He yanked down his pants. Only a thin layer of cotton, already soaked with a glisten of precome, separated my lips from the outline of his beautifully designed cock. I pulled his underwear down to his thighs. Even in this dim light his cock looked glorious.
Malik draped his shirt off his shoulders, obstructing the shadow of my face from the audience. I wrapped my fingers around his girth and ran the tip of my tongue along his glans, savoring his taste and allowing the motions of my head to give him the illusion that I would eventually take him into my mouth.
I raised my eyes to see the hunger in his. His stomach muscles flexed out of control as sweat trickled down his body. I wanted him to get to the point where the needs of Malik and Othello became one. At the rolling of my tongue around the head, he attempted to thrust his cock deeper into my mouth, but I pulled away just in time.
I grabbed his shirt and led him back to the bed just as we were directed. This is where Malik was supposed to climb on top of me, but he had no intention of following that plan. Instead he tossed me on the bed and before I could lift my head, he planted his mouth on my needy cunt. His tongue invaded my slickened sex. An elated howl exploded from my mouth, filling the immense theater just as the music swelled. I clawed at the cheap cotton sheets as I wrapped my legs around his head, mashing his mouth flush to my pussy. I gripped the back of Malik’s head, forcing his tongue to go deeper into me. It would be so easy to get lost in the magnificence of his educated tongue but the lights mixed from blue to a royal purple, which signaled the next transition we needed to make.
I hooked my fingers through his coarse hair and snapped his head up. We were reaching the apex of this scene. If he lingered any longer I wouldn’t get what I needed—and what Malik deserved as my warrior husband—before the lights faded to black.
He trailed his tongue up my body. His speed let me know he was also aware of our limited time as he sealed his journey up my flesh with a kiss. I tasted myself in his mouth, which lifted my desire. The lack of the fake beard allowed me to feel the full intensity of his lips. Our hands were frantic, exploring each other’s bodies in possession-filled lust until the head of his cock landed at the opening of my eager pussy. I felt the head of his cock at the precipice of entering me. As his stomach contracted, I placed my hand on his chest and gently whispered in his ear, “Not yet.”
I pulled him down onto the bed next to me and with all the strength I could muster, climbed on top of him. Somehow our actions had now come back to the original choreography. I reached between my legs and grabbed his cock. The anticipation on his face sparked as I lifted my hips, but instead of placing his cock inside me, I laid it flat and lowered my pussy on his unyielding shaft.
A groan of desperation freed itself from Malik’s body as I glided my sex along the length of his hardness. Each sleek pass elevated my need to have him in me. I threw my head to the sky as pants of desire were flung from my mouth. Soon the sound of my own sticky wetness matched the thunderous drums of the score. The urge to feel him inside me erupted to the point of fervent need. I lifted my hips, aimed his cock to where I needed him to be, and slowly dropped my hips, allowing him to fill me up.
The sturdy head of his cock brushed past my most sensitive spot. I dug my fingernails into his chest and freed myself of any constraints as I fucked him in front of a full and attentive audience. The brilliance of Vivian’s direction was always clear to me. In silhouette, the audience didn’t see a North African man and a Venetian woman, or even a black man and a white woman. What they saw was two people making love to celebrate their passion for each other. However, this moment completely belonged to me. Tonight, the zealous lust that I’d carried for Malik took over and I claimed him as my own.
The music crescendoed to a volume where anything I screamed wouldn’t be heard as I rode the upsurge of my building orgasm. A few more valiant thrusts from his mighty cock were guaranteed to make me come, but the music and lights faded, leaving us in a sweaty cocoon of darkness as I grasped at how close I was to a resounding orgasm. We heard the stagehands rapidly approaching to move the set for the next scene. I grabbed his cock, glided him out of my pussy, and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. I gathered my costume around my naked body and headed to the wings on weak legs, knowing we had an entire show to complete.
The standing ovation the play received fueled my excitement as we stood in costume, greeting the audience. Malik stood at the opposite end of the lobby, but his eyes would occasionally drift toward me. My insides were still fluttering. I attempted to focus on the two elderly women in front of me who kept saying that they had never seen Desdemona played with this much strength. They had just asked me to autograph their programs, something I rarely get asked to do, when I felt a presence standing behind me.
“That was perfect,” Vivian stated. I turned around to see her smiling face and before I could respond she embraced me. “Well, somebody was having a lot of fun out there tonight. Now let’s see if you two can recreate that for tomorrow’s matinee.”
She let go of me and took a step back. I forced a smile, snapping my eyes over to Malik for a second. He caught my gaze and flashed me a smile before returning to the audience members standing in front of him. Vivian headed over to Malik. The smile on her face let me know she was happy about his performance as well. The idea of having him tomorrow onstage was exciting but tonight, after the cast party, I planned to allow Malik to have me for as long as he needed, with no time restraints.
AVA RECEIVES A TEXT
Ella Dawson
I want you to use me, Julian texted me at 9:31 p.m. on Tuesday. I want you to do whatever you want to me. I sat up straighter at my dining room table. A promotion strategy document was open on my laptop, half-finished and several hours overdue for my boss’s approval. I’d assumed Julian was off doing something similarly rote and depressing with his evening. Maybe that was how he made slogging away at the firm tolerable: working on Excel reports with the occasional light sexting break. Funny, I’d always imagined him as more of the listening-to-politics-podcasts kind of guy.
I read his last two texts again but they didn’t change. It was such an innocuous message to throw me off in the grand scheme of dirty texts: I want you to do whatever you want to me. What did I want to do to this man?
Most men were all about what they were going to do to you and how much you were going to like it. It wasn’t entirely their fault: even I was used to thinking about what I wanted someone to do to me. That would have been an easier question to answer: I wanted Julian to push me against the brick wall outside of my apartment, shove my skirt up my hips, and fuck me hard, praying no one would notice us in the shadows beyond the streetlights. What did I want to do to him? I drew a blank.
I like that, I responded, bluffing. I was very aware that I was writing marketing copy in my pajamas at my IKEA dining table while my roommate practiced audition songs in her bedroom. Julian was handing control to me across hundreds of digital miles, a power transfer from DC to Brooklyn, and I had no idea what I liked. Some sexually empowered woman I was turning out to be.
The little typing bubble popped up, and I eyed it on my iMessage app window, resting absurdly next to the color-coded Google spreadsheet. Tell me what to do.
Oh great, now creative thought was required of me. Don’t move, I texted him. That seemed like a good place to start. I could imagine it, too: Julian sitting in bed clutching his cell phone, the early stirrings of an erection straining at his boxer briefs. I hadn’t seen his apartment yet but I already suspected it was gorgeous, a small but beautiful one-bedroom in a historic Georgetown brownstone. Just him all alone in that square footage, idly playing with his dick as he waited for me to reply.
Or maybe he was at some bar with colleagues, sneaking glances at his phone while they discussed the markets. I had no way of knowing and it sent a shiver through my forearms, nerves tightening with thrill. It was easy to picture that, too: him standing in some cluster of finance bros dressed up in light summe
r suits and loosened ties. They’d have no idea what he was thinking, what he wanted me to do to him. Those preppy motherfuckers with their yields and dividends and all that terminology I couldn’t remember from my Econ 101 course taken eight million years ago.
OK I won’t, he responded.
I felt a queer trickle of power pinging up the nerves in my spine. He was waiting for me to offer further instruction. Nothing came to mind after a decade of hoping and preening and delicately inquiring about some unresponsive idiot’s whereabouts via text message. It felt like some feminist failure to admit it, even to myself, but I wasn’t used to being in charge. I knew what I wanted, but I didn’t know what I wanted to take.
Fuck, he texted me next, and I could hear it in his voice, that breathless spurt of narration he always shared, even outside of a sexual context. Julian was a talker, extroverted and loud at cafeteria dinners and dormitory wine-and-cheese nights. It never bothered me back at school because he greeted the world with such enthusiasm and openness, the polar opposite of New York cynicism. I heard the text as if it were a helpless announcement, his throat dry. I still remembered hearing it in person despite the layers of postgrad life coated over the memory. He said it right into my ear like a plea.
Shut the fuck up, I typed, hitting send before my confidence failed me.
Before I had the time to doubt myself, he said, OK
sorry. And then he waited.
Julian and I met during our sophomore year at Liberal University. He lived down the hall in a double room with a lacrosse bro named Peter whom I hated instinctually. Unlike his looming roommate, Julian got along with everyone, full of wide grins and a kindness that I couldn’t help but trust. I assumed a guy like that had a girlfriend and I wasn’t wrong, there was some girl back home in Virginia who sent him elaborate care packages every few weeks. When they eventually broke up, there was another girl with the same affinity for arts and crafts. Julian retained the sweetness that most men had beaten out of them in high school.
We didn’t become real friends until our senior year, when he was finally just Julian and I understood that good things were usually temporary. I had a night of him all to myself, eight giddy hours on his regulation double bed. It was the rare one-night stand that didn’t leave me depleted the next morning. I walked home across campus to my apartment feeling warm and whole. And then he moved to DC and I settled down in Brooklyn, wrapped in a new, bullshit Pinterest board of a relationship that spread its depletion out over time. And now I was single again and Julian was texting me and I had an Amtrak ticket to DC in my email inbox.
Julian was still waiting for instruction. I fished for ideas.
Where are you? I asked—curiosity was getting to me.
At home.
That was a bit of a letdown. I liked the idea of him in public attempting to hide what he was up to. He had such a transparent face; how much he wanted me would be all over him.
At home all alone thinking about me?
Yes.
It was darkly funny: in three simple letters, Julian offered more clarity and validation than anything my ex had said in a year and a half of dating. The idea of him sitting by himself on what I’m sure was some expensive—also known as “not purchased at IKEA”—sofa, attention glued to his phone, eager and desperate for whatever I was about to say… I could work with that.
You’re not allowed to touch yourself, I said. I don’t think you deserve to. Nervous giggles flared up my throat and I bit my knuckle, glancing at my roommate’s door. It would be generous and inaccurate to call me a naturally authoritative person.
Oh god, he replied.
I picked up my laptop and ducked into my room, closing the door behind me. When religious deities were invoked, it was time to get a room.
Do you understand me? I asked once I settled down on my bed. That same giddy anxiety bubbled within me—I imagined putting it in a box, wrapping it up tight, and shoving it under the bed.
Yes I do thank you.
Holy fuck, now he was thanking me. Nice guy Julian from down the hall was thanking me for telling him he wasn’t allowed to touch himself. This was surreal.
Good.
I searched my brain for something else to say. My regrettable binge of the Fifty Shades series all those summers ago had taught me nothing useful: the only scene I retained was some grotesque incident in a bathroom involving a tampon. I was in foreign territory.
But maybe I was thinking about this the wrong way . . . Julian hadn’t asked me to recreate some massproduced fantasy from the grocery-store book selection. He’d asked me to do whatever I wanted. And what I wanted, what I always wanted, was to know exactly where I stood. I wanted to be texted back, immediately, and with the correct response. I wanted to be respected—no, I wanted to be worshipped. I wanted my ego dipped in honey and licked clean by someone who adored me.
You won’t get anything if you don’t beg.
I bit at my thumbnail as I watched my text deliver, wondering if I’d pushed his boundaries. Dynamics like this required sober, honest discussion, not digital fumbling in the dark. I knew that much from cobbledtogether sex education and smirk-riddled conversations over brunch at the dining hall. Scaring him off wouldn’t be great when my Amtrak ticket was nonrefundable.
Yesss I want to beg for it, he texted back.
Jackpot.
My skin burned and it had little to do with embarrassment anymore. I sank down into the mattress, all of a sudden way too hot under my sweatpants and stolen Henley tee. I toed out of my socks as I read his new text, just one word: Please.
Another memory resurfaced across the expanse of other fucks and confessions: listening to Julian lose control as he climaxed, his hand furled around the cheap headboard. The memory of the nonsense that came pouring out of his mouth when he finished followed me for months after that, interrupting other flings that paled in comparison to his vocal fireworks. “Please please yes Ava yes oh god you feel so fucking good please I’m close so close I’m gonna come oh please oh please—”
I will beg for it, Julian wrote in the present. This was part of a pattern: if I took too long to respond, he would just keep going without me. It was impatient, bratty behavior that I had no desire to correct. I will beg to touch you, I want to touch you so bad.
How much?
So much Ava I think about it all the time.
My eyebrows rose. It?
You I think about you all the time.
I pushed my sweatpants over my hips and abandoned them to the mess of clothing at the foot of my bed. I felt a little high, my attention narrowed to a dangerous point. He thought about me all the time, and the images that conjured lit me up like a bottle rocket: Julian sitting at his desk at some boutique firm, wetting his lips when he got distracted. Julian tugging at his cock as he stood in the shower in the morning, water beading across his wide shoulders. Julian waiting for me right now, desperate to touch himself, desperate for my next word.
It was the desperation that got me wet, showing through in how fast he answered every message, in how he must have written and deleted and rewritten that initial text so many times, the one that started this all off. If Julian’s turn-on was giving up control, mine was teasing and taunting, secure in the knowledge he wasn’t going anywhere. The cockier I was, the harder he got. The more demanding I was, the more he wanted me.
I thought about him, too, all the time—not only these last few weeks but across the years, with memories sneaking up on me as my ex cooked lasagna and gaslit me out of my confidence. A handful of hours with the gorgeous guy down the hall, destined to be someone else’s special someone, a girl nicer and blander and skilled with an Instagram filter. I’d thought about how he kissed down my stomach, nose nudging between my thighs. He got off on that, on how I squirmed and wrapped my fingers through his dark hair. He insisted on getting me off, wide eyes watching my face shatter and collapse as I came hard and drunk, mewling my desire and release. I thought about him all the fucking time an
d never thought I’d get him back, too kind and simple for my jagged edges. I’d read us both wrong.
But I didn’t tell him that.
That’s what I thought, I replied. It required a few edits to get all the grammar correct, as one of my hands had found its way south. I was wetter than I expected, my fingers coming away thickly coated. Maybe if you impress me I’ll let you taste me.
Please please that’s all I want.
Please was quickly becoming my favorite word.
I bet that’s what you want, you desperate little whore. I stared at my message for a few terrified seconds before pressing send. In for a penny, in for a slur.
Any doubts I had that I’d gone too far were immediately assuaged. Oh fuck Ava.
Two of my fingers sank into my tight and soaking cunt. I bit my lip to smother a groan, frustrated that I was in a tiny shit-box of an apartment in New York, hundreds of miles from the man I wanted, who was desperate desperate desperate for me to use him. I wanted to ride him. I wanted to shove my hand over his mouth and grind down on him until I was someone else, strong and hard and benevolently vicious. I could hear his overwhelmed, smothered cries, his lips wet under my palm. I wanted to pull up and feel every inch of his dick as it slid out of me and then hover there, feel my weight on my thighs as he whimpered. I would tease the head of his cock, circle around it but refuse to sink down onto him. I’d wait, pull my hand away and wait until he begged. Please please please Ava I need you I need you I need you. And then I would take what I wanted.
I’d taken too long to text him again. I’m so hard please, he begged.
No. The word felt like that first sip of white wine at the end of a long day. I get to touch you. You aren’t allowed to touch yourself.
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