“You like to fuck young girls, don’t you?” Sanne insisted, lying on her back, on his bed, naked except for her bra, her hands secured above her head by his left hand, while his right hand brushed the hair from her temple. “I don’t want you to fuck me like your girlfriend. I want you to fuck me like this,” her sultry voice managed. She thrust her pelvis into his, breaths slowly undulating, mimicking the rise and fall of her hips. With her grey eyes locked on his, lips loosely hanging above one another, this was the silent exclamation point that sat on top of her aggressive claims over his body. Forever she was, in this moment, this ineffable occasion that could laconically be summed-up as fuckable; a situation that was so messy with hormones, declarations, skin, sheets, hair and bodily fluids it could only be clean—perfect.
She arrived a little after three, unannounced, announcing herself by knocking on the living-room window, under which he sat typing PhD applications on a brown leather couch. When he heard the foreign sounds of knuckles on glass, he looked up and saw her—Sanne. She insulated herself against the cold Dutch autumn wind, which swept along the canal that stood promptly before his house, by wrapping herself in a black leather biker jacket, sealed with requisite matching scarf, mid-thigh length black skirt, and black nylons which ran aground into weathered black Chuck Taylors. Her straight, short brown-hair was cut asymmetrically into a bob where the left-side was significantly shorter than the right, leaving the hair on this side of her face dangling in front her eye. With her black bag thrown over her shoulder, she pointed towards the door, mouthing something indecipherable.
“Hey,” she said with her Aussie-tented Belgian accent as he opened the door, “I just thought I’d bring back your clothes. I thought about keepin’ ‘em, but,” trailing off, shaking her head to remove the hair that occupied her left temple. “Can I come in?” she asked, and he let her inside along with a few brown leaves that clung about her footwear. Sanne took off her shoes, laying them amongst the pile of men’s shoes, where they fit in perfectly. She unwound her scarf as he led her into the living-room, replacing himself on the couch. Her bag sat cozily upon the heated wooden floor, and Sanne finished un-layering herself, revealing the yellow, tight-fitting t-shirt she had borrowed from him.
“Oh, oops, but this. . . this is yours too, do you want it now?” she asked, standing on his left, fiddling with the hem of the yellow shirt, eyes revealing the intent of her overture. Her release was smooth, clean, but the “sex” of it sent his conscience into disarray; he barely knew her, and yet here she was, willing. He sat there, still, curious as to what lie beyond the suspension of his disbelief.
This was only their third encounter. On the second occasion, she and her friend Haley, who had previously introduced Sanne to him, came over on a soaking-wet Friday evening to have drinks. He could remember how she began to remove her clothes in the vestibule, revealing a petite, fit body that shivered from the chill and dampness. He dutifully retrieved clothes and a towel for her, and she natively wore his hooded-sweatshirt, sweatpants, and t-shirt. Hood up, hands hiding inside sleeves like a turtle inside its shell—her hair messy-wet— she sat folded on a brown leather chair, staying long after Haley departed, jaw-jacking with him and his roommate, Fereydoon. She departed with a, “let me get your number,” expressing concern about the return of the articles of clothing, but he waved her away, telling her to return them at her leisure.
And now this was the promise of the come-back: she was inching closer, satisfied with having stunned her prey, a wry smile washed over her face. “I could. . . maybe I’d had just better take it off, mmhm?” she said, and by now she was so close her legs flirted with the cushions of the couch.
One leg breached the cushion defenses, then the other, causing the leather to listlessly crackle under the added burden as she climbed on top of him, simultaneously peeling off what was his in order to take what was hers. She straddled him, hands on either side of his head. Now they were face-to-face, and hers was a lovely one with rosy cheeks which brushed against his. Sanne whispered into his ear, “Touch me,” in a breathy, firm tone, beginning to move her hips slowly.
Aiming to please, he tongued her neck and she let out a low, even moan, running her fingers through the back of his hair, then jerking his head backwards, and his mouth away from its beloved.
“No, not like that,” her lusty-yet-resolute voice rang. She instructed him with firm, steady hands un-hooking his belt-buckle, pulling down his zipper, and taking hold of his excitement, which grew under her command.
Sanne sat upright, staring straight into his eyes stroke-by-stroke; her captive pulled at the elastic waist of her skirt, removing the article along with her nylons and her white-with-black-trim boyshorts, putting her on her back. Just as he freed her left leg from her boyshorts, she planted it on the ground, and with the other leg she kicked her underwear away. Legs wide-open, he separated her lips with his middle finger, running it from top to bottom before plunging it into her wet spot.
While fingering her, she issued, “Now, my ass,” taking his soaked finger and directing it from one hole to the other; at first, she took it slow and shallow, eventually leaving him to finger-fuck her pussy and her ass unassisted.
She watched him intently as he pleasured her with his fingers. Becoming more vocal, she pulled away, hopping to her feet and taking his hands. Once on their feet, she grabbed him, violently bringing their mouths together while she cupped the back of his neck and wrapped her right leg around his waist. He secured her leg, gripping her buttocks, and her free hand joined the occupied around his neck. She dug her fingernails into the back of his neck, biting his lips as he struggled to free himself; he was wrapped up in her show, and she was his puppet master. Both pulses running high, he freed himself from her grasp, pushing her away, causing her to stumbled over her discarded clothes. She, however, quickly rebounded, donning the now-familiar wry smile, beckoning him with her index finger and mouthing, “come here.”
He approached her, taking hold of her hips and pushing her against the nearby wall; she let her body fall into his hands, passionately kissing his mouth and neck. He swung her right leg around his waist, and with his left hand he inserted the tip of his penis into her vagina, an action which caused her to let out a shriek, a moan, and then a, “I like the way you fuck me,” emerged from underneath her breath.
Seven tiny words she spoke out loud, this being the first moment where instruction did not take place. He listened, letting the rhythm of her moaning lull him into a waking reverie. Sanne still clung to him, this time gently, like a lover. But this had nothing to do with love, just hormones run amok in an atomic swerve that found her pressed up against his living-room wall, getting fucked by little more than a stranger.
“Hey,” she whispered as she took hold of the base of his penis and pulling herself off, “Upstairs . . . you never did gave me that tour, and I bet your bedroom. . .” trailing off again. She took his hand, leading him upstairs, where he led her into his bedroom and she eagerly pulled him on top of her, asking seductively, “You like to fuck young girls, don’t you?” as her hands were immobilized and he swept the hair from her face.
Her inquiry was followed by, “I don’t want you to fuck me like your girlfriend, I want you to fuck me like this,” her sultry voice managed. She thrust her pelvis into his, breaths slowly undulating, mimicking the rise and fall of her hips.
In this moment, a sense of purpose surrounded him in a thick lust-filled haze: he was fucking himself. She was everything he wanted to be—sexy, controlling, bold, shamelessly horny, dangerous, and erotically-engaging ad infinitum. She took what she wanted, violently and recklessly; she was everything he could never be. He fucked her just as ordered, reveling in her sadism—he was the “bottom” to her “top.” She was a mystery—one minute rough, the next tender. She gave him hope, yet at the same time buried him in a nihilistic spiral—her sex was crushingly-beautiful, but when the light faded, he would be left in the dark, with her crooned “fuck me” as his consolation prize. This was her moment.