"... not really."[fiction]

“Do you trust me?” he pants.

“Of course I do.”

We’re in an alley, behind the restaurant where we just left our dinner half-eaten. We tossed money onto the table as we rushed out, a little too much of it, as if to apologise for our rude exit. I’m held up in his arms, being fucked against the bricks with my legs around his waist, and every thrust is so deep I swear I can feel it in my chest. Every rib and swell of my inner skin grips him closely, tries to pull him in. People are walking along past this alley, barely ten feet away, oblivious to what is going on; I struggle to keep quiet. He keeps the perfect rhythm, pulling me up and then letting my own weight and wetness impale me. The metal of his undone belt-buckle jabs my inner thigh every time he thrusts, and the cold breeze chills our sweat and makes clouds of our breath.

He slows and almost stops, making me moan, because I’m so close to coming; I need my clitoris to hit his pubic bone just a few more times, and then I need him to keep fucking -- I hate it when he stops right at the peak -- but he has other plans for me. He growls into my ear.

“Will you do anything I ask of you?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Now he stops, for real, buried inside me, holding me close. I struggle against him, trying to soothe my screaming clit, but he won’t have it.

“Please...”

“I will ask something of you very soon, but I won’t tell you what it will be. I need you to trust me.”

“I trust you.” And I do. I think.

“No matter what happens, I will never hurt you, not really.”

The depth of this statement, of the careful way he words it and the desperate fear and greed it inspires, is so intense I nearly faint.

“P-please...” And I begin to laugh, shakily.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me. Don’t stop fucking me. Please.” I refer to this encounter, and to the heat that is curled around my belly like fleshy petals, ready to unfurl. But what I really mean is that I don't ever want him to stop. I want to belong to him more fully, feel myself buoyed along by his will and his desire, but words fail me; all I can manage to convey to him is this clumsy, vulgar need, the vulnerability of which both shames and touches me.

He eases me to the ground, pulls out, and I sob; the void between my legs is endless without him, and I can't bear the feeling of loss, even for a moment. He is so cruel, I think, if he would make me wait until we get home. Or if he would stop altogether.

But then he grabs my hips to turn me roughly away, pushes my shoulders down with his big, warm hand. I feel his wet cock nudge an ass-cheek as he guides me into position. He waits for me to brace my arms against the brick, then shoves himself back into me, all the way to the hilt with one stroke, and begins to pump hard, grunting with each impact. I climb higher, ever higher, driven onto tiptoes by his height and his force.

When I start to shatter, the explosion is intense enough that it sends me outside myself, just as I realize I'm beginning to faint. I watch myself struggle to keep standing, and I watch his arms wrap around my waist to hold me up, protecting me from brick and asphalt. I imagine his testes swinging back and forth as he fucks; I wonder what the dull ache must feel like there as his own climax starts to build, what this ache must feel like, caressed by the cold breeze.




(This snippet brought to you by a harsh edit of a story that didn't need the extra scene after all, but didn't want to let it escape altogether.)