Glass Houses

by Helena Maeve

  “You’re really pretty like this.” Had I been trying to seduce him, I might have said he looked like a slut, lying there bare-assed, obviously turned on. That was as far as I went, though. I could never call my partners pathetic or humiliate them until they wept, but ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ were interchangeable terms for ‘panty-droppingly hot’ and ‘holy shit I really want to bone you’. I kissed Elliot’s nape in mute apology and when he turned his head, I granted him a close-lipped kiss on the mouth, too, just because it was within my power to do so. “We should probably talk limits,” I mused as I stroked my fingers through his hair.

  “We couldn’t do that before you got me all hot and bothered?”

  “I think you did that yourself, sweetheart.” Sweetheart? Where had that come from? Usually it was ‘boy’ and ‘pet’, depending on how the scene was going and what my partners needed from me. ‘Sweetheart’ was a little too intimate. I powered on quickly. “Let’s start with what you don’t want to do. I find that’s usually easier.”

  Elliot sighed, but the corner of his lip twitched. “No watersports. No grave bodily harm… Everything else goes.”

  “Really?” That was a rather short list. I wondered if it was born of experience or if he’d read up on those things and decided they weren’t for him, much as I’d done when I first ventured into the scene. Not that there was anything wrong with that. To each their own. “So if I want to burn you with matchsticks,” I mused, “that would be…?”

  “Really fucking painful?” Elliot’s shoulders stiffened under my hands. “Is that something you’re into?”

  It wasn’t. “I’m into spanking pretty boys and making them come so hard that they never forget my name,” I said. “The how is negotiable.”

  At his age, Elliot wasn’t much of a boy anymore—although he was pretty—and I was sure that most of my former partners wouldn’t recognize me in a police line-up, never mind remember my name, but none of those things mattered because Elliot moaned my name like it was a prayer. “I’m trying really hard not to rub my cock against the sheets here,” he sighed. “And you’re not helping.”

  “I’m not trying to,” I said, flattered that he wasn’t just aroused by my efforts, but actively trying to please me. Great, because another reason to moon after you is exactly what I need.

  “In that case,” Elliot bit out, “mission accomplished.”

  I decided to be merciful and pinched the skin at the joint of his shoulder and neck between my thumb and forefinger. Elliot’s breath caught with an audible, satisfying hitch, but I didn’t relent until he fisted his hands in the sheets. I hadn’t used my nails, but his flesh was still red when I released it. The thought of taking a crop to his shoulder blades hit me like a gut-punch.

  “Do you have a safe word?” I asked, stroking my fingers down to the small of his back. His trim hips beckoned to me and I wanted nothing more than to swat him with the palm of my hand until the skin was red and stinging, but this wasn’t a step to be missed.

  Elliot shook his head. “Stop works best for me.”

  I took that for an indication that he wasn’t into any hardcore stuff, however much he might have pretended to be open-minded before. I could work with that. “Okay,” I said. “If you say stop, we stop.” And with that, I flicked my hand against the soft, pale swell of his ass and let the room echo with the sound of skin slapping skin.

  Elliot cried out, surprised, and white-knuckled the fistful of bed sheet he was clutching so tightly. It was usually the shock that did it, at first. I never hit hard to start. I liked to build up the intensity slowly, to take my time. That we only had a couple of hours wasn’t an issue. Most of my partners couldn’t last longer than twenty minutes.

  I struck him again, on the other cheek, layering my strokes as Elliot lay beside me, panting violently. “This doesn’t hurt you, does it?” I cajoled. “You said everything goes…” I kneaded my fingers into the warm flesh of his buttocks, shifting my position so I was straddling the backs of his thighs. He wasn’t immobilized beneath me. Between the two of us, Elliot still had bulk and height on me. But that wasn’t the point. I wanted him to feel overpowered, not to be overpowered.

  By the fifth swat, he had learned to choke his moans, to smother them into the pillow. His efforts excited me. I liked knowing that my partners were as involved in our bed-play as I was. I didn’t want to be doing things to someone as unresponsive as a rubber doll. If all I wanted was a quick orgasm, I had my vibrator and the Internet, thanks.

  I raked my fingernails up the smooth rise and fall of Elliot’s backbone, over the joints of his shoulders and the rounded curve of his biceps, until I could fold my hands around his. My breasts brushed his shoulder blades through the thin material of my dress and the reinforced cups of my bra. “You’re so quiet,” I cooed. “I’m not boring you, am I?”

  Elliot shook his head fractionally.

  “You’re close, is that it?” The thought of him so turned on that he had to grit his teeth to resist the urge to pump his hips against the mattress made my cunt tingle and my skin feel hot. I walked my knees up to straddle his hips and pressed my mound into the abused, rosy flesh of his buttocks. He hissed. “You’re not the only one,” I murmured in his ear. I knew he could feel how wet I was. My panties must’ve been soaked through.

  “Please, Miriam…”

  “Please what?” I nuzzled my lips against his temple. “You want to fuck me, is that it?” Most guys I slept with eventually got to a point when the rules of the game eventually became a constraint. I was used to it. Even Elliot, the man I credited with opening my eyes to all sorts of kinky stuff, had laid back and let me ride him the first time we met. Some of the Dommes I’d talked to called that topping from the bottom. I didn’t care much for terminology—I liked sex and I liked men. Having Elliot’s cock inside me filled me with anticipation rather than disappointment.

  I didn’t expect him to shake his head. “Other way around,” he said, the words so muffled that I asked him to repeat himself. “Ever done that?” he asked, misinterpreting my confusion as hesitation.

  Of course, I had. “Sure, but…” I flushed, glad that he couldn’t see me hesitate. “I don’t exactly bring my bag of tricks with me when I drive the kids to school.”

  Elliot twisted his head around and I allowed him room because I wanted to see his eyes, make sure this wasn’t a hallucination. “I’ve got what we need… If you want to try it. With me.” He seemed nervous to ask. Why would he be nervous? I had just spanked his ass raw and made him play with himself. This was in no way bigger than that—unless he was afraid I’d mock him.

  “Show me,” I said. If nothing else I was curious to know what the great Elliot McFarland packed into his suitcase when he went away on a business trip. Dildos and lube seemed like the kinds of thing that would make the TSA blush scarlet.

  Strap-ons, too, for that matter, although the one Elliot presented me with wasn’t as impressive as some of the models I’d seen around clubs in the city. It was about as thin as two fingers and handsomely curved for extra stimulation. What got me grinning, though, was the color. “Fuchsia pink? Really?”

  “They were out of cerulean blue,” he said, snorting. “So what do you think?” He was nervous, I realized, and smothered the flood of tenderness that rose up at the thought before it could engulf me.

  “I think you’ve got good taste.” The double straps were thick and sturdy and I appreciated the harness having a little raised bump on the inside, presumably so I wouldn’t want for stimulation myself. “Let me try it on.”

  I stood up and because it would’ve been stupid to wear a plastic dildo with my dress, I shed it quickly, for once forgetting to worry about my belly flab or my appendectomy scar. My panties were already soaked, but I pried them off too. I saw no point in keeping the bra on, particularly when my nipples felt hard and swollen and in want of attention. I undid the hooks at the back and tossed that aside, as well. In a matter of seconds, I was naked and stepping int
o the harness, barely realizing that Elliot was staring at me from the bed, his gaze unreadable.

  “Yes,” I drawled, “that’s cellulite. Try not to faint.”

  “Of course I won’t. That wouldn’t be very manly of me,” Elliot scoffed. The logistics of getting prepped for the next bit had pulled us both out of the headspace we’d been in before, but as I knelt on the bed and Elliot came up on his knees, I couldn’t muster any regret. “May I—?” He reached for the straps without following the thought to its conclusion, tightening the clips here and there.

  “Copping a feel?” I asked, surprised to discover my voice so breathy.

  Elliot grinned. It wasn’t the most subtle thing, but I didn’t mind. The thought of him bending the rules because he was desperate to touch my skin brought its own thrill.

  “Since you’re already on all fours, why don’t you show me what you can do with that pretty mouth?” One day soon, I would ask him to go to his knees for me. I was fairly sure he hadn’t forgotten how to drive a woman wild in the past two years. But here and now, I let him part his full lips around the dildo and tentatively lick at the tip. I waited him out, playing pretend that he couldn’t take the thin shaft all in one go, until he made a sound low in the back of his throat that I took for impatience.

  I knotted my fingers in his hair and rolled my hips forward gently. His breath fanned against my pubic bone in a harried exhale. It wasn’t until I pulled back and he made to follow that I knew he liked that.

  We quickly found a rhythm that worked for us both, the mimicry of a blow job I could only appreciate from a visual standpoint and that he could perform without a whole lot of effort. He didn’t try to deep-throat the dildo, and I didn’t force him to. Instead, I busied myself with snagging the lube off the mattress and slicking my fingers to warm the gel. I wanted to hear his breaths hitch because of pleasure when I was hilt-deep inside him, not discomfort.

  I would’ve been lying if I had said pegging was something I did for my partners. Sure, they asked for it—though sometimes not in so many words—and sometimes I pretended to be put-upon when I obliged, but the truth was that I relished the power to be the one doing the taking from time to time. And, with Elliot, the sweet whimpers he made as my fingers parted his ass cheeks and dipped into the cleft were enough to conjure all sorts of desires.

  I worked my digits into him slowly. Just one might have been enough if he had wanted to feel the burn of penetration, but we hadn’t talked much about his pain tolerance—or anything else, really—so I chose to play it safe. I wanted to do this again before he left for Nantucket and the best way to make that wish come true was to ensure this was a good experience for everyone involved. He pulled off with a shudder when I crooked my fingers inside him, breaths catching in his throat as he bowed his head.

  “Good?” I asked, because having him at my mercy didn’t mean I was psychic.

  Elliot nodded, albeit a little shakily, and leaned his brow against my inner thigh. I stroked his hair as soothingly as I could when I wanted nothing more than to spread my legs and guide his mouth to my sopping pussy. Some other time. Right now, I was in the mood to see him spitted on my plastic dick, to make him come.

  “Turn around,” I ordered, forcing all gentleness out of my voice. I couldn’t afford to be too accommodating. The whole illusion was that he had to please me or else be punished. Never mind that the punishment would, by definition, be something that Elliot asked for, or that I was working hard to give him what he wanted even as I got my own rocks off. Every layer of our time together had its purpose. I wouldn’t be enjoying myself half as much if it weren’t for the sight of his shoulders flexing as he took position, or the subservient slant of his head as he waited for me to take him.

  I lubed up the dildo, forgoing a condom. For one thing, the strap-on was Elliot’s and I very much doubted that he’d used it on anyone other than himself so STDs weren’t such a pressing concern. For another, it had the suggestion of a cock more than its actual shape and I was pretty sure I would have to hold the condom in place with my hand, which would be all kinds of troublesome.

  There was something incredibly dirty about the sight of that ferociously pink dildo rubbing into the cleft of Elliot’s ass. I moved my hips back and forth for a few moments, just to see the puckered ring of Elliot’s hole relax and contract in anticipation.

  “Miriam,” he urged me, his voice going husky with need.

  I could’ve made him beg for it, but why bother? I wanted this just as much as he did.

  Holding the plastic shaft steady, I tugged him into my lap by the hips, slowly letting him sink down the five or six inches until his legs were pressed flush against mine. His whole body trembled in my grasp. “Okay?” I asked, stroking his back. There was no doing away with the tension I found coiled under my fingertips. Not with a back rub, anyway.

  “Okay,” he breathed. “Totally okay. Just, please—”

  I knew what he wanted and I gave it to him.

  It was always a little awkward at first. Finding the right rhythm, angling my strokes so they were on point but not killing my lower back—I knew I had gotten it when Elliot cried out, shoving himself back onto my cock.

  “Fuck,” he swore. “Fuck, please. Do that again. Please—”

  “Where do you get off telling me what to do?” I snapped, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling his head back. It messed up my painstakingly acquired balance, but I didn’t care. My pulse was loud in my ears, my cunt throbbing against the plastic ridges molded to the inside of the harness—God, I really hoped he was scrupulous about cleaning his toys. “I call the shots, boy.”

  “Sorry,” he bit out, arching up into my clutches. “I’m sorry.”

  I made myself resist the urge to kiss him. “Not yet you’re not.” Just as I’d forced him up a second earlier, I used the grip I had on his curly black hair to push him face first into the sheets and hold him there as I bucked into his hole. The new position changed the angle of my thrusts—for the better, if Elliot’s sharp, keening moans were anything to go by. I wanted to touch his pretty cock, to stroke him until he came, but I didn’t dare move my hands. “You want to come?” I gritted through my teeth.

  Elliot nodded. I felt the movement of his head, imagined his clean-shaven cheek scrape against the sheets.

  “Do it.” I wasn’t going to last much longer myself. The sight of him bent over like this had me rocking back and forth, chasing my own climax. “Come for me, sweetheart. Jerk your big dick for me…”

  It only took a few hurried strokes. Elliot tensed up beneath me, his moans rising to a breathless, gasping pitch—and cutting off just as abruptly as he spent himself all over the bed sheets. I fucked him through his orgasm and into mine, clutching him by the hips so hard I was sure I’d leave bruises.

  Still shaking, Elliot reached back to hook a tentative hand around my knee. His touch was so gentle, so tender that I practically ignited as I came. Pleasure arced through my body like electric current. I might’ve cried out. I couldn’t say. All I knew was that Elliot’s body was warm beneath mine and that I slumped over him, exhausted.

  “That was fucking fantastic,” he gushed, once he had regained his breath. “Any chance you’re…free again tomorrow?”

  I was fairly sure that he interpreted my wheezing laugh as a yes.

  Chapter Six

  We lay like that for the longest time, my pink, lube-slick cock pointing toward the ceiling and my chest rising and falling rapidly as I fought to catch my breath. Eventually, the chill of the AC began to work its way across my clammy skin and I burrowed closer into Elliot’s side. He welcomed me with an arm around my waist and pillowed his head on my shoulder.

  “I can feel your dick,” he murmured, pressing the garbled words into my neck.

  “That makes two of us.” It felt good to laugh with him, even at something as ridiculous as the fact that we’d really just done all that. I shivered as Elliot curled his palm around my breast, absentmindedly pin
ching the pebbled nipple. I wondered if it might be a hint that he wanted to go another round, but he desisted quickly. I don’t know if he even realized he was doing it in the first place.

  “You’ve had some practice since the last time,” he said after a while. “I didn’t think you’d go for something so—out there.”

  I shrugged, turning my head so I could face him. I wasn’t ashamed of my track record. I steeled myself for disapproval, but when our eyes met, I could read his interest.

  He was curious, not judge-y, and that boded well for the future. As well as time-sensitive purely carnal relationships can bode. I couldn’t help the thought. I had been raised to behave appropriately and hold off on sex until I was good and married—preferably to a decent Iranian boy with a degree in medicine. I’d missed the boat on avoiding premarital sex by a long shot and the last time I’d dated an Iranian boy I’d been in high school, but a part of me still aspired to that idyllic future. I wasn’t proud of it, but the thought did temper my post-coital euphoria a little.

  “Can I use your shower?” I asked, unbuckling the harness and sliding it down my hips.

  Elliot nodded. “Sure. Want me to join you?”

  “Because you think we’ll be showering if you do?” I tried to make my answer sharp and scathing, but it didn’t work when Elliot was so plainly unencumbered by his nudity.

  I showered alone, in the end. Despite my throwing longing glances at the bathroom door, Elliot didn’t join me. I suppose he took my rebuke to heart, which was unfortunate but not absurd. He didn’t know me well enough to guess when I might be joking and when I was serious. Our sexual chemistry might have been an awesome thing, but it didn’t make up for two years of silence.

  It saddened me that the whole of our acquaintance was resumed with a clandestine romp in a hotel bed—a romp we’d just improved upon a minute or two earlier. I didn’t know why. I tried not to waste too much time on second-guessing myself. I had found a long, long time ago that nothing good could come of heavy introspection—except perhaps a few brooding novels around the turn of the century.