The Game

I thought about her for days after our first meeting, the way she breathed when I touched her, and how her body felt against mine. I contemplated seeing her again, anticipating–almost salivating remembering how she had pulled my hair–yet also put off by her; and our first date. She gave me nothing of herself, which in a weird way added to the allure, she didn’t fall victim to my ways. Who is this person? I have to know more. Why couldn’t I get what I wanted—information–from her?

I shower, wondering if I’m going to show up for the impromptu invitation to join her. The way she talks—like it’s nothing–messes with my head.

“Man plans aren’t happening. Getting a beer. Want to join me?”

Like she’s just thrown a lasso around my wrists. I’m struggling. She has the power.

It feels like an afterthought, in fact it is an afterthought, her boys’-night-out fell through, I want to say no out of spite but can’t.

“Maybe, let me think about it.”

It’s a tired Friday, soaked with rain. I make the decision to go, the ache in my center is too strong, she has a pull, a force over me, and damn if I don’t hate it. I have an attitude, pissed that her inner bad-boy has won because it’s a game for me and I’m always playing. Hmmm. And she’s casual, so nonchalant, and this fucks with me but I know she wants me; it was all over her face like I want to be—leave my mark, an unmistakable trace.

I find her with a beer. I sit close, but cold—like I don’t want to give off any warmth, she needs to earn it first. I’m not sure what I think of her other than I’m drawn in and can’t say no. She kisses my cheek. The same eyes, deep, intense, the colors, they change with the light and with her intentions. When she kisses me they darken and sear like a powerful message: I want to throw you down hard and press my lips all over you, but I will wait, and you, my prey, will also wait.

The waiter approaches, her breasts brush against me as she turns away, a gentle reminder of what’s under her masculine clothes. She’s a paradox, and one I want to explore, turn inside out and discover. I want to hold my palms out an inch away from her nipples, threatening, teasing, but I keep my hands to myself, nervous fingers fidgeting.

“ You ladies doin alright?” She looks over at me. I smell her in the air when she looks back. My eyes tighten, inner thighs burn. “ We’re ok right now, thanks.”

We talk a bit but not a lot, no need really. We exchange looks, making each other laugh, and wet. She reaches her hand over resting it on the curve of my lower back and pulls me in closer and then just stops and looks at me. I feel the warmth of her hand on my body. I want it under my dress.
We are comfortable yet unfamiliar. It is intense, and yet tame in the worst way. She won’t kiss me. I’m tortured, burning and civilized.

I ask her, “Is this considered our second date? She shakes her head, and says, “No, I told you I owe you a re-do.” I stare at her “Well isn’t this a re-do?” Eyes pleading that it isn’t. She laughs at me and kisses my face. “You’re adorable.” “Adorable?” “Yes, adorable.” I’m turned on by words.

“You’re sexy,” I tell her. She smirks. Things are getting real. I need to take back my power. My eyes search; I grab her by the forearms placing each hand slightly up my dress, one on each thigh. Now I have her, like the opening of a window, I can breathe again.
I try asking questions. She won’t answer. She never does. I hate this.

I have an idea.

“Do you want to go to my car?”

“God yes.” She says.

We get the check. It’s still raining. We run—puddle jumping, laughing—to my car.

Inside, the windows fog without much effort. Summer rain forms steam, warm bodies, blood moving, pupils widening, alert breasts, the two of us, alone.

She’s in the passenger seat. I hold the throne.

I climb over her and reach my hand around to recline the seat.
She is silent and watchful. She is mine.

I straddle her lap, “Is this what you want?” “Uh, huh.” She says.

The sound and smell of hard rain, my mouth inching towards her, hips thrusting down and forward. I pause feeling her thighs under mine; sweat beading at the base of my spine, I’m holding her by the hips. She grabs me by the back of my neck. I loose my breath. She pulls me in and with loud, moan-filled kisses, rapid breathing and upward motions.

She stops to catch herself. I laugh, “What’s the matter? Am I too much for you?”

“Fuck No.” She says, hands around my face. “Are we going to just keep making out in the car like teenagers, or do I ever get to be an adult with you?”

“You’re going to have to wait,” I tell her, smiling, amused with myself.

She groaned. “You’re having too much fun. You’re ridiculous.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm. I like playing with you. When do you want to play again? I have to go soon.”

She reaches up, squeezing my nipple tight between her fingers, kissing me violently as she purses her lips together making a hissing sound. I go weak. She’s on top.
I’m scared. How does she do this to me?

“Get out. I have to go.”

“ Then get off me.” She says.

I kiss her once more, soft and intentional, inhaling as to pull her in; and then move back to my seat disturbed.

She leans over, kissing my ear. “Goodbye, Darlin.”

“Goodbye, Handsome.”

She opens the door, walks away and doesn’t look back.

I sigh–fucked up over her–and drive.

I’m in bed now, awake and wide-eyed, restless and doomed.

She has me. Why won’t she give me anything?

I have her. And I keep putting her off.


I start planning.

What’s next?


About Runs With Tigers

I'm like air, forever flowing, moving, changing, gaining and losing myself, undefinable. View my complete profile
This entry was posted in Choking, Dry Sex, Groans, Lesbian Partnership, Lesbian sex, Rough Sex and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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