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“Yes.”
“Plus it’s going to be over soon anyway.”
“It is.”
“But of course I lied.”
“You always do when you’re fucking me there.”
“Tell me why.”
“Because you always say…” My breaths are stuttering now like they always do when I’m spinning this dirty, filthy tale, driving him and myself all crazy and horny. “That my ass feels like heaven.”
“Yeah, it does,” he says, his mouth rubbing over my forehead, his thumb almost inside my ass and his lazy thrusts giving me life. “Your asshole feels like I’ve died and gone to heaven. And I know it’s a mistake. I shouldn’t be in heaven when my name’s probably been written all over hell since the beginning of time.”
“I don’t—”
“But then, I’m not going be that dumb motherfucker who misses out on the opportunity, am I? I’m going to stay here, fuck the tight asshole of an angel who made the mistake of bending over in front of me until they tear me apart from her and put me where I belong.”
I try to warn him then.
I try to tell him that I can’t play this game anymore. The game where I’m a Powerless Firefly and he’s my Selfish Thorn. The game where it seems like he’s the only one winning but in reality we both win.
That I’m going to come.
But I guess he already knows that.
Because he pushes me over the edge with his next words: “So how about we make a deal then? How about if I make you come right now, I get to fuck your asshole. Because if you come, it means you like it, don’t you? No matter how many times you say no. Because if you come, you can tell them that even though I fucked your ass without your consent and made you hurt, you still came all over me. Like a good little whore.”
At this, the orgasm that overcomes me is even bigger than the orgasm that came before.
It’s so massive and painful and electric that it sends me into a whole other stratosphere altogether. Where I don’t know who I am or where I begin. Or what’s happening around me, but I do know when he comes. When he fills me to the brim with his cum.
His seed.
And then like always, he picks me up and runs a bath for me. Where I instantly fall asleep as he washes my hair and soothes my still-trembling body.
So yeah, that’s how our nights go.
Our mornings have a routine too though.
He’s always the first to wake up and God, he wakes up at a really ungodly hour like 5AM every morning. But instead of getting annoyed by it, I like to enjoy the show.
After his morning ritual, he comes out as he does after his shower: naked. Dropping his towel on the floor and going to the dresser to pull out his running clothes.
With the sheet wrapped around my chest, I prop myself up on my elbow, watching him put on his running pants. “You do know that you don’t have a magical cleaning fairy who cleans up after you, don’t you?”
He turns toward me then, his chest still bare and his pants sitting low on his hips, displaying his V, looking all daisy-fresh and ready to go for the day. “But I do have a Firefly who does it for me.”
“Oh you do, do you?”
He nods slowly, his eyes taking me in from top to bottom. “Yeah. And I’d say she’s pretty magical herself.”
My heart skips a beat. “Pick up your towel, Ledger.”
“And deprive you of the pleasure of doing so yourself?” he deadpans. “Not even in my dreams.”
“I do not get pleasure in cleaning up after you.”
It’s a total lie but whatever.
He smirks, folding his arms across his chest, flexing all his muscles and making himself look even more appealing. “Yeah, is that why you almost have an orgasm every time I leave my dirty laundry on the floor?”
I sit up, offended, still clutching my sheet. “I do not almost have an orgasm.”
“Fine, a mini-orgasm then.”
“You’re such a jerk, okay? You can —”
“I do though.”
I swipe my hair off my face, glaring at him. “You do what?”
“Almost blow in my pants when you bend down to pick up my towel.”
“Ha ha.” I stab a finger at him. “Very offensive and such a cliché in the porny-housemaid genre.”
Unfolding his arms, he approaches the bed. “And when you run around the kitchen, your cheeks all flushed from the heat, your tits jiggling, to get me my cookies or cupcakes in time for dinner every night.”
“Again, cliché.”
“But mostly,” he reaches the bed and, putting a hand on it, he bends down, “I’m this close to creaming all over myself when you write out your lists for me.”
Okay, that’s a new one.
I blink a couple of times. “The g-grocery list?”
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes flicking back and forth. “Because it makes me feel like you depend on me. For things. That if you want something, I’ll be the one to give it to you. You know that I’ll be the one to give it to you.”
