Maisy

I enjoy fucking athletes for a lot of reasons, but one of them is that we’ve put obscene amounts of time, money, and effort into making our bodies do crazy shit. Which leads a lot of us to think to ourselves, What else can this thing do? I think I’ll take it out for a spin. While for some people that means picking up another sport, or modeling, or getting tattoos or piercings, for some of us it means sex. And not only the bendy sex people assume gymnasts and figure skaters have, but exploring ways our bodies can give us pleasure, perhaps in unexpected ways.

Also we’ve got this inclination to push for more, better, faster, cleaner, harder. We want to amplify the shit out of everything. And Blaze? Even if she weren’t an athlete, she’d want more. Like she happened to stumble upon speed skating. She could’ve just as easily been a stockbroker who amassed millions, or a sci-fi author who’s written a hundred books, or one of those climbers who bags peaks. As long as she could keep pursuing something. Anything. Bigger, stronger, hotter, as long as it’s more.

Which is why I’ve never kept my desires secret from her. She’s done it all, seen it all, and if you somehow managed to throw her for a loop, she’d take it as a challenge, not wrinkle her nose. The last time we’d been together, we’d both been plastered for much of the time, and drunk fisting isn’t a great idea, but while she’d been fucking me with her three middle fingers, I’d started murmuring dirty things in her ear about imagining it was her whole hand, and how sexy that would be. She’d drawn back and blinked, and my heart had stopped for the split second it took for her mouth to spread into a grin that was all Yes, I would like to fucking do that. And now she’ll get her chance.

After I’ve cleaned up in the bathroom, sweeping up the stray hair and rinsing out my scissors and comb, I head back out into my room. Blaze is standing by the bed, gloves on the nightstand and with a bottle of lube in her hands that she seems to be studying.

“Looking for something?”

She looks up, completely unabashed. “Not really. Just looking at the ingredients. One of my partners has some whackadoodle allergies so it’s hard to find stuff that’s not going to bother his skin.”

One of her partners? How many are there? But that’s not really my concern as long as she’s being faithful now, and she is. She’s agreed to be anyway, and she’s given me no reason to think she’s broken that promise. It’s not as though things are going to go any further than beyond the fences of the SIG village anyhow. Unless we both make it to Trondheim next time, or end up in the same city for some other event, there’s no reason to think I’ll be with Blaze ever again. So it’s definitely none of my business to speculate about how many partners she has and what their relationships are like.

Blaze has zero artifice, so I’m assuming they all know about each other or at least know they aren’t the only one and take measures accordingly. And honestly, I can’t blame them. I can keep up with Blaze right now, but that’s likely because I’m taking on energy from the atmosphere of the SIG snow globe by osmosis. Out in the regular world, would I be able to keep up with the level of—well, everything she demands? I don’t think so.

It’s stupid to think of, but would that mean she wouldn’t want me? Always cursed to be both too much and not enough. But perhaps Blaze doesn’t see me that way. Does she think there’s a single person who could handle every last bit of her, or will she always feel as though she’s settling? Or perhaps she won’t. Maybe she’ll go along as she always has—

“How about you? You looking for something?”

I definitely can’t confess what I’ve been thinking. That kind of talk is for intimates, not fuck buddies. So I stick to the script, making a joke instead of seeking assurances. “Yes, actually. I’m looking for a girl who can work her hand into my cunt and make me come until I can’t see straight. Know anyone like that?”

Blaze smirks. “I do actually. Her name’s Tamara, she lives in Burlington, Vermont, and she—”

Before she can go on about this Tamara person—who does sound pretty fabulous, actually—I strip off my shirt and throw it at her face. “Shut up and glove up, Bellamy.”

She manages to snort out, “Yes, Your Highness,” from under the cotton and between giggles. Ridiculous woman. I love her foolishness, but I’ve now spent so much time in achingly close proximity to her—imagining while I was leaning over her and cutting her hair that she would grab my shirt, tug down the neckline, and start nibbling and sucking at one of my breasts—that I’m over foreplay. Cutting her hair and having my hands on her was the foreplay, and I want an orgasm. Or two. I enjoy penetration a lot, and to be honest, the few times I’ve had sex with guys, I’ve found them kind of . . . lacking? Even though I think they were perfectly normal-sized in the penis department. It didn’t seem like enough. Above and beyond that, men aren’t my preferred bed partners.

Blaze, though, is absolutely my jam, and she’s watching me as though I’m the best thing she’s ever seen while I walk to my bed, stripping the rest of my clothes as I go. I sit on the edge, swing my feet up to rest on the mattress and then lean back against my pillows. Our suite’s on the top floor, and because the buildings are designed to look sort of like nouveau ski chalets, we have a slanted ceiling. Kristie and I probably got put up here because we’re on the shorter side—I’d hate to see some of those six-foot-somethings hunching over in these hobbit-sized digs.

Blaze doesn’t get undressed, but stands there in the ribbed tank and leggings she’d had on while I cut her hair. She studies me from head to toe while I lie there, and the way she looks at me—is this how she makes everyone else feel? Like they’re the most scrumptious treat she’s ever been passed? As if she ordered you special from the chef and he did her one better? It’s a gift, I think, for her to see the good in everyone, to make everyone feel like their best, most magical, most attractive self when she’s with them.

It’s silly, but I’d like to think I’m in some way special to her, and if it’s because my lean, muscular build is one that she favors, then fine. I can live with that.

Once she’s had her fill of looking, she sits on the side of the bed and touches me. No warm up grazes along my arms, or any kisses. She must be able to smell my arousal, tell how ready I am for her, because she puts a hand directly on my inner thigh, and draws my leg out until my ribcage and my femur make an L shape. That hand quickly moves to right between my legs. A single finger—not gloved yet, despite what I told her, and I’m glad for the touch of skin on skin—slicks over my clit and delves back to my entrance to gather up more moisture, and returns to that small bundle of nerves to make loose circles around it, teasing me.

“I feel like maybe foreplay isn’t really necessary?”

Her kicked-up eyebrow is gently mocking, but I don’t mind.

“I had my foreplay already. Being that close to you for so long and keeping my clothes on? And yours? I’ve been fantasizing about you since you got here. I’m ready.”

Nope, no use beating around the bush, and Blaze doesn’t seem to think so, either, suddenly pressing two fingers inside me, making me gasp. Yep, that feels good. Not good enough, though. I want more, more, until she has to slow down.

“Give me three. I want your fingers, Blaze.”

She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tut at me for being bossy, but does as I’ve asked, and that’s better. A good start. I take them easily and start to move my hips, rocking up to meet her easy thrusts. Then she’s pressing hard, working those fingers deep inside until she’s in me up to her knuckles.

It doesn’t take long until I’m ready for four, feeling open and greedy because if three fingers give me so much pleasure, four are going to be even better. More of the slick spreading and stretch, feeling worked into and worked over, eventually letting the tight bud of arousal burst into the bloom of orgasm. Thankfully, Blaze doesn’t make me ask for four, just gives them to me, pulling out and pressing back in until she meets some actual resistance.

Some women I’ve been with have been almost . . . afraid of fisting? I guess the name isn’t particularly encouraging and if you’ve only seen it in cis het porn, yeah, that doesn’t look fun to me, either. More like someone’s trying to punch your uterus. No, thank you. But a slow, tender opening? Coaxing? The stretch and the pressure and the feeling of something so articulate inside of you? Sorry to everyone who likes dick, but penises are a pretty blunt instrument. Hands, though, they’re capable of so much more.

As Blaze seems eager to prove. Her thrusts have slowed, but they’re as deep as before, and the tension coils in my pelvis, making me hot and eager. My body resists her at first but then starts to give way at her patient and thorough insistence. It’s funny in some ways that Blaze has agreed to this, because faster and more direct seems to be more her style at life. But she also knows how to work hard, how to stick with something, to persist at something until she’s good enough, has as much as she can possibly get. So yes, maybe I can see why this would appeal to her. I’d bet she enjoys being on the receiving end as well. I wonder if I’ll ever get to find out.

For today, I’m the center of her attention, and that’s what it feels like as she dedicates herself to opening me up, working inside of me. That I could be worth that much to someone, that I deserve that much, that someone would forsake me for all others for any length of time because I am perhaps enough instead of both less and more than—a chill goes through me. Blaze blinks her gaze that had been fixed on what she’s been doing, to my face. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

I shake my head, but realize that weak answer won’t satisfy. “You’re not hurting me; you’re good at this. It’s just getting to the intense part, you know?”

“Oh, I know.” Blaze smiles at me knowingly, and there’s a kinship there, an understanding, ease. In this one way, we’re very similar. Unlike along any other metric. She rolls her lips between her teeth, thoughtful, maybe plotting, and then looks up at me again. “How intense do you want this to be?”

I suspect my scale of intensity is not the same as Blaze’s, but she won’t give me more than I can handle. If she heads there, I can tell her to stop and I have all the faith in the world that she will. I suppose that’s one of the nice things about knowing I’m not her one and only—someone else can fulfill her wishes that I’m unwilling or unable to. Which means I won’t feel like a disappointment. Like I’m not enough. Not how so many other people in my life make me feel. There’s always someone else on her horizon whereas I’m my parents’ last shot to get it right, and they’re not shy about letting me know exactly how short I’m falling while at the same time having gone completely out of the bounds of what they consider acceptable.

That trust and confidence in her is what gives me the ability to say, “Very. I want this to be very intense.”

Blaze

That’s my girl. I love the contrast of how delicate she looks and how badass she actually is. On the outside, she’s this insubstantial spun sugar, all sweetness and elegance, but should anyone try to break her? They’re going to find a tank underneath. A very sexually adventurous tank.

“Then sit up, get on your knees. I want your back against the slope of the ceiling.”

We could play finger-Twister to get her in the right position without me having to move my hand, but it’s getting time for actually gloving up anyhow, so I let her go to come onto her knees, which she does without arguing, and spreads her legs as much as she’s able while still keeping her back pressed to the wall. It’s a strenuous position—she has to use her core to keep this posture, and her thighs are bearing the brunt of keeping her hips hovering at the right height. That’ll make my job easier, and force her to lean on me at some point, something I suspect Maisy wouldn’t willingly do otherwise. Stubborn, aloof woman. Fiery and frozen at the same time. She drives me fucking crazy.

I could obsess over all the things she doesn’t give me or I could enjoy the things she does. I’ll take the latter because I don’t want to feel stymied.

“Good,” I say, knowing she doesn’t need my praise, but maybe she’d like it anyway? She doesn’t seem to be weak like me, always seeking approval, affection, attention, reassurance that I fucking matter. Validation. No, she seems perfectly content to be self-contained, only letting people in who she really has to. I will take advantage while she’s willing to let me be one of those people. “Now the fun can really start.”

I snap the glove on my right hand and take up the lube, slicking some over the latex, and start off a step behind where I left off. Fisting takes a lot of patience, and I’m going to do this—her—right. I want her leaving Denver dreaming about how good it felt having my whole hand inside her.

Three fingers are easy, four not much harder, and I press my knuckles against her inner walls, stretching and spreading gently, getting her prepared for me to fold in my thumb and keep pressing. It’s in some ways like kneading dough. Her flesh is supple, strong and resilient all at once, and it’s mine to shape, mine to manipulate.

“Do you want to come before I’m all the way in? After? Both?”

“Both, of course.” Girl after my own heart.

I use my other hand to brace her pelvis against the angle of the ceiling, and thumb her clit in the small rough circles she seems to favor. It’s not long before her hands are on my shoulders and her head’s dropped forward, her breath coming in pants. She’s so pretty like this, and sexy as hell as she works her cunt on my hands. Not shy, she’s going to take what she wants from me. Plus, she’ll get wetter when she comes and that’ll be even better than the lube to help get that inconvenient thumb knuckle and heel of my hand into the promised land of Maisy Harper’s hot, slick pussy.

The angle’s doing its job, too, forcing her to lean onto, into me, and gravity’s bringing her weight to bear on my hand, my wrist. This was a good idea, and I hope she thinks so. Right now, though, she’s consumed with her race to orgasm. Fine with me. She doesn’t need to know my plot, maybe better if she doesn’t, because I don’t know that she’d rest her forehead on my shoulder as she’s doing now. The pressure, the feeling of her breath that wafts through the thin cotton of my tank makes it so that my skin is ridiculously hot, and I suspect if she reached a hand into my leggings, she’d gasp with delight at precisely how wet I am. I can tell with how heavy my pelvis feels that my blood is pooling there, making my labia puffy and swollen, and my body’s getting ready for sex, penetration by slicking the path, practically an invitation: fuck me.

But the party I’ve RSVP’d to is between Maisy’s legs that are starting to show some strain. Trembling.

“Let go, Mais.”

She makes a helpless desperate noise and rolls her forehead against my chest, a gesture I’ll take as affectionate. “Can’t.”

That single word, reeking of vulnerability makes blood roar in my ears. “Yes, you can. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s not going to hurt because we’re being careful. You’ll be brave for a little bit, and then you can take a break with my whole hand inside you. Won’t that feel good?”

She nods against me, grips my biceps, her breath coming harder.

“Then come on. I’m going to make you come right here and again when I’m inside you. Got it?”

“Yes.”

She rocks and pitches her hips, working my hand deeper with every buck and I keep up my thumb’s work on her swollen clit. I can tell she’s almost there when her movements become more insistent but erratic. “Yes. Come on. I want to feel you. Hear you. Sink your teeth into me if you want, let me know how you feel.”

Now she’s making tiny half-moan, half grunts as she sinks onto my hand a fraction of an inch with every push. And with a sound that feels both surprising and inevitable, she’s pulsing around my hand, her teeth clamping around the meat of my trapezius. The noise is muffled by my flesh, but the vibration of it is powerful, the pitch desperate. Christ, she’s hot.

It’s while she’s rocking out the rest of her climax that my hand slips fully inside her and she gasps before biting me again.

“Fuck. Christ. That, ngh, I . . .”

I extract the hand I’d been using to manipulate her clit out from in between us, and wrap an arm around her waist, gathering her as close as I dare, kissing below her ear, inhaling the scent of her. Sweet oranges, yes, but also the things she used to wash my hair, plus an overwash of effort, of human body at work, and yeah, sex. “Told you so.”

Her laugh shakes her ribcage. “I never had any doubt, but I needed . . .”

“A little something?”

“Mmm.”

She lets me hold her for a while, and I marshal my patience. All I want to do is make her come again. Want to give her more pleasure, make her lose herself for a moment, but this sweeter seeking of my body will do for now. Also, the way my hand feels inside her, even encased in latex. Warm, held, possessed. We belong to each other, even if it’s only for this one moment. That’s what this whole thing is about, though, right? These are the few moments in time that we get, that we cling to.

After a minute, she leans back, a watery smile on her face. “I’m kind of exhausted, but I’m not done yet. You promised me both, and I’ve only gotten one. Can I brace my hands on your shoulders?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I’d like that, us pressing away from each other while at the same time seeking support. It’s an apt metaphor for whatever it is we’re doing.

Her legs are shaking on either side of my forearm, and yes she’s stubbornly insisting that she wants more. Is there any wonder I feel as though we’re two peas in a sex pod? Wait, that’s gotta be a thing, right? A sex pod? Should totally google that when this is over. For now, though, she’s ordered something and I’ll deliver. I’m the USPS of orgasms. Rain or shine, sleet, snow, or wind, I will deliver climaxes.

The color in her cheeks is high, but the exhaustion in her eyes is receding, replaced by the glint of desire. More, more.

“Could you do something for me?”

“Anything.” I say it without hesitation, because whatever she asks, she can have with very few exceptions. Like my skates. That might be it.

“Get yourself off while you’re getting me off.”

“Can you, if I’m not fingering your clit?”

She cocks her head, thoughtful, and I have to wonder if she looks the same when her coach asks if she pull a difficult combination. Sure, it’s the same kind of feat. Orgasming with only vaginal penetration and doing a fancy-ass double toe-loop, triple axle thinger, or whatever it is.

“I think if you angle your wrist . . .” I tip my forearm into her and when she gasps, I think we’re off to a good start. “Like that. Yes, like that. I think I can.”

Yep, the little engine that could . . . orgasm. To keep up my end of the bargain, I slip my hand under the waistband of my leggings and into my underwear, finding the space between my legs predictably wet. Yes, this has been very hot and is about to get hotter. I use my own middle finger to circle my clit and make eye contact with Maisy once I’ve started the rhythm that’s going to bring me off. She rocks against me in a complementary way, and it’s all bordering on too much, exactly the way I like it.

I work myself as she works on me, and it’s not so very long until I’m on the edge between the feel, the smell of her, and my own expert touch.

“I’m close, Mais. Are you?”

“Mmm.” Her fingers dig into my shoulders, and we’re bracing ourselves against each other while we thrust. Hips rocking, backs arched, so many fingers, so much slick heat, a to-die-for amount of small, pleading noises and the slick sounds of women making love, and suddenly I’ve found it, and my core starts to clench. The rhythm, the pulse of it is strong, and I lean into her hands pressing at my upper arms. It feels aggressive in a way, as if we’re both trying to prove ourselves, but also supportive because we’re strong enough for each other. Held and challenged all at once, and in the middle of my orgasm, Maisy cries out her own release and instead of fading out, my climax doubles in strength for a few beats with the sound. So sweet, so satisfying, and god yes, so fucking sexy.

Get bored with her? Not a fucking chance.