The Depths of You
by T. C. MillI’m always afraid just before I fuck you.
While you wait, betraying no impatience, even though inside I know you’re needy—begging for it. It’s cliché but I’m sure it’s true. You’re empty in a way only I can fill. So you wait, watching me like you know exactly what you’re going to get.
It makes my mouth go dry as much as it makes my clit throb. My pulse jumps. I move my hands slowly, adjusting the strap-on harness. I know it gets you impatient when I’m so deliberate, but I’m also buying time.
I like you impatient, silently begging. But the delay isn’t gratifying to me, either. If anything, it makes the aching throb more insistent, sharpening my own need to touch, to connect, to feel, to fuck. If anything, it only draws out my nerves.
Performance anxiety? Sure, some. But I’m good at what I do to you. I know it. I know just the depth, rhythm, angle to take you apart. Then to pull you back together, so you burst again. All the while driving into you towards my own pleasure, my own ascent and plummet into something dark, full, and for each moment, enough.
Somewhere in that helpless satisfaction is the thing that scares me so fucking much.
It’s better, sometimes, when you’re not facing me. When it’s just sensation. Our bodies slide with the same motions, friction traveling along the length of the silicone cock inside you to my clit, and that’s all we share. An encompassing awareness that we only need to feel. Not something to think about or communicate or soften with kisses. I hear your gasps and moans but your breath falls on the pillow; I don’t feel its wet heat lick my face. I don’t look into your eyes and drop into them, those beautiful dark bottomless pits.
Freud was wrong. I’ve found penetration isn’t as powerful as it’s cracked up to be. Or it is, but not in the seemingly commonsense way. Invasion, feeling someone come into you, it’s nerve-wracking, sure, especially the first few times. Feeling the strain of the stretch to encompass—it’s not entirely comfortable, but it has a heady edge. Because it happens, in the end. There’s room enough, bigness enough inside you, and the thrill of it bursts through your nerves until muscles clamp down and seize. And then whatever penetrates is taken prisoner. Utterly. It’s held, a tool to bring pleasure, enslaved to pleasure, that might withdraw but only to return again, unable to resist.
I wonder if even the most swaggering and macho types feel like this. If all the domineering attitude, the roughness—the urge to lock your hands above your head, pin you to the mattress under the force of your impalement—stems from this sense, not of inadequacy exactly, but helplessness. My fingers shake as I jerk the harness tighter, bringing the strap-on’s base snug against my clit. I could do all that; I’ve done all that, and in the end it doesn’t make me feel any more in control.
Is it topping from the bottom? Whatever that means. I’m not complaining; it’s not that you’re doing anything wrong or like I’ve failed. Honestly, this is how it should be between us. And it goes both ways. I know what it feels like to take you prisoner, I know how you tremble when I ride you. When you feel how tight and hungry I am for you. So terrifyingly insatiable.
I kneel on the bed in front of you, thinking insatiable; I remember our first deep kiss.
All virginal, slipping my tongue into your mouth in a spirit of adventure. I wanted to know what you tasted like and how you would react when I did it. What I would feel; what I could make you feel. And I felt afraid. Not of your teeth, forced wide by the angle of your jaw in my grip and by your innate, non-sadistic decency—and, as I like to think, by the punishment that would await if you bit. Because of course, I’m more than a little sadistic; our love has always been like this. What I said about kisses softening things? Forget it. They would never.
That kiss wasn’t soft, but you weren’t the one delivering the threat, and yet there I was, a delicious chill dancing under my goose-bumped skin while red, red heat coiled farther down. While I licked you and tasted you, rubbing your lips raw with the pressure of mine and painting them with my wetness, still part of me wanted to shy away. Not from your sharpness but from where you were sweet and yielding. My anxiety was atavistic. You became a cave—fitting for my spirit of adventure. But as a child I was terrified of caves. Always suspecting what was in them: darkness, bottomless pits. I could explore so deeply that I got lost forever. And then there were the lurking things. Monsters, waiting for me to come down and discover them.
What will the monsters do when they catch us? Do you remember ever asking that question, or was your childhood less curious, less haunted than mine? Because I asked and I got the answer. They eat us, of course. What I understood by that as a child was pretty different from what I came to understand as I grew up, sprouted, blossomed into something ripe and juicy. Monsters eat us. Take us in, sharp and soft and sweet. Devour us.
You understand, too. Which is, I know, why you always inhale a deep breath before I take you with my mouth. You gulp for air as I swallow. Sweat shines on your chest, drips onto my lips as the point of my tongue presses, my cheeks tightening as I pull on you, drawing out your arousal.
Drawing you into me.
Sometimes we trade places, returning each other’s favors. Not today, though. I trust myself to your mouth, but it’s not what excites me now. Getting inside you, fucking you, that’s the thrill I need to chase. Every time, I let myself get lost, get caught. I risk being devoured by your sweetness, and our passion, and my need for more. It makes me brave. It makes me tough, but not rough; careful and deliberate, strong and measured. My endurance never gives out before you do. And as I fuck you, stroking the right places that have your entire body seizing up, as I inflict pleasure like torture, I overcome any fear.
Meanwhile, I know that when you fuck me you never stop being scared. It doesn’t help when my nails claw down your back, when my wet teeth dig into your shoulder, devouring you twice over. When I ride you and take and take and take, wild, powerful, impossible to escape or satisfy. You can never gain the upper hand, whichever your place. Fucking me is a thousand times harder for you, and getting fucked by me—well, I don’t make that easy either, do I? You don’t want it easy. You want to be full of me, pushed by me, lifted and carried as if by the hips to some vast pinnacle where it’s so simple to fall.
So fall. Even when it’s not easy. You scream into the pillow, into my mouth, ecstatic and taking, taking, taking what you need. I’m happy to give. This way is right. So much that it fills me until there’s no room for anything else. I think it in rhythm to my thrusts. So, so, so, so right.
