The Naked Truth

I think I can’t come like this, on top, with a cunt full of face, but before my eyes roll up in my head I watch my fingernails claw their way down the headboard. Before that I looked down and saw the mark on the top of my half-exposed breast already blossoming into a dark-centered bruise, and the gleam of my braced thighs as black gauze slid down them to obscure him.

Face down and gasping, I feel his tongue on my ass and his fingers inside me, and then when he pulls my hips up and pushes my shoulders down , my tits swell against their black lace constraints. As he fucks me I feel his hands slide fabric up my back, under it, and using it for leverage. And I wonder now, about the politics of dressing to be undressed, the armour of seduction. I put this on so that you will know I dressed thinking about you taking my clothes off; I put this on so that when we are in public you will know it’s underneath and waiting to be revealed: I put this on so that you know I dress up to please you; I put this on because sometimes not-naked is more naked than nudity; I put this on because maybe this reveals more of my soul than when I’m self-protective in my skin.

But at the time I don’t think that, because what I do think is: too intense, can’t take it… and as if he senses it he fucks me harder, making me press back and flinch away, unsure if I want to crawl across the bed to safety, or grab tight to his cock and keep it there, bottomed out inside me, a blissful torment.

When he rolls me onto my back and I claw my way out of the fabric, I feel I have some remnants of control again, although in reality I’m pinioned and helpless, pounded into the bed too hard to even voluntarily move a muscle. But it focuses me, feeling my bare skin against his, as though my downed defenses have been a choice I made. I feel my own heat, as though my cunt encases his cock in a thin layer of lava, and although he sears me as he fucks me, it’s what I want. And helpless as he holds me, what I can’t control can hold him tighter.