  My fingers slip against the hard nub of her clit and she gives a thrash from the shock. I’m not the only one who suffered, it seems. I rub her in slow, light circles until she stops jolting, until her hips flex with greedy motions, rubbing her backside against my cock. I put my lips to her ear, still high from my release.

  “I love the way you fucked me tonight.” I say it in French, a whisper. She tenses with excitement at the words, stroking my knuckles with frantic fingertips.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever come so hard,” I tell her.

  “Didier.”

  “It felt so good, being at your mercy. Taking whatever you gave me.” Even thinking about it, I’m growing stiff. I’m too spent to bother with the rigmarole of a condom, or to much care about coming a second time, but I slip between her thighs and thrust, just to make her feel what she does to me.

  She draws a harsh breath, lets it out as a groan.

  “Already you have me hard again.”

  “Take me.”

  “No. I’ve been spoiled quite enough for one night. Just feel what you do to me.”

  I want the tease now, and the ache as I fall asleep. I want to spend the next morning wound up from wanting her. Hurting. Then in the afternoon perhaps I’ll take my turn at being the demanding one.

  Her hair smells of lavender, her skin of summer and sex. I kiss her ear, nipping and suckling the lobe as my fingertips stroke her clit. I can nearly taste her. “I’ll spoil you tomorrow,” I promise.

  “Sure,” she says, though the panting ruins her quip. “Because tonight was—such a hardship.”

  “Shhh.” I kiss her ear again, imagining baubles I might find to decorate that soft skin. With my lips at her neck, I try to conjure a pendant she might prefer. A bracelet or ring or pin, or some other unexpected offering. I’ll discover soon what that gift might be. Very soon. I’ll find some pretty, inadequate object, just a token to punctuate what I really want to give her. My heart. Perhaps my hope.

  Her sex is hot against my fingers, body antsy. He hand on mine has grown frantic and I give her thrusts of my cock to match, stroking her lips through the damp fabric.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “About what we did,” she mutters, squeezing my wrist.

  “You liked it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you feel, fucking me?”

  She doesn’t answer at once. She gulps a few breaths, squirming under my hand. “Strong,” she finally manages.

  “Powerful.”

  She nods, curls caressing my face.

  “That’s how you felt to me too.”

  I intensify the teasing and she moans, coming apart stitch by
stitch.

  “Come, Caroly.”

  Her cries fill the room, sweet, ragged sighs and gasps. I feel when she releases, her thighs squeezing my length as her pussy so often has, fingers rubbing my knuckles before she suddenly stills my hand, pressing it hard to her clit, forcing only the faintest motions until she lets go for good.

  “Beautiful.” I say it again, burying my face in that soft, soft hair. “So beautiful.”

  With a spent shudder, she flops her arm along mine. I hug her tightly.

  She shifts, surely feeling my cock still beating hard between her thighs. “Do you want me to—”

  “No.” Let it suffer.

  For twenty minutes or more I hold her, listening as her breathing goes from speeding to steady, to calm, to sleepy. My erection softens and our sweat cools, though the night is still balmy.

  I rouse her, excusing myself for a quick shower to wash away the oil and the stickiness of July. My body feels tender under the cold spray, but it’s nothing to do with the sex. There’s a thinness to my skin, a persisting nakedness quivering in my very cells.

  I submitted to her. There’s that. But I’ll do anything in the name of cathartic sex. No, this naked feeling tells me I’ve nothing left to bare to the woman in my bed. No secrets, not a single shadow of my body, no state of emotional crisis short perhaps of tears—and I haven’t shed those in years.

  There’s only one thing I’ve held back. Those two little words—three, should I utter them in English. All just sounds in the end, just my soul tumbling from my lips into her ear. A trifle.

  But I can’t tonight.

  Not from a place of weakness, no matter how willing and pleasurable the deconstruction was. I’ll tell her outside as I’d planned, standing under the sky she reintroduced me to, with my hands trembling but my confidence steeled. I’ll pick the caretaker’s padlock with the very tools she handed me and take her to the roof, stare out over the city I love and hate so deeply, and tell her then. Whatever gift I find for her at that shop, I’ll fold it in her palm and wonder if she can feel my heartbeat wrapped in her slender fingers.

  I shut off the water, towel myself dry. The bedroom is dark, only one candle left burning and the night sky black. I shut the curtains, but not for fear of the city’s mockery this time. Only to feel closer to the woman in my bed.