The content is definitely 18+. Please do not read if you're a minor, or uncomfortable with these sorts of things.
~*~
The high heels of her boots click, click, click on the paved walkways of the zoo. She buys him an ice cream cone and asks how he's doing.
"Oh, well, fine... I guess," he says.
"Are you uncomfortable?"
He goes red, flush spreading across his face like the spilled strawberry wine from last night. On her white carpet. "No." He's blushing because he's never felt more comfortable in his life, and he doesn't know how to tell her. The lingerie itches just enough to remind him it's there.
"Then I'm not really doing my job," she says airily, and leans down for a long lick on his ice cream cone, eyes bright gems on his over the round metal frame of her sunglasses.
He goes redder.
She straightens, shakes her head. Shiny short hair falls instantly back into perfect place around her head, around her horns. "Shall we go to the monkey house next, or do you want to see the bears?"
"I don’t like the monkey house," he says. He hates the monkey house, with its closeness and stink, but he thinks with her it would be much better. “But if you want to go, we can go.”
She sighs, affecting a pose of annoyance. It seems sometimes like her every movement is a pose, his tall Amazon-oni-woman, his. That still seems wrong, that he should get to call her his. Last night, though, she kept assuring him all through it, even though he had to scream "jelly!" twice. Kept telling him how good he was. "You must have an opinion," she says now.
"My opinion is whatever you want." Whatever she wants it to be, it's hers. She doesn't understand what it means to him, honestly. She doesn't know how it is to have her accept him, even when he wants to be told he has to wear a bra and panties under his clothes.
She shakes her head and stops in the middle of the walkway. Irritated people swirl around them, two people in matching Power Rangers t-shirts, even though hers fits better over the large swell of breasts (conveniently near the level of his eyes). She ignores them even when he glances around, and she puts one hand on her hip. "I want you to tell me what you like."
"Bears it is." She seizes his arm and threads it through hers, glowing a beautiful smile down at him as she leads them off to the bears.
He can't disappear or fade when she's around. That's something he loves and hates about her. He's used to being invisible, and he thought he liked it that way, but when he's with her, they're always drawing eyes.
Regardless, it's a good day. They don't go to the monkey house, but 'round about the polar bear he starts wishing he'd shaved his legs. Wearing thigh-highs with hair everywhere itches worse than the underwear.
Still, he bears up. It's not that hard to deal with; it just reminds him of what she said this morning: "You've got great legs, Kit," low and appreciative while she drew up the stockings, up his legs. He shivers, remembering more, remembering her perfect lacquered nails up his thigh, the little slap on his balls. How did she know?
It's still so new, this holding hands with her in public, this private closeness between them even when they're surrounded by other people. And he likes people looking at them, likes thinking people are wondering what such a small guy could have to offer her. He's not too sure himself, but he's learning to go with it.
Later, he's much more comfortable. He puts his hand on her knee while she drives home, almost asking a question of her with the touch, and she beams like a lighthouse in the gathering dusk. The top's down on her car, and she speeds down the highway, 85 at least. Zips in and out, so easy, with his hand on her knee and a look of deep satisfaction on her wicked plum-colored face. When she pulls into her driveway, it's already night.
"Are you sure you want me to come in?" he asks, when she bustles out of the car. Her jeans flex over her butt. "You don't want to take me home? I mean, my stuff's in the car already..."
"I changed my mind," she says, leaning close to search his face. She lifts some of his hair off his face and inspects him like he's still so new to her. She does that sometimes. "Is this okay?"
"Of course it's okay." He kisses her. She's really close, and he just... kisses her, and she leans farther into the car, almost falling in on the seat.
"Okay." Their faces are still so close, and he feels her smile more than sees it. "I think I love you," she says, almost offhand, as she's turning away.
“Well," he says. "Well. All right. I think I love you too." And it feels natural and good. He's fallen in love with her a dozen times over the few weeks they've known each other, sinking deeper and deeper beneath the surface of her until he's surrounded with no thought of coming up for air.
She grills on her postage-stamp deck, KISS THE COOK on her apron. He does, about a hundred times it seems like. Slow night-time traffic rolls by on the busy road outside her tiny yard. Fireflies dance over the lawns. He’s drinking a frosty beer from some Wisconsin microbrewery and watching her flip their burgers when she says, “So when are you going to tell me your real fantasy?”
He almost spews beer. It’s so comfortable here he almost forgot the intention.
“Last night,” she says, “was incredible. Last night,” she says, more softly, “I felt like you were still holding out on me.”
“I didn’t -- I don’t want to do that.” He rolls the bottle between his palms, nervous, sitting forward. “I don’t want to hold anything back. But I can’t --” He shakes his head.
She’s so powerful, so female. It overwhelms him sometimes, a lot of times. They’ve spent a lot of time together, in bed and out of it, and still he can’t quite get over how bold, how strong she is.
“Take your time,” she says, kissing his forehead, and turns back to the grill.
He turns away, propping his elbow on the railing, and watches the fireflies do their mating dance across the little swatches of grass. Would she turn away, if she knew? Suddenly he doesn’t feel like eating one of her amazing cheeseburgers. “I want --” he begins, stops. Swallows and begins again: “I wanna be your girl.”
"Okay," she says, and she's smiling at him like she's the hot heart of the sun. She tucks an unruly lock of his hair behind his ear.
"That's it?"
"That's it," she says. "Whatever you want."
"But--just like that?"
She straightens to her full height and looks down on him, beautiful and bold. "Do you want me to be upset with you? Do you want me to tell you I don't want to see you ever again? Do you want me to kick and scream?"
"Well, no."
"Then what do you want?"
"I thought you'd--" He gestures helplessly. "I mean, I didn't expect--" With a defeated sigh, he collapses in on himself, slumping low in his seat. "I don't know."
"You were expecting something different."
"Yeah. Yeah, I was."
"I am what I am," she says, shrugging, and goes back to the grill to put cheese slices on the burgers. "You are what you are. I accept you like I'd want to be accepted."
He rolls the beer bottle back and forth, back and forth. "Is it that easy for you?"
"I don't know," she admits. "I guess it helps that I kind of expected you to tell me something like that. After last night."
"That was pretty incredible," he says, laughing with the happiness that comes over him.
She grins, plopping each burger onto a lettuce-covered bun. "Hell yeah it was. You want to talk about a scene for tonight, or just go vanilla?"
"Oh," he says, "let's talk about a scene. Please. If you're up to it."
They eat cheeseburgers and talk it over, and that's how, a couple of hours later, he's walking shyly down the stairs, careful on the carpet in a very high pair of heels.
They're white patent-leather pumps. Where she got a pair that fits his feet, he doesn't quite know. The red fishnet covers his body under the white drape of silk cocktail dress. It feels strange on his sensitive, just-shaved skin, but good, too, rubbing and--just a little bit--scraping. He's shaved everything, and the fishnet cradles him just so.
"You look sexy," she says, from her deep, soft white sofa. She's sitting there in a white vinyl catsuit that sets off her mauve skin and shiny hair. Her boots are white; her gloves are white. She's wearing Pinky, strapped on, and he shivers at the sight of the thick pink dildo rising from her white-vinyl crotch. "Let's go up to the bedroom."
He tilts her a smile from his lipsticked mouth. He wants to go, but he says, "I don't know about these stairs."
She's there in a flash. Even with his heels she towers over him, leans on the stairs' railing, into his space. "No problem." And she sweeps him up in her arms. He squeaks a little, grabs her neck; she grins and carries him back up the stairs.
The bedroom is ready. It's all blues, that room, a fake denim bedspread, blue jersey sheets. Blue carpet and darker throw rug in front of the attached bathroom.
She's kissing him even before she throws him on the bed. Her weight comes down on top of him, hard, and Pinky jabs between his legs, between his ass cheeks. Her hips roll, rubbing Pinky against him through the fishnet. Her mouth is hot, tongue thrusting, and sharp, teeth nipping. He lets her have her way with him, kiss him until his toes curl inside his pumps. He's got a hard-on that has to be obvious, and with her body on him, with her thrusting against him, it won't be long before he comes.
She knows it, too. By now she knows his shivers and sounds, and she stops when he's just short of climax. He groans with involuntary protest; he knows he shouldn't complain, that she doesn't like it very much, but he can't help it.
Snap, and he's cuffed.
She grins again, wide and white. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here." Fists on hips, standing straight and tall, she laughs wickedly. She's like that; it's playing to her, sex, it's fun and exciting.
"I can do anything I want," she says, pacing back and forth, around the bed and back again. "I can make you do whatever I want. Look how nice you shaved for me." She laughs again, stroking the vinyl-clad fingers of one hand across his butt, his taint. He shudders; he's still sensitive from shaving, and a little sore from Pinky rubbing up against him, but he tries not to move.
She cackles and grabs his ankles with strong hands, pushes his legs high with strong arms. "Stay there," she says.
"All--all right." He's spread out and trembling with want for her, and her fingers slide down fishnet calves to the backs of his thighs. She teases him, slow and careful, rubbing his taint lovingly, then his hole. He gasps. scared by how good it feels. But he trusts her to take care of him, too. She plays around down there for a long time, denying him his orgasm again and again.
She crawls onto the bed and pushes his legs down, and his arms, so his hands don't fall asleep. "I want mine," she says, and sits on his face.
He groans blissfully. The bodysuit is crotchless, the harness set up in such a way as he gets a faceful of deep wine-colored pussy and ass. A noseful of the dark smell of sweat and pussy, of carefully washed ass.
"Lick it," she says, muffled by the rest of her body. "Eat it all up."
He slurps from clit to asshole, dipping his tongue into her salty pussy as he passes it. She sighs, long and happy, and he presses his lips to her back door, kisses it like he would her mouth. Feasts on her musk and makes her moan.
"Good job," she says in a shivery voice when he sucks her clit. "More. Do more." Her muscled thighs quiver and clasp his head, blocking his ears. All he can hear is his own blood pulsing, his own groans through his head. He's surrounded by taste and scent, buried alive in it. He can hardly breathe, kissing her there. His crotch feels hot and tight.
She comes and he can feel it on his face, the pulse and tremble running through her pussy and into her legs.
She doesn't tell him to stop, either. He's grunting and licking her all over, and she doesn't get off his face until she comes twice more.
"Good job," she tells him again, and pats his cheek. "You're a dirty girl, aren't you?"
He nods enthusiastically, gasping for air.
She laughs again and moves to the bottom of the bed, between his legs. "My dirty girl." She strokes his dick through the dress, silky material, rough fishnet. He moans, again when she stops, again when she starts; he feels huge, swollen and overly sensitive, and his balls pull up tight.
"I'm getting the lube," she says.
He nods.
"Don't move."
"Yes, I mean, no, I won't." His legs are wide, feet on the bed, the shoes forcing his knees to go wider. She gets up and crosses to the bedside table.
The sliding sound of the drawer makes him shiver, he's that sensitive now. He hears her rummaging, taking out toys. She has quite a few, bullet vibrator, anal beads. She takes out three different dildos, including a gigantic Bad Dragon number with lumps in fascinating places--he didn't know about that one. Anticipation spikes sharply through him, over and over, while she thinks about what lube she wants to use. He's seen two or three different ones already.
His heart’s thundering so hard he can hardly hear anything else now. He’s sweating, and it stings on freshly-shaved pits and balls.
Finally, she chooses, and comes back to the end of the bed. He strains his neck to look at her, but can't make out what she's doing, only hear a long squirt. She grabs the fishnet and twists it, tightening it over his package, and starts fingering him with a slippery vinyl glove. He moans, and loses himself for a little while, one finger, two, three, grinding over his sweet spot.
"Kit."
"Ummmm. What is it?" His eyes are closed, rolling languorous beneath the lids, holy shit, it's so good. She pulls her fingers out.
"I'm about to fuck you."
“Wait, wait--eek!” He squeaks when she nudges the bottle right up against him and squirts him full of cold wetness. There's more squirting, but he's busy shuddering with chilly delight. Then she nudges something else against him.
Pinky.
"Open your eyes," she says, right above him. "Look at me."
He obeys her. She's there, beautiful, with wickedness dancing in her eyes and a broad smile on her face. His wrists hurt when he tries to jerk his hands out to grab her arms. He needs--
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” And she takes him all at once, one easy thrust, not too fast, but nothing like slow. He yells as she fills him up, and she fucks him hard and harder. One of her hands slides under the dress and touches him. The world goes black for a moment that feels like forever. His toes curl inside the pumps, and it burns all the way up his chest to bring tears to his eyes.
She slides out and takes the cuffs off him; he presses the heels of his hands into his stinging eyes as he tries to pull his body back together from the explosion.
He's shaking head to toe. She takes off his shoes and rubs the cramps from his legs before she goes into the bathroom.
While she's in there, he rolls to his side and curls up tight, overwhelmed. And he cries a little when she runs the water, quiet, so she won't hear him. It means too much.
She doesn't come back until he's done crying. Whether it's accident or design, he's grateful. He can look her in the eye again. She's changed into pajamas, a pair of cotton shorts, a TWRP t-shirt washed soft that fits tight over her braless breasts.
Tenderly, she cleans him up with a warm washrag and helps him out of the bodysuit, into his own pajamas.
"Let's go watch Rider," she says, wiggling her eyebrows, and it makes him laugh for the first time all night.
"Okay," he says, taking her hand. She leans down and kisses him.
Later, on that big soft couch, with cheesy Japanese TV washing light over their faces, vanilla float glasses empty and sticky on the table, he holds her close and she holds him. "I've never been happier," he says suddenly.
She smiles down at him. Their eyes meet, and now he's happier than ever.
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