A Goddess

Her hand was still on you, still slick, and she didn't wipe it off. She let it sit there, warm and wet against your dick, and then she looked down at it the way a person looks at an old photograph — fond, but distant.

"I might be able to grow on my own," she said, and her voice had that low, considering edge it got when she was working something out. "But that doesn't mean I don't still love the taste of cum."

Her fingers walked down your chest. Slow. One fingertip pressed into the hollow of your sternum, then your stomach, then the dip just above your dick where she stopped and let her nail rest there, a small sharp point of pressure.

"Don't you think Dadd—"

She stopped. Her jaw tightened and her eyes flicked somewhere over your shoulder, toward the door, toward the hall. She blinked, and when she looked back at you the smile was back in place, but it had a seam in it now.

"I mean Jake," she said. "Don't you think Jake would love to see me even bigger for him?"

The rug was rough under your shoulder blades. The wool had worn thin in one patch near the foot of the bed, and you could feel the hard floor through it, cold and specific against your back. You'd meant to replace it. You'd said that out loud once, months ago, and Jake had laughed and said the floor was fine.

When had this become about him?

She shifted up your body and settled over your hips, her knees planting on either side of you, and her cunt hovered there — close enough that you could feel the heat of it, the wet shine of her catching the amber light. Not touching. A quarter inch of air, and she held it, and your dick strained up into nothing.

"Let's find out," she said.

Her hands closed around your ribs, thumbs on one side, fingers splayed across the other, and you thought — absurdly, in the last clear second before it happened — that she was going to pull you up into her. Instead she lifted. Your whole body came off the rug like it was made of bedding, and the breath punched out of you, and then you were airborne, the ceiling a white smear, the bed slamming into your back hard enough to rattle your teeth.

"What—"

It came out high. Thinner than it should have been. It sat in the room wrong, like a note played on the wrong instrument, and you heard it and your face went hot before you'd even finished the sound.

Carrie stood at the side of the bed, six-foot-eight of her, and she was looking down at you with her head cocked. Her hair had fallen forward over one shoulder and she didn't push it back. Her eyes moved over you in pieces — your chest, your hands gripping the sheet, your dick lying against your thigh — and there was nothing tender in the way she looked. She looked at you the way you'd looked at the measuring tape the first night. Like something whose limits she wanted to find.

"I'm going to use you to make me grow," she said. "Over. And over. And over again."

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. The sheet was twisted in your fists and you couldn't remember grabbing it.

She turned to the nightstand — your nightstand, the one on your side, and you watched her pull the drawer open and reach in past the tangle of charging cables and the half-empty bottle of lube and the book you'd been meaning to finish. Her hand came out with a small orange bottle. She held it up to the lamplight and gave it a shake, and the pills inside rattled like dice.

Viagra.

You hadn't bought that. You'd never bought that. It had been in the drawer for — God, months? Jake had left it there after some joke you couldn't even remember now, and you'd shoved it to the back and forgotten it existed.

"Where did you—"

"I've been thinking about this all night," she said, and the bottle rolled in her palm, back and forth, back and forth. "Every time I closed my eyes. While you were inside me. I kept thinking — there's a faster way to do this."

She cracked the cap. The sound was small and plastic and it filled the room.

"Carrie." You got your elbows under you. "Carrie, wait, just — talk to me for a second."

"I am talking to you." She shook two pills into her palm. They were small and blue and they looked like candy. "I'm telling you exactly what I'm going to do.”

She said it lightly. She said it like a joke. But her eyes didn't laugh, and the room had gone very quiet around the two of you, and somewhere down the hall a pipe knocked once in the wall the way it always did when the upstairs neighbour ran the tap.

She crouched. Six-foot-eight of woman folded down beside the bed, and even crouched she was taller than you sitting up, and she held the pills out to you flat in her palm.

"Open," she said.

You looked at the pills. You looked at her face. The amber light from the streetlamp came through the blinds in stripes and laid one stripe across her mouth.

"That's not — Carrie, those aren't for me, those are—"

"They're for you tonight." Her voice dropped. It went low and flat and certain, the voice she'd used on the rug when she told you to worship her, and your body answered it before your brain did — your jaw going slack, your mouth opening a half inch. "I need you hard. I need you hard for a long time. I need you to keep coming until I've taken everything you've got, and then I need you to keep coming after that. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

You shook your head. You weren't sure if you were saying no or trying to clear it.

"I'm telling you," she said, "that you're going to be the best thing that ever happened to me and Jake." She pressed her palm to your mouth. "Now open."

Your lips parted. She tipped the pills onto your tongue and they were bitter, chalky, and she closed your jaw with two fingers under your chin and held it shut.

"Swallow."

You swallowed. The bitterness crawled down your throat and you coughed once and she watched you do it with her hand still under your chin.

"There," she said. "Good boy."

She stood. She walked to the foot of the bed and she stood there with her arms folded under her tits, and the lamplight came up the long line of her legs and her hips and the soft heavy underside of her breasts, and she was so big now that the room felt like it had been built for someone else. The mirror on the closet door caught her from behind — the width of her shoulders, the taper of her waist, the way her chestnut hair spilled down the middle of her back.

"How long does it take?" she asked.

"I don't—" Your voice cracked. You cleared your throat. "I don't know. 15 minutes?"

"Then we've got time." She smiled, and it was almost the old smile, the one from the couch, the one from a year of Friday nights and takeout and her cold feet on your calves. Almost. "Get comfortable. I want to watch it work."

She didn't get on the bed. She pulled your desk chair out — the wooden one with the wobbly leg — and turned it to face the bed and sat down in it, and her knees came up high because the chair was built for a normal person. She crossed her arms. She crossed her legs. She settled in like someone at a show.

You lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling and waited for your body to do something. The fan turned overhead. The stripe of lamplight moved a fraction across the wall as a car went by outside. Your hands were still shaking, and you put them flat on the sheet to make them stop, and they didn't stop.

"You're thinking too much," Carrie said from the chair.

"You just — you just told me I'm a present for Jake."

"I told you you're going to make me grow for him." She recrossed her legs. "Those are different things. Don't be dramatic."

How had this happened, When did Carrie replace me in her fantasies with him?

The heat came up through your pelvis slowly, like water finding a crack. First a warmth low in your groin, then a pressure, then a fullness that had nowhere to go, and your dick lifted off your thigh and stood there, thick and aching and absurd, and Carrie made a small satisfied sound in the back of her throat.

"There it is, you know it says ‘volume increasing’ on the bottle" she said, “you’re gonna pump this Goddess full of cum”.

She stood up out of the chair. She crossed the rug in two strides and climbed onto the bed, and the mattress dipped so hard under her weight that you rolled toward her and she caught you with one hand flat on your chest and pushed you back down.

"I'm going to ride you," she said, "and when you're close, I'm going to get off and I'm going to swallow it. And then I'm going to get back on. And we're going to do that until the bottle's empty and I can't fit through the door."

"Carrie—"

"You said you wanted me huge." Her hand wrapped around your dick and squeezed, and the pressure was almost too much, the pill making everything raw and bright. "Did you mean it, or did you just like the sound of it?"

You looked up at her. Her hair hung down around her face. Her tits were so full they brushed her own forearms when she moved, and her ass was a heavy warm weight against your thighs, and her cunt was so wet it had left a shining smear on the sheet beside your hip.

"I meant it," you said. It came out rough. It came out sad.

"Good." She lifted her hips and reached between her legs and guided you to her, and the first touch of her cunt against the head of your dick made you gasp — hot and slick and open — and she held you there, just the tip, and looked down at your face.

"This is going to be a long night," she said. "You should probably say something nice to me first. While you can still think."

You reached up and put your hands on her hips. They didn't fit the way they used to. Your fingers couldn't span the width of her anymore, and the muscle under her skin was hard as a rope pulled tight, and she let you hold her there and she waited, patient, with the head of your dick pressed to her entrance and her thighs trembling a little with the effort of holding still.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," you said.

Her smile went soft at the edges. Just for a second. Then she sank down onto you in one long slow slide, and the wet grip of her closed around your whole length, and both of you made a sound at the same time — hers low and satisfied, yours strangled and desperate — and she started to move.