Every Rose Has a Porn - or "Fancy Meeting You Here!" (Closed for Talon)

[Talon]

God damn…

That first kiss—or maybe a series of kisses, as they lingered there a few moments—was enough to make Rus question his life choices.

How had they not done this before?

He didn’t have long to dwell on that thought, though. Before he could fully process it, she was moving him—forceful, insistent—pushing him deeper into the apartment.

He resisted at first, more out of surprise than anything, shifting quickly to playfulness. He let her work for it, testing her strength against his own, his weight a challenge she had to overcome. After all, wasn’t it more fun that way? He was flesh and blood, not some silicone toy meant to yield without question.

Laughter. A grunt of exertion. A brief struggle as they jockeyed for control.

Then he was moving again, stumbling backward step by step, fully piloted by her. He trusted her to steer them safely, so much so that his eyes slid closed, a slow grin forming as he melted into the kiss.

Then—thud.

His shoulder blades hit the wall, a grunt of surprise escaping before he could stop it. Only then did he register the bead curtain, the sudden cacophony of its rattling strands cutting through the moment. His breath came heavily as she broke the kiss, not from the exertion, but the heat in the air around them, in where their bodies touched, belly to belly, as she kept him pinned up against the wall.

“Unnghh…” Was the expression he first managed to utter, an involuntary grunt accompanied by a huff of air through his nose, before he attempted to express himself further. “Cass…” He began, his tone revealing he was beseeching her, asking for more, begging for it, though whatever ‘it’ was remained unsaid as she interrupted him with another kiss.

A kiss in only the loosest definition- she was suckling at his lip, nibbling, and his will to fight her was conquered as if he were prey that had been cornered. His head tilted back to press against the wall, his buttocks lifting off as his hips flexed, his crotch thrusting into her hand as she groped him, a signal that he wanted her touch there, that what she could feel lurking beneath the material desperately desired it’s freedom…

A frustrated huff of air into the kiss as she pulled her hand away, his eyes opening, brow knitting in the center as if he had been about to protest. She was speaking, him watching her beneath half-lidded eyes, issuing a hiss as her fingers teased his nipples, incredibly sensitive, ruddy little nubs surrounded by quarter-sized aureola around which had sprouted little bumps as his nipples hardened in response to the stimulus her curious fingers provided.

“Fuck…” he muttered, his breath still belabored, as she began slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt. He was no longer held, though he did not move, no more than the tilt of his chin downward as he watched her fingers work, or the occasional, almost involuntary, jolt in his hips, the expression of lust-induced energy threatening to overflow from his core, spilling out in the form of little muscular spasms.

He had been extremely fit when she’d seen him last, nearing single-digit body fat, though he wasn’t huge muscularly. He’d never done ‘roids or been a gym-head, he was more of a runner and had that sort of ‘athletic build’ with loads of definition. He’d had a trainer, and kept to a rigorous diet- it was in the job description, to maintain the visual appeal of his body.

Now? The familiar lines were there, though a bit faded, softened by a significant lax in both diet and exercise frequency. Most would still say he was ‘fit’, though, in direct comparison to his old self, one could see the difference in contrast.

And there was hair, as well, something of a new development. In the center along his sternum, around his belly button trailing lower, across the tops of his pectorals- not thick and overgrown, but no longer religiously maintained. It was a similar theme across the whole of his body- he used to go in for Brazilian waxes, even, back when he was particularly concerned about what the camera could see when it was zoomed in down there-, now just the everyday citizen, one whom only commonly groomed what other people would normally see when fully clothed. And not having anticipated this tryst, or whatever it would become, he had done little in the way of ‘manscaping’ in preparation beyond the shaving of facial stubble.

The teasing of his nipples was deliciously tortuous, her every action evoking a reaction from him; a deep, unsteady inhale as her hands caressed his chest, a sharp exhale as her fingers zeroed in on their target and began rubbing circles around them, a deep breath held as her mouth and fingers worked in concert, a dull thud as the back of his head hit the wall behind him, eyes pressed closed, his pelvis thrusting impotently, the crotch of his jeans becoming an insufferably tight cage as his cock slowly pulsed to life, little higher-pitched whimpers deep in his throat, distinctly unmanly, a sort of vulnerability exposed, there, so absorbed in the moment that the self-conscious mask that most men wore dropped, Rus unafraid to express himself, to indulge in her pleasurable touch…

Another frustrated grunt as she spoke, nearly a growl, echoed in his chest, vibrating against her ear where it was pressed into him.

As she spoke of swallowing him, of tying him up, of torturing him… he did not shrink back from her dark revelations. If anything, she could see the sparkle of curiosity in his eyes as his gaze met hers. He seemed almost drunk, in how his eyes were wet, the deep drawing of each breath as if he’d had to force himself to take each consciously. Before he could respond- yes, it had been her, who’d drawn from him what she’d seen. He was merely responding to the warmth of her energy, her sensuality.- she’d kissed him again, this time slow, not as hungered, as their tongues writhed together.

Even as they kissed he was finishing the job she’d started, pushing against her enough to lean away from the wall so he could shrug his shirt off his shoulders. His hands worked behind his buttocks, tugging at each upturned cuff in turn, to let the garment fall to pool around his heels, leaving his upper body bare.

The skin of his torso was pale- enough that a web of ice-blue veins streaked faintly across his chest just below the ridge of his shoulders- but still carried a warmth, reminiscent of sandy beige. He had a distinctive tan line on each arm mid-bicep, the skin below noticeably darker, as were his neck and face. Naturally on the lighter side in terms of coverage, the hair on his forearms was light brown almost blonde, with the back of his hands, upper arms, back, and shoulders barren.

His arms freed, she could feel the backs of his fingers against her stomach as his hands moved between them, could hear the jingle of his belt buckle as they worked it open, and content with that for the moment, they slid up her sides to her upper arms, sliding down over her biceps and the crease of her elbows, until they could grip her wrists. Lifting, suddenly, straight up over her head, strength in that grip, enough to overcome her own, their kiss broken, his lips slanted in something approximating a cocksure smile. For a moment, the prominence of his cologne was usurped by a hint of his underarm deodorant- a flavor of Old Spice he couldn’t name that he’d only chosen based on which of the ‘box art’ looked the most interesting- as they were exposed, a shock of coarse, dark hair in the pit of each.

He considered her for a wordless moment, his eyes searching her features, before his head swooped down, nudging hers to the side aggressively as he nuzzled at her neck, sniffing, like a vampire from one of those movies coming in for the ‘kiss of death’, his all lips with only the hint of a nip of teeth and the occasional suckle at the smooth expanse of skin there below her jawline.

“You had me at ‘swallow you whole’…” he whispered in her ear with a low chuckle, suckling a moment at the lobe before continuing. His voice was raspy, breathless. “... is it bad that I want that? That I would let you? That I would willingly get down on my knees and fuckin’ worship?”

He nuzzled his face harder against her neck, dragging his teeth across soft flesh, slowly working down toward the ridge where neck met shoulder, as his middle pressed against her, pushing her back a step, onto her heels, steering her into a spin, then, awkwardly, bodies bumping into each other as feet shuffled in the mixed space, the loose buckle of his belt jingling, until he could force her back to pin her wrists to the wall up over her head, arms upstretched.

Rus pressed his forehead against hers again, his brow drawn, his gaze intense, focused, but still with that wet glimmer, curiosity there, as he delved deep into the dark pools of her eyes. His hands worked above them, crossing her left wrist over its twin, using it to pin the other. One hand freed, it fell, stopping a moment to run a thumb down her cheek, traversing the line of her jaw, down her neck, dragging across the fabric of her shirt as it traveled through the valley between her breasts.

His hand had a mission, though, beyond simply mapping out the features of her body. Thumb hooked into the waistband of his underwear, taking his pants along for the ride, it jerked them down, exposing himself, sliding down over the curve of his ass- maybe his second best feature, or so he’d been told-, feet lifting one after the other as he awkwardly shucked them off to be scooped up by a foot and kicked away. Pulling his shoes through had been a task that tested his sense of balance, something for the pair to giggle about as he’d tried and failed a few times before he was finally successful.

 

[Talon]

The moment of humor was gone as quickly as it came, with Rus denying her the ability to properly see him, to observe him in his state of nudity, as he nudged her head back with his own each time she attempted to turn it downwards, grinning around a confident growl, nipping at her nose threateningly, kissing along her cheek and jaw, nuzzling at her neck, sniffing, murmurs of approval muted by her flesh. He worked his way down her shoulder, kissing along the line of muscle where her upper chest and shoulder intersected, that sensitive bit of flesh on the ridge above her armpit.

He’d always thought it was sexy, her natural look, her forgoing of shaving her armpits. It wasn’t his thing, per se, but for some reason on her the look appealed to him. Perhaps it was the effect of the total package or that for her, it wasn’t about achieving ‘the look’. It was her body's natural state of being, and she embraced it and didn’t care if you didn’t find it appealing. You should look away then. Her body, her rules. Fuck your standards.

Something about that was just plain sexy to him.

He displayed his approval by way of his affection, bending his knees to crouch slightly, to bring him within range to kiss her there, not dwelling, not avoiding, but appreciating, worshiping each part of her body in turn as a piece of the larger whole, drawing in her scent with an audible intake of breath, nuzzling his face there playfully before his nose traced up, along that sensitive area of flesh where bicep and tricep met, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake.

All the while his free hand was focused on her midsection, having used the distraction of his oral affections to slide up under the fabric of her shirt, pooling around his wrist, fingertips trailing across the smooth expanse of soft flesh there. The skin of his hand wasn’t particularly rough- he wasn’t truly a blue-collar guy, making a living toiling with his hands- but neither were they soft. Callouses along the base of each finger where a lifetime of gripping the weight bar had forged them permanently there. But softness at the tips, well-trimmed nails, rubbing a circular pattern around the divot of her navel, drifting lower, then, over the skirt, to press against the mound of her sex, delving between her thighs, forcing her to widen her stance, to allow him the berth to cup his palm over it.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he would swear he could feel the heat of it, even through the fabric of her ankle-length skirt. And not just there, but also where he had touched her belly. More than merely the warmth of human skin, it was the root of her feminine energy, the source, the mouth of the spring from which it flowed. Hers was like a powerful river, full of treacherous rapids. A bit frightening, awe-inspiring, in their ferocity, but beautiful, a marvel of nature, one that inspired you to want to experience what it felt like to be carried along by the strength of its currents.

His journey up her arm complete, his mouth returned to her neck, suckling there, wetly, powerfully, enough to leave a mark on her skin in his wake, to bruise it, to leave a ‘forget-me-not’ she would see the next morning in the mirror. His hands worked in tandem, gripping her wrists, keeping them pressed against the wall above her head, the muscles in his upstretched arm activating as he pitted his strength against hers, not insignificant, particularly for someone of her size, as his other began rubbing crudely at the cleft between her thighs, groping, caressing, forcing her thighs apart to accommodate the breadth of his hand each time it insistently dipped lower.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

He wasn’t quite begging, and she was fine with that. The soft sound of his voice was more than enough for her, fanning that flame that made her want to engulf him.

Insistent beneath her hands, rather than chastise, she kept them right where they were. The bones, the foundation of him, was still the same. It had been years since she’d last touched a man; hadn’t given it much thought, just let her hands travel the familiar canvas of him. He’d kept in shape, that much she’d noted, though they were both a bit away from the youth-fueled thinness that they both had. He, then, had been more of the ‘porn star’, good boy-next-door looks on top of a gym chiseled body, whittled away to the finest points of anatomy. It had tickled her then, when he was hairless, and more than once, she’d done simple anatomy studies of him, her behind the camera, turning his body into alien landscapes - thighs into mountain ranges, his stomach stepping stones. Every once in a while, she would enter the photos as well, contrasting the hair on her form with the smoothness of his, daring the audience to tell who was who.

His pupils were dilated so large that his eyes almost were as dark as hers, a fact she absolutely relished, a natural physical response that she rewarded with another kiss, sweet as exchanging secrets. Feeling him twist and turn beneath her, she took the unspoken signal to lessen her weight on him, allowing him the room to remove his shirt. For a moment, the idea of having him strip to absolutely nothing before her and simply…stand there crossed her mind. For her to be able to look at him at her full leisure - her fingers itched -

But there was something to be said about the charm of him now, naked save for his shoes, and even caught in the tangle of his arms, willingly putting herself in his care, she laughed, shuffling along with him as he worked his jeans free. “I think this is a good look for you,” her voice baked warm from the shared laugh as she tilted her neck up, allowing him better access. With her hair down, it might’ve taken some doing, fishing through the coconut cream scented curls, but he would be eventually rewarded.

To his response, the growl in his words, she couldn’t help but to be a bit coy. “I wouldn’t have you on your knees,” purred out, though he now had her arms pinned above her head. She was ‘trapped’, to be sure, but the underlying feeling was that, like most of the events of the evening, she’d allowed it to happen, and was quite where she wanted to be. ‘Banter’ had always come easy between the two - that fine line between professionalism and friendliness blurring - and even now, as her heart beat so hard she felt it bounce into her throat, she was calm.

Well…maybe not ‘calm’, but not scared, either. It was surreal, really, like no time had passed - dusty sheets pulled off of antique furniture. Even as the roles changed and he was ‘the one in charge’, naked as he was (could it really be called that, with shoes still on?), him keeping her from looking at him, each of his successful attempts to push her head aside met with a frustrated huff, pout (exaggerated sticking out of the lower lip, for sure), then, finally, amusement, as he continued to lavish attention on her.

Even as he nosed closer to her armpits, she couldn’t stop the small squeak-like giggle from escaping her. Okay, so maybe she had anticipated that this might happen - not that she planned the entire evening around it; more in the realm of ‘wistful thinking’ and ‘fun shower thoughts’ - but she hadn’t gone through the “getting ready” gamut. She’d worked so hard to just…accept herself as is, and she didn’t want any of that going to waste. Still, there had been a bit of apprehension: it had been a long time, maybe she misread the situation; maybe she was overthinking it, worrying this little crumb of an idea over and over. There was the faint dusting of natural deodorant, rose, the hint of sweat. Nerves, for sure, and simply the heat of moving around to get the apartment ready; those odd little touches here and there that only become screamingly apparent once you think that everything’s taken care of.

A gasp as his mouth found her neck again, sucking hard - harder still. With her complexion, bruises weren’t easy to come by, and they faded quickly. And it’d never been a point of contention between them before - the thought of bearing a mark, as juvenile as it was…was something new. Something that she thought, in all of her self-mentioned ‘late-blooming’, wouldn’t be an experience that she had - though, she supposed, in the distant past perhaps some handsy boy had tried, and she’d simply pushed him away when it began to hurt-hurt, not fun hurt.

Not that she would try to push him away, not now. Turnabout was fair play, and as much as he’d melted beneath her touch, now it was her turn to do the same, to let go. Not that she was ever that much of a type-A in that her plans had plans, but to willingly give herself over to him, to become the damp clay in his willing hands. To let him remember, learn, as much as she had, and as much as she knew she still was going to. There was too much new about him, too much too familiar, for her to let any sort of opportunity to slip by her.

By the time his hand cupped her sex above her skirt, the fabric (thin, though layered) was sodden. How long had she been waiting for him to discover for himself? Hm. When was she aware that she was leaking like it was her first time being aroused? Probably an hour ago - the moment she pressed close to him and gave him a good smell, all of those memories rushing back and -

I still have that Pavlovian response.

Didn’t matter that the details had changed; it was still him. Really, living, him - and the opportunity to have him around more? Be still her heart.

But now it was her turn to grind down into his hand, parting her legs with scarcely a guiding touch from him. Now, what would be the best way for him to get all of the whatever the hell - clothes; the word is ‘clothes’- would he pull down the waistband of the skirt, would he try and flip it up - ooo. That was enough to cause more dampness to leech from her - he was tall enough, he could bend her over the bed, grip still on her wrists, flip the skirt up, and take her from behind -

She squirmed more under his grasp - that hub of patience that she’d tried to instill, that she had tried to obey, being wound down all the quicker. But you know what? There was no shame here. She wouldn’t allow it.

“Rus,” and it was her turn to pant a bit, trying to slow her breathing enough so she could string words together, “I told myself I wanted to be patient, that I had time, that we have time, and my god, I think we do, I hope we do, but if I don’t feel you inside of me in the next 10 seconds I am going to absolutely lose it,” a rush of words, partially embarrassed, partly in a rush for him to give her what she wanted. “I need to feel you inside me. Inside.”

Though he had the advantage of her hands pinned, he didn’t have control over her legs. Shifting her weight to the left one, she lifted the right one to loop around his waist, trapping his hand between the two of their bodies. “All you have to do is lift it up, fuck, please, just lift it up, don’t even have to take it off, need to feel you,” all combined with the gentle roll of her hips into his hand.

 

[Talon]

“I need to feel you inside me.”


Had there ever been a more arousing sentence uttered?


The speaking of it had the same effect as a passphrase, the ‘open sesame’ of unlocking male sexual desire. Sure, the more pedestrian “Fuck me” was great, the veritable peanut butter and jelly of sexual propositions. Classics such as “pound my pussy” and “rearrange my insides” also had their time and place. But “I need to feel you inside me”... that was a hard one to beat, in terms of what sort of response it elicited from Rus. It was like she had called time-out in the flirtatious little game of foreplay they had been playing.

Rehearsals were over; time for the big show.

It didn’t hurt that he could feel how genuinely her desire was felt. The palm that had been rubbing at that spot between her thighs-over her skirt, no less- was slick with it.

Their foreheads again collided as she snaked a thigh around his and used it to pull him in closer. She could feel there caught between them, the length of it pressed up against her belly, the object with which he would attempt to alleviate her suffering. If there could be any doubt as to how much Rus had been turned on by her words, she needed no further proof. It was like a weathervane; it let her know in exactly which direction his wind was blowing.

Not that she needed subtle cues to determine his reaction. He moved to obey as if she were his supreme authority- not just a Queen, or the Queen, but his Queen- and her words bore the weight of decree behind them.

A kiss- a candle compared to the conflagration of before, little more than a peck on the lips- as he nodded, the movement rubbing his forehead against hers, his hand releasing its grip on her wrists, moving down her side, its counterpart joining in to seize her by the flanks, there where her buttocks began to swell outward from the backs of her thighs. He had the oversized hands of a physically gifted athlete- handy for gripping balls(not that kind, you perv.)- fingers biting into her flesh as he widened his stance for balance before lifting her up off her foot.

With an inward nudge from his elbow, he guided the leg that had been perched on the ground to wrap around his side like her other already had, feet dangling behind him, her skirt-covered sex pressed against his middle, just there below his navel where lurked the muscles that promised ample power for his future thrusting. The top of her head hovered over his, enough that he had to tilt his own back to maintain access to her lips. More kisses there, a series of shallow pecks, each a little memento of his affection, as he took a few measured steps back from the wall.

“Watch your head…” He mumbled against her lips before tilting his head to the side to look over her shoulder. Turning, he began to shamble towards the curtain of beads- the kitchen would be fun, but no need to get cute. This woman needs dick, stat- the strands washing over them as they passed through, chittering behind them as they fell back to settle into place, swaying gently.

Her bedroom was as modest as the rest of her apartment, lit in a soft glow, though he wasted little time surveying the decor in detail as it seemed perfectly fit for current purpose. A few steps in and he was depositing her against the edge of her bed with a kiss as he leaned over, murmuring against her lips as he laid her down to lie on her back. “Flip over…”

She had begun moving as soon as her butt touched down on the mattress, and as she positioned herself on her hands and knees, he was already working to liberate her lower half of its covering of skirt. No need to take it off- this was kind of hot, with her dressed and him not.

He noted his faint palm print on the back just below her ass with a smirk as he gripped the hem with both hands, the fabric voluminous enough that there was sufficient slack to lift it even with her knees pinning the front to the bed, flipping it up and over, exposing her legs and backside-

Unsolicited, the mental image of those old-timey pajamas with the little butt-flap- like the kind he would picture some grizzled old prospector wearing-, popped into his head, evoking from him a reflexive giggle that resolved with a clearing of throat as with widened eyes he considered what he’d just exposed…

She wasn’t wearing panties?

Rus didn’t know why that turned him on so much, the thought that she’d greeted him at her door without a scrap of clothing covering her snatch beneath her skirt. But it did. And it was totally a Cassandra thing to do- free spirit and all that. Not surprising, but still, something about it was fuckin’ hot.

That titillating revelation aside, there was the larger issue at hand; Cassandra’s naked ass sticking out him.


In the age of Brazilian butt lifts and other methods of surgical enhancement, it might seem on the more modest side, just in terms of sheer size. Not massive, but big, and shapely. In light of her petite frame, it seemed all the more a substantial feature. It was the kind of ass that could command attention, that could be noticed from out of the corner of your eye, that would draw your gaze as she walked by and give it enough reason to justify it linger there a few moments.

Of course, she would be no stranger to his admiration of her butt. Sure, he’d never said as much, not directly, owing to that air of ‘professionalism’ he’d always exhibited around her. But it was one of those things. Men often thought they were being slick, sneaking glances out of the corner of their eyes… unless she was the least observant woman on the planet, she knew. A lingering touch between rollings of the camera, the heat of his hungered gaze as she walked off to use the restroom during a break in shooting. Rus wasn’t always as subtle with it as he thought he was being.

Now? There was no need for subterfuge, to try and sneak glances when he thought she wasn’t looking. It was right there, in front of him, its prominence exaggerated by the arch in her back as she presented on the bed before him.

… I don’t know how she didn’t make millions with an ass like that…


And to top it off, that was only the tip of the iceberg. What was truly her best feature lie in the valley below-


“That hippie bitch with the good pussy” was the line she’d used to describe her ‘Sister Sunshine’ persona.


While the line might have belonged to Sister Sunshine, the good pussy was all hers.


More a work of art than anything she’d had displayed on her wall. Her labia majora were plump, looking like one of those peaches that grew with a lewdly suggestive crease on them- no, not a peach. A plum, a particularly dark one whose depth of color signaled a heightened sweetness in its juice, nectar so bountiful that it seeped from her to coat the hair covering her features down there in tiny droplets of dew, a mass of coarse, tight little curls that crawled down her outer labia along the inside crease of her thighs and crept up her perineum and into the valley above, growing more sparse as they encircled the knot of her anus. The crease that ran down the center of her sex was currently clenched tightly shut, with only the darkened tips of her labia minora peeking out.

The sight -her sex so clearly on display- was enough to light a fire in his belly. Wasting no further time, her skirt gathered in his left hand, fingers inside the waistband at the center of her back, he moved into position between her legs.

 

[Talon]

His progress felt, rather than seen, with the front of her skirt obscuring the view between her legs, and the mass of loose skirt gathered atop her back- something novel for the two of them. This was the first time their sex would be for only them, not meant for consumption by an audience. Private. Intimate. There was no concern given as to how to position their bodies to enable the best vantage.

Something smooth brushed against the inside of her left thigh. It was rigid but conveyed the telltale give of flesh.

That rigidity was tested against the nub of her clitoris, the head of his cock pressed there with a forceful rub before moving upward along the line of her slit, probing only enough to begin to tease the prospect of entry. There was wetness being transferred between them- his own a lone drop of precum that had formed at his tip- though what he brought paled in comparison to what he got, so much as to go unnoticed; a drop in a bucket.

One pass, up and down. Another, this time with more pressure, enough to properly part her labia majora as the thick knob at the tip of his cock reached the summit beyond where her entrance lie. A shift of his hips changed the angle of applied pressure, downward, and at a slight pitch, initiating an intimate power struggle- her unrelenting tightness pitted against his unforgiving thickness…


It wasn’t until his time in porn that Rus realized he had something special going on down there.

There had been trouble his first time- he couldn’t get the condom on right, and even once he had, tab D simply wouldn’t fit into slot C. Frustrated after a few fruitless attempts, the young lovers had finally settled on third base that time at bat.

Successive attempts went fine, though. And the women he was with were always complimentary of his body. It seemed to him like just one of those things you told a lover. “Nice cock” was the sort of compliment women paid when they wanted to stroke a man’s ego, right? You’re having sex with someone, you want them to feel good about it, to have a good experience. Was everyone who told their lover they were “the most beautiful man or woman in the world” a liar, or was it just one of those things you said, even if it wasn’t exactly true?

His experience in porn was a completely different story.

Harsh objectivity was the norm. “You need to lose five pounds” or “Get your tits done and then call me” were on the level of gentle feedback in the industry. You were there to play your part in selling a fantasy. In order to do that, you needed to have a certain set of physical characteristics. Some of it was down to clever tricks with camera angles. He’d seen some of his own scenes and been shocked at how huge he looked. But even still, magic camera angles aside, you had to have a solid foundation to work with.

Though he was well shy of the lofty double-digit number the blurb on the movie box often claimed him as having wielded, in the length department he sat somewhere in the ‘comfortably above average’ range, enough for most women to grip with both hands and still have a little left over. ‘Steele’ was a fitting enough moniker, though, and when he was fully aroused, his cock stood up straight as a ramrod, with a gentle upward curvature near the head.

Where he stood out from his peers was in the sheer girth of it. He was by no means small, in terms of frame, but given how slender he was it stuck out as odd, almost like it didn’t belong on his body, like he’d borrowed it from between the thighs of some big burly biker dude.

A pronounced vein- pale blue set against the sandy beige coloring of his skin, like a stream winding through an oasis- ran the length of the shaft, slightly off-center to the left, from his pubis down until it eventually veered off the side as it drew close to the line that marked the beginning of his foreskin. The head of his cock was a bulbous, dusky-reddish knob with a prominent ridge around the rim. Circumcised at birth, it was prominently on display even when he was flaccid.

Hair had made a comeback in this region of his body as well. Gone were the days of a smooth pubis that showcased the musculature of the adonis belt, that enviable ‘v’ line so many women went crazy for. The individual hairs, of a light brownish color, were slightly more coarse than those on his head, but still soft, and straight, except where they had been tamped down beneath his underwear. And along his balls, too- he had the sort that hung down heavily, with lots of loose skin. Back in college, he’d thought about trying out for that men’s troupe that used their nutsacks to make art. He could pull off a mean ‘batwing’ with that thing.

Beneath the shock of hair around the root, the skin of the shaft was smooth, lending it the appearance of an object chiseled of marble. No moles, no scars, no skin tags or other minor imperfections, it was the sort of cock whose likeness in silicone enough consumers found pleasing to make it the best-selling on the market for several years running.

‘The Goldilocks of Cocks’, as that one lady had put it.

Juuuust right.


Tight as she was, if not for the liberal coating of arousal she had so helpfully provided, Rus’ ass would be in his truck and halfway down the street by now, desperately searching for the nearest CVS and hoping the self-checkout line was open so he could sheepishly ring up a little bottle of KY Jelly to save the shame of the clerk looking knowingly at him with those judge-y eyes.

Thankfully, they hadn’t needed to resort to such desperate measures in the end, as after a few unsuccessful attempts, punctuated by frustrated huffs of hot air through his nostrils, some magic combination of her wetness, his exploratory shifting of angles and the both of their combined pushing finally did the trick.


Schlick!


A finger-length’s worth of menacingly thick cock darted through the sudden opening in her defenses, blazing a path through her insides.

“Fuh-uhh-uuuck” Rus groaned, almost as much in celebration of the victory as it was in acknowledgment of the sudden state of carnal bliss he found himself in.

Strange, that sensation. It was at once familiar, and yet at the same time new. A solid two years since the last time he’d had sex, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. It was almost like he’d just popped his cherry all over again.

High on the moment, Rus giggled warmly. “Shit, Cass… I can tell you’ve been keepin’ up with those kegels.”

That had been one of the more interesting-and enlightening- videos.

His laughter morphed into a snicker as he began pushing forward with his hips again, sharply cut off by a low groan as his teeth gnashed at his lower lip, that initial seal having been broken, it was a smoother glide now, noisily wet, as his cock bored deeper, deliciously long, exquisitely thick, she was made to accomodate more and more of him inside of her in his relentless pursuit to fulfill her request.

Finally, he drew a deep breath in through his nose as he felt the tickle of her pubic hair around the tops of his thighs.

He was in.

How to describe how it felt?

Emotionally? Familiar, in a way, like an old song whose existence you’d long forgotten about, only to have it pop up randomly on the radio one day, the rediscovery of it sending you on a stroll down memory lane. Nostalgic.

Physically? Cass was in a league of her own. Tough to quantify, or measure, but the simple fact was that all bodies were similar in some ways and different in others, including in that area. Some just… felt better than others, simple as that. A super awkward thing to try and describe in detail, leaving room for the usage of overly simplistic terms like ‘tight’ to describe it. Rus didn’t know how, or why, exactly, but the fact was that they just fit well together, sex to sex. Similar to the experience with other women, only more, and better. And wetter.

I mean, hell, her pussy even smells good. And let’s not forget the taste…

As the kids might say: the coochie was on point.

 

[Talon]

That hippie bitch with the good pussy… the line kept bouncing off the back of his skull as it reverberated in his ears like a mantra, read in her voice. He couldn’t exactly say why- he couldn’t remember having thought much of it the first time he’d read it- but for some reason, in this moment, something about it was really stoking his flame. Maybe it was in the way it sounded so confident, like a statement of fact.

The hand gripping the back of her skirt released it, joining its counterpart in seizing her by the hips, there where the outward swell began to clench in at her waist. Reversing the motion of his hips, his cock was dragged from her depths, retreating from the ground it had fought hard to conquer. His fingers tightened in their grip…

That hippie bitch…

Clap!

With the strength of his upper body he yanked her backside back towards him at the same time he thrust with his hips, his pelvis colliding with her ass with a sharp, flesh-on-flesh clap, his pendulous ballsack slapping at her clit, his fat prick blazing its pleasurable path between the svelte walls of her sex anew, a wet squelch erupting around the base of his cock as her cunt was stuffed full to the seams with it.

The steady grip of his hands tightened as he tugged her forward, his hips pulling back again…

…with the good pussy…

Clap!

Her wetness had begun to drip down his balls, little droplets of it flung about as their flesh collided, splattering across the backs of her thighs, falling to her calves below, gathering in the fabric along the inside of the front of her skirt stretched out across the bed below them.

That hippie bitch…

“Give me that pussy…” Rus demanded of the voice in his head, spoken out loud, the harsh rasp in his tone nakedly signaling his lust as the musculature of his hips fired-

Clap!

“I fuckin’ want it, give it to me…” he continued, an angry mutter between clenched teeth as if to himself, breathless, as what had been a steady rhythm of thrusting began to rapidly quicken in pace.

Clap!——Clap!—Clap!-Clap!…clap, clap, clap, clap, clap…!

Rus exploded in a flurry of motion, a cacophony of cheek clapping and box springs squeaking erupting in the air around them. He was no longer pulling her back to meet him, but holding her steady, pressing down against her hips with the heels of his palms to pin her in place, to enforce the upward tilt of her ass into the air so as to make a better target for him, to provide a proper cushion at the collision point of their bodies, sweat beading along his brow, in his pits, across his chest, his cock unyielding in it rigidness, as if it were a rod of steel, plowing new space inside her cunt with each thrust, reshaping her to fit him perfectly, his balls swinging wildly, slapping against her clit, smacking across the backs of her thighs…

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Okay, so, “begging” was something that Cassandra didn’t do. It was one of those unspoken rules of ‘Bad Bitchery’ that seemed to be floating around in the cultural zeitgeist. She’d had a whole episode of owning it, yourself, and being confident in asking what you wanted. Sex was inherently geared towards a man’s pleasure; he was gonna get off if you just laid there or if you actually put heart into it. If you were interested in a dude, then, well, you needed to make sure it was worth your while, especially in the days of causal hookups. Part of the persona was not to be ‘judgey’, as she was often called by those who knew her well (even if she didn’t say a word, her face often spoke volumes), and though she was able to talk about hookups, it wouldn’t take a genius to read between the lines on what she actually felt about it.

Still, begging, pleading, whatever, not really in her wheelhouse. She knew what she had; knew what she wanted to get. So maybe that’s how she’d let herself sleep at night: she wanted Rus - she’d asked for it. Maybe with a bit more insistence than she usually would, but Rus was a guaranteed good time, absolutely no questions asked. And from what she could feel, he was equally raring to go. There was a hint of self-doubt that floated in her mind, the nagging remanent of what happens when sex is no longer a part of a regular routine, the stuff she had to now consciously focus on to brush away. Rus was familiar, he was safe, he knew what he was doing and knew what he was working with: both with her and himself. It didn’t help that her attire for the night was thin - meaning that she could feel absolutely every inch of him, every delicious, warm, solid, inch of him. There it was again; that internal war: the desire to strip and just cuddle, skin to skin, pressed so close that their bodies molded, and then the desire to do the same, except with him buried so deep inside her that she could feel it behind her teeth.

There would be time for both - hopefully - little promises made as they kissed, little more than cute chaste kisses, a ‘how was your day, darling?’ ‘Good, and yours?’ Domestic simplicity and joy implicit in each kiss, the kind that kept the wide smile on her face even as she locked her legs around his waist, using the slight leverage of the wall to heft her up higher into his arms. Old dance between the two of them, one that she was all too pleased to see that they both remembered the steps to, even with the years and the pounds between them. Beads cascading over them, neutral plastic mingling with the still quiet sounds of the album going behind them as he laid her down onto the bed.

Laid. That was so Rus; he could’ve chucked her onto the bed as in so many other movies, the rough male line that was the go to, but no, he’d settled her down as precious as a princess and sealed it with a kiss, because of course he did, and it was returned eagerly, stretching out the long pillar of her neck to meet their lips, none of her coquetry there, honest as always, her body warm from the inside out, radiating in it, in him -

“You’re a mind reader,” was all she said as she obeyed, moving with ease to her hands and knees. Despite the length of her skirt, there was no helpless flailing lost in fabric, but an understanding of how it moved along with her body, the connection made between wearer and a favorite garment. And as he flipped it up, as airy as a feather, the skirt seemed to settle into the air before finally deciding that it, too, must obey the rules of gravity. In the cozy butter light of her room (lit by a standing paper lantern lap; generic enough as far as interior decoration went, but lending to the scene the air of an old brothel, part historical, part sheer fiction), her body was cast into expanses of brown skin and shadow, disturbed as she parted her legs wider. She could feel her plump labia slowly pull apart, nearly glued together with the arousal that she leaked. The black coarse curls of her pubic hair were slicked straight high on the inner thigh. Like the cleft of a particularly fat peach were her labia, even parting her legs as wide as they were wasn’t enough to part them. No, she’d have to reach behind her, pull them apart, the perfect cowrie shell of it -

For someone who didn’t buy into porno conventions, she was apparently blessed with a disturbingly aesthetically perfect cunt. Just one of her small hands cupped over her would be enough to hide the labia, cupped from front to back. When aroused, such as now, her labia majora were full and plush, lending credence to the old slang about a ‘lower pair of lips.’ Kissable even with the dark hair - which, at most, she trimmed on occasion to decrease the volume. Not like that was even an issue; her hair was densely curled, slightly tousled from the earlier shower. Her sex would left behind perfect black circles on sheets, only on the lips was it finer and somewhat straight: it would be those hairs that would occasionally show up on his lips, prompting laughter between the two. A good meal would leave behind reminders.

Her ass, though, not too much commentary on. It was the place that she sat on, though it had some shape, given to her by years of walking and biking as a predominant mode of transportation. Still, the expanse of skin around it was flawless - the tattoos he might’ve seen in the diner were the only she had. She’d thought, of course, about getting more - body mods were addictive - but had decided, firmly, not to have anything on her thighs and black, if not only to have the skin unbroken. Though, of course, there was still humoring of getting one on the back of her neck - her hair would be enough to hide it.

The feel of his cock against her inner thigh was enough to send shivers through her - not that he would find himself gliding across dry, silken skin. No, her thighs, even after being parted for this long, were still quite damp. He’d slide easily across her skin, as if her body were marking a path for him to follow. A path that he seemed all too causal to follow - something that made her grit her teeth a bit. All of this time, and she still hadn’t learned patience. Well, she could be forgiven: how could she wait, when she had the most delicious tray of ice cream before her?

“Oh, god…” Long groan from her, from the depths of her stomach, her soul, even, as he pressed inside. She’d never been a ‘size queen’ - taking on a cock that could rival a horse’s was never her thing. And part of her openness about sex was about how her body could be reluctant, even if her mind was full on rearing to go. And that was, something that she hadn’t admitted to her audience then, why she’d insisted on hiring an actor to do her scenes with her. Someone that had the fabled experience - okay, she’d been naive going into it, but she trusted Ryan - that would be patient enough to help her listen to her body and also have some sort of idea of what he was dealing with. Though, to be fair, since the moment she actually saw him, all of those hangups had faded. She’d never felt herself get wet before - couldn’t believe in those old porno constructs of women raring to go. But through the slow touches, the eye contact, that boyish smile of his, she felt like water in her stomach and when she first touched between her legs, she was absolutely shocked to not only find herself wet, but literally drenched. She hadn’t known she was capable of it, producing so much thick, sticky fluid that she had a hard time keeping her hand on herself.

Her kegels clenched, instinctively, at the intrusion - old habits die hard - but with a few deep breaths, her muscles fluttered about him as she willed herself to relax, to calm down. Not that her tightness would decrease, but it would feel less of a pushing out than a pulling in, flexing to draw him in deeper, deeper still, even as her legs began to shake. She couldn’t respond to his flippant comment, and was somewhat glad that he couldn’t see her face, the way her eyes had started to roll back and her mouth stayed parted as he began to slide inside of her. She wasn’t one for false flattery: if anything, she was so liberal with her compliments that it almost seemed false if they weren’t so damnably personal. She had a gift of finding what was unique in everyone and form compliments around that. And those shorts? She’d never waste time with words she didn’t mean just for some throwaway dialogue. As such, he’d been more of a talker than her, and she was tempted to tell him to just shut up and enjoy the ride, that he didn’t have to act with her -

“Welcome home,” was all she could manage, her voice so soft as to be scarcely more than a whisper. She would -maybe- deny saying anything once the heat of the moment passed, but like the groan from her earlier when he first started inside of her, this was coming from the same place. She’d had her toys, of course, and had, generally - stalker and all - been uninterested in sex since the whole thing happened. Masturbation happened out of boredom, or of some vague interest in a new toy just to see how the thing would work, or to see how her body still responded. Or, if she were being honest, in her more lonely nights, she was using them to chase the ghost of this, phantoms around corners in her memory, always two steps aside, and the orgasms always weak, present but weak -

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Air pierced with a sharp cry - partially of pain, partially of pleasure, that borderline that she liked so much that she wouldn’t give that much word to, not for fear of someone taking advantage of it, but, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” whimpers pushed out of her with each hard slap of his hips against the cushion of her ass, forcing her down, down, into the bed where her nose was full of her comforters, still smelling of laundry detergent and incense smoke and having to crane her head so she could actually breathe, side of her face pressed hard into the soft mattress, her ass high on display, all the easier for him to fuck her -

“God, you got it, you have it, all yours,” mewling back, words still pulled from her, things that wouldn’t have been too far outside of porno dialogue, but she wouldn’t say it if she didn’t mean it, “God missed you, missed you so much, missed this,” emotion scraping tears into her voice, not letting them spill over, just - “so much….so good…fuck me, Rus,” No, that wasn’t good enough, never would be good enough, words weren’t getting it across goddamn it -

Balancing precariously on the balls of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts - ignoring the pressure there, she reached behind her, avoiding his hands, his arms, to pull apart her cheeks, brazenly gaping her cunt, showing for an invisible camera how well he filled her, the pale flesh of him spearing her where she was deepest pink, churning froth from her depths with each squelching push. The spreading of her made herself a bit wider, stretching the lips, which seemed to tighten her further, to heighten the sensation of him thrusting in and out. The gesture had the added benefit of stretching her all the way, the little erect nub of her clitoris a swollen pink pearl, exposed to the further friction of her body, stroked by every other thrust - enough to feel blindingly good, but not enough, not quiet enough to get her all the way there - and she was fine with that, too. It felt too good, far too good, for him to be deep inside of her that an orgasm was secondary. If she could clasp him when he was in his fullest, she would, and would refuse to let him go, just have him sitting in her, their bodies melting together.

“Could do this all night, all day,” a dreamy sigh from her - the fury of his motions an odd counterpoint to how calm her voice was. They were hitting their stride, her being able to somewhat wriggle her butt, her hips back against him, almost as if trying to shake him free, but on the same hand, holding him tight with kegels as firm as his stage name suggested, the meeting of steels, something to laugh about later, nothing antagonistic here. “But don’t wanna cum like this,” a soft sigh, “I wanna see your face, flip me over, get on top,” another insistent wriggle of her hips now as she let go of her cheeks, setting her hands beneath her as if she was going to lift herself off. All it would take would be a bit of pressure on her palms and she could lift herself away -

And so she did, before he could agree. He’d been agreeable so far, and switching things up between the two of them was second nature, grooves that she could find herself in again. A firm wriggle and a pop! as she did, somewhat, reluctantly pull herself off his thick cock. With a quick laugh, she was flipping over onto her back, the mattress springs squeaking definitely as she flopped down hard. Now it was her turn; she was clumsily shoving down the waistband of her skirt, kicking it off down one leg, then wiggling said leg hard against the side of the bed, eager to kick it off, so eager that she whacked her heel on the bed frame and hissed in pain, “Goddam it,” not like it was enough to stop her, because quick as a wink both legs were back on the bed, and she parted her now bare legs, left breast exposed from the quick change, a bit medieval there, a Madonna offering her breast to her child, contrasting sharply with the simple lewdness of her parted legs, her cunt completely bare and gaping now, flexing as if to welcome him back, slow trail of arousal like drool slipping down the bottom of her sex, to puddle beneath her and dampen the flesh of her perineum. Playfully, she held her arms open, locking eyes with him, inviting him to lay with her again.

 

[Talon]

“Could do this all night, all day,”


“Mmmhmm.” Rus hummed in wordless agreement, the motion of their bodies having synced in perfect rhythm. He was looking down between them, eyes focused on that spot where their bodies intersected; his cock gliding in and out, in and out, the ebb and flow of her entrance as it expanded and contracted around it, opening to accept him and closing in parting, the occasional reflexive clench of her anus when the head of his cock brushed against a particularly pleasurable spot, deep.

“But don’t wanna cum like this. I wanna see your face, flip me over, get on top.”

Rus signaled his assent with a wordless “Uh-hmm”, as the hands that had been pinning her down added his strength to her momentum as she flipped over. Taking a few steps back, he looked down at his crotch- his cock was gently swaying, still hard as steel, glimmering wetly with her arousal- before looking back up at her, a dumb, cheeky grin plastered across the lower half of his face.

Shit. Still got my shoes on. I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate me dragging them across her bed all fuckin’ Rick James style.

A quick look down at his feet as the thought occurred to him, back up at her- she was wriggling about trying to pull down her skirt from her awkward position- and he dropped to one knee, reaching to untie the laces of his left shoe. They were hightops, cinched tight, so merely kicking them off or stepping on the back of the heel were not viable options until they’d been loosened.

Fingers working with frantic energy- his cock was throbbing in protest, demanding to know why he’d been so rudely evicted from his new home, he rather liked it there, after all, so cozy, and warm- he made quick work of it, shifting knees before moving to loosen the other, his head and shoulders popping back up over the edge of the bed, a look of amusement on his visage as he gauged her progress-

Thwack!

“Oh shit! I heard that…” Rus froze, his tone still bearing a hint of amusement in direct contrast to the look of concern that had overtaken his face, eyebrows shooting up sharply. “...are you ok?”

Not content with asking, he leaned over the edge of the bed, walking on his elbows, to grasp her leg and gingerly lift it to enable him to assess her condition properly.

Funny story; Kid Rus had wanted to be an EMT when he grew up before the sports fever took over. He’d always been a big softie who wore his heart on his sleeve, and was now, even as a full-grown man. Cass had noted his lack of ‘macho bullshit’, and it was true. Maybe it’s why he had always found it easier to make friends with women than with other men.

After a quick examination, he was satisfied that it was nothing serious. He leaned over to press a kiss against the fleshy bit of her heel behind the ankle—as if she were a child, and the kiss was a panacea that would make it “all better”—before gently setting her foot back down.

“I think you’re going to be…” Rus started as he turned his head to look at her…

There she sat, one titty popped, thighs spread, her sex gaped ever so, that flash of vibrant color in the center catching his eye, arousal seeping from her, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his lips…

Jesus H…

“Christ, Cass… you are fuckin’ drop-dead gorgeous, you know that?”

She was a vision, straight out of an oil painting, and she belonged wherever they kept the greats.

Let's see the Mona Lisa’s plain-lookin’ ass try to compete with her…

That dumb grin was back on his lips as he withdrew from the bed and straightened, cock still swaying in the air in front of him, bobbing, as if nodding in agreement with his last statement. He stepped on the heel of each shoe in turn, making a show of kicking them off -the first with a harmless thud, the second with a knock that rattled something ceramic, turning his grin sheepish as he winced- before he leaned down over the bed, climbed up on all fours, and walked his hands gradually up the sides of her body as he slinked like a cat playfully up her to stretch his upper body out over hers.

“That would have made for a hell of a first date story, though, huh?” He said as he maneuvered into position. “Spending half the night in the urgent care waiting room waiting to get your ankle stitched up.” A contented sigh as he settled into place, his belly pressed against hers. “I totally would have carried you in and let you sleep on my shoulder while we waited, for the record.” His grin deepened as the arms she had held open in invitation wrapped themselves over his shoulders, his hands pressed into the pillow at either side of her head, keeping his head and shoulders aloft.

Rus just sat there for a moment, grinning, looking down at her, his eyes searching her features as his right hand moved to reach down between them, wrap around his cock, and give it a few, noisily wet, strokes as if to prime it for reentry.

I should ask, just in case…

Looking into her eyes, he spoke, his tone growing more serious. “Where should I finish, by the way? I should have asked before, but I’m totally down to wear a condom if you would prefer me to…”

Shit… I hope she has condoms if she does. Rus wasn’t the ‘condom in the wallet’ type of guy, not at least since high school. He didn’t have random, unplanned sexual encounters often enough -or ever, really- to call for 24/7 access to one. Besides, it was kinda douchey, and sent the wrong kinda signals to what would be his right kinda woman.

It was an unsexy thing to ask, for sure, but he wasn’t going to assume it was safe to finish inside her, or that even if it were, she would want that. Some women found it degrading or disgusting, to be cum on or in. It was a deeply personal thing, in his experience. And she was more than some random drunk hookup he’d picked up in a bar somewhere; this was Cass. In most cases it might be better to ask forgiveness than permission, but in this, better safe than sorry.

“Not that I’m planning to, too soon...” A bit of humor to banish the awkward, dangerously buzz-kill-y vibes of the last question. “... not before you have, at least.” He leaned down to kiss her as his hips wiggled, settling into position.

The kiss deepened slowly, with Rus nibbling at the plumpness of her lower lip as he brought his cock to bear; the head first pressing into the wet flesh of her perineum, a fruitless nudge, no entry to gain there, shifting up, gliding wetly into place, sightlessly aimed(sexy pin the tail on donkey, anyone?) but strongly determined, a slow press, parting muscle still taunt but well-stretched, producing a long, slow schlick as his cock delved deeply into her sex.

Rus didn’t try to hide his favorable reaction, a grunt sounding low in his throat, vibrating against her lips, as he was once more treated to the pleasurable constriction of her well-conditioned kegels.

“Fuck yes…” He murmured into her mouth.

Another grunt as he bottomed out, his pubis mashing up against her own. A slow withdrawal then, his hand lingering behind, closing into a fist, wrist canted as if to make the 'thumbs down' sign, knuckles facing her, brushing through the nest of curls above her sex, his outstretched thumb searching for something lower, swiping back and forth, down across the mound of her labia majora, like a blind man reading braille, stopping only once he felt what he was sure was the nub of her clit, rubbing there, up and down the ridge of her hood, gently at first, but building in strength with each pass as it honed in until it made tight little movements that focused all of his stimulative efforts directly against her clit.

His left arm moved to reposition then, down and across the pit of her underarm, sliding behind and beneath her until her shoulder blade and neck rested on the inside of his forearm, leaving her arm on that side free. His right leg also shifted, knee raising until his thigh was almost parallel with his hips, her leg arched up over his.

Rus began thrusting again in a slow, plodding rhythm, no teeth-rattling impacts here, not even enough to be audible, not beyond the wet sounds of her sex accepting his, or the occasional squelch when he dug particularly deep. He was kissing her, still, his eyes closed now, head canted to the side enough to allow clearance for their noses, his tongue gracefully, slowly, swirling around her own.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

While she was still blinking slight stars of pain away, his words sliced through the haze. That concern: nothing new from him, true, but the fact that he possessed it at all. Before she could give him an answer, he was already taking a look at her ankle - the intimacy (never mind the fact that he was, until very recently, literally balls deep in her) made her face warm a bit.

“You’re sweet, you know that?” Resting her ankle in his hand as dainty as Cinderella awaiting her glass slipper, she watched him, looking both comforted and pleased. Even if it was hell on her shoulders, she reached down to cup the side of his face, gently caressing his cheek before slipping back onto the bed to reposition herself. Funny how something as simple as touching his face filled her with ardor. Touches like this were somewhat outside of the realm of her ‘shorts’; they’d taken on that White Coater approach, winkingly clinical without touches further than what was called for. Even with some of the more fantastical, the elf and orc, it was more of an example of how to role-play - not necessarily in how to build intimacy. The assumption that intimacy would be there between her audience and whatever partner that they had was set in stone; she couldn’t accurately act out what it meant to trust someone. That was professionalism there, even in smut peddling. Things that Ryan and others had commented on, even commended her for - a drama-less set. No hurt feelings, no misunderstandings: professionals coming together to make a product.

Maybe it was crossing a line - but at this point, she didn’t care. She said she was going to be honest: she was going to stick to that. But she also wasn’t about to start gushing about this person that she’d built up in her imagination: that was the surefire way to heartbreak. She’d learned that lesson before. Rus hadn’t asked to be put on any kind of pedestal, and memories grew rosier the older they became. Yes, them here, now, couldn’t be summed up by any other word than “miracle” for her; a twisting of the universe that deposited them here, seasoned by experience and distance. She wouldn’t be shy in admitting that. But anything else: that needed to be set aside. Rus had to become a real person, and not a figment of her imagination conjured up by really, really, really, really good sex.

She laughed, then, at the kiss to her ankle - she was all right. It wasn’t the first time that she’d smacked a body part on the bed frame (worst was when she hit her head climbing under it to retrieve a book and thought she was going to be stuck under there for hours), and it wouldn’t be the last, but his show of concern was charming. Even as he lost himself in her body - his dumb grin would be met with hers, confident, welcoming. No shyness - but a woman in control of herself, and knew what she had to offer. Here is my body, the arch of her back whispered, and I’m willing to share it, and what it can do, with you. Even when it had been a bluster, a part of the Sister Sunshine persona, there had always been a thread drawn between him that simply made it easy.

“That silver tongue strikes again,” she shifted, better to accommodate him leaning over her, “But you know, you can be the most delicious peach in the world and it won’t matter to someone who’s favorite is apple pie. I’m just glad you happen to like my cobbler.” It was an absolutely terrible joke, hit further home by the shit-eating grin she shot at him. The awareness of who she was and what she had to offer was a constant, it seemed, but for her, hard won. Not, of course, hampered at all that the attraction between the two of them had always seemed mutual. What a contradiction it all was: having to be confident in showing that you were desirable, but knowing that you hired someone, and yes, that was the truth, hired, to have sex with you. At that point, it didn’t matter how hot you were: a job was a job.

“My knight in shining armor,” the words came easy as she lazily wrapped her arms around his neck. She didn’t pull him towards her, but seemed to be, in the moment, content with the touch. Now, it was her turn to tease him: “Uh, who said anything about a ‘first date’?” She feigned ignorance of the situation for as long as she could (barely made it five seconds) before she was laughing, her hands cupping his face as she brought him in for a brief kiss. “I mean, but if you’re asking, yeah, I mean, I wouldn’t mind going out with you. ‘Cuffing’, what the kids call it? And it’s still cold out so it’s still technically cuffing season. Time to lock in, big boy!”

Ah…then he’d asked the million dollar question. She seemed…abashed: it’d been so easy to fall into old grooves that it hadn’t actually crossed her mind. And now with him bringing it back up, she -

“Fuck,” the word bitter in her mouth. “I hadn’t even thought about that. I don’t have any condoms here…” And you feel way too good right now to disturb that, and also, I totally would’ve had you cum inside of me and wouldn’t have thought anything about it and yeah, that is a problem.

A laugh then, trying to ease some humor back into their tryst. “I am the worst teacher,” a mock pout, “I didn’t ask when you were last tested for STDs and STIs, I didn’t see if I was in any sort of fertile window, and I have nary a single birth control method, let alone the advised two. I think I had some vaginal foam that was old enough to remember the president before last before I tossed it,” a wrinkle of her nose then. “And when we worked together, I was on birth control. Remember the ring? God, that one time you went in too deep and popped out with the ring around the base of your cock? I think that derailed the whole fucking shoot,” she was wheezing now, remembering -

“Oh my god; I’m so sorry,” though it was difficult to tell how sincere she was with how hard she was laughing, the tears in her eyes. “I mean, I knew that the ring could come out or be felt during sex, but this is completely new - SO. We’re gonna take five and I’m going to show you how you fix this.”

And as easy as that, it’d become a lesson in how to sterilize and re-insert the ring - as well as instructions on how best to use it, and a reminder to always use two methods of birth control. Easy-peasy.

“Anyway - yeah. I haven’t been fucking, or thought of it, so I got off of birth control. Worked out better in the long run; the hormones were playing havoc with my system, and my insurance changed. You’d think one ring a month wouldn’t be all that expensive, but man, without that insurance, the price was untenable.” A shrug. “Though…if this is gonna be a regular thing, I’ll look into some low dose or non-hormonal stuff. Or just flat out sterilization. Not sure if I even want kids; I can barely afford life as a single-dom.” A finger to his lips. “Sorry if it’s a mood killer - better now than never - and…I mean, I don’t want to stop. Do you?”

Dark eyes met light. Silence floated between the two of them, as she drew a taper finger down his lips.

She wouldn’t have long to wait for his answer; his sliding into her welcoming body was all she needed. Groaning into the kiss, her body curved up into his, her legs falling further apart, an attempt to balance his body atop hers.

He was rocking, moving slowly inside of her, each stroke bringing further heat to her face, her breasts, her stomach - the careful rubbing of her clitoris he was so fucking good at that caused her to jerk, her muscles to flutter around him. If he kept that up, she wouldn’t last too much longer, and that wasn’t what she wanted, not just yet. No point in speeding towards orgasm, not while she still had him locked inside of her. As he adjusted, she moved with him, her legs lazily looping around his waist, interlocking at her ankles loosely. He was riding her slow, enjoying her as much as she was enjoying him, each thrust deeper but different, prodding, exploring her depths as she opened more to him, her hips wriggling to the pace of unheard music, far slower, far more different than the record playing, working him in and out, squeezing here, loosening there, caressing, those kegels that he praised, working overtime to fondle his cock, to draw it, and him, further into her.

“Rus,” his name a docile sigh, “I wish to high hell I could tell you, ‘Cum inside me,’ like we used to, but…yeah. So…” She clamped her legs down tight on him, holding him down against her. If he tried to buck back against her, to draw out, she locked her legs tighter, her strength surprising. She could do real damage there if she wanted - a souvenir of changes made post-stalker. “I’m going to let you pick - with a few rules. If you wanna cum on my face - which I’m not a fan of, by the way, - you have to clean me up. And…” her grin became slightly devilish, “If you make me swallow it, you have to kiss me after. Deal?” The pink tip of her tongue curving around her bottom lip made her ‘recommendation’ clear.

 

[Talon]

“I wish to high hell I could tell you, ‘Cum inside me,’ like we used to, but…yeah. So…”

… like we used to…

The flash of a still image across the eye of Rus’ mind-

The torso of a female- mid-thigh to upper belly-, perched as if towering triumphantly over the abdomen of her demonstrably male counterpart beneath, her legs splayed out in a ‘v’ shape in the center of the frame. Her hirsute sex was in bloom- the subject of the camera's worshipful focus-, while his was relegated to something of a footnote at the bottom right of the frame- detail blurred, purposefully out of focus, caught mid-transition from erect to flaccid as it slumped over to lie against his thigh, breaking one of the cardinal rules of porn, to 'never show the limp dick'. That the shot was captured post-coitus was evident- her sex and the mass of hair framing it still gleamed wetly, her entrance gaped explicitly but not excessively, enough to show the vivid pink of her insides, from where a trail of viscous cum drooled lazily out to pool atop the smooth flesh of his pubis at the root of the slumbering phallus below.

He remembered the photographer- what was that dude’s name..? Ryan?- being stoked about it, and showing them a preview after the shoot as they cleaned up. Even on the little rinky-dink LCD screen of the camera it had looked impressive- the lighting, the contrast between male genitalia and female, smooth versus hairy, light skin versus dark- and had reminded him of those old Muhammad Ali shots where he was towering over an opponent he’d just knocked to the canvas. He had not given to her, she had taken from him- her pleasure, his seed. There was something of a show of dominance there- who had truly fucked who?-; her cunt snarling in the face of a cock that had bared its throat in submission, metaphorically waving a fist under his nose as if to threaten further action should the contest not have been decided to his satisfaction.

Like we used to… Damn. That was fun…

It always had been, with her, and still was now, despite the several years since their last time ‘together’. Their bodies hadn't missed a beat and came together as if they had never been apart. His earlier praise had not been hyperbole- what her cunt was doing, actively, was a thing of wonder. Not content to merely be fucked, she was like the conductor at the head of her orchestra, the rhythmic clenching and loosening of her intimate musculature serving to wordlessly coax, to encourage, to guide- go deeper, there, a little more… yes, that’s the spot, now faster… good, now keep that tempo-. Was it purely for his benefit, or hers, or some mixture of both? Whatever her intent, the results were the same.

Hard as it was to concentrate on her words with the siren song of her cunts clenching beckoning the whole of his attention, once she had clamped her thighs around him- he’d always thought she was freakishly strong for someone her size. At roughly six-foot-three, weighing somewhere between a buck eighty and ninety, it wouldn’t shock him if she could toss him around a little bit- she had the full of it, his breathing heavy, more from stimulation than exertion, as he paused in his movements for a moment.

Rus gnawed at his lip, desperately trying—and largely failing—to keep a straight face as she detailed his “orgasm options" with the practiced ease of a waitress reciting the day’s specials. Playfully testing the efficacy of her clench as she offered her sexually explicit compact, he torqued his pelvis as if to throw his butt back, his eyebrows lifting in amusement as her thighs tightened around him, ankles digging into his back enough to invoke a hissing wince—a warning of what would happen if he continued to push his luck. His hand that had been busy between them was withdrawn, then, rising into the air beside them, palm out, as if to say “I surrender”.

“Okay, okay…” Each word was delivered with a tinge of barely restrained laughter. “...uncle.” The gesturing hand fell to the mattress beside her as he swooped in to peck the point of her chin. “It’s a deal. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to swallow on the ‘first date’, though…” He put a humorous emphasis on the last two words in a throwback to his previous comment as his mouth lingered there to nuzzle once more at her neck, nudging her head into a backward tilt to allow him better access. “...even if we are…” He pulled back enough to allow him to gaze into her eyes, a look of humored puzzlement on his visage. “...’cuffed’, was it?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “I dunno… sounds a bit too kinky for my vanilla ass…”

A grunt of effort as his hips resumed their struggle against her restraint, the slight nag of pain the bite of her ankles brought paling in comparison to the pleasure felt at the other side- amazing how the perception of pain fades at the promise of pleasure. Once he had gotten rug burn on his knees so severe that the wounds had seeped blood as he and a hook-up had poorly chosen the cheap carpet on the floor of her dorm room upon which to bump uglies- with his hand removed, it was now his pubis that was grinding against her clit, the bit of fat there a cushion for the firmness of the musculature there, not the in-and-out stroking of before, he didn’t have the range of motion, this was grinding, rutting, drilling the small of her back down into the mattress, his weight the better of her strength as far as lifting him off of her should she try, she was capable of restraining him, sure, but he was, in turn, using his advantage in size to anchor himself deep, challenging the ability of her insides to accommodate the whole of him; from the dense, bulbous knob of the head that tickled threateningly at her cervix(he was not long enough to poke her painfully in this position, maybe in doggy, with a particularly determined thrust, but in mish he fit like he had been poured into her), to the thickness of the root that stretched her entrance near to tearing.

A fingertip or two’s worth of play, squelching- god damn, she was so deliciously wet. Maybe it was for the better he didn’t cum inside, because he would be damned if he wasn’t going to have a taste of her cunt once this was through-, tight little thrusting movements of his hips as his pelvis humped against hers, more strength being exhibited there, fighting back against the ferocity of her clench despite the pain. He growled, his lips mashed against the smooth plane of her neck, bared brazenly to his teeth as if unbothered by the idea of him sinking them into her vulnerable flesh. Each neither in control nor in submission of the other; the sure strength of her thighs prohibiting his withdrawal, the weight of his torso bearing down on hers preventing her from bucking him off even if she tried.


“Just for the record…” His voice was strained by his physical efforts, his tone still playful. “... I would kiss you no matter where your mouth had been…” A snort of air through his nose as he processed the potential repercussions of writing a blank check of such enormity. “Well…heh…” His hips still pumping; strength against strength, pelvis to pelvis, cock to cunt. “... almost no matter where. There are some limits…”

Head lifting as his arms moved; out from behind her, hands capturing her by the wrists, gripping tightly before fighting with her, grappling against her playful resistance before overpowering her to lift them over her head…

Knock! - her knuckles against the headboard…

Rus’ eyebrows shot up in concern even as his hands worked to corral hers; crossed, wrist to wrist, pinned to the pillow above her head by the both of his atop them, his arms over the top of hers, keeping her upper body restrained. She controlled below, him above.

“Sorry…” came his sheepish response to the potential injury he had caused her, though it hadn’t been serious, obviously, certainly not enough that he should stop, or even could compel himself to stop, not short of an injury that called for the response of an ambulance. Kissing once more along her neck, his back and shoulders arched, the grip of her thighs like an anchor, his body contorting to allow his mouth to travel downwards, leaving in its wake a trail of soft little smooches, little ‘forget-me-nots’, sampling of the smoothness of her skin, working his way down her collar bone, his elbows pressed into the bed on either side of her head, above her shoulders, the grip of his fingers around her wrists tightening, keeping her hands pinned there so as not to allow them the ability to inhibit him. The pleasurable movement of his hips paused a moment as his lips brushed down and across the upper swell of her still-exposed left breast to encircle the nub of her nipple, the tip of his tongue rolling along the underside, lashing back and forth against it a few times before he applied suction there, drawing it and the aureola around it forcefully into his mouth as he suckled at it.

His lower half shuffled, situating himself to bear his weight on his knees, to grant additional leverage, and then he was thrusting again, more power there, now, enough to jostle her, the back of his elbows biting into the ridge of her shoulder as his movements forced her body upward as his transferred energy worked through her. His mouth seemed content in suckling there at her breast as if he were successfully drawing sustenance, though he was not, nothing beyond the mere sensation of it.

“Mmmm…” he hummed around a mouthful of the peak of her breast before lifting his head suddenly, her nipple slipping from its oral imprisonment with a wet pop! “... fuck yes!” He said breathlessly of no one or nothing in particular, just a general expression of joy, of the pleasure of being inside her, of feeling wrapped up in her, legs and cunt alike. He raised to kiss her, again, nudging her chin with his own to better position her.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

On some forums on darker sides of the internet, there was the concept of “fluid bonding” - the idea that once a woman had a man cum inside of her, there was a special bond there. It meant that the woman was ruined for other men, but the man was free to bond with as many other women as he wanted. Some touted it as a surefire way of telling if a woman was a slut - or, conversely, how pure she was.

It went without saying that she did a series of videos and photos to disprove that.

Though she hadn’t been a virgin when she started as Sister Sunshine, she had been…perhaps a sexual recluse? She’d lost her virginity at the ripe old age of 18, hadn’t really dated. She’d been interested in guys, but more of a concept than actual…things. It had been hard to find anyone to catch her interest outside of the purely aesthetic, but things changed a bit when it came to college. It seemed the air was a bit freer - so she explored accordingly. Even going on birth control, however, hadn’t encouraged her to urge partners to go condom-less. The last thing she needed was a hint of pregnancy, let alone the…whole thing.

So when it came to Rustin…well, maybe she could say that her findings were inconclusive. If she were being honest. He was the first to cum inside her - something she kept to herself - and that initial feeling…it had been interesting. Besides all of the paranoia about one particularly stubborn sperm ruining her life, the sheer feeling of it had been heat. Feeling extra wet, then, the actual pulsing of his cock as he let loose inside of her. She’d laid back, her head tilting deeper into her pillow as she attempted to figure out what she was feeling. There was the rush of her own orgasm - a given - but an additional fluttering, like, okay, something happened. Not that she felt ‘bonded’ in particular, but a sudden understanding of old documents. There had been something…fun in it. Mutual gratification. Spreading her legs for those photos had been easy, the video easier, as she attempted to talk through everything. Those weren’t scripted; had to be edited to make sense of it.

Eventually, she came to the conclusion that the fluid bonding was bullshit.

And, technically, despite her crush on Rus (even then), she didn’t feel like he owned her, or that she was more special to him because of it. Underlying everything was the knowledge that he was getting paid. Afterwards, they’d joked a little about how clean up was a bit more difficult - she’d made some ribald joke about her cunt spitting up globs of cum like a cat, but that had been the extent of it. So it’d been the first, but it wasn’t the last. It became a bit of a game (one she hadn’t let Rus in on) about learning how to milk him using her kegels, how to squeeze, loosen, pull, to get the best reaction out of him. And every time he burst inside of her, it filled her - physically and emotionally. Nothing like euphoria, but stamping a letter - this was fun, they’d had fun. They would both share in the afterglow. That’s part of what made her “show” different; there was no pop shot and then rush to clean up. Nope; they’d laid there in their respective wet spots, talking about the experience, trying to sound causal like they were more than paid partners, but it was still her show, so it was largely her commenting on it.

I sort of wish he hadn’t brought it up.

It was folly on the grandest scale, but dammit, now that he’d mentioned it, it was hard not to want him to finish inside of her like he used to. Her favorite were when she was able to catch him between shoots; when it’d been a while, and he would just absolutely explode into her. He’d be shaking, and my god, the amount of cum he’d fill her with, it was almost as orgasmic feeling it slowly ooze out of her once he withdrew. Delicious stuff.

“Good boy,” was her chipper response, her ankles loosening a bit, the imminent threat over. As he’d mockingly tried to get away before, she gripped him tighter to keep her grip, but pivoted her hips, rising and falling with him, still keeping him buried deep in her, subtly riding him. Sure, she hadn’t said anything openly about it, but the flush on her cheeks spoke volumes about what she was feeling.

“I’m going to get you in rope one day - if it’s only to make sure you don’t get out of my bed until I’m done with you.” A bit of a dreamy edge to her voice as she canted her head back, allowing him further access to her neck. Her hair had by this time worked itself free from her hair tie, and fell in sloppy waves behind her, around her face. She’d simply give him a cunt squeeze, not too hard, not too soft, in a response to his mention of ‘kink.’ It wasn’t something she knew a lot about or pushed, but she had a slight academic interest in it. Seemed to come with a lot of mental baggage, both bad and good. She could admire the intricacies of shibari - had actually been tied up herself for a few shoots - but at heart, a man’s eagerness, openly expressing it in a safe place to be pleasured outside of the masculine grunts of ‘fuck me, bitch’ was immensely appealing. She liked the idea of seeing a man melt -

Which was what she was facing now.

Acknowledging his quiet grind against her, she rolled her hips easily back into his, the two of them dancing to a much different tune than what her record player filled the air with. If they kept going like this, she knew she’d get off - and that would be nice, it would, but she wasn’t ready for it to end. “ ‘Limits’, he says,” the words teasing, “I’d like to know what those are.” Not that she would dream of testing them; that was never her M.O. More along the lines of her wanting to know what he wanted to do with her - because she had a pretty good idea of what she wanted to do with him.

“Or rather, what you’d like to do with me. Now that the cameras are off.” A simple enough little request, quiet part of her mind out in the open. They were doing this, after all - and had more or less agreed to see each other. Right? “I mean, if we’re dating?” A raise of her eyebrows. Not that she would stop if he said no, but it’d be good reason to maybe re-evaluate what she wanted. The slight fear that maybe she overplayed her hand tightened her stomach - she had to let it out with an exhale.

She could stop, if she wanted - but she didn’t want to -

“Ay!” she hissed as her knuckles came into contact with the headboard. Not enough to leave lasting damage, hardly more than a brief sting, but enough to shake her from those thoughts. He’d done her a favor - and as she looked into those big blue eyes of his, the ice that threatened her stomach melted. That fucking face of his; all guileless and sweet. No wonder he’d had such a career…though she had to ask him about that. She hadn’t looked into him further than what Ryan said, and had planned on keeping it that way. There had been the idle curiosity, to see what different faces he could show, but she wanted authenticity, and had to trust in him enough to believe that’s what he was giving her.

“No you’re not,” cheeky enough, little more than a whisper as his lips trailed down her throat, further down the lines of her. The camisole top, disheveled as it was, wasn’t thick enough to keep her from feeling the warmth of him. If anything, her sensitivity seemed to be heightened, with the one breast covered and the other open to him. First his tongue, then his lips, then the suction - she curved her back into his mouth, luxuriating in him like it was her given due. Her nipples had always been sensitive - rather than a jolt down to her clitoris, it was a pleasurable sensation all on its own, a line between sexual and comforting. There was nothing for him to gain from it, no interesting taste, no nourishment, and it wasn’t like she could get off on this alone - though she’d heard stories of girls being able to.

She wriggled her arms in his grasp; he held her tight, but not so tight as to be constricting, “Leggo,” she grumbled. Not that she was declaring him the winner in this little sparring match, but - “I want to touch you,” a hint of a pout there - not that she had to play it up much. His grasp loosened, and as he leaned into kiss her again, she cupped the sides of his face with her palms, pulling him in like a fairy tale.

His cheeks were smooth; no hint of stubble, slightly tacky from sweat and whatever aftershave he used, fading now to be replaced with her sweet spicy perfume and her sweat and her body odor and it all mixed together with him, on him, and her hands were soft as always, no tell-tale signs of how much she worked with them in her classes, though the nails were kept short, no polish, her thumbs caressing his cheeks as her fingers carded through the finer hair at the nape of his neck. She’d be content to kiss him like this, keeping him buried in her, and as he swore in pleasure, she laughed, a hot puff of air against his mouth before she pulled him back into her. Her hands on his face, her legs now loosely about his waist, she was tempted to sling them up and over his shoulders, have him bend her over double, but right now was so sweet, it was a veritable moment and she didn’t want to rush it.

“Fucking hell,” she said, having to break their lips apart so she could breathe, “Your cock is amazing. No - fuck that. You’re amazing. Your cock is just a part of you. And not even the best one,” murmured against the side of his mouth, “Please tell me you can spend the night.”

 

[Talon]

Rus scoffed sheepishly as they lingered there, skin to skin, his cheeks flushing beneath her touch. Her hands caressed his face, her legs draped lazily around his middle…

Pinch me…

He still hadn’t fully processed how random this whole thing was. Bumping into her at some diner—one he’d never even set foot in before, despite it being a five-minute walk from his sister’s shop—only to end up in bed with her less than twenty-four hours later. And now, she was asking him to stay the night.

Kismet?

He didn’t really believe in that kind of thing—some cosmic plan or divine script. If asked, he’d call himself ‘vaguely spiritual’ at best. Destiny, fate, karma… all of it had always seemed like bullshit to him. He’d grown up in a Christian household, his mother the more devout of his parents, but thankfully, they hadn’t forced him to keep going to church past a certain age. He didn’t not believe in God, not in the strictest sense, but the Abrahamic religions had never really vibed with him.

But if this wasn’t fate, then what was it? Fortune? Chance? Luck?

The fact that they were here, together—not just having sex but connecting, really connecting—felt like the reaping of something sown long ago. But to have met again so randomly, after all these years?

Maybe there really is something to that kismet bullshit after all…

"When you whisper to me such sweet nothings, how could I dream of saying no?" Rus hummed, the edges of his smile brushing against her fingertips.

"Hmmm… I do have to warn you, though, I’m a notorious cover hog…” His nose grazed hers, his breath still carrying the cool hint of wintergreen mouthwash. “… and an unrepentant cuddler.”

His tone was playful, but there was truth in his words—at least in that last part. Affectionate touch had always been a big part of his love language. He wasn’t the type to shower a partner with endless compliments or elaborate gifts, nor did he care for public displays of affection that felt performative, as if to say “This is mine. Back off.” But in private? It was the little things: A subtle hand on the small of her back as he passed behind her as she stood cooking at the stove. The gentle but insistent press of his foot against hers while they curled up on the couch under a blanket, watching some movie neither of them were really paying attention to. A teasing hip check as they stood side by side at the bathroom sink, brushing their teeth in the morning.

Beneath the All-American Boy facade—tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed; in another life, he might’ve been just as successful as an action star as he had been a porn star—there was something softer. A side of him he rarely put words to.

Maggie had once joked he was, quote, “more of a girl than I am”—and, in her flavor of reality, it had been meant as a compliment. She wasn’t wrong, though. In terms of persona, he wasn’t the manliest of men. Cass had picked up on that; seemed to find it a part of him that drew her in.

He had pride, but not the superficial kind, not the kind that was easily wounded. He had something of an ego—what porn star didn’t? For a time, he’d made his living off the fact that people would pay to film him fucking—but it had been checked long ago, tempered by a gentle nature. The idea of Rus big-timing someone was laughable to anyone who knew him.

That’s not to say he was the ideal man—far from it. He was overly introspective, sometimes to the point of paralysis, particularly when it came to discussing matters of the heart. That hesitation, that pause, had been mistaken for coldness more than once.

He was also a creature of habit and routine and had a natural inclination to resist change, for good or bad. Living alone, he ate the same thing every morning for breakfast and drank a cup of the same familiar brand of coffee, not because he preferred the taste over others, really, but just because that was the brand he’d always drank.

And he was a bit of a flirt, owing to his natural charisma that made him a compelling subject for the camera lens. Nothing inappropriate—he had that Southern gentlemanly charm thing down to a T—but for the wrong kind of woman, he was a jealousy trigger just waiting to happen. Too warm, too playful, with every customer, waitress, barista, and checkout clerk.

But then there was the other thing. Something deeper. Darker. A part of him that felt… wrong.

Something of curiosity. Of perversion. Of sinfulness. A thing that made his guts twist up in knots whenever he let himself think about it for too long. And so he hadn’t, not for a long time. It wasn’t the sort of thing that plagued his mind day-to-day, more like something he’d buried deep in a box, tucked into a chest, locked, and stuffed into the back of a closet with a ‘Women: Beware’ sign prominently affixed to the door.

For all his caution, though, it would slip through cracks, bubble up from deep below, and pop unhelpfully into the back of his mind at the slightest provocation. This time, it had been her innocent probing, to want to know his limits, to want to know what it was that he had wished they had been able to do together, sexually, that had summoned it forth…

What of its origin, though? It wasn’t Cass who had sparked that initial flame, she had only unknowingly stoked it.

It was Holotta Muff.

It was all her fault.

Christine—that was her real name, though he couldn’t remember if he’d ever caught her last.

‘Holotta’ had been an icon once, back in the golden age of porn—the real golden age, the late ’70s, early ’80s. A relic from a time before the internet made big studio porn disposable. But times had changed, and hard financial luck had pulled her out of retirement, luring her back for the MILF craze that had exploded in popularity.

That had been the whole gimmick of the movie—a nostalgia act, a lineup of old(borderline geriatric) stars making their return. He barely recognized her at first. The years and surgery had chipped away at the all-natural, ‘girl-next-door’ image that had once made her famous. Her dark hair had mostly turned gray, and the youthful smoothness of her skin was now traced with wrinkles. Time had reshaped her, once-perky curves now softened by age, though she had kept herself in good enough condition physically to perform on camera well into her late fifties. He remembered her being surprisingly chill, almost grandmotherly, even- she’d even brought to set a Tupperware container full of homemade cookies from which she’d offered all of the crew a sample. White chocolate macadamia- delicious.

The whole MILF thing was never something he found particularly appealing, but by this time in his career, Rus was already the consummate professional Cass would later know him to be. Their scene together went off without a hitch. It wasn’t until the end, as they prepared to shoot the ‘money shot’, that Rus’ ‘great awakening’ would occur.

Holotta was on her knees before him, the camera and its operator poised just off to the side, ready to press record whenever Rus gave the word that he was ready. He was self-stimulating, getting right up to that line where his orgasm was imminent. Even with experience, it was always the most nerve-wracking of moments, a literal crew of people standing around watching you essentially masturbate. Not for the faint of heart.

Holotta had cleared her throat to get his attention, reaching out to grasp his wrist and stop his stimulative action. “Listen, sugar… can I show you something? An old trick…” A flash of hazel green as she winked up at him, her hand displacing his, gently but insistently. “... something to get you there a little quicker.”

Rus, thinking perhaps she had meant to do something with her mouth, or maybe she had a particular way of working her hand, signaled his permissiveness with a shrug. “Be my…”

He hadn’t finished speaking before she cut him off as she turned to the camera hovering beside them. “Start rolling. This’ll be quick…” She reached up with her other hand, wet the tip of its thumb with her tongue, and like a sphincter-seeking missile, suddenly it was pressed menacingly against his asshole as if it had blinked in and out of existence to get there. He’d hardly noticed her hand had moved at all as she maneuvered it between his thighs.

He remembered first thinking of her nails from where he’d seen them before; gaudy, pink, not overly long, press-on maybe, with these little sparkling bedazzle things in a line down the center…

Rus’ eyebrows shot up in panic as the realization of what was happening washed over him. He’d done anal, of course, it was a regular part of shooting, but he’d never been on the receiving end. Not a finger, not a toy, maybe once or twice a stray tongue, but never anything so deliberate. He hadn’t prepped, mentally or physically. “Wait…” He began, his cheeks clenching prohibitively, but it was too late, and she’d already achieved the positioning she needed.

He could remember how strange it felt, and thinking this little old lady must have the world's fattest thumb as she forced it past the fierce resistance of his tightly clenched anus. It didn’t hurt, not exactly, but it was deeply uncomfortable, something like when he needed to relieve his bowels. It felt wrong, on so many levels…

But it also felt strangely good- like scratching a stubborn itch between your shoulder blades.

 

[Talon]

She, on the other hand, was much less indecisive about it. Her probing digit wormed its way deeper and brushed up against something that sent a jolt of pleasure through him…

“... I’m gonna cum…” Rus managed to stammer out from between clenched teeth.

Holotta, a devious, triumphant, almost predatory, grin unfurling across her lips as she angled her face up at him, responded with a simple “‘Atta boy…” in praise.

The orgasm he experienced had been… transcendent. Magnificent. Earth-shattering. The kind that makes you go weak in the knees. He wasn’t sure he’d ever cum as much, or as hard. In contrast, to Holotta, it was just another Wednesday. They hadn’t spoken much after, her leaving set with a peck on his cheek and a “Thanks, darling” in parting.

It had stuck with him, though, that moment. Not on account of Holotta. No, whatever this was, this desire that had crept up on him from out of nowhere, that had practically been forced on him, that he had been infected with, was fully independent of her. She’d merely opened Pandora’s Box; Rus was the one who would have to reconcile himself with its contents.

It turned out that a rabbit hole was what it contained. The first stop down into the depths? ‘Am I Gay’-ville. He didn’t linger overly long there- he had no issue with gay people, from what he understood he had something of a considerable gay following, at least for his solo stuff, and the knowledge of such had never really bothered him, to each their own- it just simply wasn’t his bag. He liked women and was sexually and romantically attracted exclusively to women. Hetero, and secure in it, enough that simply being turned on by the idea of a bit of anal play wasn’t enough to knock him off course.

The second? Ok… so not gay… but what? What was it, exactly? A kink? A preference? Questions that evolved slowly into… why does it need to be anything? Dudes like handjobs, blowjobs… they don’t have to have a special word for liking it. It just feels good. And Rus liked what felt good- big shocker.

That it felt good was not nearly the worst part of it, though. It was that the thought wouldn’t go away. It didn’t occur to him constantly like it had become an obsession or anything. It didn’t ruin him for ‘normal sex’, or turn him into some degenerate that went around asking strange women to stick their thumb up his ass in some desperate bid to soothe his depraved sexual need. More like, it was an unanswered question, an unsatisfied craving, that would from time to time creep up in the back of his mind whenever he found himself growing particularly horny.

The third stage? Escalation. Ok, so a thumb had felt good. Really fucking good. What about the other fingers? Or a tongue… or… what about… a toy? All-American he might be, but he was in the porn business, after all. Even though he wasn’t looking for the most deviant shit, he saw things out on the periphery, at conventions, or in the studio when he’d pop in to chat with some of the crew.

He thought first of potentially mail-ordering something and trying it out on his own, maybe a butt plug or something small to start, but upon further reflection on it, the thought of doing it to himself didn’t offer the same appeal. At all. It wasn’t merely all about the physical stimulation. It had something to do with how he’d been penetrated by a woman, this dominant older woman, in front of their fellow cast and crew. He’d felt helpless, a little bit transgressed upon, violated, even.

What if… what if it were not her thumb or any other of her fingers… what if it was a toy… something like a dildo… a strap-on dildo, that she, this woman, whoever it would be, could use to properly fuck him with? A cursory internet search had told him there was a name for it, even- pegging.

He imagined something long, something that could reach deep, something that would fill that void that Holotta’s thumb had left in its wake…

What would that feel like?

It was a deep, dark, devious little secret of a fetish that Rus kept hidden away. He hadn’t told anyone; not his porn friends, not his real friends, not his therapist, not even Maggie. Not that they discussed such things with each other, they weren’t that close, but still. She knew practically everything there was to know about him except this one little thing.

Why tell Cass, then? Sure, she’d asked, but not in so many words. She probably wanted to know his favorite position, or maybe if there was something decidedly more normal he wanted her to perform for him, like a blowjob or something.

Christ, you two are joking about dating… you think she wants to date a guy who’s into that? Does any woman? Confident as he normally was, this was for sure one of his areas of vulnerability. It would be like telling her exactly what his Achilles heel was. Like Samson and his hair. It’s not the sort of thing you can take back, once you’ve said it. Do you want to ruin this, whatever this is, whatever it could grow to be, over a silly fetish?

No…

… buuuuuut…

…I mean, she kinda seems like she would be into it…

Well, maybe not into it, into it, but of all the sexually liberated women Rus had met over the years, which were many, given his former line of work, she was the most genuine with it. Like, short of downright evil shit, or something non-consensual, he felt like she was the sort who would be the least judgemental about things society otherwise deems ‘deviant’. Like, maybe it wasn’t her thing, but she also wouldn’t judge if it was yours.

Yeah, but would she want a ‘boyfriend’ who’s into something like that?

He didn’t want this, whatever this was, this curiosity of his, to get in the way of what they might one day become. Maybe in the end he didn’t truly need it to be fulfilled, perhaps this was something better left to his imagination. Even in the depths of his most fervent fantasy- there had been a few of those, dreams he’d awoken from with an erection hard enough to cut glass- he didn’t imagine it was the sort of thing he’d want every day, or to replace the more traditional forms of sex.

No. This was the sort of secret a man took to his grave. In his head, he imagined the torture scene from Rambo II- the one where they electrocuted him, slowly cranking up the voltage, demanding he spill his secrets. Of course, Rambo had refused to give in, because, well, it was Rambo, after all.

Somehow, Rus imagined his form of torture to be much harder to resist…

 

[Talon]

The brush of her fingers across the tops of his cheeks coaxed him back from his moment of introspection. He had probably seemed distant for a moment- maybe like he had been lost in her eyes- “Mmm… assuming you don’t find either of those things to be dealbreakers, I would love to stay the night…”

His eyes, vibrant blue-like the color of a perfectly cloudless afternoon sky-, searched her features. “And, you know…” His hips began working again, shifting, subtle movements, grinding himself into her, enjoying the fullness of his range of motion now that the two of them were not locked in their playful contest of strength. “...I actually don’t mind if you do find it to be the best part of me…”

The squeaking of the bed springs accompanied the upswell of his thrusting tempo. “... I mean, feel free to objectify the shit out of me…” A chuckle as his lips brushed across hers. She certainly hadn’t been shy with her praise of that particular part of him, not even before, when things between them had been kept strictly professional. It wasn’t exactly ‘dirty talk’, but it was received much the same by Rus.

And it was doing wonders by keeping that dark secret of his at bay.

“Tell me more…” He pulled back, the schlick of sticky-wet flesh audible beneath the heaviness of his breathing. “... what’s your favorite thing about it?” A forceful thrust, enough to jostle her, for the flesh of her thighs to quiver, as the pendulous sack containing his testicles clapped against the lower swell of her buttocks. A more aggressive pull-out, relieving her of much more of him, of that thickness, only the head left in the intimate grasp of her stubbornly tight cunt.

He moved, then, a quick kiss in parting before his upper body raised up and away from her. Utilizing both of his hands, he maneuvered her left leg first, bending it at the knee as he worked her foot around his side, straightening it as he lifted her leg to press the back of her calf against his shoulder. Then, without pause, without allowing her to object, he did the same with her right, circling his hands around the outside to grip the front of her thighs below her knees, to keep them in place as he leaned back over her, almost as if he were helping her stretch to prepare for a run, working her hamstrings.

His cock penetrated her at a new angle as his hips fell with force, enough to result in a dull, fleshy clap on impact. Almost ninety degrees, the head pressed along the top of her insides as it bored into her, better access here, in this position, allowing more of that depth he had been able to achieve in doggy, enough for the thick knob at the tip of his cock to greet her cervix as if with a phantom kiss on the cheek. It was in parting, though, as it was pulled from her, roughly, rudely, not to allow them to catch up, not permitting her the opportunity to grow accustomed to the newness of the angle, to the thickness, by far the most challenging aspect of his phallus to accommodate.

He was leaning into her with his weight now, not the full of it, but enough that she could feel something of his strength, could feel the musculature in his arms cording as they tightened, his fingers biting into the flesh of her thighs, body positioned in something resembling the plank position. She could see there, along the top of his pecs, the lines in his neck, his shoulders, his trapezius, activating, working, bulging, as every muscle in his body worked in concert to grant power and weight to his thrusts.

Not the quick, jack-rabbit humping of a man selfishly seeking his orgasm, the rise and fall of his hips was more of a lope, with a steady rhythm you could tap your foot to, each with teeth-rattling force behind them, like a sledgehammer driving a stake into cement.

Thwap! Thwap! Thwap! - went the impacts of his pelvis against hers.

Clap! Clap! Clap! - went the slapping of his pendulous nutsack against the swell of her backside.

The shaft of his cock was fully coated in her arousal now, not the nearly translucent wetness that had seeped from her, this was thick like honey, worked through friction until it was tacky, almost white, dredged up from deep within her cunt with each thrust as his hips worked relentlessly.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

That smile of his was enough to send her back through time to a childhood crush that never existed - the kind where shy smiles were exchanged in class, maybe hands brushing against each other as they lined up, wanting to pick the seat next to him on the bus, but had to be nonchalant about it -

Literal. Butterflies.

That had to mean something significant. Those little flutters in her stomach - moths, maybe, not full blown butterflies - from the first time she saw him to now, they’d just grown. Seemed healthier now that she willingly allowed herself the space in her head to actually accept them as they were. Okay, so she had butterflies. That was Romance 101. Cheesy, yes, but the thing about all stereotypes is that they had some sort of seed in personal observation. There were probably a million things going on within her biologically, things that could be studied, measured, that created this feeling, but she brushed it all aside.

She was going to let herself indulge in the sheer wonder of it all. After all that time, in this city, in that diner, she’d found him again. And in the right time - that was the most important thing. A few years back, she wouldn’t have given in; would’ve found any excuse to avoid him, avoid any long conversation. Now, a few years more under her belt, distance, some -God forbid- wisdom with age, and she was able to act freely.

So then came the next problem: she didn’t want to let go. But she didn’t, couldn’t be possessive. She couldn’t come with assumptions, dwell on the fact that he seemed a little too eager (like she was one to talk) to fall into bed with her, but hey, she’d made the first move, and in some corner of her animal brain, this outcome wasn’t entirely improbable.

And she’d given him the opportunity to leave, so.

But -

What if he thought she was just being overly emotional? Or was playing him false? Kidding in some random joke? She’d tried her best to be open, if not wear her heart on her sleeve when she could. Tried to speak as plainly as she could, winning her both friends and enemies with it. As long as she felt like she’d told her truth without attempting to be cruel or undercut anyone, things would work out. And for the most part, maybe they had.

But -

He didn’t know her; she wasn’t even sure if he knew her last name. Or, hell, beyond ‘Cass’ - there was a whole ‘andra’ on the end of that. Okay, so that was a con, for sure. But the pro of that? More to learn about each other! Look at those eyes; how could anyone not fall for this creature?

“I want you to pose for me,” it seemed to come out of nowhere, cutting him off before he could list some of his flaws. Her right hand slipped from the side of his face, down the lines of his neck to caress his side, “Not photos or anything, and not in front of anyone else if you don’t want to, but as crappy as I am with drawing, you make me want to pick it up again.” It was one of the most sincere compliments she could give, “You make me want to create beautiful things,” she continued, murmuring now against the side of his neck, close to his ear, almost so low that he couldn’t hear, “To show an uncaring world how marvelous it is just to be alive. To have skin, muscles, move - to be crafted to breathe air.”

She ignored the little - then loud - alarm in the back of her head telling her that maybe now wasn’t the best time to gush poetically, not with him literally balls deep in her and her not sure if he even knew her whole name. Thankfully, he’d not taken insult to her cutting him off, and continued:

“Hmmm… I do have to warn you, though, I’m a notorious cover hog… and an unrepentant cuddler.”

“I think I can live with those things. I fart in my sleep and occasionally snore. And talk sometimes. You know, I think normal people things?” A feigned innocent blink of those large dark eyes of hers. “I’m lying about one of those. Which will it actually be?”

Warts and all. She was human; inhabited a body that ate, created waste, and every moon cycle, bled enough to still catch her by surprise. Even in the worst of it, she had to remind herself that underlying most of it was a thread of health; good health and gentle (maybe not so gentle, always) reminders that no, an entire block of cheese and then a bit of ice cream was not an acceptable meal and really, really, really was pushing the limits of her lactose tolerance.

A laugh to cut through her imagined tension, inviting him in to the humor.

“Then you’re staying - and you’ve been warned about potential sleep farts. I will hear no complaints in the morning. And there’s no continental breakfast; you get up before me, you fend for yourself. Even a dick as good as this isn’t a promise of homemade biscuits and gravy.”

The last curled into a groan as he pulled out of her. Then, a bit of a grumpy face, “Stop. Stop.” Her voice was serious, and she placed a hand in the center of his chest. It was far from enough to actually keep him from moving, should he wanted to, but she felt that her point was made. “Look at me.” She captured the sides of his face again, turning his head towards hers. When her eyes met his, they were perfectly serious. Not entirely unusual for the free spirit, but it lent her next words the weight she wanted them to.

“Rus. I know that was probably sexy talk, and I dig it, on that level, but I want to set one thing straight here. You are not just a cock. You never were, and never will be. We wouldn’t be here, doing this right now, if you were. I had a crush on YOU, not your dick. I want to know more about you, and I intend on keeping you around as long as you’ll let me. Capiche?”

She held him still before shifting up to bump her nose against his. “Get it? Got it. Good.” Literally sealed with a kiss before she let herself fall back down on the mattress dramatically, her arms flung out to the side, that one bare breast jiggling. “Now, do what thou wilt with me,” a heaving sigh as she dramatically moved her right arm to cover her eyes, playing the role of a blushing bride.

Not that she would have long to wait; he’d finagled her - with no small amount of ease - into that hinted at position, nearly folded double, and she went with him, her limbs moving easily as if he’d just asked her to sit up. She still kept up with yoga - though not as religiously as in college - and this position was no problem for her. If anything, maybe it’d help with her tight hips.

“So, my favorite thing about it…’It’ sounds weird. Too impersonable. Let’s call him, because it is a him, Mars. So, my favorite thing about Mars? That he’s inside me. But I bet you want more, don’t you? I bet you want to hear all about how I love how he glides inside of me so well, that he hurts a little. No, don’t be sad; I like it. It means I’m being stretched to my limits, full to burst, with you.”

A slight shift, her calves pressing into his shoulders, her hips rising a bit. He was deep, so deep - okay, maybe a bit too deep, a wince from her and he was immediately lightening up, her pulling her hips back to allow some breathing room between the two of them -

Groove was easily found again, and each stroke nearly made her forget what words were, let alone language. Unable to grasp onto him, her fingers curled into the sheets, twisting them until the fabric whined in protest. “Oh, fuck, fuck…Rus…You’re gonna make me cum like this…” He’d asked her something - she hadn’t fully answered.

And it was a bit of a game, wasn’t it?

“I like how fat he is, I like how he splits me open. I like how pale he is; the contrast is always so nice…” A playful squeeze of kegels, a brief farewell as he was drawing out of her again, “But, I mean, there’s that, but there’s also those big balls of yours. You hear how they slap up against my cunt? Music, right?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Head tossed back, she let her eyelids flutter close. With this new angle, and him leaning more on her, there was more pressure on the swollen nub of her clit, and there would be no fighting off the impending orgasm. It was fine -

“So deep, so good…you always know how to reach those best spots…” There was more, she knew it, she had more poetry to spout, but the peak was rising in her, stealing from her the ability to articulate properly. That should’ve been a hint to him that he still had it; it’d become established in their past times together that there was always a point reached between him, and only him (her toy demos she was always able to speak through) that her higher facilities were evaporating. To her, there was only the heat of her body and his, the steady thrust of his cock deeper, deeper, slower, so perfect, always so she could feel every single inch, use her cunt to kiss him as he withdrew, bring him back in, and yes, that little bit of pain, from the brush against her cervix to the plain fact that his girth, though to quote others, was ‘just right’ was actually quite a bit, even moreso since she hadn’t been properly penetrated in, well, forever -

A sudden intake of breath, almost like sucking the air from the room - a pregnant pause as she held it, her brows knitting, tears starting under the long fringe of her eyelashes. She was quivering beneath him, shaking more and more until she seemed to collapse in on herself, her cunt clenching him so impossibly tight that it hurt - potentially hurting him as well, squeezing too tight and forcing him out, and, she was wailing, an honest to god wail, her body snapping straight like a whip crack, every muscle tensed and flexed - and she was gushing over him, like throwing water over his lower half.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed locked in that post-orgasm body flex, or when her ears stopped ringing or when it felt like she had control over her body again. The only thing that really snapped her back was the sudden onset of a charley horse in her right calf, and then she was scrambling to get her legs up and around, but also trying not to dislodge him, but also holy shit her leg -

“Ow ow ow ow charley horse oh my god please help me,” laughter amid it all, “You fucked a cramp into my calf and pretty sure I saw Jesus a minute ago but literally I can’t get myself loose but I also don’t want you to pull out please help,” As it was, she was attempting to bring her right leg down but keep her left leg up, something that should’ve been simple, but ended up in her trying to pull herself upright with her core, but failing - flopping back down onto the mattress, she gave him her best puppy dog eyes.

 

[Talon]

‘Civilians’ tended to associate porn stars with being good in bed, something like how one imagined Hollywood action stars to be tough in real life. It made a certain kind of sense, seeing as a big part of the job was their ability to sell that image. In truth, though, the bulk of Rus’ on-camera experience had been learning how to make it look good for the camera, and what looked good wasn’t always what felt good. What was Rus’ secret weapon, then? What made him stand out as a lover, if not the mere fact he was a professional fornicator?

Empathy.

For Rus, playing his part in helping a woman achieve orgasm was a gift that never got old no matter how many times it had been given. There was a certain sense of intimacy to it, even when nothing was shared between him and his partner emotionally deeper than surface level. For some guys, it was a thing of trophies and accomplishments. They took ownership of it. “I made her cum.” For Rus, it was like his partner had shared something with him, had allowed him to be a part of it, had trusted him enough to let go and just feel.

It wasn’t that he had some special technique or unique insight into the female anatomy- he just observed the signs his partner’s body gave him. What angle felt best, what speed, what force, how deep, how shallow… there was some universality to the human body, sure, but for each, the exact code to unlock the ‘O’ door was slightly different. The signs you were on the right track were multitudinous; a sigh here, a moan there, a grunt, a sharply drawn breath, a gentle exhale, an arching of the spine, the biting of nails into the flesh of his back- each partners dialect was slightly different, but they all spoke the same language. Rus was just something of a cunning linguist.

It also didn’t hurt that Cass was an incredibly articulate speaker herself.

Her orgasm was powerful- enough to muscle him out as her insides convulsed with such force that it seemed for a moment she might turn inside-out. With that wave of orgasmic energy came the expulsion of a stream of fluid- no longer a drizzle, now a downpour- that soaked him from knee to navel, surprising him enough that he laughingly exclaimed beneath his breath, “Fuck, that was hot…”, before he could catch himself. Stupid-simple praise, but genuine.

Rus hadn’t been close, himself, owing to the other of his ‘sexual gifts’: stamina. That was the word one used to describe the ability to withhold your orgasm as a man, but in truth, it was more like he was so in tune with his body that he was able to almost cum at will, to either summon it forth or keep it at bay as needed. He was still able to be taken by surprise, of course(by an errant thumb, say), but by and large, he had control over it. He likened it to a phenomenon he had learned of during his time in the weight room; the mind-muscle connection- the ability to single out and target individual muscle groups as you performed a particular exercise. His was something of a mind-manhood connection if you will.

Despite his lack of orgasm, his breath came and went heavily, his eyes on her face, silently observing the state of pleasure her features had been frozen in with reverence before he looked down between their bodies-

Mars(She had christened it, the old ‘Little Rus’ moniker was officially retired now) still stood proud and ready for action, glistening, dripping with her spending, hovering there between them, pointed at her belly as if it were a divining rod that had been attuned to her womb.

“Hrrrmm.” A pleasured hum as he was reminded of her dirty talk from moments ago. She had a way of speaking, not only with confidence but through it, the ability to convey sincerity. And not just with her sensual speak; just before that, when she had been so adamant about drawing the line between what was sexplay and what was true feelings. He believed her, that what she felt was not a thing of fleeting desire- how had she called it, before? Being dick-matized?- She appreciated his body, but not any more than she appreciated him, the man, the human, underneath. As accustomed(and maybe jaded) as he had become to his perceived level of sexual attractiveness over the years, it still did feel good to receive even superficial compliments, of course. But to know, and be secure, in the fact that, once the horniness subsided, she still found appeal in him just being him… well…

It was almost enough to bring a tear to his eye.

What had he done to earn that? When she’d expressed it, he’d sort of just dumbly nodded along with that boyish, semi-shy smile of his- perhaps her first preview of his emotionally-induced vocal paralysis- with a simple, bashful, “Thanks.” and a reddening of his cheeks given in response.

Truth-told? He looked up to her after a fashion, human-to-human. Nevermind that she was beautiful- she was intelligent, witty, talented, and had this sort of air of sage-ly wisdom about her. He was fairly certain he could sit and listen to her opine on any subject for hours without growing tired of the sound of her voice. What in the hell did a woman like her see in him? As a friend, let alone anything deeper? That’s not to say he didn’t believe her. It was impossible not to, with how persuasively she spoke. More like he could hardly believe it- this, whatever this was that had suddenly sprung up between them- was real.

He was just some dumb ex-pornstar turned florist with a pretty smile and a decently-sized dick- the sort of man women wanted to fuck or friend, not date. He couldn’t even name five artists off the top of his head, let alone his ‘top five’. Cass had taste, she had style, she had culture…

She had a cramp.

It was like one of those scenes from a movie where they resuscitate someone with those shock paddles- he couldn’t help but laugh as the need for relief overtook her, as she expressed it with a humorous sort of panic, though he snapped into action to help her find it, shifting his weight back to his knees and off of her, moving from side to side as he shucked her legs from his shoulders. He was repositioning then, groaning as he shuffled atop the bed, thinking she’d need a bigger one if they were going to make him sleeping over a regular thing. He moved to lie next to her, on her left, his head pointed towards her feet, his legs bent, knees at her shoulder, careful not to touch her pillow with his socks. He reached out, gently, gingerly.

“Which leg… left… right?” He looked back over his shoulder at her, a smile still on his lips, though he otherwise wore that same expression of concern he had when she had whacked her ankle on the bedframe.

His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man his size, his thumbs working at the muscle of her calf with the same tenderness as if he were handling a little bird that had fallen from its nest. “You’re hilarious, you know that?…” He barely suppressed a giggle as he turned his head back to focus on his little impromptu massage therapy session. “... and I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve ever fucked a cramp into someone. I almost feel bad that I’m somehow proud of that…?” His tone was humorously inquisitive. “... though don’t ask me why. It’s like some caveman shit or somethin’.”

He bolted up, then, onto his knees, shoulders back, his brow drawn, lips pursed, as he turned to look at her. “Ugggh.” he grunted deeply, thumping a fist against his chest. “Me big man. Me fuck woman good… ugggh.” Another thump, though this one triggered a chuckling fit he didn’t bother trying to repress as he turned his body and flopped down to lie beside her, head to head, leaning on his left elbow. “Ahhh… sorry…” his laughter had begun to fade, though as he spoke, it started again, with him burying his face into the top of her chest, his nose nuzzling her clavicle.

“...scooch over a little bit.” He motioned for her to roll onto her side, shifting with her, pressing his chest to her back, though down low enough that his head would be parallel with hers. His arm was slung lazily over her hip, hand cradling her belly, pulling her back into him with some pressure there, as he pressed the side of his nose into her hair above her ear. “Mmmm… your hair smells good…” He softly murmured into her ear. His middle was bent enough to allow space for her butt, pressed back against his pelvis, and she could feel his still half-hard sex pressed into the soft flesh at the rear of her thigh.

“... though I swear to God, little Miss Tootie-Bootie, if you rip one right now, I’m totally going to pin you down and tickle you until you piss yourself.”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

True to his “All-American, Knight in Shining Armor” appearance, Rus was more than capable of helping to un-pretzel her, and all too kindly began to work the knot out of her calf. “Knot” would’ve been putting it lightly; it felt that every single muscle in her calf had been twirled round a central point - spaghetti on a fork. Though she’d played it up, it was painful enough to keep a foul grimace on her face.

“Har-dee har har,” she wheezed out, waiting for his fingers to do the work. Failing that, she was pretty sure that she had a heating pad in the closet somewhere. “See if you’re that chipper when your calf muscle decides to pull away from the bone.” Settling back down into the bed, she focused on her breathing. One deep inhale, then held it. Let it out slowly, beat by beat. Easier said than done when still trying to come down from that intense orgasm. Funny; if it hadn’t been for the sudden absolute onslaught of that cramp, she probably would’ve rolled over and gone to bed. Very unlike her, but after cumming that hard, it was like someone flipped an ‘off’ switch in her body.

So, okay, she’d give him being a little smug - she didn’t have that reaction with anyone outside of him. With a bit of a smirk, she blew an errant curl out of her line of sight. Thankfully, his fingers worked magic outside of her nether region as well. Guy was definitely a keeper.

Sighing, she felt the last of the post-orgasm tenseness leave, and drowsiness return in droves. “You not only fucked the charley horse from Hell into my right leg, I’m also pretty sure you fucked what was resembling any sort of consciousness out of me. My get up and go has got up and went.”

That was something that they had to work around, back when they were shooting. Granted, not all orgasms had her knocking on the doors of Zion, but many were close, and she had to figure out, and quickly, how to keep her eyes open. If the orgasm itself was Heaven, then the aftermath was settling into warm vanilla scented clouds, wrapped in every single fluffy creature comfort that could and ever would be.

Ryan had taken to surreptitiously hiding small glasses of Emergen-C (she couldn’t stand coffee, energy drinks were piss, and Yerba Mate had the nasty habit of screwing with her heart rate) around the set for her to chug and wait for the energy boost to come back. Some days, though, she knew when to call it, and simply had everyone end the shoot afterwards, giving her time to unwind and sleep for close to 12 hours afterwards. Best sleep ever. Then it usually meant that the next day, her and Ryan were going over footage, her nursing some smoothie or the other, as they edited the pieces back together. Video shoots on those days were always harder than just a photo shoot; there was so much more prep work, so much more editing behind the scenes to make it all work. Though she often handled the lion’s share herself (enlisting Ryan as a second camera), it wasn’t unusual for her to occasionally call in Helene to look at the edited footage to give her opinion on if it ‘flowed’ properly. Yeah, it was ‘smut’, but it was also meant to be informative. All of that good stuff.

Now, though?

Ugh. She couldn’t just roll over and sleep - even as she playfully grumbled as Rus moved closer. She used the opportunity to sit up and tug off the camisole, tossing it to the ground to puddle, fully naked at last. Man. He wasn’t a giant of a man - though he was much taller than her -, but the addition of him to her bed made it feel like she could barely move. Maybe - nah. It’d be fine. They’d curl up, wet and gross and sweaty, and it’d be fine. All of the finer details could be ironed out in the morning.

“Actually, pretty sure I already pissed on you,” that bit of bratty glee as she snuggled close, pressing her rear into his crotch. His erection was tempting; enough to make even her drowsy mouth water. “I think that’s what they said ‘squirting’ was. But I also feel like I read something where they weren’t really sure if it was pee, pee-like, or contained an itty bitty bit of pee. Either way, one more thing to line the wall of your cave, my sweet Flintstone; these soaked sheets.” She stifled a yawn, turning her face further from him so she wasn’t yawning directly at him. “God. Not only am I pretty sure I saw the cosmos a few moments ago, but I’m also sure that I need to recant the name of ‘Mars’ for your dick. From ‘Mars’ to Prince Valium, because he knocks me the fuck out. I swear, if it wasn’t for that cramp, I’d be counting sheep by now. And I got through that entire sentence without making another Spaceballs reference, so I'm pretty sure I get some sort of prize.”

She placed her hand over his, draped over her middle. It was warm - comforting. Right.

Her sexual endeavors, prior to Sister Sunshine, had been…painful, for the most part. She’d get wet, ‘excited’ in the way that bodies did, but penetration? Painful. Constantly. Probably one of the reasons why she liked a little pain in her sex now; it made sense, as odd as it was. But beyond that, if the purpose of sex was to either get closer to a partner, express natural desires, breed, or have an orgasm, she couldn’t say that she really experienced, well, any of it. It was like learning a new tool; learning how to use a pen instead of a pencil. There wasn’t a lot of emotion attached to it, save for that continual sense of disappointment that…well, that was all there was. It could’ve been attributed to bad sex, fumbling of inexperienced college kids and her own lack of understanding of her own body, but as her experimentation with the opposite sex continued, she found that, well….most of it was boring. Like everyone, maybe even including herself, were going through the same playbook. Touch here, lick there. Insert Tab A into Tab B. And once that was all figured out, well, then, she could do without it.

That, again, had been a reason for Sister Sunshine; chasing after what made it all a big deal, when it was so utterly unremarkable to her. Maybe sex, in the old literature and art, was such a thing because life was full of miseries. No 24 hour grocery store and movies on demand. And if life was going to be miserable and short - potentially shorter, given the prevalence of disease, why not go out with a bang: literally?

But then, there had always been her decidedly feminist slant to it. For centuries, even to this very day, sex for women was dangerous. At the very worst, life threatening, and at the least, painful. The very least that she could ask for was a good orgasm. Not a mid, or passable orgasm, but a good one. One that made her feel warm from her head to her toes. And she’d had that, a handful of times, enough to be able to tell the difference between that and a lot of absolute mid ones. Or the one time she’d actually kicked a guy out of her dorm room because he seemed just so inept that it wasn’t worth her time. He wasn’t a good conversationalist, had been okay-looking, and, in retrospect, she liked that he was attracted to her more than she was to him. The shadow, ghost, of what it was like to be pursued. She figured to actually cut all of the bullshit out and give him what he wanted; it was rare that guys actually wanted more than cunt, and with her, well, lack of value on her own body, it wasn’t an issue for her to give it, for nothing more than occasional boredom, or the chance that her initial assumption could’ve been wrong.

Even with her friends with benefits, they’d stayed friends. She’d liked that fine line of being close, closer to these guys (well, ‘boys’, really; they were all in their early 20s then), than other girls. It wasn’t the sex; it was the free exchange of information. The way they never pulled their punches with her. The way they spilled their feelings, not even having it to be sex. The way she was trusted even when they went for more conventional girls to date. And when the sex inevitably ended, it was never a big deal for her. If anything, it was a sense of relief; she still had her friend, barring sometimes justified weirdness from new girlfriends (she wouldn’t be friends with guys that didn’t disclose the nature of their friendship, but she also wouldn’t chase after a previous sex partner if he decided to actually pursue someone else), and still had a confidant. Well, more them confiding to her, looking for that voice of female reason.

Ah, youth.

She tried not to regret too much in her past - without those experiences, she doubted she’d be here now. Maybe some of it was a bit…excessive, but hey, youth.

“Gimmie like…I dunno, an hour, and I bet I could try again. I can’t sit here and end up going to sleep knowing you didn’t get off, Mr. Energizer Bunny. Just…try not to turn my pussy inside out, okay? I only have the one.”

 

[Talon]

The tips of Rus’ fingers played across her belly like a harpist gently plucking at strings, absently marveling at the softness of her skin, careful to avoid delving too deeply into the divot of her navel, not wanting to disturb her, to risk banishment should they trigger a ticklish response.

He hummed amusedly. “Just the one of ‘Princess Peach’ is more than enough…” he lifted his head to better gauge her reaction to his nicknaming of her sex, catching her side-eye glance. “... no? I’ll work on it…”

Bad pun aside, it kinda fit. If a pussy could be considered pretty, then her’s was the fairest of them all. And he’d seen more than his fair share in his former profession(big ones, small ones, some as big as your head).

“And while it’s super sweet of you to offer…” He inclined his head down to press his lips against the ridge of her shoulder in a kiss. “... I think we both know that neither of our asses are likely to be awake in an hour.” Another kiss. “Besides, there’s not a ‘best by’ date printed on the side of my dick. I promise it’ll still be good in the morning…” Another. “Mmmm… just imagine… a little wake-up sex…” Another. “... maybe some morning head if you’re feelin’ extra frisky…” Another. “... I’ll whip you up some of my famous scrambled eggs after…” Another, accompanied by a playful nudge of his hips that pressed his pelvis in tight against her backside. “... me in the kitchen, cookin’, nothing but an apron on, bare ass hangin’ out... don’t even try to tell me you could say no to all that…”

He meant it. Not having came was literally the last concern on his mind. He’d slept all of maybe four hours in the past thirty-six, having just pulled an all-nighter with Maggie in her shop. Even accounting for the surge in energy his recently reawakened libido had provided, he was still operating from a deep deficit.

Besides- this, being curled up next to her in bed, her bed, no less, tiny as it was, was fucking bliss. Maybe it was sad, that something so simple as cuddling with her was ticking off all his intimacy boxes and sending him to his happy place. But it was.

Settling down under the context of waiting for her to be ‘ready to go’ again, content to lie there in silence for a quiet moment, the in-and-out rhythm of his breath slowly syncing up with hers, still softly stroking her belly, the soothing heat of her body where skin-to-skin it melded with his, he could hear the beating of his own heart in his ears… thump, thump, thump… he could feel his eyelids begin to grow heavy. Rus fought his best fight against it, not wanting to be the first to fade out, nuzzling his cheek against hers as he stirred, the fragrance of her shampoo again filling his nostrils, his legs shifting, one ankle over hers, his white-with-grey-heel-and-toe ankle socks still on, little involuntary muscle spasms firing as sleep slowly crept over him until, finally, he succumbed to it.


Rus’ eyes shot open with a sharp intake of breath; the urgent claxon of an overfull bladder sounded in his head, demanding his immediate attention. Carefully pulling his hand from her grasp, he gingerly sat up, with a look to verify she was still asleep, before he rolled over to dismount from the bed, wincing as the springs squealed in protest. Thankfully, the bathroom was but a few steps away.

A careful shutting of the door-gently, so there was hardly any noise made by the bolt catching in the lock- before he flipped the light on… Shit, that was the switch for the fan… and quickly off again. Squinting against the sudden harshness of the light as he was successful the second go, he turned towards the toilet, shambled forward the few steps to lift the seat cover, sat down atop it, reached between his thighs to tuck Prince Valium(He maybe preferred Mars, but two nicknames in the span of almost as many minutes? Flattering, and he wasn’t gonna argue with it.) down and released his bladder. The warmth of relief washed over him with a sigh, and the hair on his neck stood on end as goose pimples formed along the backs of his forearms. “Ahhhh…Jesus…” he whispered.

Sitting to piss? Totally the right move in this situation. Eliminate the need to aim, reduce splashback, less noise as the barrier of his body would muffle the sound of the stream hitting water- it was the superior choice, tactically. Truth be told, he’d been off the ‘stand’ bandwagon since college, at least. It was a handy tool to have in the kit, of course, but given the option, particularly when the facilities were clean? Team Sit all the way, man.

Rus lingered there a moment, hunched over, elbows braced against his knees, head hung low- a king perched upon his throne.

Fuck… I could go for a smoke…

What he really wanted was to crawl right back into bed with Cass- to sleep, for now- but his addiction demanded satisfaction. He’d broken one of its cardinal rules- neglecting the post-sex cigarette- and it was not going to let him rest until he’d paid his due recompense.

…and something to drink, while I’m at it…

With a grunt, he reached down to shake himself dry… not more than twice… before standing and turning to gingerly lower the seat cover before flushing. Over to the sink, then, for a quick rinse of his hands, noting the scent of her soap, something totally Cass, not flowery or perfumed, but fragrant, earthy, natural, as he splashed a few handfuls of water on his face before using the little hand towel hung on the ring beside the vanity to dry off.



Navigating the bedroom stealthily had been easy, one of the blessings of a small space, as had been retrieving his shoes where they lie on the floor at the foot of the bed. The bead curtain had presented something of an obstacle, though he was fairly confident his slow and deliberate parting of it to pass between had been as silent as could have been expected.

With a quick survey of the room, he was able to locate his pants and underwear, lying together in a puddle of denim on the floor beside the kitchen. As he made his way towards them, he accidentally nudged something hard with his foot, sending the object rolling forward, coming to a stop as it rolled onto one of the legs of his jeans- one of the cans of sparkling water Cassandra had brought out for him to choose from.

“Score…” He whispered, bending to pick it up with one hand, jeans and shoes clutched together by the top of her heel in the other. Straightening, he set the can down on the kitchen counter, bracing his arm against it as he bent to pull his jeans on one leg after the other. Not bothering to button them, yet, belt jingling as he moved, he snatched the can of water from the counter before moving over to flop down onto one of the bean bags to put on his shoes.

Dropping his shoes to the floor beside him, he smirked, mentally noting- She was right. Pretty fluffy.- as he wiggled his butt to settle further into the ‘chair’. He lifted the can of water, tilted slightly towards him, as he flicked the little tab on the top with the hard bit of his fingernail a few times before working his fingertip under to lift it-

PSSSSSSSHHHHH! - The bittersweet sound of a shaken carbonated beverage exacting its revenge…

The can erupted in his grasp, and the middle half of his body was completely soaked in fluid for the second time that evening. Only this time it was far less pleasurable, and he was wearing something to soak up and retain that fluid.

He didn’t even fight it, that hard, not after his initial reflex to cover the top of the can with the hand that had been in the act of opening it- which only further contained the spillage to his crotch below. He sat there, arms suspended before him, little droplets dripping from the ring around the bottom of the can… thud, thud, thud… deeply regretting his last course of action.

“Fuckin’ shit fuck. Cocksuckin’... motherfuckin’...” Rus grumbled. The water wasn’t particularly cold, more room temperature at this point, but there was no way he was going to be able to wear his jeans outside in this state. Beyond the fact he looked like he’d pissed himself, it was cold enough outside to prohibit the thought of wearing them outdoors, particularly given it was not just a little stain on his leg or something, but rather directly over and radiating out from around his crotch.

“Ah… fuck me runnin’...” Rus sighed, fully popping open the can before draining it with a backward tilt of his head. It still felt half-full as he raised it to his lips, and he couldn’t help but marvel at the phenomenon where, when things were dropped, or spilled, or had leaked, somehow it had the effect of mysteriously increasing the volume of the container's contents.

“Great…” He griped, awkwardly shifting as he extricated himself from the beanbag with all the grace of a man jonesin’ for a smoke who had been delayed in his efforts to attain sweet relief by way of a soaked-through crotch. “Fuckin’ great…”

Grimacing, he surveyed the room as he hooked his thumbs into the waist of his jeans…

 

[Talon]

And that was how one Rustin Daniels ended up standing outside Cassandra Henry’s apartment at the asscrack of early morning, ‘wearing’ nothing but a ladies robe wrapped tightly around him in a pitiful(read: humorous) effort to maintain his dignity as he fed his addiction.

Robe? Jacket? He wasn’t sure of the distinction, and he would wager it had a much fancier term applied to it, but all he cared about was that it was roughly knee length. And purple, or maybe fuchsia, with this lighter, pink-ish faux-fur lining the collar and hem. There was a belt sewn into it, cinched tightly in the middle, though he wasn’t confident in it’s ability to keep the garment from flapping open, and so one hand was clutched tightly just below it, keeping it closed there at his crotch most especially, as the other held a cigarette up to his lips, his shoulders hunched, as much by the tightness of the garment there-he was fairly certain a stitch would pop if he but dared to flex- as against the lingering cold of the late evening/early morning air.

“Please, God, don’t let somebody walk by…” He mumbled, taking another hasty drag from his cigarette. “Please, God, don’t let somebody walk by…”

He’d walked a bit away from her apartment- somehow he thought that if discovered, he didn’t want it coming back on Cassandra, like, “What kind of freaks does the lady in apartment 147B have runnin’ through at all hours of the night?”- within sight distance of her door, though, as he hadn’t had the ability to lock it behind him. He was standing next to a roughly three-foot high brick wall enclosing something to do with a power transformer or something, judging by the hazard signs adorning it. He figured if nothing else, he could duck down behind it if he saw someone coming.

He wasn’t even especially concerned that someone would think he was something on the normal spectrum of weird, like a crossdresser or something, more like they would think he was some Buffalo Bill-esque serial killer freak who was on the hunt for more skin to wear, clad as he was in a ladies garment two sizes too small and a pair of hightop Chuck Taylors. That, or one of those pervert types who got off on flashing their dangly bits at unsuspecting little old ladies taking their dog out for a midnight potty-walk.

It was probably the fastest he’d ever smoked a cig- no time to savor, simply satisfying the craving- and thankfully, as far as he could tell, he’d managed to remain unseen in the process.


A gentle shutting of the front door, much as he had in the bathroom, before he secured the extra deadbolts. “Home free, baby…”

Pretty fuckin’ pleased with himself at having pulled off his little midnight escapade without discovery, Rus worked open the knot at the center of the belt of her jacket as he turned towards the interior of Cassandra’s apartment.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

For the first time in years, Cassandra slept deeply without aid.

On the surface, it didn’t seem like much - and there was no blatantly obvious indication that she needed the help. The comforter was plush; navy blue to go with her oddly monochromatic sheets (sky blue). Beneath the lingering scent of incense smoke (a perpetual note in her apartment), there were hints of sweat, whisper of lavender. Old perfume and crispness that came with regular airing out.

Really, the main clues were in the bathroom: ancient prescription bottles, the labels with faded writing and wrinkled from being damp. Nothing too serious; general pills for depression, anxiety - a long, long faded script for Ambien. At least, that was in the medicine cabinet. Tucked away in one of the drawers was the real deal; a massive assortment of gummies that were well used. That was her usual - take two before yoga for 30 minutes to give them time to work, then stumble into bed and hope that she wouldn’t be plagued by nightmares. No matter how busy she kept herself during the day, almost to the point of collapsing, inevitably there would always be some nightmare lurking at the corners of her psyche. Worse were the ones that woke her up in a dead sweat and resumed the instant she fell back asleep.

She’d tried to joke about it, “Freddy Krueger would have to retire after dealing with my shit,” but it didn’t always mask the very real toll that a lack of restful sleep had on her. Since the move, things had gotten easier. Easier to logic her way out of anxiety spirals caused by the stalker. And the occasional check in from Ryan helped immensely; he was as patient as a father holding the clumsy hands of a baby taking their first step. Once the severity of the stalking incident was made clear, any sort of casual approach was out of the window. For as milquetoast as Ryan was, he possessed a cut-throat nature that wouldn’t be out of line for the leader of a cartel.

When Rus managed to untangle himself from her, she hadn’t so much as stirred; so deep was she under that if it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of her chest, she had all of the signs of being literally dead.

At least no sleep farts, right?








When he slid back into bed, she hadn’t moved much; she’d curled up in her traditional fetal position, bunched a pillow hard under her. She didn’t move as he slid into the bed behind her.

She let him get settled, kept her breathing even. As his arms went around her again, she spoke, without opening her eyes:

“Old habits die hard. There’s no smoking in this complex; hope no one caught you.” A bit of a smirk as she settled back into him, willing to leave things be as they were.











Cassandra was a natural early riser, even without an alarm.

But now she was stuck. Did she run the risk of getting up and waking him? She had no idea if he was a heavy sleeper or not. Was there anything that she needed to do? God, what day was it?

Goth Night feels like it was centuries ago. But Thursday night. That was Thursday, for sure. I didn’t have Friday classes. Friday I met Rus again; he came over. Saturday. Today is Saturday.

…Is something happening today?

No weekend classes - that she could think of. And if there were, surely someone would’ve called her?

She managed to wriggle free, just the smallest bit, and tried to subtly inch her way to the edge of the bed. It didn’t seem as far away as it typically was; probably because Rus’s body took up a not insignificant enough chunk of it. Reaching down, she fished for her phone, half-way buried under her clothes. Shaking her camisole free from it, she looked at the display. 7:30. No missed calls; no texts. Unlocking the screen, she opened her calendar - oh, good. Nothing scheduled today except for her regular existential crisis - a weekly occurring event from 6pm - 7pm. It made her life easier to have a scheduled time to completely lose her shit - not directly after work, during rush hour, and not right before bed. It was at that sweet spot that she could still do something afterwards, and not in the middle of when everyone else was trying to get to wherever they wanted.

Leaning over the side of the bed for this long was sending tingles of protest through her right arm, and she lightly chucked her phone back down.

Okay, so…Let’s think about what happened, as she inched back to Rus, butt first. That wasn’t entirely out of…the scope of what could’ve happened. But housekeeping first. He didn’t cum - I don’t remember if there was precum. Am I even fertile right now? Probably not. But okay, I don’t want to take any chances. Not the most romantic thing in the world, but I’d rather deal with this now.

“Hey,” whispered softly against his forehead, “I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home.”





So it was the first time in her adult life that she could remember buying Plan B at like, the ass crack of dawn on the weekend, but by the look from the cashier, she wasn’t the first. At least the lady was nice enough not to comment on it.

Or the boxes of candy she bought along with it. She’d yet to find a problem that couldn’t be solved with a couple of handfuls of Reese’s Pieces. So maybe ten boxes was a bit excessive, but she was half-way asleep and had to keep pulling up on the waist band of her borrowed jeans. It was fine; Rus was asleep. He wouldn’t mind that his jeans were missing. She apparently had no compunction about showing up at the corner drug store in wet jeans and an inside out camisole with her curls flat on one side and pretty sure a tell-tale white trail of dried drool on the side of her face. We are not here to judge; we are here to exist.

With one hand on the waist band, the other hand with her sad groceries, she walked back to the apartment. It was a walk she’d made many a time, in varying degrees of put-togetherness. Common enough that some of the cashiers knew her by name; this lady she didn’t recognize, and it was probably for the best. Rosita in the Make Up section ran her mouth like it was going out of style. Nice enough lady, but Cassandra was in no mood to hear about how Tom got busted robbing the pharmacy and they had the whole thing on camera and it turned out that Leslie at the front was having an affair with that sad sack DeBarge (yes; the poor man was named after the group / last name) in Photo -

Actually, that was a lie. Cassandra always had time for the torrid goings on, but didn’t really desire to be part of the milieu, because gossip was like Nietzsche - you stare into the abyss long enough, it stares back. In this case, you listen to enough bullshit, you get caught in the story.

Anyway, who were they to judge? Cassandra never said that she wasn’t a disaster of a human being. And as she entered the apartment, she let go of the waist band of the jeans long enough to swallow a handful of the Reese’s Pieces and the pill. So what if the corner homeless dude, affectionally dubbed ‘Spider-Man’, had seen her rip open the drugs in the middle of the sidewalk? Whatever. Spider-Man was good people for the most part; he was like the neighborhood gossip / watchful old lady, and several times Cassandra had brought him food. He was homeless, but in the loose sense of the word; he’d alluded to having a place to go, but preferring to wander the streets for whatever reason. As long as he wasn’t dangerous, whatever.

Bumping the door closed with her rear, she remembered to set the bag down as quietly as possible, and shimmied out of Rus’s jeans, setting them flat on the ground to dry. Her unit didn’t have a washer and dryer, but the complex had an onsite laundry mat. She’d go by later. Right now, all she wanted to do was get back into the bed and like…veg. Try to process what had actually happened -not in a bad way- and, you know, actually get around to knowing this giant boy scout who was taking up all of her covers like the little shit said he would.

Tugging off her camisole, she got right back into bed as naked as a jaybird, and in a moment of childish whimsy, pressed the frigid bottoms of her feet against his thighs.

 

[Talon]

Cassandra’s movement atop the bed as she woke and reached for her phone brought a stir from Rus—a shifting of limbs, a quiet sigh as he settled back in—but not enough to rouse him fully. Less than half-conscious, he let out a mindless grunt of acknowledgement at her invitation to treat her home as his before slipping back into sleep.

He dreamed.

Of basketball, of all things—not that it surprised him. It was a recurring theme: high school, the glory days, when he wasn’t just good but great. The dream always played out the same way—high stakes, the final seconds ticking down, the weight of the championship game resting on his shoulders. And, of course, he’d make the shot. He always made the shot.

The dream was never about the fear of failure. It was about reliving victory—the rush, the payoff, the years of blood, sweat, and sacrifice distilled into one perfect moment.

But this time, something was different.

No two dreams were ever exact carbon copies—different opponents, different shots, variations in the celebration after he’d made it. But in this particular one, someone unexpected appeared: Cassandra.

She stood courtside, a stark contrast to the sea of fans in team-colored tees, her goth-adjacent attire making her impossible to miss. Hands cupped around her mouth, she shouted something—urgently, emphatically—but her voice was swallowed by the roaring crowd.

Rus, charging up the court, locked onto her as he drew closer. He should’ve been focused on the shot, the play, the win. But whatever she was trying to say had to be important. Important enough for her to risk breaking his concentration—jeopardizing his chance at victory.

His stride slowed. Nearing the boundary line where she stood, he slid to a stop, tucking the ball under his arm before turning to signal the referee for a timeout.

The crowd around them fell deathly silent.

Rus took a few steps closer, leaning in. His pulse was steady, but his mind raced. In the eerie quiet, you could hear a pin drop in the gymnasium.

She had his full attention now.

Cassandra, seemingly unphased by the spotlight, stood calm and deliberate as every eye—Rus’s included—fixed on her, waiting with bated breath. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter. Instead, she simply pointed, looking down, and spoke, her voice carrying through the silence, clear, steady—like she didn’t care who overheard.

“You forgot your shorts.”

Rus’ eyes widened comically, his head jerking downward-

He wore his jersey and shoes, but sure enough, from waist to ankle, he was nude. His penis, flaccid as could be, was just resting there between his thighs- one of those embarrassing “it’s a grow-er, not a show-er” moments.

Cassandra took a step closer to him and, reaching out with her hands, cupped his cheeks, tilting his head back up to bring his sight in line with hers as she cooed soothingly. “But who cares? They might be looking at him, but I’m looking at you. Do you understand?”

Rus, taking in a slow breath, nodded wordlessly as his eyes searched hers. It was as if her confidence had been bestowed upon him, and suddenly, he didn’t care that he was so exposed.

“Good…” She smiled warmly, and Rus could feel his heart swell in his chest, his embarrassing state of nudity all but forgotten. “... now go out there and win this thing. Not for them. Not for me. For you…”

She raised onto her tiptoes to press her lips to his ear, whispering. “Just be careful not to trip over those ‘old man’ balls of yours…”



Rus stirred atop her bed, his hand gliding across the comforter beside him as if searching for her and finding only open space. He sighed, his eyes slowly opening, lips smacking dryly, gathering moisture in his mouth to wet his tongue. His hand moved to scratch at his belly with a groan as he pressed his cheek against the blanket- they smelled of her, and he found it comforting. Lacking the evidence of her physical form, it confirmed this was real; he was in her apartment, having spent the night curled up beside her.

I should get up… make us something to eat. Good intentions aside, he simply couldn’t muster up the will to rise. Five more minutes… he told himself as his eyes drifted shut again.



Rus had been sleeping as she reentered, oblivious to her having even left the apartment due to how quietly she had come and gone. He was therefore caught unawares as she climbed back into bed beside him and pressed the bottoms of her feet against the tops of his thighs. Cracking open a single eye, he playfully scowled as he confirmed she was the culprit.

“...you brat.” He grumbled, voice throaty, still heavy with sleep. “I guess I should be thankful you didn’t warm them on my nuts…”

Still with just the one eye open, he reached down to tickle at the tops of her feet with wriggling fingers before she managed to pull them away as the other arm worked its way beneath her to wrap itself around her chest and tug her back into him. “Good mornin’... it is still mornin’, right?”

Content in having had his moment of retribution, Rus’ fingers abated, moving instead to join the other in wrapping around her, this one across her belly. “By the way, I wanted to say thank you for last night…”

That sounds weird, like you’re thankin’ her for sex or somethin’. Which is weird. Clean it up.

Rus cleared his throat. “...for inviting me over for dinner, I mean. Even though we didn’t end up havin’ any…” He chuckled nervously. “... but, uh, honestly, last night was, uhm…” he cleared his throat again. “... yeah. Somethin’ special. For the first time in forever… I, uh, didn’t feel… alone. Y’know what I mean?” His arms tightened around her. “Like I have my sister and my niece, and Maggie, and we all go out sometimes, and do ‘stuff’…” He scoffed. “... but it’s still lonely, y’know? Like, uh…” Rus cleared his throat a third time, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “... yeah. I dunno. I don’t want to be a Debbie Downer or anything. I just wanted to say thank you…”

She’s not your fuckin’ therapist, Rus. Chill with that ‘woe is me’ shit.

“Yeah…” There was a sort of forced ‘chipperness’ to his voice as he continued. “So, uh… eggs? Scrambled good? Maybe you could show me around the kitchen, y’know, so I don’t fuck up your ‘feng shui’ or somethin’ while I’m tryin’ to impress you with my basic-bitch ass, ‘I got a C in Home Ec’ level scramblin’ skills.”

“And for the record, I was totally serious last night about cookin’ without a single stitch on. And not because my pants and drawers are soaked, or anything, which they totally fuckin’ are…” He giggled with a scoff. “... but because I don’t feel my ass has gotten the sort of acknowledgment I think it rightly deserves.” His tone was mockingly serious, clearly intent on being playful. “Like, y’know, you think the dick is nice, well, strap in…” His arms tightened around her, his voice betraying his mirth more and more with each word. “... cause this ass is gonna hit ya’, pow… like a ton of bricks.”

His particular brand of goofiness would come as no surprise to her, of course, as it had been there from the start, from when they’d first started working together. More than just a way to endear himself to others, it also served as something of a safety net or eject button, should the conversation veer towards something he deemed uncomfortable. In this case, it wasn’t so much about his feelings towards her that he was attempting to mask. He had been quite transparent in that department, at least as far as Rus was concerned.

This was about his sister, her health, and his vulnerability around that particular topic. About how much being there for her through all of her treatment and recoveries had emotionally ground him down to a little nub. His parents had disowned him long ago, and he hadn’t spoken to them in at least a decade. His sister was all he had. Coming to grips with the thought that he could lose her had broken him, and he was still trying to put those pieces back together again.

“So whadda ya’ say, you down for some breakfast?”

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“Nyeh heh heh hehhhhh,” drawled as she allowed herself to be drawn in closer. One would even say that she snuggled back. “I’ve caught you in my fiendish ice foot trap. Escape is impossible.” As much as she could, she craned her head back to catch a glimpse of his blues before she settled back into his arms. “And yes; it’s still morning. I guess I should’ve mentioned I’m an early riser, but, I mean, I wasn’t really expecting this to happen? A small, microscopic possibility, yes, but otherwise, totally unplanned for. But speaking of ‘unplanned’ - I popped out to the corner store for some Plan B. Didn’t get condoms, though. Next time?”

It wiggled between a question and a statement - a yes, I would love for this to be a regular thing and then some but also date me please, and a, If there is a next time, let’s be prepared, but I’m not going to assume that there will be. Either way, she barreled on - or would’ve, if she wasn’t taken entirely by surprise by his…gratitude?

Sex brought up things: sudden, violent emotions (tears, usually), deep confessions - but gratitude? That was a new one for her. A mutual orgasm usually served as thanks enough, right? What a strange way to look at sex. Strange, but interesting, in a matter-of-fact way.

Before she could board that particular train of thought (and end up shuffling out of bed to throw some clothes on to get to the library for research), she connected herself back to his voice.

Wait. This is a lot.

She went still in his arms; not out of shock or disgust, but intense listening. It felt like if she even so much as breathed too hard, she’d shake the moment free, scare it off into never returning.

What was that about sudden emotions and things after sex? She was caught up in a maelstrom of emotions - empathy, understanding, disbelief - all of which spurred her to twist round in his arms so they were face to face. As best she could, she wrapped her arms around his waist, wedging one beneath his body, and pulled him close into a big bear hug. Kissed the dip in his collarbone, then, scooted back enough to look into his eyes again. She didn’t say anything for a while, just content to look at him.

“So, that’s a lot to unpack,” said warmly, “And I still, technically, owe you food.” Sealing it with a quick kiss, she slipped from the bed. “I’m gonna shower; I think I have some clothes baggy enough for you to fit into in the meantime? Or, you know, you can stay stark-ass naked. I’m not complaining.”










With a new record on the player, things were back in business. “So, yeah, I don’t have coffee, but I have tea,” she started as she scooted past him into the small kitchen. There was no way that it would’ve supported two people in there at the same time - and even if it had, she’d never allow him. Dressed in a loose gray tank top and navy blue sweats that she nearly swam in, she took a look inside of the fridge. The expectation of it being barren, given her otherwise pretty skint lifestyle, would be unfounded. Meals were cooked and organized in glass tupperware with different colored lids. Tea, sparkling water, a lone container of lemonade. Bread in there, too -

“I don’t do bacon a lot - no, not a vegetarian; just something that I like a little toooo much, so I prefer not to keep it - so breakfast is gonna be pretty simple. That work for you, big boy?” It was said teasingly. “Toast, eggs, tea, if you want it. Wait - I’m not keeping you from something, am I?”

She cut herself off, pacing out of the kitchen to get him back in her eyesight. Her brows were raised out of concern, not suspicion, though a part nagged at the corner of her stomach -

No. I’m not about to entertain that thought. I don’t think he’d mention feeling ‘alone’ if he was with someone, even if he was sleeping around. He doesn’t seem the type.

Without thinking, she retrieved four eggs from the container in the fridge; set them on the counter. A little milk, maybe if she shredded some of that cheese she got into the beaten egg…a little thyme, salt, pepper. Simple, but rich… “Well, I mean, if I am, you should at least eat before you get going. Food does a lot.”

In reality, food was one of her, if not her definitive, love language. There was’t much that she thought that couldn’t be fixed with a good home cooked meal. Something about taking the time to work through ingredients, think of a recipe, making a meal with someone in mind and what she hoped they’d take away from just sitting and eating and talking. Small creature comforts that were getting lost more and more in the present day.

“You know, you said something earlier - about being alone. I get it. Really,” she pulled kitchen utensils down, out, above, as she moved in familiar loops in the small space. Cracked the eggs with a professional deftness, then started to whisk them with a fork. “I had a stalker,” she said, not breaking the motion of her arm. “It got…really bad. I mean, really bad.” Stopped for a moment to add milk, retrieve the cheese. Started grating the cheese into the eggs, added milk - all mechanically, not bothering to watch her hands. “Like guy figured out where I lived and showed up at my doorstep bad.” Thinking about it sent ice down her spine, tightened her tongue in her mouth. “Had been sitting out there for hours. Waiting for me to come home. He..had these notebooks with him. Diaries, really, you could maybe call them. Bags of them. In them, he’d noted every single thing I’d done as Sister Sunshine. What I wore in the session. Where he thought I was shooting from. How much he loved me and how perfect we’d be together. Noted when I was on vacation,” the smallest bit of a bitter chuckle, “How he was so much better than you. He really, really, really didn’t like your addition to the videos.”

She was whisking again, cheese and herbs added. “But he’d had some sort of excuse, each and every time, and each and every time he wrote about me in more and more glowing terms. Volumes of these diaries. It started off simple enough, you know, just some random banter on social media. Parasocial stuff. You keep things vague, but you respond to things they mention specifically. Thank them with a detail that showed that you paid attention. You know, really basic things. But he got really invasive. Wanted to know things beyond Sister Sunshine. Wanted to know who I really was; wanted to meet me face to face. I let the communication fizzle out. And when I stopped replying to his messages, you know, thinking, ‘it’ll die down’, that’s when he showed up. The guy had tracked down my address by a reflection in my sunglasses in a photo I'd posted. I had no idea that he’d be at my place; it was only by the grace of God or whatever deity that I saw him before he saw me. I’d never seen the guy, but I just…I just knew, you know? I turned the corner and ran as fast as I could.”

Butter in the pan, adjusting heat. Adding the beaten egg, a bit of salt, some pepper. “I got to where I thought I’d be safe, called the police, and then I called Ryan. I only know about those notebooks because he left them with me as he was getting arrested." She suppressed a shudder. "I don't know why the cops didn't take them; I guess maybe they thought it was too much - him and these bags of notebooks. So guess who got stuck with going through them, and then having to testify about them on the stand?"

This time she did shake her head, bitterness coming back into her voice. "Lemme tell you; that was an absolute field day. Every aspect of my life, picked apart and dissected. Trying to find every single way to prove that I was a dumb slut; that I deserved whatever bad happened to me. I swear to God, if it wasn't for Ryan and some of my friends, I never would've gotten out of it alive. Good luck within bad about those notebooks, though. Turns out people can actually be so unhinged that a jury will actually feel sympathy for some random art-trash black girl with no family." A press of her tongue to the inside of her cheek. She could get into the family thing later.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

"Afterwards, Ryan got me set up with one of his friends, and…yeah, that’s why there was no more Sister Sunshine. I asked if he could go scorched earth as much as possible with all of that content. Years of work, down the drain.” She tightened her grip on her wooden spoon. “So many hours of therapy; pretty sure I put her kid through college. Then I moved - as quick as I could. All of the money that I’d set aside for my ‘Grand Plan’,” air quotes around the words, “vanished so I could get down here. It took a long time for me to get to…anything that might be resembling ‘normal.’ And if I didn’t know that Ryan knows some sketchy people, I think I’d still be in fear for my life. Even though I’m here, back in my hometown, I still find myself jumping at shadows. Wondering if there was ever anyone else like him - but was quieter about it. Someone looks at me too long in the store? If I see someone new around the apartment complex? I mean…I’ve gotten better. But I still carry a knife. And the self-defense classes helped. I’m no MMA queen, and men are much stronger than women, and you know, chances are, I could get killed, if it came to that. Weapon vs. weapon. But I figure, if I can make him hurt like hell before I go, then that’s good enough for me. He may kill me, but that fucker’ll be missing an eye if I had my way about it.”

Now it was her turn to sound chipper - though there was some actual amusement in her voice. The calmness of a woman who’d come to terms with an unfair and scary world. “I trust Ryan, I went to therapy, but every day, I have to keep doing the work. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. Work. Stuff I never thought I’d ever have to consider.”

A bang of the wooden spoon against the side of the pan to dislodge egg that had stuck to it. Checking the heat, she added a few slices of bread to the toaster, and waited. “I was young when I started ‘Sister Sunshine’, you know? Not quite a virgin, but in no way a porn actress. And porn wasn’t what I set out to do, you know. I wanted to inform - but also push boundaries of what I thought I could do, of what I thought I could experience. And in the midst of all of that, I met some really, and truly, wonderful people. Ryan has been so much to me - mom, dad, brother, agent, enforcer,” the last bit with a laugh, “And I met you. And I’m here now because of all of it, and you’re here, and I have this second chance to get to know you better. But maybe without stalkers, so much.”

A small, lopsided grin now as the toaster dinged. Plating the toast and the eggs, she held each small plate in each hand. “Soup’s on! Take the nice bean bag, and no, you still don’t have to get dressed. Eat, and we can figure out how to get you situated. I don’t have a washer and dryer in here, but there’s a laundromat in the complex that we can wash your pants in.”