You and your rational argument. You and your theory. You and your I’m-in-a-band-but-they’re-kinda-shit. I would like to fuck all of these things and whatever else you’ve got.
You’ll be stunned at first, then soften as you realise that this is so what you wanted. The gun has jumped you, and you didn’t even see it coming.
I’ll run the show, be the MC and the producer. You understand. You like to be told the lie of the land in precise language. Life is too short to fumble.
My knees are either side of your narrow hips; your back pressed against the wall. I lay my lips at the place where your neck meets the sharp bones of your jaw. Soft wet kisses at first, kisses that become more hungry.
My tongue in your mouth sends you instantly hard, and I rub my cotton-covered snatch against you. You moan and twist my hair around your fingers.
I raise my hips, take your hand and slip your fingers inside me.
I raise my hips, take your hand and slip your fingers inside me. You bite your lip when you feel how wet I am. I’ve fucking wanted you from the moment you said, for theoretical reasons any variable that is the sum of a large number of independent factors is likely to be normally distributed. You know exactly what to do with your fingers.
With your one hand still in my hair, you draw my ear to your mouth and whisper, pleading,
— Fuck me?
Then me tearing at your belt and button-fly, you pulling my knickers away. Everything comes off only as much as it has to because we don’t have time. I hold the tip of your cock just there, just there at the opening, the most sensitive place. You bite your lip some more for control as I move you a little about, up and down a touch, in and out, like the tongue of a girl in a controversial ice cream advertisement.
— Let me inside you.
Slowly. There is a place halfway inside that is just exquisite, and you should feel that. I will hold you fast just there until I need the rest of you, need to feel the base of your cock against my flesh, and your balls, the softest, warmest thing on your body after your lips. Just keep kissing me.
Slowly. There is a place halfway inside that is just exquisite, and you should feel that.
With one hand I grasp your red shards of almost-Japanese straight-as-fascist-architecture hair, with the other I rub my clit, leaving nothing to chance.
I’m silent when I come. Silent, but I buck and breathe as if breathing hurts. When you come you stop breathing, then cry out like parchment tearing. Crumpled, my forehead resting on your shoulder, I watch your chest rise and fall beneath some obscure band T-shirt – whoever the German fuck they are.
You’ve been writing songs again, haven’t you. I can tell.
Story Sara Ffitch
Illustration Harley Sparx
This story first appeared in Filament Magazine Issue 1. That issue is sold out, but the awesome news is that you can still get the latest issue.