You put it in yourself

He pulled her up out of the chair by the hair — one motion, the whole mass of him doing the work — and she came up against his body with a small involuntary sound, and he kissed her. One hand still fisted in her hair, the other spread across the small of her back, his mouth taking hers the way he took rooms — no preamble, no permission asked — and she tasted the scotch and under it herself, and she kissed him back harder than she meant to, her fingers hooking into his shirt front. When he let her go she was breathing through her mouth. His hands found the hidden zip at her side and the midnight silk started its descent, tooth by tooth, while his mouth found her ear.

“Two weeks,” he said against her skin. “Two weeks of you walking past me in hallways. Crossing your legs in meetings. That grey skirt on Monday — the one with the slit — you bent over the copier and I watched Patel’s junior forget how to swallow.” The dress cleared her hips and pooled at her heels. “Did you think about me? Those two weeks. Be honest.”

“Every night.” It came out without permission. She was standing in the lamplight in heels and a scrap of midnight silk at her hips and the gold chain — nothing else, nothing all night but silk between her skin and sixty people. “Every single night, Ray.”

“Good.” Both his hands rose and took her breasts. Engulfed them — each one filling his palm and spilling over the edges, the nipples already drawn tight in the suite air, the rough calloused skin dragging across them — and her head tipped back and a sound climbed out of her chest. “Touch yourself. Not to the end — you don’t come until I’m inside you. Show me how wet *every night* got you.”

Her hand went between her thighs. She slid two fingers through the silk of her underwear and the silk was soaked through — had been soaked for an hour, since the dance floor, since before — and she pressed against herself through the ruined fabric and her hips rolled forward and a whimper escaped her.

“Off.” He hooked one finger under the waistband and tugged. “Take them off.”

She stepped out of them. One heel, then the other. Stood bare in front of him — heels, the chain, nothing else — and his eyes went down her body with the focused attention of a man reviewing something he’d invested in, and when they reached the wet shine between her thighs, the slickness already glazing her inner thighs, he exhaled through his nose like a furnace finding fuel.

“Jesus Christ, Blondie.” He dropped his hand between her legs without asking — two thick fingers sliding through her folds, parting her, and the sound was immediate and obscene. Wet. *Soaked.* His fingers came away trailing strings of her arousal and he looked at them in the light, glistening, and then put them in his own mouth and tasted her, his eyes closing for one second, and the sound he made was from the back of his throat.

“Here’s how tonight works,” she said. Her voice shook but held. “You can have my ass.”

Ray looked at her.

“I mean it. That’s the offer.” She heard the negotiating cadence in her own voice and let it stay — the last solid ground. “It’s yours, we established that in Dayton, and it’s *safe.* Because the other — Ray, I’m fertile. Right now. Tonight. Dead center of it — I can feel it, I’ve been feeling it all day, the ache, the sensitivity, everything amplified. There is no version of tonight where you’re bare inside my pussy in the middle of my fertile week. My ass. Take the deal.”

“No.”

The word was flat. Final. The way he said numbers that wouldn’t move.

“No?” She blinked.

“I’ve had your ass.” His hands settled on her hips — thumbs hooking the bones, pulling her closer until his cock pressed against her belly, hot and still slick from her mouth. “It’s spectacular. Some other night. Tonight I want the thing I’ve wanted for three years, in the week it costs the most. On your back. Nothing on you but my name.” He lifted the gold chain with one finger, let the little word rise off her skin and fall back. “And nothing on me at all.”

“Ray. I am *ovulating.* Do you understand what you’re —”

“I know what week it is.”

“Then you know we can’t —”

“I’ve been counting since November.”

The sentence went through her like a stone dropped from a height. The room contracted.

“What.”

“Your cycle.” He said it flat. A man reading a prepared page. “You gave me the first anchor on your couch — *nowhere near my window, not even close.* You gave me the rest in Dayton — *fertile, right now, this week.* Two data points and a calendar. I know your green days better than you do. I knew tonight was the middle of them before you zipped that dress.” His hand came to her face — pushed a strand of hair off her cheekbone with a gentleness that had no business arriving from inside that sentence. “And your husband — I know him too, Blondie. I know what he needs to hear to let you go. I sat next to him at that bar tonight and by the time you walked over he was already where I needed him. You think he decided on his own? He decided because I gave him the version that let him decide.” A beat. “Nobody’s ever going to want you like this. Nobody’s ever going to *study* both of you like this.”

It should have sent her out the door. She knew it should have. A man had tracked her fertility like a sales target, engineered a black-tie evening around her ovulation, and was standing in front of her with his cock against her belly saying *I know your green days better than you do.* The alarm was real — she could locate it, touch it, taste its metal. And it was losing. Losing to the heat in her belly, the ache between her legs, the fact that this fat greasy man *studied, kept, counted, waited, planned* made her wetter than *adored* ever had. Her knees had gone soft. The low thrum of her fertile week had risen into something tidal. She was thirty-three years old with another man’s word at her throat and her husband’s ring on her hand, ovulating, choosing.

“That is the most disturbing thing a man has ever said to me.”

“I know it is.”

“I should leave.”

“You should.”

“You held me down last time.” Her voice cracked on it. “In November. I said pull out and you held me down and finished inside me and I spent the next morning in a CVS parking lot. So tell me why tonight is different.”

“Because the last two weeks taught me what it costs.” He said it without salesmanship. “Two weeks of the hallway. Two weeks of *I need space, Ray* in your email voice.” His thumb moved once on her cheekbone. “I can’t do that again, Blondie. I’m not built for it. Those two weeks were the worst of my year and I’ve had some bad ones.” He held her eyes. “So you tell me what you need to hear and I’ll say it, but the truth is simpler than any promise — I’d rather pull out of you tonight than spend another two weeks not being in this room.”

She stood there breathing. His hand was on her face and his cock was against her stomach and the gold word sat at her throat warm as a brand and her thighs were slick and the suite was warm and the bass came up through the floor into the soles of her feet.

She took her hand off his chest.

He put one knee on the bed and laid her back onto the duvet with both hands — possessive, unhesitating — and the mattress dipped hard under his weight coming after her. She looked up at what was about to fuck her. The lamp carved him out of the dark in unforgiving detail: fifty-three years old, north of two-seventy, the gut hanging, the grey chest hair matted with sweat, pockmarks deep enough to catch shadow, the heavy jaw going soft at the jowls. His cock stood from the wreck of him thick and dark and jutting, slick from her mouth, the head swollen almost purple. He looked like a man who drove a truck for a living. He looked like someone her mother would cross a street to avoid. And he was settling between the thighs of a thirty-three-year-old woman who stopped conversations when she walked into rooms, and the mismatch — the sheer visual obscenity of his body over hers — was the heat itself. It had been the heat since the first hotel. She’d stopped arguing with it.

The whole warm mass of him settled between her thighs and the ceiling vanished behind his shoulders. His skin sank into hers everywhere they pressed — gut to belly, chest to breasts, the coarse grey hair scraping her nipples, his weight pinning her hips to the bed. He kissed her again — slow this time, deep, one hand cradling the back of her skull, and the gentleness of it from a man that size was its own kind of obscene. She was still kissing him back when she felt the heat of his cock settle against her inner thigh — bare, heavy, twitching — and the closeness of it, the *almost*, made her hips tilt up toward him on their own.

He reached between them. Took himself in one thick fist and dragged the head through her — slow, deliberate. Not entering. The broad crown parting her folds, sliding through the slickness that had been gathering since the desk chair, since the ballroom, since the dance floor. The sound was immediate and obscene. He hadn’t been inside her and she was *audible* — the wet smear of him dragging through her, the soft click of arousal parting, a sound that belonged in a bedroom with the lights off and instead was happening in full light three floors above her husband.

He dragged the head up through her slit and bumped her clit and her thighs jerked. Did it again. And again — painting himself with her, coating the head in a thick shine, each pass bumping her clit and pulling a jolt through her hips. She was so wet the sound got louder with every stroke — a slick, sucking drag that filled the quiet suite.

“Listen to that,” Ray murmured. His hips moved slow — the blunt crown riding up through her folds and back down, spreading her, teasing her entrance on the downstroke without pushing in. “I haven’t done anything yet. That’s just you. That’s the week.”

“Shut up —” Weak. Her hands had found his forearms.

“Wettest I’ve ever felt you.” Another slow drag; her heels shifted on the duvet; the necklace pulsed at her throat. “You’ve been simmering all day and you brought it to me.” He set the head at her entrance. Held it there — one pound of patient pressure, the broad tip nestled between her lips, spreading her just enough that she could feel the heat of him against her opening, the width waiting. He didn’t push. He held the edge and let her feel what was coming — the size of it, the bare skin, the danger of the week — and watched her face.

“Slow,” she whispered. The word was not *stop.* They both heard the difference.

But he didn’t move. He held there — the head kissing her entrance, his weight braced on his forearms, his eyes on hers. Patient. The way he’d been patient at her lips in the chair. Making the last of it hers.

“Be honest, Blondie.” Quiet. The head pressed warm against her opening and went no further. “You want this, you put it in yourself. I’m done doing things to you that you get to pretend you didn’t ask for.”

She reached between them. Her hand found his cock — thick, slick, burning — and wrapped around the shaft, and with her other arm she hooked the back of his neck and pulled him toward her. She guided the head to her entrance, notched it between her lips, and pulled. Drew him into her with both hands — one on his cock feeding him in, one on his neck bringing his weight down onto her — and the sound she made when the crown stretched her open was low and shaking and she didn’t hide it.

“There it is.” He watched her face while she took him. “Two weeks of *I need space* and you’re pulling my bare cock into your fertile pussy with your own hands. That’s honest. That’s the woman who wore my name tonight.” He let her set the pace — let her hand on the shaft feed him deeper, inch by inch, her grip guiding the angle, her arm around his neck pulling him closer — and he sank into her slowly, giving her only what she pulled for, making her take every inch on purpose.

The stretch arrived — the crown parting her around its width, her muscles remembering Dayton and still not believing — and then the heat. Bare. Skin inside skin. The living temperature of him with nothing between them and the impossible specific detail she’d told James about in the dark and half-thought she’d exaggerated: the pulse. His heartbeat in the shaft, ticking against her walls as she drew him deeper. No latex. No glass. In the one week of the month when bare was a lit match over dry brush. And her own hand on his cock, feeding the match in.

She felt every ridge of him cross into her. The flare of the head dragging her front wall. The thick vein riding underneath, each bump of it making her clench involuntarily. He filled her slowly, deeply, and the wet sound of her taking him was loud in the quiet suite — *schlck* — her pussy stretching open around his bare cock, welcoming it, pulling at him.

He sank to the root. His hips flush against hers. The head pressed deep — against her cervix, bare, the blunt pressure radiating through her pelvis, through her hip bones, down into her thighs. She could feel his balls resting heavy against her ass, warm and full. She could feel every inch of him sealed inside her — the ridge of the head nestled against the deepest part of her, the thick shaft stretching her open, the vein on the underside pressing against her front wall. She was full. Impossibly, devastatingly full. Full in a way that made her vision soften at the edges.

“Oh my God.” Her legs had climbed his sides without instruction. Her nails were in his shoulders — the thick, meaty shoulders, slick with the sweat that had already started at his hairline. “Oh my *God* — I forgot — weeks and I —”

“You didn’t forget.” He pulled back — slow, and she felt every inch of the withdrawal, the ridge of the head dragging along her front wall, the wet clinging sound of her pussy trying to hold him, her lips stretching around the shaft as it emerged slick and dark with her wetness — and drove home again. One long, deep stroke. The frame creaked. The wet *smack* of his pelvis against hers filled the room, and the sound of her taking him — a thick, squelching *schlck* — was so loud and so wet that heat rose to her face. “You put it in a drawer.” Another stroke, angled down, the head riding her g-spot on the way in, and her whole pelvis clenched. “A drawer you keep opening at three AM with your hand between your legs.”

“*Fuck* —” She was gripping him, pulling at him, meeting his hips with her own. She could feel herself tightening around him on every outstroke — her inner walls dragging along the shaft, trying to hold him, releasing reluctantly when he pushed back in. The wet noise between them was getting louder with every minute. Her week was doing something to her — making everything hotter, slicker, more sensitive. She could feel her own arousal running from where they joined, trickling down to pool on the duvet beneath her. Two weeks of starvation and every stroke was an answer to a question she’d been asking her own hand at 3 AM. She was already climbing. Already close.

He built his rhythm — long full strokes, deep and slow, his weight pressing her into the mattress on every forward push. She could feel the head bump her cervix at the bottom of each one — that deep aching pressure that lived right on the border between too much and not enough. The creak of the bed found a tempo. His breathing roughened above her. She gripped the duvet. She gripped his arms. She pulled him into her with her heels on his ass and felt his cock reach somewhere James had never been — a depth that existed only at this width, only without latex, only with a man built on this scale. The thought of James landed brief and hot: *he’s downstairs. He told me to come up here. And I am getting fucked the way he will never be able to fuck me, in a week he couldn’t have named.* The thought made her tighten around Ray and the tightening made him groan and the groan made her wetter and none of it was accidental anymore.

“Your husband’s never been here.” Ray said it like he’d heard her think it. His hips kept their pace — the steady deep drive that was taking them both apart by inches. “Eleven years in a condom. He’s never felt what this pussy does when there’s nothing in the way — how hot you are inside, how you grip and pull.” A deep stroke and he held, ground his hips in a small circle that made the head press her front wall from every angle, and she moaned loud and open. “This is mine, Blondie. Say it.”

“Yours.” She didn’t hesitate. Her heels pulled him deeper. “It’s yours, Ray.”

“You know what I love about this week?” His voice was gravel. His hips didn’t lose their pace. “Everything works better. You’re wetter. You’re tighter somehow — squeezing me every time I bottom out. And you’re *hungrier.*” He hooked one finger under the chain at her throat — gathered the gold word against his knuckle, pinning it there, a warm weight at her collarbones. “You’ve been starving all month and tonight you brought it to me wearing my name. In the one week it costs the most.” He drove in deep and held and her spine arched off the bed. “*Good girl.*”

The two words went down the wire they always went down — straight past everything, past the analyst, past the wife, into the white-quiet place where thought stopped — and Jenna came.

It broke fast and hard. Her walls clamping around his bare cock in rolling waves, her heels digging into the mattress, her voice going high and broken — *ah — ah — fuck — ah* — while he kept stroking through the middle of it, steady, prolonging, each thrust stretching the contractions longer. She heard herself gasping. The wave rolled through her and the word came with it — from the same deep place the Spanish came from, somewhere below English, below performance:

“*Papi* —”

Low. Almost a whisper. Breathed against his throat while she pulsed around him.

Ray’s rhythm faltered. One stroke off-beat. His whole body went rigid for a fraction of a second and something crossed his face — not surprise. Hunger. The hunger of a man who’d just been handed something he hadn’t known to ask for.

“Say that again.” His voice was rough in a way it hadn’t been.

“Make me,” she breathed, and pulled him deeper with her heels, and he drove into her hard enough that the word *again* got knocked out of her in a different shape — a moan, a gasp, his name, nothing coherent — and his pace picked up. Harder now. The patience thinning. Two weeks of his own starvation arriving at his hips.

“That was fast,” he said, still moving in her, watching her come down from it. The smugness was there — but underneath it, rawer, something his control was having to manage.

“It’s the week — it’s biology — you smug —”

He pulled out. All at once — the sudden emptiness making her gasp, her hips lifting after him — and took her by the hip and turned her over. One hand. Mass deciding for both of them.

“Hands and knees.”

She went. Her palms on the duvet, her knees spread, her back arching into the position the way it had in Dayton — muscle memory, the posture of a woman who’d learned what she was in this shape. The gold chain swung forward from her throat. She could feel the air on everything — swollen, slick, open. She could feel him looking.

His thumbs spread her. She heard the low sound he made at the view — not a word, a growl, a man looking at something that belonged to him — and instead of pulling away she dropped her shoulders to the mattress and arched her spine and gave him more.

He drove back in.

The angle was different and everything turned up at once. He hit depths from behind that pulled flat punched sounds out of her on every stroke — *uh, uh, uh* — into the duvet. His pace had authority now. His hips slapping into her ass with a heavy *crack* that rang off the glass, his balls swinging forward to connect with her swollen clit on the deep ones — a heavy, wet slap that jolted through her every time — and the combination was rebuilding the orgasm she’d barely finished.

She could hear what they sounded like — louder from this angle, wetter, the thick rhythmic noise of him moving through the flood her fertile week kept producing. Her thighs were slick to the knees. The duvet beneath her was warm and damp. The smell of sex had thickened in the suite air until she could taste it on every breath — her own arousal, sharp and musky, layered with the salt-heat of his skin.

A thought surfaced — the first clear one in minutes: *I am on my hands and knees for Ray Vogler. Face down. Ass up. In a hotel suite while my husband waits downstairs with a bourbon he didn’t want, and this is the third time I’ve done this and every time it gets easier and that’s the part I should be terrified of.* The thought sank back under the next stroke.

He looked down at where he entered her. She could feel his gaze — the way his thumbs spread her wider, opening the view for himself. She knew what he was seeing: the shaft glistening as it emerged on each backstroke, her swollen pink lips stretched around him and clinging to the shaft on the way out, pulling, refusing to release. The push back in — his cock disappearing into her inch by inch, her lips parting wide around the head, the slick mess gathering where their bodies met.

“Christ.” Low. To himself more than to her. His thumbs pressed deeper into the flesh of her ass, holding her open. “Look at this pretty pussy taking me. Stretched wide open and dripping. You have any idea what this looks like from back here, Blondie?”

His hand came down on her ass. Open-palmed. Sharp. The *crack* split the quiet and the sting bloomed hot across her cheek and she clenched around him so hard that he grunted — felt her grip him from root to tip, her pussy squeezing in one reflexive pulse.

“Two weeks of *I need space, Ray.*” Another crack. The other side. She moaned into the bedding and pushed back onto him, meeting his next stroke with her own weight. The wet *smack* of her ass against his hips louder now, more urgent. “Two weeks of walking past me in hallways like I’m furniture. Crossing your legs in meetings.” His hand cracked down again, harder, and her squeal broke into something lower. “And the whole time you’re going home and putting your hand between your legs thinking about this cock. Aren’t you. Every night.”

“*Yes* —” She couldn’t lie. Not in this position, not with his cock buried in her to the root, not with the wet evidence of what his memory did to her running down both their thighs in warm threads.

“Louder.”

“Yes, Ray — every night — every *fucking* night —” He slammed into her and the sentence broke apart. She was gripping the sheets, her knuckles white, her tits swaying heavy under her with each impact, nipples dragging the duvet on the deepest strokes. “I couldn’t stop — the plug, I’d put the plug in and pretend — *ah* —”

“Pretend it was me.”

“Pretend it was you. *God* — it’s never enough, it’s not big enough, it’s not *you* —”

His hand cracked down again and she pushed back into it.

“What’s your name?”

“Jenna —” Reflex. His palm landed again, harder, the sting blooming over the sting.

“Try again.”

“Blondie.” Into the duvet. Barely a word.

“Again.”

“*Blondie* —” It came out of her like something released, and she clamped down on him so hard his stroke went short.

“And what’s your name with James?” His hips never broke rhythm. His hand smoothed slow over the heat he’d raised, almost kind.

“Jenna. I’m — Jenna.”

“So which one put my chain on tonight?” He hooked one finger under the gold at her throat and drew it back until she felt the little word press into her skin. “Which one of you would you rather be?”

“Blondie.” No stroke knocked it loose. She said it into the bedding, low and whole, and heard herself say it, and didn’t take it back.

He let the chain go. “That’s what I thought,” he said, and drove in deep enough to knock the breath out of her.

His thumb found her ass.

The wetness had been running there for minutes — her arousal and his pre-come pooling in every fold, slicking the cleft between her cheeks, and his thumb slid through it easily. Found the tight ring. Pressed.

She gasped. Her hips jerked forward and her pussy clenched around his cock and the ring of muscle under his thumb twitched — resisting, then softening, her body remembering Dayton, remembering the weeks of plugs. His thumb sank past the first knuckle and her moan was long and thin and shaking.

“Both holes.” He kept his cock moving in her pussy — slow now, deep strokes that let her feel the dual fullness — his thumb in her ass, his cock stretching her from the front, the thin wall between them pressed from both sides until she could feel *everything* at once. “This is mine too. Every hole you have, Blondie. Say it.”

“Yours —” Barely a whisper. She was gripping the sheets with both fists. Her whole body was trembling — the fullness from both places converging in her pelvis, the sensation so intense it was almost unbearable. She could feel his thumb through the wall of her pussy, pressing against his own cock, and the combined pressure was maddening. “*Fuck* — Papi — it’s too much — I can feel you on both —”

“I know you can.” His thumb pressed deeper and his cock picked up the pace and the dual rhythm — in, in, the different tempos colliding and syncing and colliding again — shattered any thought she’d been assembling. The sounds coming out of her were pre-verbal, high helpless keening into the mattress.

“And tonight that drunk put his hand on your thigh.” His pace didn’t slow. His thumb didn’t stop. Each word punctuated by the slap of his hips against her ass, the wet percussive *smack* of bodies. “Your husband sat there. I’m the one who took it off.” He grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled — not violent, absolute — her head came up, her back arched deeper, his thumb slid to the hilt in her ass and his cock drove to the root in her pussy and she *screamed* — a short, sharp, shocked sound. “Because nobody touches what’s mine at my table. Not a drunk. Not a board member.” He held her there by the hair, driving into her with his thumb buried in her ass, and his voice had gone to gravel. “Not your husband.”

She came.

The second one hit from underneath — no warning, no build, just a wall of heat that crashed through her from both points of contact at once. Her arms buckled. Her face went into the duvet. Her hips stayed up only because his hands held them there, and she pulsed around him in long hard contractions — her pussy gripping his cock, her ass clenching around his thumb, both in rhythm, milking him from both sides of the thin wall. Her moans were muffled in the bedding, broken, wet. Her thighs were shaking so hard the bed was vibrating. The wetness flooded out of her — she could feel it, a gush around his cock, running down her inner thighs, dripping from where they joined.

He fucked her through all of it — steady, relentless — and with an effort she could feel arrive through his hands — felt him *choose* it, muscle by muscle — he slowed, and stopped, and stood buried in her, his thumb pulling free of her ass with a soft wet sound, breathing like a man who’d been running.

“Off.” Hoarse. His grip bruising her hips. “I need — get off me for a second, Blondie, or this ends in about three strokes.”
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Next chapter (equivalent in length to 5-9 posts here), newsletter for updates, and discord server for discussion/AI video in my profile link.