On the Line

by Naomi Loud

“I still remember how you tasted. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“I’d crawl on my hands and knees …”

“To have you on my tongue again.”

“Tell me to stop, princess,”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

“Tell me you don’t want my fingers inside your cunt, while your piece of shit boyfriend is within earshot.”

“Careful princess, you wouldn’t want mommy and daddy to find out that their perfect little girl is getting finger fucked by the help.”

“You think I offer to cook for any random girl, minutes before the end of my shift?” His gaze dances over my face. “Just answer the goddamn question, James.” Then his voice drops. “Are. You. Hungry.”

“All I want is to consume every little piece of you until there’s nothing left but the taste of you on my tongue,”

It’s a pure kind of bliss, a kind that only exists when her moans fill the space between us and I’m balls-deep in the prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.

Something about him just makes me want to stop caring about how I’m supposed to look or act while having sex, and just seek pleasure for what it is—carnal satisfaction. Pure and wanton.

My hand freezes as my gaze lands on the crook of his thigh, his hand slowly curling around his now-hardened cock. “Don’t stop,” he says. The note of desperation in his tone makes it feel like I’ve been physically touched, heat pooling low in my stomach. Forcing my hand to move, my eyes intermittently look down at my sketch then quickly back up while Ozzy starts to fuck his fist in long, languid strokes. After a few pumps, he tilts his head forward. Lining his mouth directly above his cock, he lets a long spool of spit fall on the tip, his thumb smoothing it over the skin.

We’ve been texting. But it’s just not the same. Not when being with her in person is like listening to your all-time favorite song on repeat.

Maybe it’s about time I shed another skin, relieve myself from the constant ache of feeling guilty for everyone else’s actions, or that nagging feeling of never being good enough.

I still don’t know what healthy looks like. I continue to experience life through the distorted lens of my past.

A touch. Then, I know. That whatever this is between me and Ozzy, I want to chase it for as long as I can.

For the image of James in her blue summer dress, sitting on a blanket with the sun’s rays bouncing off cotton candy hair, makes me want to spend countless hours immortalizing her likeness.

Getting to know James on a deeper level is turning me into an addict.

“Don’t you wish that was you?”

“Don’t you wish you could see what’s underneath my dress?”

“You pathetic litt...

“It’s so pathetic how desperate I am to fuck your throat. Would you let a slut like me do that to you, huh baby?”

“I’d gladly go blind if it meant that the last thing I saw was you, fucking yourself while my cock is buried deep down your throat.”

“You know when you finally get something so good that your mind tricks you into believing you don’t deserve it?”

“But you hold on to it despite the feeling … despite knowing you’re being selfish. Despite knowing this bright light is not meant to be yours. So you hold on to it with everything you have for the time being and soak up all the fucking goodness you can manage because you don’t want to let go of a singular piece of that feeling?

Falling in love with her was the easiest thing I’ve ever done. But saying it out loud to her? I don’t think I should.