(Writing Spicy Fall 25’ prompt 4: “I Want It To Feel Wrong.”)
Zoey:
I didn’t really have to use the restroom but I needed a moment, different air that wasn’t theirs and other bodies to stare at to ground myself. The energy had that vacuous feel, almost immediately. Our eye contact was both a battle and a raising of our own white flags and the power exchange bit, that was new.
I was used to being in charge, guiding the night, choreographing the levels of intimacy I sunk into. I liked the feel of a tether in my hand, I liked holding it out from me far and then pulling whoever back in accordingly. Usually whoever I was with was more than happy to acquiesce to that, beg for it, even cry.
With Luca, I felt a pushback, a grapple and rigidity that didn’t necessarily seek that tether, but was also the one usually holding it. I was staring too much at their hands. My usual poise was showing its cracks, too. I liked the slight husk in their voice, the texture of the clothes they were wearing, their posture and shoulders firm and their eyes soft but menacing. I thought of my heels on the floor of my bedroom around their boots, lingerie next to neckties, the shortness of their hair tangled in the tug of my palm. They had a small amount of stubble and my cheek longed to feel the scrape of it.
For the first time in a long time, I wanted to consider showing that side of myself to someone. Still, I wanted to hook my nail through the underside of their collar and pull them into my mouth and push them to their knees.
I washed my hands and the sound of a stall door slamming drunkenly closed jolted me back to where I was.
My mouth tasted of rye and I wondered about kissing them, about sucking the taste of the night off their tongue, then gripping my flesh like a possession.
They had the same belt on as this morning. Normally something like that would rest comfortably in my own hand while I leaned my tits into someone’s back and grazed them with it sensually, a warmup precursor before the storm.
Where would this go? I was used to some pushback because it was offered to me to conquer. Theirs felt like a swell I could see inhaling me whole, twirled up in the turbine of whatever was behind the black in their eyes that commanded my own vulnerability to rise up.
Luca:
We stayed at the bar for another 30 minutes or so and decided to migrate but neither of us really knew where else to go. It was 9 and still early but I knew on top of her energy, I couldn’t do another drink, or bar, or venue where I had to lean into her cheek to hear her, as delightful as that was. I needed to temper it back so I could get my head straight, let the whiskey have some time to leave my mind so was back in charge.
We opted for cocoa a few blocks away with an outdoor patio where we could come down from some of the rush. I felt nervous, she’d picked up the scent of a part of me I kept fairly shadowed, and I wasn’t used to that acuity in being so perceived.
I walked on the outside of the sidewalk and reached for her hand to hold, slowed my pace and noticed how our footsteps had synched with ease. As the first bar faded behind us and we were alone (save for a few other pedestrians on dates looking for their same second spot), she spoke again, but softer,
“So should we talk about the elephant in the room?”
My breath hitched and I laughed and choked a little on my own air, coughing into my balled up fist.
“The elephant?”
“Yes. That one. Right here.”
Again, the lead for me to say what she wanted to hear, still playful.
“Is that the one where we both seem like we are both more-“
Finishing my sentence, “top-leaning switches.” She squeezed my hand at that last word, looked sideways at me like she knew she’d still be taller than me when she took off those heels. I could shrink into her right now and be happy, I thought. I could let her pull her dress up later and sit on my face and take what she wanted and walk away letting her pleasure blanket me to sleep.
I stepped off the last curb before the coffee shop came into view and she pulled my shoulder back before I crossed, held me still next to her, impatient for something other than my pensive quiet. I put a hand in my pocket and continued holding onto hers,
“I mean. I like control. I like rules. Creating parameters. Stifling and containing and snuffing out things I like allowing them to rise and fall. I like- a lot of types but also love femmes who want those things. I like girls who let me unfold them. I like making them cry sometimes. I don’t like to give up or give in or give over. I have high standards. I like intensity. I like being a protector.”
“But…”
“But what?”
“But the way your eyes blackened wide when I called you a “sweet boy” made me feel like I could push you to the ground with my heel on your neck.”
Saved by the door, I opened it rapidly for her and said nothing while she walked in and ordered for both of us, confident and poised as ever. It made my dick hard.
I wanted to come up on her abruptly and tongue that spirit of her back down her throat, but also, the image of her heel on my neck made something in my spine flex a shiver from the nape of my neck down.
“Should we flip a coin?”, she murmured.
I laughed heartily at that, noticing the barista had no clue what we were talking about. I grabbed her waist then, moved her out of the way for the next customer she hadn’t seen and used my hips to hold her against the counter while we waited for our drinks to appear. I put my leg between hers and widened her stance gingerly, let the warm vapor of my breath run down her neck,
“I think you don’t know what you want because you haven’t had what I can give you.”
Her shoulders tensed up at that and her hand slammed itself on the counter awkwardly, a little too loud. I let her feel the shape of the dick I was packing and placed a kiss on her neck before I backed off.
“Your cocoa’s!”
She composed herself as much as she could and took them awkwardly, turning so I could watch her walk the 20 feet out the door in front of me. I held it for both of us and watched her set the drinks down at a solitary table as a breeze blew her curls around her face.
I pushed her chair in and set my jacket around her shoulders sweetly, my body-heat pulsing in the seams of it. I sat across from her and peered at her intensely, staying quiet. She set her clutch back down and fiddled her nails between the grated tabletop and tried to avoid my eyes.
I swelled and crossed my arms a little, patiently waiting for a response. I stayed silent, let the chocolate run down my throat slow.
She grabbed her own cup and sipped from the hole in the lid, setting it down too quick so some spilled onto her hand. I had her flustered now, a plaything that breaks easier because it’s standing down so hard.
“Not being in control for me. It feels almost, wrong? I don’t ever. Do. This.”
I took the handles of my chair and scooted around to her then, put my hand around the back of her neck and felt that tension again. I massaged her slow, smelled the scent of her shampoo breeze into me from the air of the night. I leaned closer, almost cheek to cheek,
“I don’t know about you, but I want it to feel wrong.”
Jezebel Jett 
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