“Good Girl.” “Shut-Up.”

A letter to a girl I’ve never met:

Dear Leah,

We are naked. We are on my red velvet sofa. Outside an early evening Los Angeles sunset tosses a red-orange blanket towards a still downtown skyline. I tie your hands behind you then lay you on your back. Your breasts fall ever so slightly towards your armpits. The curve of your stomach and the hint of your hip bones make me crazy. I trace them first with my moistened forefinger, then with the tip of my tongue. You are not to speak. You know the rules.

I play with the negative space that is the arch of your back on the sofa.

I force your legs open with my knee, slide my tongue up and over your thighs until I smell you. Then I stop. Reaching up I twist one erect nipple and then the other. I expect your tattooed hips to rise, your pussy to ask for my lips. But, wait, you are the submissive. That’s not your role. I remind you anyway by pushing your hips firmly to the velvet.

My hand is covering your mouth now. Your teeth and tongue knock at my palm. “Shut-up,” I say.  You are not making a sound.

There is a wet spot on red fabric beneath us. I point it out. Your eyes apologize. So they should. “Good girl. ” I reward you with a slide of my mouth closer to your pussy. You struggle not to squirm as my warm sexually charged breaths seduce your labia.

I am in control. I am wet. You smell insane – tamed and feral all at once. If you had a cock I’d straddle it. You don’t. But for that, today, I am happy. You see, I love a woman once in a while. A hot bitch who may have sucked the sweat off a hot Adonis’ cock just hours before. I remove my hand from your mouth and straddle your face. Hovering.

“Do you want my pussy?”
You nod.
“How much?”
You nod some more, straining your neck to reach me.

I tease you for a while. Rising up and down on my knees –  just out of reach. Then I pull away, slide back and down your torso until I am sitting on your pelvic bones. A snail trail. I lick it up. Like lemongrass – sweet and citric. I move back and forth on the layer of sticky moisture between us. I can almost hear its gummy tack. I remember the white glue we used to paint on our hands as kids. We’d wait for it to dry, then peel it off in sheets. We’d have tent sleep-overs in my best friend’s bedroom. We’d take turns playing with each other in “sexy ways”. We were 8.

Our eyes meet. I dare you to break my glance. And so you hold it. I pull your hair away from your face until you grimace. I kiss you. Bite your bottom lip. Hold it between my teeth until a tear escapes the corner of your eye. I taste blood. “How much do you want me?”
A second tear falls over your cheek bone and rests on your chin. I give you my pussy.

I groan under your expertise.

“Good girl.”

Eyes still following me, I reach across the sofa for an ocean-blue glass dildo I’ve brought along.  Your hips rise. I push them down. “Shut-up.” You are not making a sound.

I roll you over, untie your hands. My kid’s Yo-Yo string has left deep welts in your wrists. I hand you our own toy. You know exactly how to play with it. I rub my clit while you trust the dildo inside me.

“Fuck me harder.” I tell you. And you do. My knees are up around my shoulders, and with each dirty thrust I grimace in the pain that is my uterus. I’m so close. I read about your dragging the guy into the bathroom at the gym, peeling off his shorts, taking his balls into your cupped hand and sucking his cock till he came. I read about your being collared, slapped and dragged along the floor until you cried. You write well. You turn me on.

My clitoris has tired of my own work and wants your tongue. Badly. “Suck me.” You slide your mouth around my busy fingers and like a good hungry little kitten you lap at juices that lubricate our glass cock. “Pull it out, and lick it clean.”

You do.

I devour my own fingers, my own womanliness. Delirious. I love the taste of pussy. The room smells like sex. “Suck me.” Hot, tangy, girl sex. “Put your cock inside me, damn it.”

Delirious.

You fuck me more. I squirt a warm sweet liquid all over your face.  You’ve done well.

“Good girl.”

Yours,

The Anti-Cougar