Below The Surface

(Writing spicy Fall 25’ Prompt 1: I Could Barely Take Anymore)

Remember how you were, before all this?”

The heat in my cheeks cooled and my eyes traveled down to their chin resting on my pubic bone. I could barely take anymore of this, the husk in their voice, the way they knew how to tantalize me with a whisper, a moan, a bite. Their short curls had that haphazard windswept look and that gleam of wickedness was flashing out from their eyes. 

“Are we having a summit with half your fist in me?” I smirked. 

“We could have a summit with the whole thing, if you’d like.”

Their fingers grazed that sweet spot inside me and my thigh shivered in response. I meshed my hand in their hair letting the waves of it tangle around my knuckles, the bend of my joints hugged and tugged back as I massaged their scalp. It got them moaning in that way and I squeezed them from the inside. 

“Mnggh…fuck.”, in response. 

Their knee bent at the foot of the bed and they kicked the mattress in a mix of frustration and protest and I saw their crotch grind into the bed harder. That need in their cock was pulsing and I wanted it. I wanted more than what they were giving me and more than I thought I could take. 

They stopped that glorious rhythm that was driving into me; deep, insistent, tender on the back end. All of these moments before the ones I really craved, before they bared their teeth on my thighs or that raspy whisper hit their voice, before they’d smothered me with their hunger and read my skin with their tongue. 

My eyes squeezed shut and their short nails cradled, then gripped my hip. Little crescent moons from their hold on me appeared on my flesh imprinting that need. I whimpered in that way that made them swell, made them thrust into the sheets. That growl was in their chest now and I felt that shift, sweet to feral, ache to starvation.

They pulled their slick fingers out of my cunt and slid up my body with their jaw open, warm breaths deepening the higher they rose as the moisture of their palm found my neck and used it as a stronghold. Their lips found my breasts and tugged until my backbone raised like a cross into their touch. 

Their cock between us now was thick and tantalizing, their other hand held it so the tip was grazing my clit, only not enough. I tried to control the angle and they let their weight on my body go, pressing me like a flower into the bed. 

The moisture of their voice and that thickness of their tongue, swollen and honied, still wearing the taste of me, 

“Do. You. Remember?”

The grip on my neck flared tighter as their teeth scraped the lobe of my ear. 

I nodded in silence, out of words and almost out of thoughts. 

“I remember.”

—————————————

Three years before

I couldn’t figure her out. I started seeing her every day months ago on the same commuter line I took to work and it became increasingly evident we were curious about one another. Strangers in New York still feel familial to a degree at times, especially on the morning subway. 

I noticed her the first day she was standing on the platform. She was always early, anxious, aware of her surroundings to the point you could tell she was a tourist. She’d fidget with her eyes and hands, but seemed closed with a tepid wall around her. Her shoulders curled close to themselves and her posture was rigid, that of a faun that lost its mother but needed to survive through some sort of existential dread it carried with it. 

She dressed well and had poise, a firmness in her resolve that felt steadier than her small frame. I had a few inches on her, noticing this when I stood up and offered her my seat so she didn’t have to hold the rail one day.

I liked the energy of this place, the underground hissing and the lousy speaker where the conductors voice sounded like it was coming through a Cracker Jack box. The smell of someone’s morning bagel being unwrapped, a mother haphazardly giving their attention to their child whose backpack sloped to their small ankles. Someone’s aftershave was always too potent, someone’s deodorant wasn’t. Someone was busking for change or pretending to be blind or rattling their leg from the ankle up listening to metal and fighting with their girlfriend in texts. I couldn’t control any of it and every morning was different but still in a way, exactly the same.

I sipped my black coffee while I watched her each day try to mold into part of the chaos of the 8am L line. I came here to write sometimes, look at the faces and the weird little microcosm of this gritty little space. I was addicted to noticing in a way, conjuring up personas and trying to match idiosyncrasies from one rider to another, imagining where they were going or coming from, who they fucked, how they fit in or didn’t. 

The first day I saw her it was the cusp of Autumn and one of the first days you wished you had a heavier jacket. She was in jeans and moto boots, a cute blouse and a corduroy jacket the color of rust that brought out her brown eyes. She kept checking her phone every thirty seconds, casting her eyes down so she didn’t have to look elsewhere or feel how she was being perceived. 

She was attractive, curves in the right places and lustrous auburn hair that waved naturally and had that sheen to it. Gorgeous cleavage that peeked out just enough to entice and make my mouth water. 

Still she was closed tight, comfort in her solitude and brusquely tense when anyone got close to her. 

Eventually she seemed to notice me watching her. We’d exchange glances or polite non-committals and go our separate ways, known without the knowing.  There was a comfort in the distanced familiarity. 

The last week she’d been buried in a book, turned the pages ravenously like each paragraph was a new bite her mouth needed to taste. She read fast and was completely absorbed, often almost missing her stop while she committed the page number she was on to memory. Her scent wafted past me yesterday and it made me feel heady, dizzy and hungry in that way that makes my palms itch to squeeze and grab flesh. 

The next day, a male passenger invaded my space, squeezed my shoulder to slide past me to get nearer to her and something snapped. 

“Did I say you could touch me?”

A flabbergasted look on his face while still staring at her, cocky,

“Crowded train, dyke. Take up less space next time.” 

I squeezed the rail with my fist and her eyes caught mine and feigned sympathy for a moment, then flashed back down to her book. 

“Whatcha reading there, girlie? Too good to talk to me over your boring book? Where you going today?”

He stared at her like an animal, enjoying her discomfort and uncrossing his legs. Both his hands rubbed his thighs in an invitational gesture that made her stop reading. 

I moved between them, blocking his view with the front of me facing her. She looked up at me with the smallest of smiles, blushing and eyeing my leather belt for a moment and going back to her book. 

He got off at the next stop, thankfully, still muttering something about “disgusting dyke bitches” under his breath. 

I took his seat and saw her shoulders lower, relaxing. Her book closed a little loudly and she gathered her things to line up by the door and just before she left, slipped a note in my hand with a demure and anxious, “thankyou” I barely heard.