Maisy

One nice thing about Blaze being so focused on publicity and fame is that one day at the SIGs is much the same as another day, regardless of whether she’s racing or not. I missed out on this the last time because we’d only been together after everything was over. It entertains me—and makes me a titch green with envy—that she’s so chill about competition that I have to check my schedule to see when she’s skating.

We’ve been here for about a week, but the true madness started a few days ago with the opening ceremony. In addition to all the practices and team meetings we both have (a lot), and all the sex (even more), we’ve managed to sneak in being spectators at a few events. Men’s luge, some long track speed skating, and even some cross-country skiing. If people are going fast, Blaze wants to see it.

Today she had heats for the 500 meter and the 1,000, and I know from maybe, possibly, sneaking glances at my phone during my own ice time that she’s not having a good go. She didn’t qualify for the finals in the 500, and got disqualified for some call in the 1,000 for something that looked like a whole lot of bullshit to me. Watching the clips after I got back, it sure didn’t look like interference to me, more like how the hell do these people not crash into each other all the time, and yet that’s kind of the nature of speed skating.

It’s tricksy in that you could have an epic skate, think you’re totally in the clear, and then get stripped of your medal or your spot in the next round because of some tiny movement one of the officials think they see on the tape. Figure skating’s not perfect, but at least you’ve got a pretty good idea of when you’ve fucked up and won’t be passing Go or collecting two hundred dollars.

I texted her a while ago that she could come over when she was finished with all her stuff, but I haven’t heard back. Clearly she doesn’t have the superstition about banging before an event that a lot of people have, but I don’t know if things will be different now that she’s in the middle of her races. Although since she’s out of the 500 and the 1,000 meter, she doesn’t have another race for a week. It doesn’t matter, really. Whatever it is she needs, I’ll try to give it to her because I’ve still got over a week before my programs start—this year the ice dancers are up first, followed by the men, and the pairs, and then finally us. I’m not crazy about being last, but what’s a girl to do? Suit up and skate when they tell you to, that’s what.

I’m about to click onto a sports site where they have all the events in their entirety and also in abridged versions so I can catch up on the women’s curling matches. I’ve got tickets to the next round, but somehow I don’t think curling is really Blaze’s speed. Mostly because it’s not scorchingly fast. Before I can, though, there’s a knock at the door, and then a thumping sound, as if someone assumed it would be unlocked and tried to bust on in. That’ll be Blaze then, because Kristie would quietly slip in her keycard.

There’s a pause and I wonder if she’s decided I’m not here because the only reason one might lock a door is that one isn’t there. Wrong. Before she can walk away, I open the door, and there she is. Showered, but toting her giant bag of stuff. Part of me glows that she didn’t bother dropping off her gear because she was so anxious to see me, even though her building is literally on the way here from where she would’ve gotten dropped off. Of course, another part of me is shaking her head because how impractical can a single person possibly be? Science should study Blaze. For a lot of reasons. Including how exactly she embodies sex. For example, what is it about the curl of her mouth at the corner, the intent look in her brackish eyes, and the way she moves that connects with such a precise part of my brain? A part which is now nudging me and at a stage-whisper, telling me I’m about to get lucky.

“I’m sorry about your events, I—” I have a whole speech prepared, life lessons and platitudes gleaned from the coaches I’ve had over the years who could actually make me feel better about having lost, but not better enough that I didn’t want to go out the next time and kick some serious bedazzled ass. Coaching is an art, and I’m lucky that Zelda has taken me on.

Blaze, with no regard whatsoever for all the work I’ve put in, cuts me off with a drop of her heavy bag to the floor—some of her red, white, and blue American team wear spilling out on the imitation wood—a couple of big strides in my direction, and then a press of her lips to mine. She threads her fingers into my hair, which is down for the moment because after a while my head starts to ache from the tight buns and all the bobby pins I’ve managed it into. It feels good to have her mouth on me, to have her push her tongue past my lips to where I can suck on it.

The small motion makes her moan, and it drives me crazy in a good way how the woman can go from zero to sixty in about 3.2 seconds. If this is how she wants to seek comfort, solace, and gather herself up for her next competitions, I’m sure not going to argue. I am however going to make sure the door is shut and locked, because I wouldn’t put it past her to have forgotten in her haste, not to mention her lack of giving a shit, if people saw us.

I envy her not-giving-a-shittedness, but I’m not there, so not there. And while I’d like her to take that into account, I don’t have any actual expectations. Maybe if we were together for longer, but I’m not going to impose my own neuroses on her when I can manage without reining her in.

Without separating us, I walk her back to where she came in, and while slipping a hand into her pants to cup and squeeze her ass, get my other hand on the door. It is not, in fact, closed, but almost. I don’t totally relax and enjoy until I hear the click of the latch and the thunk of the lock. After that, my brain lets go a bit and I can concentrate on the woman in my arms and what I’d like to do to her.

I break us apart long enough to ask, “What do you want?”

“Everything. I want everything you’re prepared to give me.”

We’ve been fucking for about a week and have gotten relatively creative, but it sounds as though she’s ready to level up and I’m happy to come along for the ride. Amongst all the practices, team meetings, press obligations, ceremonies, and everything else, we’ve managed to see each other—and yes, fine, get each other off—every day since that first night in the bar.

“Glutton.” I chase my admonishment with a bite to her bottom lip. She grins at me because she’s not sorry in the least. I don’t think she takes greedy or insatiable as insults. I doubt they’re even in her vocabulary, because for Blaze it doesn’t seem as though there’s such a thing as “enough,” never mind “more than enough.” It’s probably how she’s managed to work her way up to the upper echelons of her sport despite giving the impression that she doesn’t have much in the way of an attention span.

“If you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, now might be a good time to try them.”

Oh, do I like that invitation. Because the fact is, I’d packed a few things with her in mind, and though I wouldn’t be shy about using them, I wanted to wait for an invitation. A moment when they wouldn’t just be fun but perhaps necessary. They seem that way now, although the sleeve thing makes me snicker. “I think I can help you out with that.”

I push her away and make a stay motion, turning my back on her because I believe she will. If she wants what’s coming to her, she will, and I don’t think Blaze is likely to turn down that kind of invitation. She’s the one who was begging for it after all, and I aim to please. Please and make her writhe and scream, which seems to be one and the same for a girl like Blaze.

Deep in one of my drawers under about a hundred pairs of tights because you can never have too many at competitions, I find the things I’m looking for and bring them back to the bedside table. As I lay them out, Blaze’s eyes are glued to me, and she may very well start to drool. Perfect.

“Well,” I say, gesturing to the lube, gloves, strap-on, and condoms I laid out. “Pick your poison.”

She manages to drag her gaze away from the supplies and up to my face, and then gets ahold of herself, her face breaking into a grin. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted it all, so I think you mean where would I like to start?”

Challenge accepted.

Blaze

If anything has ever been sexier than a shy, understated girl like Maisy breaking out a pile of sex toys, I must’ve missed it. It’s not easy to blow my mind with sex stuff, because if it’s a thing, I’ve probably done it. Or at least had the option to and passed for whatever reason. On the grand scale of things, a strap-on and a kit for fisting aren’t anywhere near the kinkiest I’ve gotten, but somehow Maisy’s outward appearance and attitude everywhere except in the bedroom make it seem kinkier, more illicit, and it’s got my motor revving pretty hard. Also that she trusts me enough to break this stuff out with me. Yeah, I’m a loud-mouthed attention whore, but as far as I’m concerned, what happens behind closed doors is no one else’s business. Unless my partner’s an exhibitionist, too, in which case, I’m happy to make it other people’s business.

“So, where would you like to start?”

My mouth waters with her invitation. Where indeed? The images going through my head like the world’s filthiest flip-book are giving me all sorts of ideas, and are also rendering my baseline low patience into nonexistence.

I don’t have the patience it’ll take to let Maisy work her small hand inside me, as appealing as that is. Someday, though, because I’d kill for that view; her wrist and slim forearm evidence of what’s inside me, and if she dipped her head to lick me? Yeah, that’s going to happen sometime, just not right now.

Right now I want penetration and I don’t want to wait for it, not to mention that something resembling a dick will be fine.

“I want you to fuck me with the strap-on.” Less work than fingerbanging for her, and lucky for me, she’s not going to lose her erection and leave me looking around wondering where the fuck my orgasm is. I really fucking hate it when that happens.

A smile widens her mouth and shows her teeth. “Can do. Take your clothes off.”

Don’t have to ask me twice. I don’t need to make a meal of it because she didn’t ask me to. I can’t do a whole lot of things faster than I skate, but getting naked is one of them.

When I’m done, I stand in the center of her room, waiting for her to tell me what to do next. Maisy’s gaze rakes over me, and in this she’s not shy, not at all. I wish she had this same amount of swagger on the ice, though I don’t think that kind of strutting would earn her high marks in her performances, which is too fucking bad. Now that is figure skating I would watch. Is burlesque figure skating a thing? I would so like it to be. Badass, not the mincing sashays and prancing they seem to favor. Except for the jumps. Those are fucking awesome. I would be on my face or my ass so damn fast even if I traded in my speed skates for figure skates. The toe picks alone . . .

Maisy’s looking around the room. Other people might be annoyed about having to stand around naked, but honestly, I try to only wear clothes in polite company. Most of the people I hang out with aren’t all that polite.

Finally she makes a decision and waves me over to the desk. “Hop on up, ass at the edge.”

I’m not a short girl, nor am I a wisp like her, but the desk seems sturdy enough as I use my hands to lever up and park my butt at the edge as asked. I swing my feet and wait for Maisy to do whatever it is Maisy’s going to do. She’s delicate and elegant as she moves about the room, but always with an edge. Certainty, confidence, ease. Yep, she’s sexy as fuck.

Sexier still when she starts to strip her own clothes off, slipping off the leggings she has on, baring her strong shapely legs and her sculpted ass. Her hips are narrow, her waist a small nip in which I barely get to appreciate before she’s stripping off the baggy sweatshirt, followed by a slim-fitting and almost translucent ribbed tank. Christ, if she’d been wearing that when she’d answered the door, we’d already be panting our satisfaction on the floor.

As things are, I get to appreciate the lacy confection wrapped around her small tits which she’d probably refer to as a bra, but no effing way. That thing is only built for aesthetics, not function in any way. It is pretty, though. She’s pretty. And gets prettier when she pulls off the minty green excuse for boob support. They don’t even move, lucky bitch.

She’s slim and strong and lovely with her hair falling down past her shoulders, and I cannot wait for her to fuck me. Of course, she takes her damn time, picking up the strap-on as if she’s never used the thing—so much bullshit—and leisurely gets herself into the contraption. Luckily from what looked like a heap of straps and a purple dildo has emerged a hella fine woman with a cock I’d love to suck.

She takes a few minutes to fine tune, and it drives me wild, makes my fingers curl around the edge of the desk, sitting here, watching her. Hell, can I not wait for her to put that thing to good use whether that’s having me on my knees to blow her or her lubing it up and pushing it inside my cunt, pounding into me until she makes me come.

Maisy finishes up her adjustments, and then flashes me a smile. “Like it?”

“Yes, I do. Very much. You’re the best thing I’ve seen with a dick for days.”

Which of course makes her laugh. It’s true, though. The last few people I’ve been with have been women, and not the kind who like to make liberal use of things that can be found in sex shops and wide swaths of the internet. Honestly, I’m surprised little Maisy Harper is that kind of girl, because it’s hard to imagine her walking into a sex shop and perusing all manner of toys. But when the image comes into my head, my engine revs even harder. Maisy walking through the crowded aisles, picking up plugs and examining them at her leisure; weighing dildos in her hands to test their length, width, and heft; possibly jangling the chains that join a pair of fuzzy handcuffs or god help me, nipple clamps. Christ.

But the real Maisy I have in front of me is better than any dream Maisy could ever be, and right now, she’s strutting over here, led by her dick. When dudes do it, it’s kinda eyeroll inducing, but when Maisy does it? Fuck me. No, that’s literally all I can think of. Fuck me. So it’s what I say out loud because no one’s ever accused me of being subtle.

“Fuck me.”

She’s standing there in front of me, leisurely stroking her dick, as if she could and would do that all day. “What’s the magic word?”

“Now?”

She shakes her head and reaches out with the hand that’s not jerking the dildo, tweaks my nipple, making me yelp. In a good way. Yeah, there’s some squirming now. She doesn’t leave it at that, either, but pinches, twists, and rolls. It’s the sex version of patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time.

“Try again. And FYI, every time you sass me, you getting fucked gets further away by five minutes.”

She looks meaningfully at the clock on the wall over my shoulder, and I pinch my lips together. God, so tempting, but she’s not one of those people who just says shit. She will honest-to-god make me wait and I’m not down for that right now. I’m frustrated by my performance today. It’s not so much the losing. That happens and I wasn’t counting on a big win today. My best events are later—the ones that require stamina, not short bursts of speed. But if I can’t win, if I have to get disqualified, I could at least do it in style, in a way that’s going to get me some attention, not in some boring-ass way no one gives a shit about. If I can’t be victorious, I’d like to be notorious.

So do I have the patience for Maisy to dick me around? Or rather, not? The answer under the best of circumstances is probably not, and right now I am uninterested in foreplay. Walking into this room was foreplay, taking off my clothes was more, and the minute she outfitted herself with that cock I was a goner. So do I need more than that to get ready for her? No, and I don’t want it.

“Fuck me, please?”

Maisy nods once, crisp and determined, and grabs the lube to squeeze a bit into her palm, then slicks it on her dick, leaving it glistening in a way that makes my mouth water and my cunt clench.

“On your back, knees bent.”

I get into the position she’s asked double-time. Leaving my fingers curled around the edge of the desk, I tuck up my feet so they’re bracketed by my hands, and lean back, my legs spread wide. I don’t think I could issue a more obvious invitation than being splayed out for her like this. She must be able to see how slick I am between my own legs, how ready I am for her.

In only a few steps, she’s between my legs, and I can see why she wanted me here; the desk is the perfect height for her so she doesn’t have to be on tiptoes to screw me, she’ll be able to put her weight into it, use the leverage of the desk to thrust hard. Clever girl. And how many places did she imagine us banging before she settled on this one? Did she make a list?

Maisy grips one side of my waist while using a hand to steer herself inside me. Between the lube and my own copious wetness, it’s not a difficult slide until she’s fully inside me, and fuck all, does that ever feel amazing. Satisfying in a way that also makes me greedy. Maisy has excellent taste in cocks—one of the perks of it not being factory-direct is that you can vary the dimensions with ease. The thickness and weight is good, and it’s long enough to feel full but not so long that she won’t be able to give me a good pounding because she’s worried about punching my cervix—I like a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.

Once she’s inside, she uses her other hand to grip my waist as well and starts to rock, keeping her gaze locked on me.

“Is that what you wanted, Blaze? Happy now?”

“I will be, when you fuck me harder.”

She smiles, and I let out a gasp as she does as I’ve asked and drives hard into me. Yes. She doesn’t let up, either, but snaps her hips again and again while I hold on for dear life. I wouldn’t be surprised if the desk started moving across the floor because of the force she’s using. Luckily, the energy she’s putting into her thrusts doesn’t get wasted, but stays right inside me so I get this really satisfying pounding. Every time she pushes inside me, there’s an impact that steals my breath and I love it. Don’t even bother trying to rock toward her because my position makes that tough, but also because I think she likes looking down at me, having my body at her mercy to be pummeled, making my tits bounce on my chest. Yeah, she likes that a lot. As do I. Adds to the feeling of impact, of being outright fucked.

The more she drives into me, the higher I go, the feeling of satisfaction looming on the horizon, getting closer with every hard thrust. The pressure, the tightness, everything builds, and it doesn’t hurt that I get to watch her body above me, her abs working in these perfect contractions, her biceps tight as she grips me with her hands. It’s not so long until I’m not approaching anymore, but have finally reached the place where everything comes together, and I’m in the center of it. I knew it would be good, but not how good, not how explosive—the initial blast followed by an even more powerful second pulse like the canopy of the mushroom cloud rising up as I cry out. It’s so goddamn good, and she doesn’t stop.

I don’t tell her to, either, because if she thinks she can give me more? I’ll take it. Ride this wave of rolling aftershocks, see if I can’t get all the way to the next horizon. Turns out with her encouragement—Give it to me, Blaze, come on. Come for me again, I want to hear you again—and a bit of patience, I totally can.

If my first climax was good, this one’s better. Like it’s standing on the shoulders of the first so the drop is farther, the release bigger, my brain left more scattered, and my body rendered a puddle of twitching, clenching, raw nerves.

I’ve been shouting, mostly inarticulate noises, and a whole lot of filthy words, but trying not to say her name because the walls around here have a reputation of not being particularly soundproof. Now I’ve got to beg her to stop. I might be able to get another orgasm out of this, but I’d rather enjoy the glow, not press my taxed body into service again. At some point, believe it or not, coming stops being fun, and I don’t think Maisy would enjoy it enough to make another one worth the tradeoff.

“Mais, oh my god, you’ve done enough. More than enough. Any more and you might put me out of commission for the rest of the week. I . . . Fuck, that was good.”

She smirks at me, and I love the haughty look on her face. I’m sensitive, but not so much that it’s painful while she continues to glide in and out of me. Feels good, as if she’s trying to give me something to anchor myself to, give me a surface to slide down instead of free fall. I mean, I like that weightlessness as much as the next person—who am I kidding, I like it so much more, but at the moment, I’m grateful for the soft landing. Enjoy it even more as she covers my hands with hers and gently unpeels my fingers from the edge, weaving our fingers together before she turns my hands over and uses her thumbs to ease the tension out of my wrists, forearms.

“You’re going to need these in a bit, don’t want you to be sore.”

Oh, the things I would like to do with my hands to her. “I am here for that. Just give me a minute.”

Her expression is fond, indulgent as she continues to stroke my forearms, my hands, gently pulls at my fingers and presses the pad of her thumbs into the heels of my hands. Considerate, affectionate. Though that’s not usually something I look for in lovers—don’t really mind the whole wham, bam, thank you ma’am thing—I like it. If this is included in the cost of fidelity, I’ll pay the price.

“No rush, I want you at your best for this. You can have fifteen.”

Jesus fuck, this woman.