11 #2
“I’m your guilty pleasure, say it again.”
“My guilty pleasure,” she says, sealing it with a firmer hand and a push inside that erases any doubt.
She stands, opens her backpack, and takes out a black blindfold. I freak out, because I’m the type who sees the hit coming, clocks the emergency exit, and keeps a janky plan B in my back pocket, and still I hand the controls to a blonde who looks like she knows exactly where to press.
Paranoia kicks in: what if this isn’t about sex and it ends in a snatch-and-grab and I end up on Dateline, or she decides to give me some ritual bangs and I walk out looking like a doll from the Halloween aisle. My brain runs a marathon.
“Wait,” I cut in—nobody’s taking the mic from me, not even with duct tape. “What if, I don’t know… I face-plant and have to explain it in the ER, incident report and everything, in front of a resident who follows me on Instagram?”
“You’re not going to move, don’t be scared,” she says, scratching my collarbone just enough to reset me. “I’ll take care of you.”
Boom. That flips a switch. I’ll take care of you. My brain hits accept without reading the terms and conditions; I sign the contract and toss the pen.
She starts soft, so soft—just hands, mouth, voice. No props, no circus, full attention. She asks in my ear if not knowing what’s going to happen next turns me on, and my tongue loosens.
“Honestly, I prefer a picture menu—photo included and the add-ons listed on a separate sheet,” I tell her in that playing-hard-to-get tone that lasts about two seconds.
Running? Hell no. If I’ve made it this far, there’s a reason.
“Then why are you letting me?”
“Because I’m drenched and I’m not an idiot.”
And a whole festival of sensations opens up: kisses, licks, nips, breathy pauses that scramble my brain. I play the well-trained bitch, belly up, my soul topped off with gasoline.
Whack—a smack on my ass that sends me into orbit.
“But girl,” I squeak, laughing, “was that necessary?”
“No. But it woke you up, didn’t it?”
Reality check: it has me laser-focused. From there I lose count.
Fingers sliding in, a mouth finding me, whispered orders: “Don’t say anything, don’t ask, spread those legs, queen.
” I nod, obey, breathe, feel the volume rising.
She holds my face between her hands, gives me notes on angle and speed, and I give myself over to the tutorial—no ads, no skip button.
She tells me to keep my eyes covered and my mouth ready, not to pull away, to make room for her, not to close up, to hold it—and oh, I hold it.
She licks me slow, bites where the itch lives, roams my chest, sucks one nipple, then the other, and has my back arched, my feet braced, my hands trembling on the pillow, letting out whimpers that would embarrass me if I remembered what shame even is.
She slides two fingers in and crooks them with bad intentions and great aim.
She tells me to bring one knee up, then the other; smacks my pelvis with her palm.
Even blind, I feel her gaze pinned on me and it turns me on more.
She tells me to say I’m hers, not to run, to hold that spot, not to come yet.
I bite my lip and say yes, I’m yours, I won’t move, I’ll hold it, do whatever you want.
Me—the one with the boundaries drawn, the decider, the by-the-hour rate card, the one who brags about control at dinner with friends—here, handed over, and it doesn’t even feel wrong.
She gives me another smack—less theatrics, more focus—opens me again, goes down, up, down again.
I ask her for water and oxygen and to not stop.
She makes me say thank you, makes me repeat how good I’ll be, makes me admit I need her hand, her tongue, her rhythm, and I say it all, no filter, no shame—confessional mode.
I come and go, get lost, come back, even my eyelid is buzzing, a moan slips out loud enough for the downstairs neighbor to file a complaint, I choke back another just for the game; she warns, “Now,” goes fast, and an orgasm detonates that leaves my legs useless, my breath wrecked, my eyes wet, and a wave of calm that relaxes me all at once.
She doesn’t let go, keeps me on the edge, takes me to another, smaller, right on its heels, and I stop counting—just breathing and saying, “Keep going, keep going, keep going, please.”
When I stop shaking, she takes the blindfold off calmly and unties me slow, brushes my hair off my face, combs it with her fingers, brings me water from the glass on the nightstand, pulls the blanket over me, kisses my forehead—totally attentive.
I come back to myself and get the silly end-of-it giggles, for no reason.
With my voice shot, I blurt, "What if next time we use a safeword that doesn’t sound like a sad deli meat?"
"Which one do you propose?"
"Mortgage." We both burst out laughing at the same time, totally uncoordinated and shameless.
First time in my life that after fucking I don’t feel used or guilty. My ego spikes, my self-esteem snaps into place; I see myself winning the finale, wearing a dumb crown and a ridiculous pose, The Chosen One. Goodbye post-sex slump; self-love all the way up.
I’m sprawled next to her, bundled up to my eyebrows in the blanket, and she’s fresh as a daisy.
I swear, not a drop of sweat, not a single hair out of place.
Not even a trace of smeared mascara to show solidarity with my after-party face and punk hair.
Seriously, I hate her. If they ever find out goddesshood is genetic, my sample is the negative control in the lab.
Nat strokes my arm with those little fingers of hers, expert at grand larceny of hearts; you’d never guess five minutes ago she had me tied up, moaning, promising things I don’t even remember. And of course the drama vein pops:
"Will you give me a kiss?" I let it out in a small voice, eyes damp.
I don’t do mouth-kissing with clients. I avoid it unless there’s a written request, a contract, and a notary seal.
Less hassle, less drool, less nonsense. But now a strange need rises, straight to my gut.
I want mouth. Her mouth. I want that exchange of breath that makes you stupid and fixes your whole day.
Nat looks at me and I can tell she’s torn between tenderness and mockery. That little smile—cruel, I swear.
"Haven’t I kissed you enough?"
"On the mouth, smartass," I clarify, composure gone, begging for love with one tit out of the blanket—mortification level: legendary. "Not on the mouth, Nat. Not today, not yesterday, not ever."
She keeps a steady, professional pout. Props her head in her hand and, I swear, it’s like I’m telling her the business plan for my new Etsy scarf shop and not the existential abyss I’ve got in my mouth. The patience on this woman… or maybe she’s cracking up inside, which I could also believe.
"And that bothers you?"
"Does it bother me?" I jump out of bed, the blanket half hanging, my shame on the floor and my self-respect knotted in the lamp.
"What is it, huh? Do I have halitosis? Is my drugstore-red lipstick too proletarian for your imperial mouth? Do I have a piece of spinach from dinner stuck in my teeth and you just can’t tell me? "
She lets out a little laugh I can’t place—either mocking or tender. My face burns. My mascara is sliding down from rage and the endorphin crash; it hits hard. I fold my arms so I won’t shake.
"It’s nothing personal," she says, sweet as can be. "I just like to keep something for myself."
"Saving the kiss, huh?" I mock, and I swear I try, but the trembling leaks through the sarcasm. "What are you, the Elsa of BDSM? The ice queen with a no-makeout policy but yes to everything else? Or is there a secret pact and I’m just an extra?"
She gets up and faces me. Her hand slides to my throat and I’m half-tamed already; my sub-play switch flips, I get a goofy streak, I want to play along—she winds me tight and happy at the same time.
"None of that," she says, so drenched in mystery I want to throw a pillow at her face. And I catch a big-ass fit, because this is just the last straw.
"Look, blondie, cut the act. You got a cat that claws you if you kiss? A haunted apartment with a house rule? An ex living in the laundry room policing your mouth? If there’s trauma, say so and I’ll hold it.
But give me a hint, for fuck’s sake. I’m standing here butt naked asking you questions and you’ve got a padlock on. "
I cross my arms and push out a pouty I-refuse lip; all I’m missing is a hand fan to stage a full-on telenovela meltdown.
In my head I’m wearing a lace veil, slapping myself, spritzing cheap perfume and, yeah, I’m the Rosalía of post-sex lesbian soap operas.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and shut up for five seconds.
Exactly five. The mattress goes squeak, squeak.
My clit is still throbbing, the stubborn bastard.
I get thirsty. I want the kiss and a glass of water.
"Alaska," Nat cuts in, voice low. She sits up slowly. Her breasts move a little, barely, and I lose it. Fuck my concentration.
"Kiss me and then tell me who you really are. And don’t give me that dinner bullshit—I saw you dodging everything," I snap, because at this point I don’t give a damn.
"What am I, your vibrator with ears? You use me for a bit, get your fix, and then next in line? What is this, a lesbian raffle? Girl, I met you yesterday and you’ve already got my chakras doing cartwheels.
You knock me out and not even a thank-you. "
Nat goes quiet. Those eyes of hers that say, "I tell myself everything, but only on the inside." And for a split second I think I’ve got her pegged, finally, but the universe says NOPE, and the girl… strokes my face. Soft. Just enough to make me almost burst into tears.
"Oof, wow, did you fall in love? World record, Alaska," the witch teases me, sweet as sin and mean as hell.
"In love, my ass," I fire back, blazing. "I hate being jerked around. You’re messing with me and not even a courtesy smile. I’d report you for emotional terrorism if it weren’t for those hands, for fuck’s sake."
"Easy, tigress…" she murmurs.
"Screw ‘tigress’—you tamed me and you don’t even know it!" I scream, flinging the blanket to the floor like a deranged diva, ready to storm outside and sing my drama to the neighbors. "I’m not your teddy bear, got it, princess?"
She comes closer. She takes my chin and that’s when I tremble, and not because I’m cold: it’s my pride trying not to crawl.
"And what do you need right now?" she asks.
To start with, what I really need is for you to declare you love me, that my drama does it for you, that before me your life was a wasteland of boredom.
I want Sunday dinners, a wiener dog with a tacky name, and for us to wake up to gossip and muffins.
I want promises, tea, and a full-on Instagram declaration.
But how the hell do I say that? I’m shameless, but I don’t want her thinking I’m proposing marriage over a hookup.
So I bite my tongue…
"No fucking clue," I tell her, with that voice you get when you’re one step from passing out. "Right now I’m aiming not to faint from the high—which, look at me, such modest goals."
"Then, gorgeous, let me give you what you want even if you’re playing coy," she replies, with that little smile that says, "I know what you had for dinner and also what you’re going to moan in five minutes." "Yeah?" she whispers, close. "Nod if it’s a yes."
I nod. And before I can say anything, she pins me to the wall.
One hand on my throat—I can’t tell if it’s to kill my vibe or to keep my soul from slipping out of my body.
With the other, she hikes up my leg. And her mouth—holy hell, her mouth—that factory of filthy promises and wet dreams that should come with a warning label—lands right on mine.
FINALLY, FUCK. I was about to think I’d have to pay her for the makeout service.
She kisses me. She kisses me like her life depends on it, like the world ends tomorrow. And me? I cooperate, more thrilled than ever.
And I break. I melt. I surrender. Because this mouth on mine was the missing piece to make the day make sense.
She keeps up the controlled demolition of my neurons.
And the control she has—Jesus. I’m the puppet here.
She pulls the strings like she knows every one of my weak spots, and me, I’m done.
The worst part is a piece of me dreams of sabotaging the moment, but my body’s in submissive mode, level "take me, boss, and I’ll even shut up for five minutes, but only if you ask with a kiss. "
To top it off, I spin this mental fantasy: picture me Xena: Warrior Princess, squaring up to fate and stiff-arming love… But reality? I’m the dorky blonde, Gabrielle, making puppy eyes and practically lolling my tongue with every move.
And at some point, right when I’m about to hit orgasmic nirvana, bam, my cautious neuron lights up.
That tired neuron that runs on caffeine and snark and never fails to be a pain in the ass at the worst possible moment: "Babe, you’re getting hooked on a girl you’ve known for twenty-four hours. Look at the situation."
And even so, with that flash of clarity that lasts all of two seconds, I let her do her thing.
Because yeah, right now my little revolution fizzles.
Because this—what she’s giving me—is so criminal, so intimate, so say-goodbye-to-your Responsible Adult card that I decide maybe this fantasy is where I’m meant to live today: soaked, planless, mind rinsed clean, body giving thanks to the universe.
Because, honestly, who gives a damn about anything else right now?