White Icing ☼ Duet
A Daydream & Distraction by Ximena & RedBud
- This is the follow up I promised earlier. Ximena writes for the young woman, in Italics, and I write for the young man. I hope all of you enjoy this new version as much as we enjoyed collaborating. In any event, be sure and tell us what you think.
The door opens to your Mom’s embrace.
The smell of spruce, familiar cooking and perfume embraces you. You’re home.
I want you to myself.
I was thinking about you the whole way home. The last couple days have been torture. I wore your old t-shirt to bed each night and mixed my smells with yours, my sweat and my cum. I rubbed my clit. I imagined you sighing in my ear. My mouth yearned to taste of your sweat and saliva. I rubbed so hard I ached all the way home. It swells the closer I get to you.
I want to touch you, smell you, taste you.
My eyes dilate on the familiar planes of your face. It takes a couple of beats too long to turn to my parents to greet them, but I make up for it by being overly effusive. I don’t look them in the eye because I’m afraid they’ll see what I’m thinking, recognize the fevered shine of lust in their little girl’s gaze and know that you’ve already had me.
You’re not yourself. You’re glib. I know that’s not your real smile. I feel like I know you better than your Mom or Dad.
When I embrace you, you feel small, feminine, and inviting.
If you could, would you press your breasts against me? You do. I know what you’re feeling and that’s worse than guessing. I feel the softness of your lips on my own but not long enough. Our kiss is quick, embarrassed, as though we didn’t already know deeper and longer kisses – the kind when I’m already in your belly and kissing you is just another way to be inside you.
I want to let my hand linger on your hip. I want to move my finger’s tips to succulent divide of your ass. I want to press at the pussy beneath the seam of your jeans. Everything about you feels soft and aching to be opened. But I can’t. No one suspects, but your face is red and your nipples are hard.
Do they know? Was I too quick? Too slow?
I want you. I know you would let me, and that’s worse than the wanting. You jolt me. I know what’s beneath your clothes. I’ve seen you: the intoxicating swing of your hips, your breasts and swollen nipples against the roof of my mouth. I knows things your parents will never know: how you spread your legs, how your voice rises and trembles with my thrusting, the surrender of your orgasm. My face is too hot.
I’m afraid to look you in the eye. If only I could push you to your knees. Can you smell me. Can you smell my orgasm? The folds of my cock are still wet and slick. I was imagining you. I was imagining my cock inside you, just this morning, when I stiffened and spurted in bed.
Finally. When I wrap my arms around you I feel electricity crackle between your skin and mine. You smell so good. I tip my face to yours and give you a quick smile, but I falter when I see the look in your eye and the way that your lips are slightly parted. I know that look. My body responds before I can censor it – my hips move toward yours and my hands down to the small of your back. I press you against my abdomen. My back arches. I press my breasts into your chest.
The feel of your hands on my cock is like your voice, your walk, your laughter. Unmistakable. You.
The way you hold and touch me is like no others’.
My thoughts race. I see us locked together, our pants down to our knees and sweating in my childhood bedroom while Nat King Cole’s voice filters through the floor. I turn quickly and ask Mom whether she’s baked my favorite: brown sugar cookies with thick cream cheese icing. She smiles broadly and nods. She invites me to the kitchen but I tell her that I’ll be there in a second. Mom and Dad disappear. I turn to you and press my face to your neck and breathe you in, my hands moving under the waistband of your jeans. You’re hard. I don’t want them to notice when you make the quick trip from hallway to living room.
I want you to touch me.
I want you to know what you do to me. It’s yours. I ache to undress you and be undressed. Did you feel me twitch when you touched me? You leave the tip of me thrusting above my belt buckle. Your smile is wicked – a smile that makes my blood sing with your presence. I’ve seen it the mornings. You, in front of the bathroom mirror, me behind you. I yank down your pants or push up your skirt. I press the flat of your belly against the sink counter. I bend you forward. Then you smile at me, in the mirror, that wicked smile — that smile that tells me you know exactly what I’m about to do.
I would do more. I would press my hand between your soft stomach and the tightly buttoned jeans. I would push one finger into you, just to have revenge. Maybe I would keep it there and make you dance on it. Kiss me. Suck my nipples. I would press my finger’s tip against the soft, spongy inside, just beneath the pudenda, that place that makes you want to pee, to beg and to come. I want that wet slickness on my finger like a trophy.
You’re mine. I would wear you like a secret ring on my finger.
But I can’t. You pull your bags out of the snowy stoop and into the house. Your Dad returns from the kitchen and takes your backpack. Are you relieved it’s not me? If it were me, I would follow you up to your room. There would be no time for sex, or maybe there would be. I would toss your backpack on the bed. I would pull you to me, your hip against my cock, your belly against mine, your breasts to my chest. I would squeeze your ass until you bit my shoulder and rose to the balls of your feet. I would spin you around, bend you over, and push your knees to the edge of the mattress. I would be quick. I would yank your jeans over your hips. I would push your panties aside.
Are you wearing any? No, you’re not. I know you’re not.
Why are you dressed like that? You know what your tits do to me. I can see them. I would fuck you fast. I would fuck you like I was punishing you, your cunt, tits, your pussy. I would gush inside you, gripping your hips, arching my back, forbidding you to move. I would fuck you in your childhood room. I would fuck you on your hands and knees. Once my fever was in your pussy, I would pull your jeans back over your hips and forbid you to piss. I would kiss you — friend, lover, savior, woman.
I worship you.
Your Dad is asking you about your trip, how you like your Sophomore year. He tells you for the umpteenth time that it means wise fool. But isn’t that exactly how we’re feeling? If only I could have met you somewhere, anywhere, before meeting you here. Your Dad asks you the same question twice.
My father’s voice dims to a familiar hum in my ears as my desire grows more urgent. My God, why is he wearing that shirt? I think to myself. You know it’s my favorite. It brings out your eyes. I remember their gaze the first time I got on my knees, unzipped your jeans and took your cock in my mouth. We’d been discussing something — poetry or history or art — but I don’t remember because the whole time I’d been wondering how you tasted, and what you would think if I showed you exactly how far beyond kisses I wanted to go —
Your Mom and I set the coffee table as you return to the living room. The air is too hot. You take your coat off but you’re almost embarrassed. How can they not notice your tits? Your Dad takes your coat and your Mom pats the couch cushion next to her. You sit. Maybe I’m glad I’m not sitting next to you. I’m on the cushioned chair across from you, gazing at you. I can look at all of you, your hips, your breasts, your eyes.
I shiver in the warm cinammon-scented living room. I recall how I wrapped my lips around you and began to suck you avidly, pulling up that very shirt so I could caress your tight belly. We hadn’t gone a day without making love in some way after that until a couple of days ago. I physically ache for you. My thighs twitch and my nipples are hard. I can feel wetness, syrupy and hot, running down my slit. I wonder whether you can read my body, whether you ache as much as I do.
You’re wet. I swear I can smell you.
Is it my imagination? You sit in that beautifully feminine way, back arched, butt curved, breasts forward. Jesus but I can’t help imagining what I would do. I would yank your shirt up – a declaration. It’s time. You’re wanted. Be naked. Your breasts, your eyes and parted lips would reveal everything. Maybe I would thumb your nipples just to see your eyes roll. I would lay you down, loosen your jeans and lift your ankles to my shoulders.
‘Grip the cushion while I yank your jeans over your hips.’
But I wouldn’t pull your jeans over your ankles. It’s just too damned sexy to have your ankles bound up in jeans. I would yank you by your hips until the small of your back curved over the edge of the couch cushion – the perfect curve for a girl. Rest the flat of your feet against my shoulder blades while I arc of my cock inside you, upward until my thighs press against your ass. I wouldn’t stop until the end of me were somewhere under your belly button.
I feel like I’m going to come.
My face feels too hot. I’m sweating. I can smell myself. I take the hot tea offered by your mother, wishing it were iced. I can’t look her in the eye as I imagine what I would do to her daughter. I’m embarrassed.
I lick my lips.
Your Mom’s talking to you. ‘Honey?’
‘What?’ you ask. ‘Honey and cream? You’ve always liked cream.’ Cream. You pour it thickly into the dark of your tea. I need to be somewhere else, anywhere else. I need to come.
My mother watches me indulgently as I pour the cream, and I make sure that my expression is one of chaste enjoyment. I watch it swirl around and lighten the dark, fragrant liquid. I try to restrain flashes of the last time we made love – fucked – and how you’d teased me, rubbing your cock on my cunt so that the head nudged my swollen clit with each thrust, until you exploded on me and not in me. I’d pouted with frustration, but then you had simply smiled and moved your mouth between my legs and swirled our mixed juices around my clit with your tongue until I’d come so hard my roommates banged on the wall, hooting.
Are you imagining how I’ve come in the palm of your hands, on your breasts, in your mouth? I think I see you shudder. I swear you’re radiating need. I watch you arch. Your Mom wants to know about classes. Have you liked them? How many students are there? When you don’t answer the first time, she pats your leg. You jump. She says you must be tired. She rises from the couch promising you a tray of Christmas cookies.
I remember the first floor classroom, a small room next to the mechanical room. I remember, especially, your knees on the industrial carpet. The lights were off. The occasional student passed by the windows going to and from the school café. They couldn’t see into the classroom but we could see them.
I remember the heat of your mouth on my cock as you sucked me, rigid and twitching through the fly of my jeans. My knees were open, my head was thrown back, my fingers were knotted in your hair. I hadn’t expected this. We had been talking and as you talked you slipped from the chair and crawled between my opening legs. I was hard by the time you freed me. I only have to see you, like that, on your hands and knees. You always know, woman, what you do to me. You crawled, gazing at me with a mix of want and mock innocence. You arched your ass and your hips rose, left, right, and left. You knew exactly the effect you were having on me.
You command my cock. I’m yours. Everything about you triggers my body.
You took me in your mouth and fist. You pumped me hard, sucking me softly, pumping me hard until my hips were rising and pumping in your mouth. You remember how you imagined the professor and classroom watching you? This was where the women learned to submit, you said. This was where she crawled on her hands and knees to please her master. The professor watched you. You said your lesson and submission wouldn’t be complete until I flooded your mouth.
All I could do was to groan.
You lick your lips before before the rim of the teacup meets them. You close your eyes as you sip the tea. I remember that expression. You were wearing it the night I couldn’t resist drinking you in, even though we were in an empty classroom surrounded by people coming and going from study groups. You were already wet with pre-cum when I’d slid to my knees and unzipped your pants. I left a messy ring of lip gloss and saliva around the base of your cock.
I spurted in your mouth until the pleasure was too much. I begged. Enough! No more! You swallowed and licked. Your knees were spread and your ass was proudly high as you softly told me, with that wicked smile, that you hadn’t spilled a drop on the carpet. When you ask me when I fell in love with you, I lie. I tell you what I think a woman wants to hear, but that was the night.
We heard female voices in the hallway. You trembled as I licked your cock. You held my head firmly and made love to my mouth. I knew what turned you on. You wanted them to open the door. You wanted them to catch us. You wanted to see their faces as you nudged the back of my throat with your cock. Would they be turned on? Would they notice that my hips undulated with the same rhythm as your thrusts. I throbbed. No matter what, I knew you wouldn’t stop until you filled my mouth with cum. You did. I’ve never swallowed so much. My belly overflowed with your warmth. I’d taken control, but somehow you made me yours. I love that feeling.
I wanted to confess. That night, I wanted to tell: mine, be mine.
Yours. Yours. I silently repeat the word. I want to whisper it in your ear, moan it while you’re inside me. My clit is throbbing, and it’s getting harder to pretend. My legs tense. I know I’ll stand up and walk to you if someone doesn’t say something—
Your Dad is offering you honey.
You blink. You smile fleetingly. Your Mom is there too. You take the tray from her hands – cookies with sprinkles on thick white icing.
Everything you do is sexual. My imagination is fevered. I want to see you lick the icing from the cookie, but I know that isn’t the kind of sweetness you want. You pass me the tray. You draw your knees together. Is your pussy as swollen as your lips?
You blush. What are you thinking?
Pussy? Is that it? Are you embarrassed? I call you my pussy sometimes. ‘Come here my little pussy’, I say, and you crawl to me like a kitten, licking your lips, ready to lift your tail, ready to be mounted, ready for everything a pussy is ready for, smiling that wicked little smile.
Cunt. The word makes my ears ring and my cock twitch.
“It’s hot in here,” you mutter, but your Mother misunderstands, thinking you said ‘cold’. “You’re hardly wearing anything, baby,” she says. “Don’t they heat the rooms at your dorm?” Your nipples are as hard as sugarplum pits. You see me watching and slowly open your legs, knowing I won’t be able to resist looking at the seam of your jeans. Sweat trickles down my armpits.
I take two cookies. Your Dad is asking me what I’m studying. Christ, I feel red as a beet. He must know exactly what I’m studying – his daughter. ‘Premed’, I answer, a lie and the truth.
I’m already wondering whether your parents will be out in the morning. I’m imagining the first chance I’ll have. I’m going to masturbate tonight, again. I’m going to be imagining you: how you suck me, how you ride me, how you walk, sound and bend over. I drop some cookie crumbs.
My cock will spurt against the shower wall. I’ll be imagining you, your elbows against the wall, forehead between them, back arched, legs spread, your ass and pussy parted by my thrusting. I’ll spray my orgasm on the tiled shower wall because your belly isn’t there to receive it.
But I’ll be hard again before I fall asleep.
I’ll pull my foreskin gently back and forth. I’ll be imagining the slick, glistening opening of your belly as I wake you in the morning, finger at your lips.
Do you imagine the same?
I want you to go to bed without underwear. I want to come to you in the morning, your pussy ready, still moist and glistening with the previous night’s orgasm. I imagine you masturbating. Maybe we’ll come at the same time, me in the shower and you, tonight, in bed.
I want you to wear a long nightshirt.
My cock aches with the thought of your warm body, my chest pressed to your back as my cock almost catches in the hollow of your pussy — almost — then back, then forward and this time your opening catches me. Jesus. All I can think of as that moment when your soft warmth encloses my cock. Your Mom and Dad are bragging about how proud they are of you and I can barely hear them. My clothing feels like tiny pins and needles against my skin.
As my parents talk about trifles I decide to wear your old t-shirt tonight. I won’t wear panties. I’ll be thinking about how you look right now while I slide two, and then three fingers in and out of my pussy and pinch my nipples through the fabric. It’ll be hard not to moan, but my swollen lips will be parted and wet, aching to feel the silky skin of your cock against them.
Your parents praise you. I imagine you on your hands and knees, your pussy raised. I imagine fucking you. I want you to turn your head so I can see how much pleasure I give you. I want to see that beautiful frown, that beautiful agony that’s a woman crying and a woman in orgasm.
I’ll come hard enough to shake the narrow bed. I’ll imagine your spurts in my pussy, your exhalations in my ear. Maybe I won’t clean myself. When my boyfriends climbed through my window in the morning, I never let them touch me. I’d let you touch me. I’d want you to taste and smell just how wet you’ve made me by sitting across from me, by looking at me the way you do. My pussy squeezes around your imaginary hardness.
Your Dad asks a question, once, twice and then a third time before you blink. You say you’ll be right back. I try not to be seen as I watch your ass. I imagine you naked as you walk out of the living room. You’re going to be dripping soon, and not with your own orgasm.
The living room is too damned hot.
I close my eyes and sigh, deeper than I expected, a sigh of pleasure. I open my eyes and jump up, nearly knocking over the teacup perched on the precarious edge of the coffee table.
“Excuse me,” I say too brightly. I point to the hallway where the bathroom is.
I see you shift in your seat, move your face closer to me as I walk past. I know you want to smell me. I walk close enough for the tips of my long hair to caress your hand. I lick my lips discreetly, knowing my parents can’t see, and shiver with satisfaction when you blink hard and blush. You know what I’ll be doing in the bathroom, biting down on my hand so I don’t moan.
This hunger won’t last another night, even if we have to park in a dark alley somewhere. I hope you’ll find me and make me yours, no matter what.
The softness of you hair caresses me.
All I can think of is your love making, how you perch above me, feet flat, knees bent, palms above my shoulders as you slowly rise and descend on my cock, our only connection but for your hair, hair that caresses my eyes, lips, and cheeks with the same softness that claims my orgasm.
This thirst can’t last another night. I’ll find you. I’ll make you mine, no matter what.
☼ Ximena & William Crimson
December 30 2010