Sundown on the Swing Set

The next time I saw you was three days after the pond. Three days of tasting you in my memory, of lying in bed with my hand around my cock replaying the whole thing—the clover, the cattails, the way your thighs had clamped around my head like you were trying to crush my skull. Three days of jumping every time someone said the word "lick" in normal conversation, which turned out to be surprisingly often when you start noticing.

You showed up at my house in the Datsun on a Tuesday afternoon. The bumper sticker—PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT—was peeling at the corner, and you'd drawn a little smiley face on the dash in white-out that I'd never noticed before. You leaned on the horn twice, short and impatient, and I came out the front door so fast I almost forgot my shoes.

"Get in," you said. "We're going back to the playground."

"Why?"

"Because I said so. And because you owe me a rematch."

I stopped halfway to the car. "A rematch of what?"

You grinned at me through the open window, and the grin had teeth in it. Not mean teeth. Hungry teeth. "You'll see."

I got in. You drove too fast down Oak Street like you always did, taking the turn by the elementary school on two wheels, and I white-knuckled the door handle while you sang along to something on the radio that I couldn't hear over the wind rushing through the windows. You had on cutoff jean shorts—short enough that the pockets hung below the hem—and a yellow tank top with no bra. I could see the shape of your nipples through the fabric, and I looked away, and you caught me looking away, and you laughed.

"Relax," you said. "It's just a body."

"Your body," I said.

"Mine and yours. That's the arrangement, isn't it?"

I didn't have an answer for that. I was eighteen and the arrangements in my life so far had been limited to who got the last piece of pizza and whether I mowed the lawn before or after dinner. The idea that a woman like you might be an arrangement—something I had, something that was mine—was so foreign that my brain just sort of skipped over it like a stone on water.

The playground was empty. It was always empty in the late afternoon on weekdays—the kids were home for dinner, the parents were inside, and the whole park belonged to us. You parked the Datsun at the curb and got out and stretched, arms above your head, the tank top riding up to show the flat strip of your stomach. I watched the muscles move under your skin and thought about how those same muscles had been trembling against my ears three days ago.

"Come here," you said.

I walked over. You grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me toward the swings, but instead of sitting down, you turned and faced me and put your hands on your hips.

"Wrestle me," you said.

"What?"

"Wrestle me. You and me. Right now."

I stared at you. You were maybe five-foot-ten and a hundred and fifty pounds, and I was six feet and a hundred and seventy, and the math seemed pretty straightforward. "I'm not going to wrestle you."

"Scared?"

"I'm not scared. I just don't want to hurt you."

You laughed so hard your head tipped back. "Oh, Lawrence. That is the sweetest, dumbest thing you've ever said."

And then you grabbed my wrist.

What happened next was so fast and so disorienting that I barely had time to process it. Your hand closed around my wrist and your hip turned into mine and suddenly the ground was coming up at my face and I hit the dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I lay there on my back in the grass staring at the sky, and you were standing over me looking down with your hands on your hips again, and the grin was back.

"How did you do that?"

"Judo," you said.

"You know judo?"

"Second-degree black belt. Been studying since I was twelve."

I lay there trying to reconcile the woman who'd ridden my face in the clover three days ago with the woman who'd just hip-tossed me like I was made of paper. The two images kept sliding over each other like a double exposure, and the combined picture was doing something complicated to my circulation.

"Get up," you said. "I'll show you a throw."

I got up. You showed me a throw. It involved me ending up on the ground again. You showed me another one. Same result. By the fourth throw I was dizzy and grass-stained and laughing, and you were laughing too, and somewhere in the middle of it all the laughter turned into something else. You grabbed me and I grabbed you back, and we were wrestling in earnest—my hands on your shoulders, your hands on my arms, our bodies twisted together in the grass. I was bigger. I should have been stronger. But every time I thought I had leverage, you'd shift your weight, pivot your hip, use my own momentum against me, and I'd be on my back again with the sky spinning above me.

The last throw was the hardest. You came in low, got under my center of gravity, and flipped me clean over your shoulder. I hit the ground with a grunt and before I could roll away you were on me—not standing over me this time but straddling me, your knees on either side of my chest, your weight pinning my arms to the ground.

"Schoolgirl pin," you said, like you were reading from a textbook. "Very effective."

"Let me up."

"No."

Your hands pressed my wrists into the grass. The cutoff shorts had ridden up, and I could feel the warmth of your bare thighs against my ribs. You leaned forward, shifting your weight, and your hips pressed down against my chest. The yellow tank top hung loose, and I could see down it—the curve of your breasts, the sweat collecting in the hollow of your sternum.

"You're staring again," you said.

"I'm pinned. I don't have anywhere else to look."

"You could look at the sky."

"The sky doesn't have nipples showing through a tank top."

You raised an eyebrow. "Getting bold."

"Getting honest."

You smiled and rolled your hips forward. The movement was slow and deliberate, and it dragged the seam of your cutoffs across my chest and then lower—across my stomach, and then lower still. I felt my cock start to harden in my shorts, the same loose shorts I'd been wearing last time, and I watched your face as you felt it happen. Your eyes dropped to my waistband and then came back up to my face, and the look you gave me was the same one from the swing—knowing, hungry, satisfied.

"There it is," you said.

"Stop."

"You don't want me to stop."

"I really do."

"No, you don't." You rolled your hips again, and this time you pressed down and back, and the heat of you through the denim found the length of my cock through the thin fabric of my shorts. You ground against me—slow, circular, your weight doing most of the work—and I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.

"I know judo," you said, leaning down so your mouth was near my ear. "I also know what you're thinking right now."

"You have no idea what I'm thinking."

"You're thinking about the other night. You're thinking about how I tasted. You're thinking about how I grabbed your balls and made you lick me. And you're thinking about how hard you are right now and how much you want to be inside me."

Every single word was true. I said nothing.

You sat up again and reached down and unzipped your shorts. The sound of the zipper was loud in the empty playground, mechanical and deliberate. You shifted your weight forward, sliding up my chest, and I watched as you pulled the denim to the side and I saw that you weren't wearing anything underneath. Your cunt was right there—wet, swollen, the lips parted slightly, the same shade of pink that I remembered from three nights ago. The smell hit me immediately—musky and rich and so distinctly you that my mouth watered before my brain could catch up.

"No," I said.

"Yes," you said.

"I can't—"

"You can. You did. You will."

You slid forward and your cunt pressed against my chin. I turned my head and your thigh blocked me. I turned the other way and your other thigh blocked me. You were above me, your weight centered, your hands now on my shoulders instead of my wrists, and I tried to buck you off. I got my hips up maybe two inches and you shifted like water, absorbing the movement, settling back down with your cunt now pressed against my mouth.

"Lick me," you said.

I shook my head and clamped my jaw shut, twisting my torso hard to the left. You rode the movement, your thighs squeezing my ribs, and your cunt smeared wetness across my cheek. I bucked again, got a hand free, and shoved at your hip—useless, like pushing a boulder. You caught my wrist and pinned it back to the ground, your other hand fisting my hair and yanking my head straight.

"Stop fighting me."

I snarled and tried to bite your thigh. You shifted your weight and your cunt was on my mouth again, slick and insistent, and I could feel how hard I was, my cock a trapped ache against my shorts, my hips grinding up into nothing.

"Lawrence." Your voice was calm. Almost gentle. "I will put you in a wrist lock that will make you cry. And then I'll do it again. And then you'll lick me anyway. So save us both the time."

I tried to twist my right arm free. Your hand caught my wrist—fast, precise, the grip of someone who'd been doing this for years—and you twisted it outward and upward in a direction that wrists are not designed to go. The pain was immediate and bright, a white flash that went from my wrist to my elbow to my shoulder, and I gasped.

"Stop—"

"Lick me."

You twisted a fraction more. My mouth opened. Not to lick—to protest, to beg, to say something—but the moment my lips parted your cunt was against my tongue, and the taste flooded my mouth. Tangy. Metallic. Sweet. The same taste from three days ago, the taste I'd been dreaming about, the taste that my body apparently remembered before my brain did because my tongue moved on its own, pressing flat and broad against the length of you.

"Oh," you said. Just that. A single syllable that contained an entire paragraph of satisfaction.

Your grip stayed on my wrist, loose but absolute—a tether I couldn't slip. I dragged my tongue up the whole length of you, slow and deliberate, and your hips answered, rocking forward in a grind I was starting to know. I found that swollen peak and ringed it with the tip of my tongue, and your body snapped taut like a struck wire.

"Right there," you said. "Right fucking there."

I pressed harder. I licked faster. I was learning what you liked—the pressure, the speed, the way you wanted me to flatten my tongue against you and then flick the tip against that swollen bud. Your thighs were trembling on either side of my head, and the wetness was running down my chin and pooling in the hollow of my throat. Your hand released my wrist and grabbed the back of my head, fingers twisting in my hair, pulling my face deeper into you.

"Don't stop," you said. "Don't you dare fucking stop."

I didn't stop. I licked and sucked and pressed and circled, and your breathing got ragged and your hips got erratic and the sounds you were making—low, guttural, rhythmic—filled the empty playground like something wild had gotten loose. Your thighs clamped around my head and your back arched and I felt the muscles of your cunt spasming against my tongue, and then you came with a sound that tore out of you like something ripped from the root.

You collapsed forward, hands on the ground, hair hanging in my face, breathing in gasps that shook your whole body. I lay beneath you with my face wet and my cock throbbing and my wrist aching from the wrist lock, and I realized I was smiling.

"You're getting good at that," you said, still breathless.

"You're getting better at making me."

You lifted yourself up and looked down at me. Your face was flushed, your eyes half-closed, and there was a look on your face that I hadn't seen before—not hunger exactly, but something past it. Something that had eaten its fill and was ready for the next course.

You slid down my body.

Not off me. Down. Your cunt dragged across my chest, across my stomach, and then you were sitting on my hips with your shorts still unzipped and pulled to the side, and the wetness of you was pressed against the length of my cock through the fabric of my shorts. You reached down and tugged the waistband of my shorts down—just far enough, just enough to free my cock—and it sprang up against the heat of you and we both went still.

"Fuck," I said. It was the only word that seemed appropriate.

"Not yet," you said. "Let me look at you."

You sat back slightly and wrapped your hand around my cock. It was the first time anyone had touched it besides me, and the sensation—someone else's hand, someone else's grip, the pressure and warmth of fingers that weren't mine—was so intense that I almost came right there. You must have felt it because you squeezed tighter, a warning.

"Don't you dare," you said. "Not yet."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder." You stroked me once, slowly, from base to tip, and I saw your eyes tracking the movement of your own hand, watching the foreskin slide, watching the precum bead at the tip. You ran your thumb across the head, spreading the wetness, and my hips bucked involuntarily.

"You're close," you said.

"I've been close for three days."

You laughed. And then you lifted your hips, positioned the head of my cock against the opening of your cunt, and sank down.

The heat. The pressure. The wetness. The tightness. I don't have words for what it felt like. Every nerve in my body fired at once, and my vision went white at the edges, and I heard myself make a sound that wasn't quite a word and wasn't quite a moan. You took me all the way in, your hips pressing down against mine, your cunt clenching around me in a way that made my brain short-circuit.

"Oh God," I said.

"No God," you said. "Just me."

You started to move. Not slow, not gentle, not the careful rhythm I might have expected. You fucked me hard. Your hips rose and fell with a force that drove my back into the ground, and each thrust was a slap of skin and a rush of wetness and a clench of muscle that dragged along the length of my cock. I grabbed your hips because I didn't know what else to do, and you put your hands on my chest and leaned forward and rode me like you were trying to break me. You kept that maddening, brutal pace, and I was trembling, my teeth clenched, sweat running down my temples. You leaned down, your breath hot against my ear, and whispered that I was yours, that you owned every inch of me. Then your tongue speared into my ear, wet and invasive, and when I squirmed away, you laughed—a low, knowing sound—and tongued my other ear just as deep.

"I'm going to—" I started.

"Not yet."

"I can't—"

"You can. Hold it."

"I can't hold it."

You grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head, your fingers tight as iron bands, and you kept fucking me with that same brutal rhythm, your cunt slamming down onto my cock while I lay there helpless beneath you. "Hold. It."

I held it. I held it through thirty more seconds of the most intense pleasure I'd ever experienced, my whole body rigid, my fingers digging into your hips, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. And then you started to shake. Your rhythm faltered. Your cunt tightened around me in rapid, involuntary pulses, and you let out a sound that I recognized from three days ago—the sound right before the storm.

"Now," you said. "Come with me. Now."

I came so hard my vision went dark. My cock pulsed inside you, and I felt the cum shooting out of me in waves, and each wave was met by a clench of your cunt as you came too, and the two of us were locked together in the grass, shaking and gasping and making sounds that weren't words. I felt the wetness flooding around my cock, felt it running down my balls and pooling on the grass beneath us, and I didn't know if it was me or you or both, and I didn't care.

You collapsed on top of me. Your face was in my neck, your breath hot and ragged against my skin, and I could feel your heart hammering against my chest. My cock was still inside you, softening, and I could feel the aftershocks rolling through your cunt—little flutters that made me twitch every time.

"Jesus Christ," I said.

You pinned me there with your weight, and my face burned—a raw, spreading flush that surged from my cheekbones down my throat and across my bare chest. My pulse hammered in my ears, a deafening, shaming drumbeat that carried the full weight of my surrender, my desperate need, and the humiliating truth that I would have begged you for more.

"That was—"

"Mm."

"Did you plan that?"

You lifted your head and looked at me. Your face was wrecked—flushed, sweaty, your hair plastered to your forehead, your eyes glazed. You looked like someone who'd been through something and come out the other side changed.

"I've been planning it since Tuesday," you said.

"It is Tuesday."

"Then I've been planning it for a very efficient amount of time."

She kissed a slow path up my sternum and closed her mouth over my left nipple, and the sensation was so sharp and sudden that I jerked—my spine arched off the grass, my hips bucked, and I tried to twist away from her. “Wait,” I gasped, “that’s too—”

She seized my wrists and slammed them into the grass above my head—no hesitation, no gentleness, just raw, effortless force that made my breath catch. I bucked against her, but she locked me down with her weight, her hips pressing mine into the dirt, and the look she gave me—hungry, commanding, absolutely sure of her victory—set my blood on fire. She lowered her mouth and latched onto my other nipple, sucking with a vicious pull that wrenched a desperate, shameful cry from my throat. Against my sweat-slick chest, her smile spread slow and wicked, a brand searing into skin I’d already surrendered.

She felt me thicken again, the helpless rush of it pressing up into her heat, and her smile turned feral. She slithered down my body, mouth dragging wet over my stomach, and when she wrapped her hand around me and sank her lips down the length of my cock, I couldn’t tear my eyes from her face—the dark, victorious certainty burning in her gaze as she hollowed her cheeks and worked me with a ruthless, knowing rhythm. The wet sounds of it, the tight suction, the way her tongue pressed flat against the underside—it all coiled a pressure low in my gut, fast and unstoppable. I tried to warn her, my hips stuttering, but she only hummed around me and took me deeper, and then I broke—spilling hot across my own chest in thick pulses that left me gasping, ribs heaving, utterly wrecked.

She gathered the slick, warm seed pooling in the hollow of my chest onto two fingers, then reached down and slowly, deliberately pressed it back inside herself—a claiming so obscene it stole the air from my lungs and left me frozen, heart hammering against my ribs. Before I could even process the act, she was climbing me, her knees pinning my arms to the ground as she rose above my face, the heat and scent of her blotting out the world. "Tongue. Now," she said, the command soft and absolute, a knife wrapped in silk. I turned my head sharply, the old refusal flaring in my chest, but her fingers twisted into my hair and wrenched my face back, forcing my open mouth against the wet, swollen center of her—and my resistance collapsed into a shuddering, muffled moan.

She ground down onto my mouth in slow, deliberate circles, her thighs clamping around my ears until all I could hear was the roar of her blood and the wet, rhythmic pulse of her flesh against my lips. Her fingers knotted in my hair, pulling just enough to sting, and she rode my face with a possessive, rolling motion that stole every thought from my head. When her breathing fractured and she shattered above me, it was with a ragged, keening cry that seemed to tear itself from somewhere deep in her chest.

Then she slid down my body, her slick, blazing skin dragging over my stomach, my hips, until she settled low and guided me inside her with an agonizing slowness—just the thick, blunt head of my cock nestled in her wet heat, a motionless, heavy fullness that left us both trembling and gasping into the silence.

"You know," I said, "next time you could just ask me to wrestle. I'd probably lose on purpose."

"You'd lose on purpose because you'd want to end up exactly where you are right now."

"Is that wrong?"

You thought about it. "No," you said. "That's the whole point."

You shifted your weight, lifting away, and I felt my cock slip from you—slick, softened, utterly drained. You tugged your shorts up, settled your tank top, and rose like you hadn’t just taken everything I had and left me gasping in the grass. Your hand reached down.

"Come on," you said. "I'm buying you a burger."

"I'm not wearing shoes."

"You're not wearing a lot of things. Let's go."

I took your hand and you pulled me to my feet, and we walked to the Datsun barefoot and grass-stained and smelling like each other. You turned the key and the engine coughed to life, and PROTECT ME FROM WHAT I WANT peeled a little more from the bumper, and you pulled away from the curb.

"You know," I said, watching the playground shrink in the side mirror, "I took judo for three months in sixth grade."

You looked at me sideways. "And?"

"And I think I need a refund."

You laughed so hard you swerved into the other lane, and I grabbed the wheel, and we straightened out, and you were still laughing, and I was laughing, and the Datsun rattled down the road toward the burger place with the windows down and the evening warm and the taste of you still on my tongue.

I ate my burger with grass in my hair and your fingerprints on my wrist and the certain knowledge that I was the luckiest man in the state of Ohio. You ate yours with one hand and used the other to trace circles on my thigh under the table, and every circle went a little higher, and by the time we were done I was hard again and you were smiling like you'd invented the concept.

"Next time," you said, dipping a fry in ketchup, "I'll teach you a chokehold."

"Can't wait," I said, and I meant it.