The Rabbit Hole Delivery

She showed up at my door on a Thursday with a tote bag and a look on her face that I'd learned to recognize. It was the look she wore when she'd been down a rabbit hole — usually starting with some article or forum post and ending with a shopping cart full of things that required batteries or discreet packaging.

"What's in the bag?" I asked, stepping aside to let her in.

"You don't want to know."

"That means I definitely want to know."

She dropped the tote on the kitchen counter and pulled out her phone instead. The screen was open to a block of text — small font, dark background, the unmistakable formatting of one of those literotica sites she'd been mining for ideas. She scrolled to a highlighted passage and held it up for me to read.

I squinted at the screen. The passage was about a woman who pinned a man down and sat on his face while he tried to keep up. The writing was uneven — too many exclamation points, a few questionable anatomical claims — but the scenario itself was specific enough to tell me exactly why she was showing it to me.

"You've been doing homework," I said.

"I've been doing research. There's a difference." She set the phone down and started unpacking the tote. A bottle of that sensitivity lube we'd used last time — the one that turned every nerve ending into a live wire. A new cock ring, still in its packaging. And a small bottle of something I didn't recognize, which she didn't explain.

"I thought we were going to keep things simple this time," I said.

"We were. And then I read fourteen chapters of this series and changed my mind."

I made coffee while she settled onto the couch with her phone, scrolling through more of whatever she'd been reading. She'd kicked her shoes off and tucked her feet under her, and she looked completely at ease — which, in my experience, was the state she occupied right before becoming completely unhinged. The transition was always fast and always worth paying attention to.

"The thing about this series," she said without looking up, "is that the woman is always in control. Like, explicitly. Not in a bondage way — just in a 'I'm going to take what I want and you're going to lie there' way."

"I can work with that."

"I know you can. That's why I'm here."

I brought her coffee and sat at the other end of the couch. She took the mug without looking up, took a sip, and kept scrolling. I watched her face — the way her eyes moved across the screen, the way her breathing changed slightly when she hit a passage that caught her attention. Her tongue touched her lower lip, a tell she didn't seem to know she had.

"How long have you been reading this stuff?" I asked.

"Since Tuesday. After you left. I started with one chapter and then it was two in the morning and I'd read the whole series." She locked the phone and set it on the arm of the couch. "The author has opinions about facesitting."

"Does she."

"She does. And they're persuasive."

I set my coffee down. "You want to talk about it, or you want to show me?"

She stood up and pulled her shirt over her head in one motion — no bra underneath, which I'd suspected from the way the fabric had been moving. Her breasts settled and she didn't bother covering them or posing. She just stood there, looking at me with that expression that was half calculation and half hunger.

"I want to be on top," she said. "But not the way we usually do it. I want to work my way up."

"Up?"

"You'll see."

She took my hand and pulled me off the couch. I followed her to the bedroom, and she pushed me onto the bed with a firm hand on my chest. Not gentle, not rough — just certain. I sat on the edge and she stepped between my knees, her stomach level with my face. I reached for her hips but she caught my wrists.

"Not yet. Lie down."

I scooted back and lay flat on the mattress. She pulled off her jeans and underwear in one efficient motion, and then she climbed onto the bed and straddled my shins. I could feel the heat of her against my legs, the dampness already there. She'd been thinking about this since Tuesday, and the thinking had done its work.

"Remember the thing with your fingers," she said, "that made me forget my own name?"

"I remember."

"Good. I'm about to return the favor."

She started moving upward. Slowly. Her body dragged along mine — knees sliding along my thighs, her weight shifting forward, her cunt pressing against my leg and leaving a warm, slick trail. She moved with the kind of deliberate patience that I usually associated with myself, and it occurred to me that she'd been taking notes not just on what to do but on how to make someone wait for it.

When she reached my hips, she paused. Her pussy was pressed against my lower stomach, and I could feel how wet she was — not just warm but genuinely slick, the kind of wet that came from hours of anticipation and literotica and whatever had been running through her head on the drive over. She ground forward once, a slow roll of her hips that dragged herself across my skin, and I felt her clit catch on the edge of my hip bone. She shivered.

"You're making a mess on me," I said.

"Good."

She kept moving. Up over my stomach, her weight settling across my ribs, her thighs on either side of my torso. I could smell her now — that particular scent that was all her, intensified by arousal, warm and close. She was leaning forward, hands on the mattress above my shoulders, and her breasts hung in front of my face. I lifted my head to take one in my mouth and she pulled back.

"Not yet."

She shifted forward again, and now her knees were beside my head. Her thighs framed my face, and I was looking up at her from below — at the line of her stomach, the underside of her breasts, her face looking down at me with an expression I hadn't seen before. It wasn't playful. It was focused. Intent. Like she'd rehearsed this in her head and was now executing a plan.

She lowered herself onto my chest, and then — with a smooth, practiced motion that couldn't have been practiced because she'd never done it before but somehow looked like it had been — she slid forward and pinned my arms under her shins. Her weight settled onto my upper arms, pressing them flat against the mattress. I was locked in. A schoolgirl pin, though I was fairly sure she didn't know the term. She'd just arrived at it through research and instinct.

"I didn't say you could do that," I said.

"You said you could work with it." She grinned down at me. "I'm testing the boundaries of 'it.'"

She shifted forward one more time, and then her cunt was directly above my face — close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off her, close enough that every breath I took was saturated with her. She was soaked. The lips were swollen and parted slightly, her clit visibly erect, and there was a strand of wetness connecting her to my chin.

She lowered herself the last inch.

Her pussy met my mouth, and I made a show of turning my head aside, letting my lips drag just off target. "Nah," I muttered against her inner thigh, voice muffled. "Don't feel like it."

She made a sound—half laugh, half growl—and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my face back into place. "The fuck you don't." Then her weight shifted, her knees clamping tighter against my ears, and she ground down hard, smothering my protest before it could form. I was pinned, truly pinned, her cunt sealed against my mouth with a possessiveness that left no room for argument.

"Lick me," she said. "Slowly."

I did. I started with a long, flat stroke of my tongue that ran from the base of her opening up to her clit, and the sound she made — a sharp, punched-out exhale — told me the lube was doing its job. Every nerve in her was amplified. She jerked above me, her thighs tightening around my head, and I felt her hands brace against the headboard.

"Again," she said. "Same thing."

I repeated the stroke, and this time I added pressure at the end — pressing the flat of my tongue against her clit and holding it there before releasing. She made a sound that was almost a whimper and ground down against my face, her hips moving in a small, involuntary circle.

"Fuck. That's — keep doing exactly that."

I kept doing it. Long strokes, firm pressure, a slow rhythm that let her feel every millimeter of my tongue. She was shaking above me, her weight shifting forward and back, her breathing coming in sharp bursts. I could feel her thighs trembling against the sides of my head, and the vibration of her pulse was visible in the swollen flesh pressed against my mouth.

Then she reached back.

I felt her reach back before I saw it — her fingers finding my cock in the dark, wrapping around the shaft with a dry, testing grip that made me suck in a breath. Then the click of the lube cap, and a beat later her palm was slick and hot, sliding down my length in a slow, twisting stroke that pulled a groan out of me and made my hips jerk up into her fist.

"There," she murmured, her slick fingers sliding lower to cup my balls. She squeezed — just enough pressure to make me freeze, my hips going still against the mattress. "Now you know who's in control."

Her hand worked me with a steady, relentless focus, each stroke a slow claim of ownership. The lubricant turned every pass of her palm into a slick, detailed event — I felt the curl of her fingers, the press of her knuckles, the deliberate twist at the crown that made my breath catch and my spine tighten. My arousal surged under her, a raw, rising pressure fed by her taste in my mouth, the weight of her pinning me, the way her grip never faltered. Every so often her hand dropped lower, her fingers closing around my balls with a sharp, measured squeeze that sent a bolt of warning through me — a reminder that she could hurt me if she wanted, and that knowledge kept me perfectly still beneath her.

I tried to push faster with my mouth, and her fist froze mid-stroke. A squeeze at my balls — sharp, deliberate — told me everything. Her pace. Not mine.

"Not yet," she said, the words clipped and deliberate. "You move when I say."

I matched her rhythm. Her hand on my cock, my tongue on her clit, both of us moving at the same deliberate pace. She was grinding against my face now — not hard, but with purpose, her hips rolling in a way that dragged her clit across my tongue and let her control exactly how much pressure she was getting. Each downstroke of her hand on my cock corresponded to a forward roll of her hips, and the synchronization was so precise that it felt like we were operating on a shared nervous system.

"I'm going to come," she said. "Not yet, but soon. And when I do, I'm going to come in your mouth, and you're going to take all of it."

I made a sound of agreement against her, and the vibration of it traveled through her clit and into her pelvis, and she gasped and stroked me faster — a reward, or maybe just a loss of control. Either way, I took it.

She was close. I could feel it in the way her thighs were clamping down, in the way her breathing had gone ragged, in the way her cunt was clenching and releasing against my chin. I kept the rhythm steady — long strokes, firm pressure, my tongue working her clit in a pattern I'd learned she couldn't resist: three slow passes, then a firm hold, then a quick flick. Three, hold, flick. Three, hold, flick.

On the third cycle, she came.

It hit her like a wave breaking. Her whole body went rigid — thighs clamping my head, back arching, hand gripping my cock so hard I almost came from the pressure alone. And then she released, and her hips bucked forward against my mouth, and I felt the rush of wetness flood across my tongue and chin as she came in a series of contractions that I could feel and taste and count. One, two, three, four — each one a pulse that pushed more of her into my mouth, and I swallowed and kept my tongue pressed against her because she'd told me to take all of it and I was going to.

Her hand was still moving on my cock, and the orgasm had made her grip erratic — fast, then slow, then fast again — and I was right at the edge, my hips jumping off the mattress with each stroke, trying to fuck her fist. She was still shaking from her own orgasm, her body jerking in aftershocks, but her hand kept working me with a determination that was almost clinical.

"Come," she said, her voice rough and breathless. "I want to feel it."

I did. It started at the base of my spine and rolled through me like a current — my cock swelling in her hand, my hips driving upward, and then the first pulse of come shooting out and landing on my stomach. She kept stroking, and the second pulse was stronger, and the third, and she was watching over her shoulder now, her eyes on my cock as it jumped in her hand, her fingers slick with lube and cum.

"Fuck," I said. "Fuck, fuck —"

"Give me all of it."

I did. She milked me through the entire orgasm, her hand slowing as the pulses weakened, until I was empty and shaking and her fingers were covered in me. She released my cock and brought her hand up to her face, examining it with the same analytical expression she'd worn when reading the reviews on her phone.

Then she turned around — still straddling me, still pinning my arms — and held her hand in front of my mouth.

"Lick it clean," she said.

I turned my head. "No."

"Yes."

"That's — no."

She seized my balls and twisted — a vicious, deliberate wrench that tore a ragged shout from my throat, forcing my jaw slack with the shock of it, and in that gasp she shoved her slick fingers deep into my mouth, my tongue lashing desperately over the hot, bitter flood of my own cum and the sharp, electric burn of the lube, my brain shorting out, swallowed whole by the raw, mindless instinct to submit.

"You just swallowed everything I gave you," she said. "Fair is fair."

"That's different."

"How?"

I didn't have an answer for that, and she knew it. She lowered her hand slightly, so her fingers were resting against my lower lip. I kept my mouth shut. She waited. The room was quiet except for our breathing, and the afternoon light was doing something warm and golden through the curtains, and her fingers were right there, smelling of lube and me.

She reached back and gathered more of my release from my chest, her fingers glistening as she held them up. "You're going to do this again," she said, and it wasn't a threat—just a statement, as certain as the afternoon light slanting through the curtains.

I opened for her, and it was surrender—a slow, deliberate parting of my lips that felt like giving up the last scrap of resistance I’d been clutching.

She slid two fingers in, and I tasted myself — salt and bitterness and the chemical tang of the lube, a combination I'd never encountered from this angle. I licked her fingers clean, and she watched me do it with that same focused expression, her eyes on my mouth, her fingers moving slowly so I could get every bit of it.

"Good," she said when I was done. Her breath had gone ragged again, and she didn't wipe her hand on the sheet. Instead she brought it down between us, smearing the wetness across her own cunt — slow, deliberate circles that made her eyelids flutter. "Taste this too."

She lifted her cunt to my mouth, already dripping, and I opened for her without being told. She tasted sharper than before—more salt, more of me, more of whatever the lube was doing to both of us—and I licked into her with a hunger that surprised me. Her thighs clamped against my ears and she rode my face in short, desperate jerks, her fingers twisting in my hair, her voice breaking into fragments of yes and please and don't stop. When she came it was a full-body collapse, her weight slamming down onto my chest, her face buried in the hollow of my neck, a raw moan tearing out of her throat while her hips kept grinding against my thigh, aftershocks rippling through her in tightening and loosening waves.

I lay there with my arms still pinned, her weight warm and heavy on top of me, and stared at the ceiling. My mouth tasted like both of us. My cock was soft and satisfied against my thigh. She was breathing slowly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my shoulder.

"I need you to let my arms go," I said.

"In a minute."

"My hands are falling asleep."

"That's the price of admission." But she shifted her knees and freed my arms, and I brought them up around her, one hand on her back, the other on the curve of her hip. She settled against me with a sound that was close to a purr.

"So," I said after a while. "The series."

"The series."

"Is there a sequel?"

She laughed against my neck. "Fourteen chapters. I only read the first six."

"What happens in the other eight?"

"Things I'm going to need a bigger toy collection for."

I considered this. "Send me the link."

"You want to do your own research?"

"I want to be prepared."

She lifted her head and looked at me, her chin resting on my chest, her eyes bright and amused. "You're not going to be prepared. That's the whole point."

"Then I want to be surprised."

"You're going to be that too." She kissed my collarbone and put her head back down. "Wake me up in an hour. I want to try something from chapter nine."

I wasn't going to ask what was in chapter nine. I was going to lie here with her weight on me and the taste of us in my mouth and the clean sheets smelling like sex, and I was going to rest, because whatever chapter nine had in store, I was going to need my strength.

My last thought before I drifted off was that I should ask her to forward me the link after all. Not for research. So I'd know what to buy.