The Gentle Art of Tapping Out

I'd been thinking about this for weeks. Probably longer than that, if I'm being honest with myself. Ever since that night at my condo, when you kissed me against the kitchen island and I felt that low pull in my stomach like something had been waiting seventy-some years to wake up.

You opened the door in your usual way — one hand on the frame, leaning slightly, that warm cello voice already mid-sentence before you even saw me properly.

"I was just about to pour a glass of that Pinot you left here last —"

You stopped. I watched your eyes travel down what I'd chosen to wear. A fitted black dress, just above the knee, low enough at the neckline to make a point. Heels that made my calves flex when I walked. I'd spent forty minutes on my hair and another ten choosing perfume — something with bergamot and sandalwood that I knew lingered when I leaned close.

"Darby."

"That's my name."

"You look —"

"I know what I look like." I stepped past you into your condo, letting my hip brush your thigh as I squeezed through the doorway. I felt you inhale. Good. "Are you going to close the door, or are we giving the neighbors a show?"

You closed it. I heard the deadbolt turn, which made me smile. I walked toward your living room, letting the wiggle happen naturally — the one you'd noticed before, the one you tried not to stare at when I walked away. I knew about the staring. I'd always known.

"Can I get you something?" you asked, falling back on politeness the way you always did when you were slightly off-balance. Your hands went to your pockets. I loved your hands — clean, well-groomed, steady. I'd thought about those hands more than I cared to admit.

"You can sit down."

You raised an eyebrow but sat on the edge of your couch. I didn't sit. I stood in front of you, close enough that my knees almost touched yours, and looked down at your face. You had good bone structure. Strong jaw, the kind that had probably been devastating at thirty. It was still pretty effective at seventy.

"I had a dream about you," I said.

"Oh?"

"You were on your back. I was on top of you. You were saying my name in a way that didn't sound like you were asking me to pass the cheese plate."

Your mouth opened. Closed. I watched a flush crawl up the side of your neck. Lawrence, the man who could command a room with that voice, who could say exactly what he meant without flinching — speechless. I felt a warm pulse of satisfaction.

"I've been thinking about that night at my place," I continued. I put one hand on your shoulder, not sitting yet, just pressing enough that you felt my weight. "How you kissed me. How your fingers felt on my waist. How I wanted more and didn't take it."

"I wanted more too."

"I know you did." I leaned down, my mouth near your ear. "I'm taking it tonight."

I felt your shoulder tighten under my palm. Not pulling away. Bracing.

"Darby, I —"

"Lawrence." I pulled back enough to look at you. "I'm not asking."

Something passed across your face. Surprise, curiosity, the faintest edge of arousal — I could read you like a menu by now. You weren't frightened. You were intrigued. Maybe a little nervous, which suited me fine.

"Stand up," I said.

You stood. We were almost the same height with my heels on, and I kissed you. Not gently. I put one hand behind your neck and pulled you in, and I kissed you with my mouth open and my tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you let me in. You made a sound — low, involuntary, the kind of sound that went straight between my legs. I'd been wet since I got in the car to drive here. I was practically dripping now.

Your hands came to my waist. I let them stay for exactly three seconds, then I pulled back.

"Walk with me."

I took your hand and led you down the hallway toward your bedroom. You followed without argument, which told me everything I needed to know about what you wanted, even if you didn't have the words for it yet.

Your bedroom was tidy. Of course it was. Bed made, lamps on the nightstands, a book on the bedside table — some thriller, from what I could see. I turned to face you at the foot of the bed and reached for the zipper on the back of my dress.

"Let me," you said.

"No." I pulled the zipper down myself, let the dress slide off my shoulders, and stepped out of it. Underneath I wore a black bra and matching underwear, nothing fancy, just clean lines that I knew worked on my body. I was seventy-eight years old and I still had good legs and a waist that curved in, and I wasn't going to pretend I didn't know it.

You stared. I watched your chest rise and fall.

"Sit on the bed," I said.

You sat. I knelt in front of you, between your knees, and unbuttoned your shirt. I took my time. Each button, I let my fingers drag across your skin — your collarbone, the center of your chest, the soft skin below your ribs. You had a decent body for a man your age. Not soft, not wasted. I pushed the shirt off your shoulders and ran my palms flat across your chest.

"You're beautiful," you said, and your voice was rough.

"I know." I reached for your belt.

"Wait — Darby, what are you —"

"I told you. I'm taking what I want." I unbuckled the belt, pulled it free, and set it on the nightstand. I unbuttoned your pants, unzipped them, and you lifted your hips without being asked. I smiled. I pulled your pants and underwear off together and dropped them on the floor.

You were half hard already. I wrapped my hand around you and squeezed, and you groaned — actually groaned, your head tipping back. I stroked you slowly, feeling you get harder in my grip, feeling the weight of you in my palm. I'd thought about this. I'd thought about this specific thing, your cock in my hand, the way the skin moved over the shaft, the way you twitched when I ran my thumb over the head.

"Jesus Christ," you said.

"Not quite." I let go of you and stood up. "Scoot back on the bed."

You did, propping yourself on the pillows, watching me with those careful eyes. I unhooked my bra and dropped it. Your gaze went to my breasts — small, still firm, nipples tight from the cool air and from wanting this. I hooked my thumbs in my underwear and pulled them down, stepped out of them, and stood there for a moment letting you look.

"You're staring," I said.

"I'm admiring."

"Same thing." I climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside you. I put one hand on your chest and pushed gently. "Lie flat."

You lay back. I swung one leg over you, straddling your waist, and I felt your cock press against my ass — hot, hard, insistent. I sat up straight and looked down at you.

"Give me your wrists."

You blinked. "What?"

"Your wrists. Give them to me."

You held them up, uncertain, and I grabbed them — fast, precise, the way Sensei Marsh had taught me fifteen years ago at the dojo on Fourth Street. I'd started taking karate at sixty-three, judo at sixty-eight. I wasn't a master, but I didn't need to be. I needed the techniques, the leverage, the understanding of how to use someone's own body against them. I pinned both your wrists above your head with one hand, pressing them into the pillow, and I shifted my weight forward onto your chest.

You tugged. I didn't budge.

"Darby — what the hell?"

"Shh." I smiled down at you. "I've got you."

You pulled harder, trying to twist your wrists free, and I adjusted — pressing my knee against your side, locking my grip, distributing my weight in a way that made you feel like you were pinned under something much heavier than a hundred and forty pounds of woman. Your eyes went wide.

"How are you —"

"Karate. Judo. Fifteen years of it." I leaned down, my face close to yours. "You didn't know that about me, did you?"

"No."

"There's a lot you don't know about me." I kissed you, hard, swallowing the sound you made. "But you're going to learn."

I released your wrists and shifted my body up your chest before you could react. I grabbed your wrists again, higher now, and then I slid my knees up to your shoulders, my thighs on either side of your head. I pinned your arms beneath my legs, pressing them against your sides, and I settled my weight down.

A schoolgirl pin. Classic, effective, and utterly inescapable when applied correctly. Your arms were trapped under my legs, your shoulders pinned, and I was sitting on your upper chest with my pussy inches from your chin.

You stared up at me, breathing hard, and I could see the thoughts racing behind your eyes — confusion, surprise, and underneath all of it, a dark flare of arousal that you couldn't hide.

"Tap out if you need to," I said, smoothing my hand over your hair. "Otherwise, you're going to use that mouth of yours."

"Darby —"

I lifted my hips and slid forward, positioning myself above your face. I was wet — genuinely, soaking wet, the inside of my thighs slick with it. I could smell myself, and I knew you could too.

"I've been thinking about your mouth on me since the last time we were together," I said. "That cello voice of yours, those lips. I want them here."

I lowered myself onto your face.

The first touch was your breath — hot, uneven, blowing against me. Then your mouth, tentative at first, just your lips pressing against my outer lips. I reached down and put my hand on the back of your head, tilting your face up into me.

"Lick me," I said. "Slowly."

You licked me. One long stroke from the bottom of my pussy up to my clit, and my thighs tightened around your head involuntarily. You did it again, and this time your tongue pushed between my folds, tasting me properly, and I felt a jolt of pleasure shoot up through my spine.

"Oh, fuck," I breathed. "That's it."

You found a rhythm. Your tongue moved in slow, deliberate circles around my clit, then dipped down to push inside me, then back up. You weren't tentative anymore. You were focused — the same focused attention I'd seen when you watched me prepare the cheese plate that night, when you sipped your Pinot and studied me like I was a problem you wanted to solve.

I rocked my hips, grinding against your mouth, controlling the pressure and the angle. Your tongue pressed flat against my clit and I gasped, my hand tightening in your hair. I felt you try to move your arms, testing the pin, and I squeezed my thighs tighter.

"Stay," I said.

You stayed. Your tongue kept moving, and I rode your face with a slow, deliberate roll of my hips. I looked down at you — your eyes were on mine, dark and hot, and I could see my wetness glistening on your chin and lips. It was obscene. It was perfect.

"Put your tongue inside me," I said.

You pushed your tongue up into me, and I rolled my hips forward, taking it deeper. The sensation was maddening — warm and wet and flexible, not quite enough pressure but close, so close. I fucked myself on your tongue for a few strokes, then lifted up.

"Now my clit. Harder."

You found my clit and sucked it into your mouth, and I nearly came right then. I grabbed the headboard with one hand to steady myself, my other hand still in your hair, and I let the pleasure build. Your tongue flicked against my clit while your lips held it, and I could hear the wet sounds — your mouth, my pussy, the slick friction of it.

"Don't stop," I said, and my voice came out strangled. "Don't you fucking stop."

You didn't. You licked and sucked and I rode your face with increasing urgency, my hips jerking, my thighs trembling. The orgasm built in waves — each stroke of your tongue pushing me higher, closer. I could feel it coiling in my belly, tight and hot.

"I'm going to come on your face," I said, and it wasn't a warning, it was a statement of fact. "I'm going to come so hard, and you're going to take it."

You made a sound against me — a groan that vibrated through my clit — and that was it. I came. My whole body seized, my thighs clamped around your head, and I ground down against your mouth as the orgasm ripped through me. I heard myself saying your name, saying fuck, saying things I didn't plan to say. My hips bucked three, four, five times, and each wave was sharper than the last.

When it passed, I sat there for a moment, trembling, still pinning you, still feeling the aftershocks pulse through my cunt. Your tongue moved gently against me, lapping at the wetness, and I shuddered each time it crossed my oversensitive clit.

I lifted myself off your face and slid back down to straddle your waist. Your arms were still pinned under my legs. Your face was soaked — my juices covered your chin, your cheeks, your lips. You looked dazed, aroused, and slightly bewildered, like a man who'd just been hit by a very pleasant truck.

I released your arms. They didn't move. You just lay there, staring up at me.

"Darby."

"Lawrence."

"Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

"Fourth Street Dojo. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sensei Marsh is a sixty-year-old woman who could put you in a headlock in under three seconds."

You laughed — a breathless, incredulous laugh that broke into a groan when I shifted my hips and felt your cock press against my ass. You were achingly hard. I reached behind me and wrapped my hand around you, stroking slowly.

"You didn't tell me," you said.

"You didn't ask." I squeezed you. "Besides, would you have believed me?"

"Probably not."

I lifted my hips and positioned you beneath me, the head of your cock pressing against my entrance. I was still wet, still swollen, and I sank down onto you in one slow, continuous motion. You filled me — thick and hard and deep — and we both made sounds that didn't qualify as words.

I put my hands on your chest and rode you. Slow at first, rolling my hips, feeling every inch of you inside me. Your hands came up to my waist — I let them stay this time. Your fingers dug into my hips, and you thrust up into me, meeting my rhythm.

"Fuck," you said, and your voice was wrecked. "Darby, fuck —"

"I know." I leaned forward, changing the angle, and you hit something deep inside me that made my breath catch. "I know."

You pulled me down against your chest and wrapped your arms around me, and you fucked up into me hard and fast. I buried my face in your neck, gasping, my nails digging into your shoulders. I could feel another orgasm building — impossible, too soon, but there it was, coiling tight with every thrust.

"Come inside me," I said against your skin. "I want to feel it."

"Darby —"

"Do it."

You drove into me and held there, and the first scalding pulse of your release hit me like a lightning strike — a second, fiercer climax that tore through me in ragged, clenching waves. I cried out against your throat, my body milking you in helpless, rhythmic spasms, and your arms locked me to your chest with a force that dissolved every last inch of space between us.

We stayed tangled together as the world slowly seeped back in. Your breathing deepened beneath me, and mine followed, a quiet echo. I felt your heart drumming through your ribs, steady and possessive, and I dragged my lips to the tender hollow below your ear. Then I let my mouth graze the delicate curve of it, a whisper of heat, and breathed, "You're mine now, Larry. I fucking own you. Every last breath, every heartbeat, every helpless sound you make—mine."

I slid lower, my mouth trailing a wet path down your throat to your chest, and when I closed my lips around your nipple and sucked hard, you jerked beneath me and your hands flew up to push me off. I caught your wrists without lifting my head, pinned them back to the mattress with a grip that left no room for argument, and kept my mouth working you with slow, deliberate pulls until the tension bled out of your arms and you made a sound that was half protest, half surrender. I released your wrists only when I was good and ready, and I felt the truth settle into your bones: I was in charge, and you weren't going anywhere.

"So," you said eventually. "Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"And Saturdays, sometimes."

"I think I need to sit in on a class."

I laughed against your neck. "You wouldn't last ten minutes."

"I lasted tonight."

"You lasted tonight because I wanted you to." I propped myself up on my elbows and looked at you. Your hair was a mess, your face was still damp, and you had that satisfied, slightly stupid expression that men get when they've been thoroughly dismantled. It was a good look on you.

"Next time," I said, "I'm going to put you in a triangle choke."

"Next time?"

"Did you think this was a one-time thing?" I kissed the corner of your mouth. "Lawrence, I've got fifteen years of techniques I haven't shown you yet. We're going to need a schedule."

You pulled me back down against your chest and pressed your lips to my forehead. "Tuesdays and Thursdays," you said.

"Tuesdays and Thursdays," I agreed.

And if I wiggled a little extra when I got up to get us water from the kitchen — well. You already knew what that meant. You just didn't know yet that you'd be tapping out again before the night was over.