Best Timeline (starring Selena Gomez & Taylor Swift)

[the_5am_club]

BEST TIMELINE
by
The 5am Club

Celebs: Selena Gomez - Taylor Swift
Codes: FF, anal

Tay >
Text Message
07/20/17 1:24 PM
SELENA I NEED YOUR HELP ROOM 68 ILL EXPLAIN THERE

I’m not sure about a lot of things in general, but I’m sure this is a serious situation. Had Taylor texted me from her home in L.A. I could brush it off as her usual frivolity or a prank, but this time the distressed call is coming from her suite in Manhattan, in the hotel that serves her as headquarters whenever she spends time in the city. She has all the help at hand there, an army of servants she knows by name and calls on a whim, whether day or night. She’s not calling me to change an ink cartridge. Things are dire.

Lucky for her I was in New York myself when I got her text, and lucky for her I was just out of my lunch with Woody Allen, otherwise…

I mean: Amazon Studios for Pete’s sake!

I throw myself on a cab and call her, and I don’t get much out of her except her voice is shaking and she’s scared to explain herself on the phone because she’s scared of the NSA.

“Told you that’s what happens when you vote Republican, Taylor.”

Oops. Blunder. I hope the driver didn’t hear that one.

Her new pet hobby sure is getting to me: paranoia. I don’t entirely blame her though. Boy have the 10’s been crazy so far: the election, the nude leaks, Snowden, that Ed Sheeran song… I hope the 20’s will give us some break.

“I’m waiting in my room. When you get there knock my new single so I know it’s you.”

“Alright.”

“I’m sorry I’m putting you through this.”

“Don’t worry ’bout it. I’m on my way.”

As I hang up I see the guy throwing glances at me in the rearview mirror. He heard the anxiety in my voice. I have to smile:

“Show business emergency! All my master tapes caught on fire and I have to go record my new album all over again.”

There. That’s a good rumor. When he drops me in front of the hotel he has promised me he’d buy a copy to each of his daughters. God bless you Nasir.

The doorman greets me by name of course. Doesn’t ease the paranoia. I blush like I’m here to cheat on my husband. Everyone knows me here, they have to, it’s their job, and mine in a way. As I’ll casually stroll through the lobby, some will nod, some will stay silent, all will look without looking, and you’ll see, just as I’ll step in the elevator, one of the receptionists, the only one staring down busy, he will have his face suddenly lit by the white glow of his screen: it’s my personal profile turning up, to check what brand of orange juice I like or if I’m allergic to peanuts.

I feel like a spy in East-Berlin when I walk up the corridor to Taylor’s suite.

She opens the moment I start a pretty good rendition of Look What You Made Me Do with my fists. She grabs and pulls me inside.

I don’t get to see the entryway is bigger than my condo in Greenwich, I only see, as we go sit in the main room without a word, that Taylor is walking funny. And sitting funny.

“Coffee?” She hands me a cup. None for her.

“You don’t have one?”

“It’s really not the time. Sorry.”

“Alright, so I’m here, what’s up?”

Her sweatpants and oversized t-shirt make me feel awkward in my thin summer dress. Loungewear always looks grim on her, like the tinsel is off. And it means my suspicions were right. Her eyes are all puffy from recent tears.

At least I’m wearing underwear today (because Woody Allen) but I hesitate kicking my heels off like I’d naturally do among friends.

“Tay, you’re making me nervous, just tell me what’s wrong.”

She struggles with her breathing, gathering her words. She’s not eyeing the pot of coffee but the bottles of liquor sitting unopened behind.

“Taylor!”

“First I want you to promise you won’t freak out and you won’t tell me to go to a hospital.”

As a rule when people say this it means they do need to go to a hospital, but I remain silent, listening. I gulp down the brown water they dare to call cawfee.

She begins, with a trembling voice and reddening cheeks:

“You… um… K fuck dis, you know these horror stories of people going to the emergency room cause they have an object stuck inside their butt—”

“Oh my gosh you have to go to a hospital!!” I shout.

“Shhhh!” She flaps her hands at me and looks around with bulging eyes, so convincingly that I whisper as I reiterate: “You have to go to a hospital!”

“I know!” she hisses back. “But I can’t. I’m Taylor Swift.”

“How did this happen? When did this happen?”

“Just now. This morning. I texted you as soon as I was sure I was really fucked.”

“Call your gynecologist!”

“No!”

“She can’t tell anyone, there’s like the doctor oath or something!”

“I don’t trust doctors, they talk to each other, I know it! Richard Gere?! Hellooo?!”

“What does he have to do with anything?”

“You don’t know? … Anyway… I… Will you help me please?”

“What the hell do you want me to do?”

“Help me get it out. I couldn’t do it myself. Please, Selena.”

“But I…”

“Please. You’re the only one—”

“What about Karlie?”

“She’s in London.”

“Can’t you just wait for it to just…you know…get out and stuff?”

“No, it’s really stuck.”

“Does it hurt?”

Her crimsonness, which never left her face, deepens with a vengeance. “No, it’s… No, it’s fine.”

“What is it exactly? You sat on the remote?”

“It’s a dildo. Like…just a dildo.”

We take a break from all the hissing, rubbing our temples like two NASA engineers in the control room.

In this moment of silence I notice a noise that I had so far mistaken for the AC. A soft buzzing coming from nowhere in particular. Or maybe it comes from the floor. Or maybe the table. No, it’s in the chairs.

Taylor’s chair.

We look at each other.

I mumble “Don’t tell me it’s—”

“It’s so far up I can’t even turn it off,” she whispers, lowering her head.

I burst out laughing a very nervous laugh, ragged and contained at first but dragging on and on, til, defeated, it gets to a clear and gurgly racket and gets to Taylor who starts laughing too, louder, to tears.

I cackle, looking for something funny to say that would justify our sudden fit. Then our gaze meets again and there’s no need for words anymore. We laugh like BFFs, like sisters of mischief and mayhem. My shoes go off by themselves. I feel the expensive carpet under my soles. I’m home. I gotchu homie.

Blowing my nose, I blurt out “This thing is going to kill you if we don’t do something!”

“Yeah!” she chortles before her face twitches and her voice dies. Taylor doubles up on her chair.

“What? What’s wrong?”

She gasps. She grunts. I understand and it makes me swear for like the fifteenth time of my life: “I can’t fuckin’ believe it…”

Before my eyes the most lusted after celebrity on earth is pressing her head on the table and hiding it under her arms, waiting for an orgasm to release its grip over her.

And I’m waiting.

Just…waiting.

Until finally she sits back up, winded, her face worse than the worst sunburn, her nipples like two rubies against the fabric of her shirt.

“Let’s do this,” she exhales.

“How do we proceed?”

She grabs me and no time to see the bedroom is bigger than the last stadium I performed in, Taylor climbs on the bed and pulls me with her.

There’s a silver tray next to the pillows, covered with rests of breakfast, an iPad, lube, anal plugs, anal beads, lots of crumpled tissues and…a pocket mirror, a flashlight. Oh boy…

“You haven’t told me how we proceed.”

“It’s gonna bring us back to the locker room in high-school,” she says as she pulls down her pants.

“I was homeschooled.”

“Whatever.”

And there go her panties, removed fast enough so I don’t see they’re soaked beyond belief.

And here I am, in bed with a bottomless Taylor Swift. Strangely—I insist on strangely—it makes me physically remember I’ve been pretty busy lately. I haven’t had sex in two weeks and haven’t masturbated for probably as long.

The grooming habits of my best friend are finally revealed to me. Not that I cared. Her dark-blond pubes are trimmed into the shape of a heart, all around perfectly waxed.

“It’s for Karlie.”

“Whatever.”

I mean all around because Taylor turns and gets on all fours, giving me an inescapable view of her crotch, her vagina, the cleft of her smooth and pink labia almost hiding tiny inner lips, only slightly darker—or pinker—and a clitoris, just as tiny, bravely protected by the tiniest hood, hardly towering over this undeniably damp landscape of femininity.

Then the highlight of the show: her anus, staring back at me from the center of her ass. I guess in normal times it would look as beautiful as sin but right now it’s swollen and purple and covered in lube and in (Lord help me) …ass juice(?).

The oh-so-romantic sight is broken by the buzzing noise which I can hear clearly now.

“Sorry to repeat myself but how do we procee—”

“I don’t know. Can you try turning it off first?”

“I… oh gosh…”

“What?”

“I’ve never touched a woman before!”

“Really? I thought you and Demi…”

“Ew! No! Gross!”

“Oh… ok… so you did finger Justin at least? That little poof.”

It’s really not the moment but we crack up hysterically again. Just as hard as earlier. And just as earlier, the belly convulsions crush the Haha off Taylor and turn it into a Haaaa of embarrassed pleasure.

I can see her two holes clenching. A pearly-white cream appears from inside her vagina, slow and thick.

It reminds me of that night. Miley’s birthday.

She had made me smoke for the first time. Miley weed. The strongest in show business after Willie Nelson’s.

I was so stoned she insisted I sleep it off in one of her many guest rooms.

I masturbated til dawn.

Naively when I took that first hit I had imagined I would just laugh my ass off and have a chat with the cosmos, not have my pussy replaced with a race engine.

Never been this horny in my whole life. It was vicious. And to this day I’ve never come this hard again. Couldn’t say how many times. Most of it is a blur of cries and kicks.

But I digress. At some point I remember I took a pocket mirror and looked at my pussy right while I was coming. Because I could feel, as I was having orgasms over and over, that a hot thick fluid was rising from the depths of my vagina hole and the next contractions would drive it out. It wasn’t like simply being wet. I knew some women can ejaculate from their peehole. It wasn’t it either.

So, in my lusty stupor, I squatted on the bed, right above the small round mirror, I opened my lips (which are of a light brown and a lot more pronounced than Taylor’s) and I rubbed my clitoris once more. (As pink as Taylor usually, but much redder this far into the night. And swollen. And very much on the edge.)

It was weird watching myself. Exactly why I can never watch my own music videos. And inevitably, because I was legit tripping balls, it turned me on even more, to the point of dissociation.

My fingers were mashing my clit in a circle, meanwhile I was on the edge of my seat, deep inside my brain, getting off on the anticipation of witnessing my body do something new.

At this stage I wasn’t very mindful of the whole house hearing me or not, my voice was broken anyway, and Miley was probably banging three guys and ten girls at the same time in her own room. I screamed my orgasm out inattentively, focused on the sight of my pussy spasming and then, as I had suspected, I saw it, the white pearly girlcum of an over-aroused Selena Gomez having her zillionth drug-enhanced orgasm of the night, so powerful and lengthy I was delirious, drooling, dismantled, ready to beg Miley for a dildo and pump myself dry.

I guess that ending is a little anticlimactic and anyway weeks later I figured out it was just cervical mucus but it was the first and last time I came so hard it leaked out of me. I don’t even know why I’m thinking about this episode of my life.

“Selena, don't just stare at it! Do something before I die!”

Oh yeah I remember now. Taylor Swift is having an anal orgasm and it’s having the same effect on her. She’s high on croissants and tea and she’s coming this hard.

“Put some lube on your hand and do like in the movies. You watched porn before, haven’t you?”

Of course, I almost reply.

Everything on the tray looks shiny and greasy. I take the bottle of lube and cover my two hands, like hand sanitizer.

I kneel before the swifty butt, ready to save her life, to save face for someone whom if she said she never farts in an interview, everyone would believe it.

“Tell me if I hurt you.”

“We’re past this point, believe me.”

Which finger should I use? The middle one? It’s the longest. Her expertise settles it for me:

“Use your forefinger and middle finger, you’ll go deeper.”

I place my fingertips on her anus. It’s soft and supple and scalding hot.

I push in, wriggling around to relax the sphincter. With her two hands she spreads her cheeks. Her body is so toned it parts her slit in the process, with a sloppy sound that makes me space out for a second.

Every knuckle slides in effortlessly. Taylor gasps, a little too sensually for comfort.

The inside of an ass feels…incredible. Why did I never try before? If she likes it so much, why wouldn’t I like it?

“Jesus Christ, what are we doing?” I mutter.

“Can you feel it?”

“No.”

“Shit. Put the other fingers in.”

“Tay, I’ll hurt you!”

“You will not!”

I pull out. Lube overflows from her hole but I put some more on my hand.

The same easiness blows my mind again as I put four fingers inside Taylor. The ring of her anus squashes them together into a bundle.

She takes my wrist and shoves me further inside, pressing against her pelvis.

The full length of my extended thumb comes to rest on her slit. The precious white fluid sticks to it. I could swoon. And…yes, it’s her clitoris I feel on the pad.

Her voice unrecognizable, Taylor says: “You can move your fingers, it won’t hurt either.”

And all of a sudden, among the waves of her warm flesh I hit plastic, hard, harsh, alien.

“I got it!”

“The switch is on the base, do you feel it?”

It’s so far up, the vibrating world I’m plunged in is so tight and unstable I have to use the tip of my fingernail to push the small button. It clicks across my phalanxes and the buzzing stops. Taylor’s ass flexes like I have awakened some sleeping god. The toy slips deeper up, away from my grasp.

It’s a problem for later though, I pull out carefully as we both sigh in relief. I lean back on my elbows, realizing my heart’s racing. Taylor turns around and mirrors my pose.

Time for another giggle to cover the awkward silence.

We sprawl and pant and laugh on the bed like… well like two people who just had marathonic sex would.

Our legs and our feet are touching. The hem of my dress has lifted up to my midriff; had it been an ordinary day, I would be as half-naked as Taylor. Nothing ordinary about today though. ¡Qué chingados! (Excuse my French)

“So you never had sex with a girl?” Taylor asks.

“I would have told you.”

“Oh right. Miley told me she watched you jill it at her house one night. You were in such a frenzy she seriously considered joining in and give you a hand.”

“That bitch!”

“Yea… you could have banged Miley Cyrus. And Cara told me she’s like the best! Like, she leaves you in a puddle! Coming from Cara the fuckbeast—”

“Alright, TMI! I said I’m not into girls!”

“Sorry. At least I know you’re doing all this with some ‘doctor detachment’.”

“And you seem to enjoy it a little too much.”

“Oh shut the fuck up, I’m not! I’m on the verge of dying of eternal bleeding, remember?”

I laugh at the ceiling. Taylor snuggles into the pile of pillows at the head of the bed, taking her soft skin away from me. Maybe she felt this too because, immediately, she extends a leg to place her toes against mine, closing the circuit again.

Then says: “Speaking of enjoying it, you should go to the living room and have some more coffee cause I feel I have another orgasm to get out of my system before we continue. Better have one now than later on your fingers.”

“I don’t think I could stand on my legs right now.”

“You sure? You don’t mind?”

“Go ahead. We’re past this point, like you said.”

“I’ll keep it low-profile.”

In an ample movement, she takes her shirt off, leaving her completely naked.

“Sorry, it burns my nipples like a motherfucker.”

I mean completely naked. No jewelry, no makeup. Just Taylor Alison Swift. Bare.

I wanna hold her at this moment and tell her how much I love her with the language of my arms. Like a sister.

No, cross that out, definitely not like a sister.

Like the lesbian I’m not.

What the fuck am I rambling about?…

While I’m rambling and cursing (for the sixteenth time of my life), my eyes are glued on her gorgeous body and it didn’t dissuade her from beginning touching herself.

Like she said, she’s low-key doing it, but even these slight movements between her legs are fascinating, beyond any idea of sexual orientation. Because every woman masturbates differently. Something I would have known if I had been a lesbian.

So I look. And it’s beautiful. As in touching-beautiful.

To masturbate I (when I’m not sleeping at Miley’s) sit cross-legged and I use the tip of my two forefingers to roll the hood of my clitoris around and over it. I'm quickly done. I tense up, still and silent, when the ball of pleasure explodes, then let it out of my mouth in a series of low moans as it rushes through me and my vagina clenches over and over and I can feel every fiber of its muscles in striking, perfect clarity up to my cervix.

For Taylor, as I discover, it’s only one hand, cupping her vagina, opening it while her middle finger does a steady ‘come hither’ motion on the clit.

“S-So you…” I stammer, “you didn’t tell me how it happened.”

Her voice comes from far away, bumping over her heartbeat: “Nothing much to tell. I had the whole morning for myself… I was thinking of Karlie…” Her finger slows down at the mention of her lover. “I… I wanted to make her a surprise.”

“You said she’s in London.”

“I was, like, rehearsing.”

“I see… So you…really like it?…you know…”

“You never tried?”

“No.”

“It was your first time feeling the inside of a butt?”

“Yes. It’s so soft.”

“I took your bugger cherry!”

“Don’t be gross!”

Vicarious thoughts fall on my mind’s eye. Maybe next time I masturbate, maybe I could try, maybe just my pinkie. Maybe I’ll feel what she feels. Maybe I should stop thinking about this before she sees the glint in my eyes.

Taylor throws back her head on the pillows, brushes her left cheek against the silk and lets out soft little whimpers while her working finger is losing the tempo.

Her toes curl over mine.

If this is being a lesbian, maybe count me in?

What the fuck am I saying?

She stops moving. She keeps breathing. There’s this cozy silence, like after the rain or a thunderstorm.

She’s so beautiful. Karlie is one lucky girl.

Selena, for fuck’s sake!

I’m woken up by a gentle “Ready. Ready?”

“I guess. But the thing is so deep inside now I don’t know how we can get it out.”

My words stay unheeded as she’s already getting back into position, ass up. So I play one last card and it sounds stupid:

“Maybe we can ask the kitchens for one of them pliers they use to fry stuff.”

“Don’t make me laugh, you know what happens when I laugh.”

The bottle of lube is brought into my hands and I get ready, up on my knees, determined.

I push two fingers in her, hand sideways.

“See if you can feel it from inside my vagina,” she suggests.

We’re past the point of asking if she’s sure about that.

As soon as my other hand parts her lips away I understand lube wouldn’t be necessary there.

And now I’m two & two fingers in. Her holes clamp around me, milking deeper in or loosening even deeper in. They respond to each other, trigger each other in a confusion of cuddly walls and tag along as I move my digits around to spread the lube everywhere that feels less soaked.

Inside her vagina I try to feel upward. To do this, my knuckles have to rub against what I guess is her G-spot. Taylor squeals, goose bumps and everything.

“Twas a bad idea,” I say, leaving her vagina alone.

“Yes, you can say that.—Hey whatchu doin’?”

She felt me squirm on the bed. I’m trying to pull my panties down with two fingers trapped inside an ass. The tremors startled her.

“I take them off, they’re chafing my um…thing.”

Which is the truth and why I always go commando. I swear.

“Why did you put panties today?”

“Cause I’m gonna be a respectable actress.”

If Taylor tilted her head above her shoulder she would get a priceless peek of my undies flying down my flapping legs and of strands of clear fluid stretching and breaking.

But it doesn’t happen because she decides to tell me: “Hey remember your first time at the gynecologist? When they ‘test your flexibility’? That’s how I discovered I’m a squirter. It was awkward.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you don’t freak out in case it happens.”

She takes my wrist and makes me understand two fingers aren’t enough in her ass.

I add the other two. The squeezing sphincter of her anus is the most erotic feeling I’ve ever experienced. Strong and tender. Embracing. And new. Taboo I guess.

“What now?”

“You’re gonna have to put your thumb in. You’re gonna have to prepare me.”

“Oh G— you mean…?”

“Yes!”

The idea is too much, I take my hand out, too abruptly: along with an obscene sound, her asshole stays obscenely open. Wide.

I don’t watch porn but I know enough.

“See?” she says, spreading herself wider. “I can take it. And there’s no other way.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I’ve never done anything close to it!”

“I’ll talk you through it. Put your four fingers back in, I’m dilated enough already.”

She’s still gaping when I raise my hand again. It makes me feel obscene. It makes me feel hot. Like sweaty-hot, not hot-hot. The puckered rim shudders at my touch. I see myself penetrate her. “Push!” she moans and the last knuckles before the palm slip in.

I have to do it again and again, in and out. Til she tells me what I wann—what I don’t wanna hear:

“Now make your fingers like a beak and do the same as before.”

“Lube?”

“Lube.”

Lube.

Putting the beak in is a different beast. Her anus is really straining to its limits. Just like her breathing. But my thumb finally discovers the ravishing warmth.

I pull out to the tip and then thrust back in, each time seeing a little more of my fingers sneak in.

“It will never fit!”

“It will,” she says and then puts her own fingers in her pussy and comes caress mine through the thin membrane. It’s like she’s holding my hand, telling me everything will be alright.

How can something like this be so sweet? Only Taylor can pull out something like this, tenderness in double penetration.

I respond to her touch. We gaze at each other, realize what we’re doing; her fingers leave me and go massage her clitoris.

She says it will help her relax. Somehow I can feel the effects on me: it gets easier, when it’s not just all twitchy around me.

I could do it now. I could do it if I wasn’t so afraid of hurting her or if I wasn’t so afraid of Taylor enjoying it. Of me enjoying it.

She lets go of her clit, engorged, jutting out, so obviously sparkling on the inside I get a phantom sensation of it in mine.

“Once you get through, you close your fist around your thumb. Now do it!”

I push hard. We both groan. My hand is like sucked in, swallowed, and I see her anus closing around my wrist.

It’s snug. It’s mind-blowing. “Oh my gosh I’m in! I did it I’m in! It feels so incredible!” I wheeze above the muffled howls of Taylor raving into the pillows.

“Sel, don’t freak out!” she grunts.

“What? What?”

“Don’t freak out I think I’m cumming!”

“We said we’re past this p—”

My mouth is interrupted, my ears ring with her yelps and my eyes widen as her hips buck up and down and three long jets of squirt splatter all over my dress, one after the other. Some of it mists into my gaping mouth. The rest leaks down my thighs. I’m so shocked I don’t pay attention to the taste of her orgasm on my tongue. (I don’t even lick my fingers after I’ve masturbated. I wash my hands, like a good girl.)

“I’m drenched!!”

“I’m so sorry! I couldn’t control it! Take off your dress!”

“But I—”

“Take it off! It’s so fucking intense I don’t know how long I can take it!”

“I have to take my hand out!”

“Just tear the strap off!”

“BITCH I AIN'T RIPPIN' MY FUCKIN' DRESS!!!”

She grabs my forearm and yanks me out, grunting another squirt out of herself. This one is for the mattress. She turns around and peels my dress off, completely oblivious of how wide her asshole is gaping, completely indifferent that I’ve never been naked in front of her before.

She pauses at the glimpse of my bush, still a rarity in these dark times. I trim it short so it doesn’t look like an afro, but I like my jet-black pubes. I cherish them. When I look at myself in the mirror I don’t look like a little girl, I look sexual. It’s like a sign saying ‘There’s a live vagina down there, come & get it’

I pause too actually; at the beads of Taylor’s cum glistening in the fuzzy hairs. I’ve always loved having a load of sperm spread all over it. I love the sight of it, it’s cute, and kinky. I never told her that.

But the pause is just that: a pause. Taylor is already getting into position for more fist-fu—fist-humping.

We decide that I should lie on my stomach and rest my elbow on the bed, forearm up so Taylor can ride it and control the penetration.

Immediately she’s way bolder than me, squatting down til my hand pops in her. She’s not any less bold with her reaction, an unashamed gasp of pleasure and a disregard for the fact that her pussy is now right in my face.

Missing the ambiguous meaning, I ask her if she thinks she’ll squirt again.

“I’ll shield you with my hand.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

While I’m busy wondering if I’m actually disappointed or not, the bones of my wrist pass her sphincter.

I’m wiggling my closed fist inside her to clear the fleshy way. Whenever I point it toward her vagina, her moans get a little higher, a little more labored and a weak stream of squirt trickles down my arm.

Inch after inch her ass goes down. Inch after inch the sensation gets more overwhelming. I couldn’t have imagined someone could come this hard if it hadn’t happened to me before.

Panting is not enough for me anymore: I sneak out little sighs that I hope will be dimmed by Taylor’s cries.

“Tay, a-are we… are we having sex right now?”

“I don’t know. Are we?” she replies without a trace of irony. She’s as lost as I am, lost between the urgency and the freedom we have found in this insulated ecstasy.

“You won’t tell Karlie, uh?”

“Never.”

Of course she has started rubbing her clit again. If she comes—When she comes she will ejaculate on my face. Something I never let any man do to me. Today I think my excuse will not be that Taylor is not a man.

“My legs are killing me, d’you think you can open your hand and see if you can touch it?”

As slowly as possible, I stir the walls around me, struggling to make that stupid beak again. When my fingers are cast into place and the pressure changes everywhere, one lone gush escapes Taylor and hits the back of my mouth. I swallow and appease my parched throat.

My voice is pure uncontrolled lust as I say: “That’s it I can feel it! on my fingertips!”

“Do you have a grip?”

“No.”

She spreads her cheeks and grinds ever lower. I’m way past mid-forearm.

The part of my body that is not inside her doesn’t count anymore. I don’t care for it. The vivid warmth, the weight, the endless contractions are my only reality, the only touch I taste, the only texture I take for my lasting memories. And my only mission.

I enfold my fingertips around the end of a slippery shaft. I can tell it’s thicker than any penis I touched before. (I admit there wasn’t a lot.)

I pull, fail to. I plant my nails in it, pull again. The dildo moves down a few inches and is sucked back in place.

“It’s like your ass is suctioning it!”

Taylor sits down my arm to impossible lows and, with a combination of mutual trust and of orgasmic whines, I get to take the end of the toy inside my hand.

I hold tight, nod at Taylor, and she pushes on her knees.

“AW FUCK IT HURTS!!”

“Stop, I don’t wanna hurt you! Don’t move! We’re gonna find another way!”

She collapses onto me, her arms and her hair around my shoulders, her heaving into my neck, our sweat mixing together.

“Perhaps if I cum the contractions will dislodge it.”

“Ok.”

She leans back and, propped up on one arm, she rubs her clit with the other. One last time.

Her elbow fails and she falls flat on the bed.

“My legs burn! My arms burn!”

“It’s ok baby, let me do it!”

I bend down and put my mouth on her pussy.

My heterosexual tongue naturally knows how to do it, how to please a woman, how to push the hood out of the way and push Taylor to her limits.

At the peak of her moans, I seal my lips around her swollen clit and suck on it to a throbbing bruise.

I’m moaning too but not as loud as her. Only because my mouth is busy.

Taylor starts into her strongest, longest orgasm yet. The whole hotel will know.

Along her raspy, delirious groans, long spurts of pussy juice blast against my chin, rain around my neck, streak over my chest and down my nipples.

The awareness of my own body has extended: my captive arm still counts for the most present, but now my mouth registers its own unforgettable sensations, the hot flow and the fierce spasms of her bliss. But the happiness extends to the rest of my body, across my spine. My legs are spread and more than ever I feel the beating existence of my anus, my pussy, shivering against the cool air, against the absence of my fingers.

My hips are rolling softly but I don’t forget the task at hand though, and I pull along the sweet clampings of Taylor’s ass. The intruder descends out with me, as frustrated as my arm to leave the place.

Taylor draws back from my mouth, begging me to stop sucking, that it’s too much, too good I hope. My knuckles pass her asshole, stretching it white and squeezing one last squirt out and right onto my face.

I see the silicone, it’s pink, hidden under a foam of lube. The rest of the length comes out with a long-drawn-out sticky sound.

The large crown of the tip doesn’t even pop out. Taylor is gaping too wide for that.

My arm is mine again. I fall flat on Tay, in what could be a friendly hug after hardships but I guess it’s not.

I wrap her in my arms, drained, breathless, on the edge of coming hands-free. Did I mention we’re both naked?

“Are you okay, Taylor?”

“Y… Yes…”

She doesn’t have to tell me she just had the biggest orgasm of her life, I can see it. I can’t think straight and I can see it. I roll to the side to give ourselves some oxygen.

What takes me a long time to realize is that I’m still holding the toy. It’s warm from Taylor’s body heat. That is such an erotic detail, I never thought about it.

I look at it. Nothing special about it (besides the size). I’m surprised it’s shaped like a real penis but who am I to judge. There’s no ballsack on it and this was probably the origin of her predicament; I guess that’s the lesson for today: always have some balls?

I wipe the foam.

The tip is shiny, but not wet-shiny: gold-shiny.

There’s a ring fixed on it, a golden ring. And under the last layer of grool, I notice something, neatly engraved—laser-engraved—along the length of the shaft. Letters.

W
I
L
L

Y
O
U

M
A
R
R
Y

M
E
?

“What the… Taylor, is this a joke?!”

“It’s for Karlie.”

Too stunned to speak, my face winces into that infamous frown of dread: one brow up, one brow down.

“Do you think she’ll say yes?”

[Noopster]

Outstanding.