In the face of submission, I am an unstoppable force. I can say without hesitation that I rarely feel so bold as when I am against the things I love and the things I fear from head to toe, pressed up against a wall. And in the face of a darkening day, The Writer and The Photographer met me with their entirety. Our skin meshed, our breaths sealed, we bound and burned and fused and collapsed. Scientific reactions and the beauties of nature truly pale in comparison to the sensation of flesh struck or lips curled, yearning for the touch of another.
The Writer and The Photographer, two women so dynamic that even as I write on energy waning, my eyes failing to meet the power of sleep so deserved, I cannot stop my pen from putting it all on paper and telling the small sphere I know of the beauty I have felt. They are together, but they are their own, and in some capacity, mine, and in that bifurcation and later rejoining I can experience all facets and faces pressed to mine. I can express it in a single pained exhale or a breathy sigh as my body sinks to the same rhythm as my heart. Or I can tell you here. There is merit in both, but only one ends in the inevitable sharing of three bodies and a bed.
The connection was immediate and intimate from the start. Knowing with a glance that they had sized me up and accessed my most intimate thoughts in a matter of days made the allure even stronger, as the history was prominent but had only just begun its physical transaction. I beamed needs previously impossible through telephone cords and past state lines, spun and frozen in pixels across my naked flesh. We began to slowly tell our story from three vantage points moving toward a single intersection. Fuck, what a balance, what precision.
The Photographer calls me her little one, which causes my breath to catch, my focus to deepen. Alone in the apartment, the thousands of words unspoken pool between us like drops of blood at my lips. We have started this dance and are about to sweep into the next phase, and the tremble in my fingertips is already indicative of the iron hold she has on my mind and body. The defined intellectualism combined with such a swift power weakens me and magnetizes me. Her first kiss is eloquent, gentlemanly, but consumes me and I feel the allure intensify.
To The Writer, I am a slut, and my pupils enlarge. In our interactions, the depth is not unlike a chess game, but whether I am playing or being played is not yet a known variable. The Writer exudes a quiet, calculated power and wields it as deftly as she does her cock. There is a deliberation to her movements and a control in her eyes that is magnetizing, it traces down the curve of her muscles to the tips of her fingers. The more I look, the less I can draw myself away. She sinks into my folds, first into my brain, then to the rest, down to the quick, with a handling part and parcel of knowing the same love as I.
Our players established, we have begun our theatrics neatly tied in a small black bag, freshly cut willow reeds poking out the top. I am neatly bound to a chair in the center of the room, quiet and intently listening to the pair at my side. My clothes are shucked, but for my silk tie, garishly plush against the beginning fray of skin on my collarbone from their initial warming up.
As they focus on me, they reverberate to each other. They are a marvelous team, and being at the center of it all is simply bewitching. I hold the willow reeds tightly between my teeth as they tip me back, shift my center of gravity to another universe and slam me back into the present with their motions and sway. The Photographer bites my neck, The Writer holds me from behind and whispers in my ear,
“Are you afraid?”
In this moment I know that I am afraid, but it is not fearful, it is merely an excitement brought on by this weakened state of control I am lulled into, and quickly jerked from as I am yanked from the chair by the tightening noose of my carefully tied Windsor knot. My ankles bound, I plunge to the floor and stare into the beautiful, scuffed shine of The Photographer’s orange Doc Martens, their soles kicking at the skin of mine, veering close to my mouth and gently demanding their way in. I lick them with unabashed impunity, a dear devotion so frail in its desire that it is impossible, for a moment, to consider doing anything else until they flip me onto the bed and loom over me.
The grace and malice in their faces is parallel to none. I want to touch them and lavish them and become two people myself for a moment, splice my brain so I can exist in the simultaneous sway of their motions and thoughts. Of course, not knowing what the next page holds is where the true allure lies, a sensation intensified as my thighs are bruised and nerves provoked on slapped skin. But for the evening, I am more than content to give myself to them, splayed sacrificially atop a table and laid out on the floor in a heap. I luxuriate in existing arranged to specification, laying amongst the lions and counting their teeth.
The Writer lays her eyes upon my body and declares her intent to fuck me. With the curl of a handcuff clenched in between my teeth, I do not object. Rather, the opposite, and with violet violence she claims me in quick succession and I bare my teeth to the cold of the outside and night. Her aggression is countered with a precision via swift smacks to my thighs, back, and shoulders with the willow reeds from The Photographer, with the disciplined strike of perfectionism true. Their supple verdancy allows them to soar through the air with ease, landing only when cushioned by the curve of my body and cries of short agony. She kisses away my moans, swallows them whole and crushes my lips in hers, breathing my desire back inside.
With another toss of a strong arm curled around my shoulders, I am on my knees, the cold bite of the floor nipping at my joints. The Photographer in all of her colorful glory is over and above, and her hand demands in tugs and jerks at the back of my scalp, raising my lips beseeching toward the cock she dons before she fucks me from behind, my head knocking against the window. I gag and choke, each inch propelled by thrust and a grin solid in the security of control from the inside and out. My cheeks are as purple with lust as is my prose and her cock, so with that commonality we enjoin.
“Blow me, faggot,” she says, and on my knees, I take her over and over and let the soft back of my throat get acquainted with her again and again and gaze beyond her and at her, awash in the gentle thrust of her hips.
After I break the surface of these dark waters, gasping for breath, they push me on my back and eat me alive, starting at the hollow of my throat crushed into silence with a pair of panties filling my lips, duct tape wrapped around my face to seal my protests. I reciprocate, tasting and devouring, insatiable to their taste and buck of their hips against my mouth. They bite and scratch and mark in sweet inches, lashes to measure what we can give and take and the flavor of my sex blooms upon my lips and in the back of my raw throat.
“I want you to know how dirty you are,” says The Writer. “Because you are such a filthy slut.” In that moment, that is all that I want to be, I want to tell her, I need that, too, we strive toward a common goal metered in thrusts and slurps and her fist jackknifes into me inside of me with a slip and I cry as I am faced with the true, unadulterated pleasure of fitting them as best I can.
As soon as The Writer eases her hand out of me, slapping me across the face with a spray of my own arousal and shame, The Photographer takes her place, squaring her knee in between my thighs, wrenching them open and moving the entire length of her cock into my ass, steady against the electric vibration of my body’s inability to translate such sensation all at once. The overload is astonishing and hits me square in the face.
The Writer curls her fingers around my mouth and tells The Photographer to go harder. She grips the back of my hair in her other hand and shoves my face into the pillow. She is completely calm and delights in this systematic breakdown.
“Look at you,” she says, her voice petal-soft and plush in my ear. “You can’t get enough, slut, can you?” I shake my head wordlessly, secure in its truth. I can’t get enough because I love staring myself in the face, pushing myself, daring myself as my breath fogs in the mirror. Can I take it? It is a point of pride in its vulnerability. Each time I break, I feel stronger and sexier and incredible, indelible Cam. All my muscles glow and I teach myself to breathe in the smallest of inhalations, little sips of air as my mind comes back to the ground.
I come into her hand, my cries reverberating muffled back into my throat to swallow, sweet salinity and sanity clear on the tip of my tongue.
The Writer is lacing up her boots, pacing around my shuddering form, and places the sole of her boot on my gaping jaw with the grace of a ballerina. She intensifies the pressure, stepping down and imprinting my skin with the rubber pattern. She draws back her other foot and kicks me in the ass, a beautiful representation of the laws of motion, as my equal force shifts to meet hers and I groan, contorted by her boot and shifted from the inside out. I am trapped and elated, wholly exposed.
The Writer seizes me by the hair and throws me on the bed, grinding her boot into my thighs and squeezing them open with her hands, bruising and pinching the tenderest of parts, and dives into me, pinning me to the bed and staring me dead in the eye, my legs wrapped helplessly around her body. It does not take long before I beg to come, and my pleas are met with her hands curved around my throat, her eyes unblinking and power unwavering. She slips two fingers into my mouth, then three, then four, until I am salivating and spitting and choking at her relentless conquest of every inch of my body.
At her cue, I burst, I shatter around her in screams and wrench my eyes shut to release the fireworks, the velvet coursing down my thighs and out of my mouth, her cock squeezing me bruised to a pulp on the floor. I beg, please, my thighs might give out, as I curl around her, and she pulls me to my feet and presses my back against the cold mirror, pushing me down on the desk.
She drives into me from behind, forcing me to my tiptoes so her cock can expertly catch my most sensitive curves. The Photographer holds my bound hands above my head and gags me once more, gripping the back of my head and forcing me to gaze upon myself in the mirror. I am a sight to see, bent over the desk, all curves and red in the face with pure, abject wantonness in the flare of my nostrils and desperation in the whites of my eyes. With this grip, The Photographer wrenches my head to the desk as she wields a mascara wand to pretty up the fag. My protests are ignored, and my eye rolls are responded to with three abrupt slaps to the face, pinned and trembling against the mirror by The Writer, who whispers nose to nose,
“You are not to disrespect us, do you understand?”
And I do, I really, really do, and I let the waves of sensation wash over my body as The Photographer dabs on mascara, (my eyes really do pop) and writes in deliberate calligraphy on my left forearm, “FAG,” brilliant and sparkling and dark and bold and wholeheartedly unabashedly how and what and who I feel and I scream as I come, I stare them in the eye in the mirror and look at myself and am continually amazed. And I fucking love it more than I ever have before.
As academia waits for no one, your Cam beat a hasty retreat to the netherworlds of graduate admissions, facilitated by the devious duo, handcuffed and puckered in the shadows of the backseat. As it was, the fates aligned in such a way that we got a motel and I felt the sweet side of their wrapped arms and relaxed bones, exhaustion uniting us in slumber until I arose to a hand on my throat and a glimmer in the eyes. I devoured them both until the sun peeked through the dark and we breathed and beat and inhale our clove cigarettes and kiss, so sweet, so sharp, silent but for the pulse of our minds.