Blaze

Maisy. Maisy Harper. Maisy in my room, Maisy in my bed, and so goddamn soon, Maisy in my mouth.

She’s stalked over to my bed, but not like a giant or a dude would stalk. More how a leopard would stalk its prey. But she’s better than a leopard, and she knows it. It’s as if she’s a leopard who is so damn certain she’s going to get what she wants, she turns her back on her prey and is waiting for it to follow her—which I do, oh yes, I fucking do. She wants to rake me with her claws? Sink her teeth into my throat? By all means.

Maisy gestures me onto the bed and I go without comment or complaint. It’s nice, in a way, even as it’s frustrating. I don’t need to impress her, I don’t need to mouth off, I don’t need to beg for attention because I already have it, but sometimes that leaves me wondering what exactly I can do for her. She doesn’t want me for the reasons so many people often do.

Which is made blindingly obvious as she turns her back on me to strip, ignoring the alluring pose I’m in. After so many photo shoots, you bet your ass I know how to show off my body to its best advantage. I look like a fucking cover model, because I’ve been one. She pays me no attention at all as she strips off her sweater, the shirt underneath, and goddamn her, a completely unnecessary bra.

Yes, it’s been four years, but I remember Maisy’s body like I was with her yesterday. Possibly because I totally got myself off while thinking about being with her yesterday. Have most days since our binge on debauchery four years ago. Her tits are small, but delicious, with these tight brown nipples I could lick and suck, and yeah, bite all frigging day if she let me. She wouldn’t, because Maisy likes people to have some goddamn control, herself most of all.

Did she wear a bra because she always wears a bra and she can’t imagine going out in public without one? Or did she wear it because it’s pretty, a lacey thing in pewter grey? Regardless, she doesn’t do a strip tease with it, doesn’t fling it at me, though I’d fucking put it to my nose and smell it because it’s been lucky enough to be against her skin for hours. It’ll have that sweet satsuma smell, be warm from her body heat. Thinking about it is making my mouth water.

She bends down to zip off her boots and then straightens to shimmy out of her jeans, and then she’s standing there, all slim and strong and perfect except for a bruise blooming on her thigh. She fell. I can’t be worried about it. If athletes freaked over everyday bruises like that, we’d never put aside the coddling long enough to fuck. Or to do what it is we were meant to do. Skate. The skating’s for later, though. Right now it’s the sex.

Her underwear that matches her discarded bra clings alluringly to her ass as she bends once again, this time to roll down her knee socks—fuck it all, the woman is wearing knee socks—and I want to ask her to keep them on. How delicious would she be in some thigh highs? Silky thigh-high stockings, a satin or brocade corset, and no underwear? Put a crop in her hand and I’d follow her anywhere. Not that she needs any of that to make me drool over her, but I wouldn’t be sad. Would Maisy do that, though? Play dress-up? Or is she so very straitlaced that she’d be self-conscious and it wouldn’t be fun for her? I’m not going to ask her to keep the socks on, though I do make a note to ask her about the possibility of thigh-highs for later. This right now is her show, and she can run it as she sees fit. Which at the moment involves hooking thumbs into the waistband of her underwear and sliding them over her barely curved hips and thighs. The sight of her bare ass, and as she bends down an enticing glimpse at her core, which I could swear is swollen and slick already—have mercy on my soul—makes me bite my fist.

Bare. She’s bare, the better to lick her, taste her, bury my face between her legs and make use of my mouth. And because she needs a finishing touch, she grabs the elastic holding her ponytail back, pulls it from her long locks, and shakes her hair like she’s in a shampoo commercial. She ought to be; I’d buy that shit by the gallon.

Finally she turns, setting her small hands on her hips, and gives me the pleasure of her gaze. She smirks, and I realize I’ve still got my fist in my mouth. I’d be embarrassed, but what for? She knows I’m a sexual creature, knows I want her, knows some of the plans I have in mind for when I finally get her. No secrets here. It’s not a cruel smirk, though my cunt tightens with the thought about if it were. Christ. There aren’t many people I’d crawl for, let myself be humiliated for, and enjoy every goddamn second of it, but I wouldn’t mind being tortured by Maisy.

“Still got a bit of an oral fixation, I see.”

I sink my teeth into my hand harder before nodding and letting go, showing her the teeth marks. Her eyes glint as her smirk spreads into a grin.

“You do that while I’m sitting on your face and we’re going to have a serious talk.”

A garbled noise escapes me because words aren’t my strong suit in the first place, never mind when Maisy’s replaced every thought in my brain with sex. Any flirtatious eloquence I might muster when I’m doing press or picking someone up in a bar or wherever else has gone out the window, and I can only think of one thing I want to do with my mouth.

Thank god she doesn’t make me wait, but shoves me onto my back with a firm grip on my shoulder, and there’s absolutely no ceremony before she’s straddling my chest, using her hands for balance against the wall, and ordering me to shift down.

She doesn’t need to ask me twice.

I fling the pillow aside, scootch until I think my mouth is about where her pussy’s going to end up when she sinks down. I reach for her ass, fully expecting her to tut at me and tell me to sit on my hands because I’m going to make her come with only my mouth, but she doesn’t. Maybe she’s cautious because this is perhaps pushing it—push me—for a first time after four years. I wouldn’t mind, but I’m also not going to argue against getting my hands on her.

Smooth skin, muscles like steel cables underneath, and I’m careful not to dig the pads of my fingers into where she’s bruised. Maisy’s never struck me as much of a masochist—aside from being an athlete, anyhow. That in and of itself is asking for punishment.

I don’t dare guide her, but let my hands be pressed down. My elbows meet the mattress as I cup her butt and finally, finally, I get to smell her up close. It’s that satsuma smell mixed with the musky scent of desire, sex to be had, and when my tongue gets to connect the dots between what my brain is anticipating what she’ll taste like and what she actually does, it’s so good, I groan, and flex my hands.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of all the coming debauchery, and then set to work as she lowers herself farther. Enough to make me feel trapped underneath her, utterly at her service and her mercy; not so far to suffocate me, and leaving room for me to maneuver to please her. Which I start to. Beginning at the sweet crease between her thigh and her cunt, I lick, kiss, and softly bite, taking the bare and swollen flesh between my teeth and applying pressure, working my way toward her clit.

It’s not hard to know when I find it, because she lets out a gaspy “Yes,” and rocks her hips, pressing herself harder against my tongue. So I lap with broad, flat strokes, tease with narrow glancing licks, suckle and bite until she’s downright grinding herself against me, and my whole world is her. Any part of me that’s not in contact with her, that isn’t experiencing her, may as well not exist. She floods my senses, and while it’s difficult to hear with her thighs bracketing my head, I can make out her words.

“God, yes, Blaze. That’s it. Right there. Suck me, sweetheart, come on.”

I’m no one’s sweetheart, but hell if I don’t want to be hers, especially at this very moment, so I do as I’ve been told and take her clit into my mouth, nibble and suck, tongue and worry at her with my teeth until she’s gasping and she gathers up a handful of my hair in a fist and holds me there, riding me for all she’s worth. It is in no way polite, and I love that I’ve made her forget herself so completely that she’s abandoned all pretense of being made of elegance and modesty. Nope, right now, she’s relishing my mouth on her cunt, so much that I swear she’s banging an open palm against the wall. Sorry, not sorry, neighbors.

After what seems like a delicious eternity of working her with my mouth, she starts to make these short, hiccuppy sounds that tell me she’s close, oh so close, and I hold her even tighter, not controlling her speed or even trying to, but holding on for dear life. My own hips have started to buck, mimicking hers, and my own internal muscles clench in wanting. But Maisy’s going to get hers before I get anything at all, so I spend a few more perfect seconds suckling at her hard and then I’ve got her. She lets out a cry and holds perfectly still for a long second, and I can feel it, the pulse of climax taking her over. When the first beat is through, she starts her rocking again, scoring every bit of her orgasm, riding it out on my face, and Christ, it almost makes me come myself. Almost.

I let her do what she will, use me until she’s gleaned every ounce of pleasure she can, and then, thighs shaking, she rolls off me, wedges herself between my body and the wall.

“Fucking single beds,” she mutters, and it makes me laugh. Prissy Maisy Harper has a mouth like a merchant marine in the minutes leading up to orgasm, and a precious few afterward. I shift a bit to make as much room for her as I can without falling out of the narrow bed myself. Luckily, she’s a wisp of a thing so we can lie side by side without having to cuddle, which isn’t so much a thing we’ve done. Wake up with tangled limbs after a long night of getting each other off? Absolutely. A little affectionate stroking after an energetic fuck? Sure. But cuddling is a strong word, and we’re both spent. Okay, she’s spent, and I need a breather after that marathon mouth-fucking. And in the not-so-distant future, I’m going to need to get off one way or another, because you could probably stick a spigot in me and the horniness would come pouring right out. My whole body is humming with it, feeling hot and swollen and desperate. God, so desperate. Especially when she stretches her lithe body out like a cat’s and sighs her contentment. That’s all well and good, but in a few minutes, I’m going to need those claws.

Maisy

I thought I’d remembered what a good lay Blaze was, but I’d remembered wrong. She’s better, god, so much better. That was the best orgasm I’ve had in . . . fine, since the last SIGs. The tension that’s been coiling in me for years, and in particular for the past few months, winding tight for the past few weeks, and squeezing me like a boa constrictor for the past few days has all unwound . . . onto Blaze Bellamy’s insanely talented tongue.

Wow, does it seem unfair that a person can be a world-class athlete and really fucking good at giving ladyhead, but some of us are just lucky. Me, for example. For getting to have Blaze all to myself in my bed. Fine, her bed. Doesn’t matter, don’t care. I could really use a nap.

I think I do, in fact, fall asleep, because next thing I know, I’m opening my eyes with groggy blinks, still feeling like jelly loosely sculpted into human form. My hands are above my head and feel like disembodied lead. I’ve been here long enough for them to have fallen asleep. Poor Blaze. She must be—

Shift. Shift.

Tiny movements beside me, the kind that a person might make if they’re desperately horny but trying not to wake their bedmate up. That might’ve been a little cruel. She really didn’t have to wait for me to wake up. I would’ve understood, maybe even have been flattered if she’d insisted that I get her off before I collapsed, although I think she’ll be happy with the result. I won’t be anywhere near falling asleep when I go to work on her now, which is what I fully intend to do as soon as I get the feeling back in my hands. Going to need those.

So I do my own shift, shift, languid stretch, pretending not to notice that she’s conscious. She’s so much fun to tease. God knows she’s teased me enough in the past several months, though she wouldn’t even know it. Every magazine shoot, every press appearance, every new scandal she’s stirred up, god, everything. I’ve had my eye on her, and every time I see her, my hands have itched for the feel of her, my mouth’s watered for the taste of her, and yeah, my pussy has clenched with the memories of exactly how good she is in bed. It’s maybe a titch unfair to take that out on her now, but all’s fair in love and smoking hot girl sex.

When I’m ready, I turn onto my side, and Blaze is lying there, her hair bright and unnaturally red spiking out over the bleach white pillow. It’s too long. She’s trying super hard to look serene, but serene fits Blaze like an elephant fits in a shoebox. Never going to happen, shouldn’t even try. But I’ll take it, because she’s trying so hard. Like a puppy you’re attempting to train who is technically sitting but is basically wagging with her whole body. Yes, I might torment her, but I’d never intentionally make her wait so long to get hers. But maybe now that we can be together for the duration—and by “duration” I mean duration of the SIGs—I can toy with her. For now, though, she’s been a good girl and I’ll reward her accordingly.

I lever up, get on my knees, and press the soles of my feet and my back against the wall. Blaze keeps her mouth shut but looks at me with a question on her face. Pretty isn’t quite the word for her, but I like that’s she’s not delicate. She can’t be and kick the kind of ass she does, and I like that she can butch it up, and god help me for getting myself off as much as I did when she did a fashion spread in an entertainment magazine about dressing dapper for women. High-waisted tweed pants, a button-down shirt that must not have closed quite right because it was open over a thin ribbed tank, her breasts hugged by suspenders of all things, and topped off by a newsboy cap.

I’d wanted her so bad, I’d almost broken my rule and contacted her. But stupidly, hadn’t. Held back by not knowing if she’d want me, also not really having the time to go to her if I did, and worst of all, letting my parents’ voices sing loud in my head.

In some ways them being so repressed makes it easier on me—we never talk about sex, so I don’t have to hear about how that’s another way I don’t fit into the template they’d made for me. I keep the few partners I do have on the down low because it wouldn’t matter if I’d met the most perfect and wonderful woman on the earth—they wouldn’t like her. And they really wouldn’t like Blaze.

No time for regrets, though. What it’s time for is sinking my fingers into her and attempting to make her come half as hard as she’d made me.

“Head that way, hips in my lap.”

She gives me a wut look, but doesn’t ask for clarification, merely scrambles to do what she thinks I want when I cock an eyebrow at her. Smart girl.

For someone so adept at using her body, she’s not graceful getting into the position I’ve asked her to, but it’d be hard for anyone in the best of circumstances. Finally, she’s got her legs spread over my lap, her ass snugged between my thighs, and her fingers laced behind her head.

I shake my head because she’s so damn exquisite. How does a girl get abs like that? I mean, I know the answer: hours upon hours, days heaped upon days, month after month, year following year of busting her ass, but I suspect even if we followed exactly the same training regimen that I could never shape my body into something like this. Not that she’d seemed to mind earlier.

Resting my hands on either side of her waist, I stroke the muscles, steel under the silk of her skin. They clench under my touch, rippling with power and her legs tighten in a grip around my thighs.

“That tickles.”

“Don’t care.” I do, very much, and if she’d asked me to stop, I would, but she didn’t. I think she enjoys being toyed with some. She lies there with about as much patience as she can muster while I touch her, sliding my hands over her stomach, up her ribcage to thumb and pinch her nipples before gliding back to those ridiculous thighs of hers, all the way down to cup her calves and caress behind her knees with a couple of fingertips, a move that makes her mewl and squirm. I could be nice, get it over with, but I don’t want to be nice right now. I’ve been waiting for this, and if she changes her mind tomorrow and decides she wants to fuck half the SIG village, well then, I’d like to know I took my best shot at getting my fill.

Up and down, up and down, touching her wherever and however I please, making her muscles bunch and flex, her hips bucking and rolling, pleading with me to pay attention to the promised land between her legs.

Not. Yet.

I can tell by the swell and strain of her biceps that she must be gripping her hair in fists behind her head. That or digging her short nails into the back of her skull, and yet she keeps them there without me even having asked. I like it.

I like, too, her breathlessness, the way she pants and gets red high on her checks. Nowhere near the shade of her hair of course, but edging closer with every minute I torment her. Her eyes—when they’re open—are a brackish greenish-blueish-brownish and glossy with frustrated desire. Which might explain her reaction when I finally deign to slip a finger over her clit.

She jerks as though I’ve electrocuted her and her eyes fly open, and out of her mouth comes this incredible noise. Not quite orgasmic, but damn close. My touch is both a reprieve and a foil, and the sounds she’s making seem on the verge of sobs. Music to my ears, making this incredible woman feel this much, and having her beg me to make her feel more. Always more. Blaze is a bottomless pit, and I’m suddenly struck by worry that I’m not up for the weeks of this I’ve signed up for. What if I’m not enough for her?

For as much as I’ve been told I’m too much—to quiet down, to not draw so much attention to myself, to keep bits of myself under wraps entirely—I’ve also been told I’m not enough. If I insist on making a spectacle of myself, at least I could have the decency to be the best. Trophies and medals line the walls of my parents’ house, but not the medal. Maybe this time?

But that’s a worry to have later. For now, I’ll do my best to fulfill the promise of the teasing I’ve been doing for the past half an hour, and break open the dam that I’ve been building the tension behind.

I edge my finger back to gather up some moisture, slick it back over that swollen and sensitive part of her until she’s clenching her eyes closed and biting her lip, pressing her hips toward me because she wants more, so much more.

“Greedy thing,” I say, and it breaks her.

She smiles, arching her back. “You know it.”

Which is when I move from teasing her with the slick glide of my fingers over and around that tight bundle of nerves to the entrance to her very core, which is so tight, hot, and wet that I can’t help but shudder. Heaven. That’s what Blaze Bellamy’s cunt is like. Christ. Makes me want to bury my head between her legs right now, but I’ll save that particular pleasure for later. Don’t want to be a copycat, and besides, I know how Blaze feels about penetration. She feels damn good about it, evidenced by the way she’s thrusting her hips toward me, trying to get my fingers deeper inside her. Two’s not going to cut it so I add a third, and she makes one of those sexy - as - hell noises that’s a heady mix of you’re-giving-me-untold-pleasure and I - want - more. Lucky for Blaze, I’ve got two hands.

With the one I’m not using to thrust into her, I place the heel on her mound and apply pressure.

“You fucker.”

I should be insulted or at least chastise her, punish her by taking the contact away, but I don’t feel like it, so I laugh.

“You think it’s funny?” she gasps, working herself on me, and it’s really . . . aggressive. I want to fuck her harder and I’ve got some ways how, but we’re in this too deep—heh—so an epic fingerbang it’ll be. Next time I’ll plan better.

The way she’s writhing on my lap is unseemly, and the rudeness of it makes me hot for her all over again. I’d thought she’d burnt all the desire out, but it’s stoking again.

“I fucking hate you.”

It’s a funny thing for a girl to say when she’s working herself on my fingers, but I don’t think she’s entirely lying. I might hate me, too, if our position were reversed. They’re not, so I get to tease. “Pfft. Darling, I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

“Which is . . . part of why. I fucking hate it when people are better at getting me off than I am at getting myself off.”

I could tell her to add her own hands, because four hands are better than two, but I want to prove myself, show her exactly how right she is. I can blow her mind, and I don’t need any help at all. All I need to do is turn my hand until my palm’s spread over her pubic bone, and I can circle her clit with the pad of my thumb, and then her head is pressing back into the mattress, her abs working, working, and Jesus. She’s an outright cacophony. Loud, brash, insistent, the colors of her, and her language. If a person could work more F-words into conversation I’ve never heard it.

“Fuck, Maisy, fuck. God, yes, fuck. Fuck me like that. No, harder.”

Next time, next time. But seriously, I’m going to have frigged her so hard for so long I’m going to give myself carpal tunnel. Awkward to explain to my trainer . . .

For all her long and rowdy trip, nothing compares to when Blaze reaches her climax. She comes like she’s in a movie. If it were anyone else, I’d worry it was fake, but with her, it’s not out of character. Everything about her wants to be first-page, above-the-fold, so why shouldn’t that include announcing to the SIG village at large that she’s having the world’s most epic orgasm? Pieces of me war over how to feel about this.

On the one hand, there’s the pride, pleasure, and satisfaction to be found in the fact that it’s me giving this to her. Me, Maisy Harper. On the other hand, I can’t help the embarrassment flooding me, a secondhand flush of my cheeks because, oh god, people can hear her and what are they going to say about me.

Keep your head down, do your job, fit in, and don’t call attention to yourself. Don’t be different, and for the love of god, if you have to be exceptional—please don’t be exceptional—then make up for it in all other things. When I’d told my parents I was queer, that I liked girls, my father had accused me of wanting more attention, and of being a narcissist. So I’ve kept the whole thing quiet, only escaping into self-indulgent debauchery in the safest of circumstances and not letting it leak into the rest of my life. That effort to be reserved is what earned me the title of Canada’s Ice Princess because the press thinks I’m frosty for not answering any questions about my personal life. Really, I don’t want to suffer for it. I try, in fact, to make up for it by being quieter, more polite, more proper, ever more modest in some kind of penance.

After this, I’m going to have my work cut out for me. The soft footfalls of walking might call too much attention to myself. Breathing, for god’s sake, because Blaze has finally freed her hands, and is using one to push my fingers even harder, farther inside her, and the other scrabbling at my knee and thigh, attempting a grip she can’t quite find as she rocks out the rest of her orgasm.

God is she hot, but also . . . like looking at the sun, and here I’ve forgotten to filter her in any way.

Finally her kinematic body has come to a rest, except for her heaving torso and the hand that’s flopped above her head. I give her clit one last soft stroke that makes her shudder, and then withdraw my hands from her, resting them on her thighs. I’d like to get up, go hide in the bathroom, make myself scarce, not only from her but from the world at large. Can’t do it here, though, because this is her room, and can’t really do it at all for the next several weeks because being on the SIG team requires a certain amount of public engagement. When the voices start to get too loud, I can silence them by saying it would be far more noticeable, bring way more attention, if I deliberately avoided all media and all public appearances. The press and the public have learned anyway that getting anything beyond the most basic engagement out of me is akin to squeezing blood from a stone.

Blaze scoots herself back, her butt settling onto the mattress, and closes her legs, dropping her knees to one side and then curving around like a comma until her head is resting by my knee. She doesn’t touch me, but lies there, quiet for once in her life. My legs have started to feel the fact that they’ve been tucked under me for a good long while, so I stretch them out, lean back against the wall. The games have begun.