A/N: Okay, before I say anything else, I need to say that THIS IS ALL MSHAVISHAM79'S FAULT. Got that? Not mine. Say it with me: This Is Not Cris's Fault. Okay. Now that that's settled, we can move on.
This was our joint entry for the Let's Do Anal contest, and we came in third place in the public vote and second place in the judges' vote. Woo-hoo! Our entry also got pulled from FFn for inappropriate content, which was quite flattering if I do say so myself, lol! So thanks, whoever reported us. :) If this gets pulled again, I'll put it up at The Writer's Coffee Shop and AO3.
Warnings: Backdoor sex and bad jokes. BAD BAD jokes. You've been warned!
All standard disclaimers apply. And you have to say the title in the Swedish Chef voice, okay?
Every birthday is fun when you're little. Five, eight, nine—the age matters, but it's overshadowed by the promise of a kickin' party. Maybe you celebrated at the local roller rink, arcade, or bowling alley. Maybe you had your best friends over for an epic slumber party. Whatever you did, your birthday was always a reason to celebrate.
Then you hit double-digits, and things change. Thirteen is big. Sweet sixteen. Eighteen, of course. Then you're just waiting for the big one: twenty-one.
Because after twenty-one, the allure of birthdays is kind of over. You use them as an excuse to go out with friends, drink yourself silly if that's your thing. Really, though, all of the fuss just masks the fact that you're getting older, and older isn't exciting anymore.
That's me now: a little more than a week before my twenty-fifth birthday, and don't judge me, I'm making my first bucket list. Twenty-five seems like a good time for it. Maybe it's my quarter-life crisis. Whatever—I'm allowed.
I've done a fair amount in the first quarter-century of my life, I guess. I'm a child of divorce, so I flew by myself a lot between them as a kid. I went to college, did my fair share of partying. I got a butterfly tattoo on my ankle and pierced my nose and belly button, though I eventually let both close over. I dated a handful of guys, both nice and douchey, lost my virginity in an awkward backseat encounter, and eventually met a guy I'm pretty sure I could spend the rest of my life with.
Edward is a little more than two years older than me. He's my fuck-hot geek, and I adore the shit out of him. He went to DigiPen, majored in computer science and game design, and now he runs his own little design and consulting business with his best friend, Jasper, and plays keyboard in a garage band with his other best friend, Liam.
People say all this bullshit about love at first sight, and I'm not going to try to convince you that I knew from day one that Edward was my one-and-only. I did know from day one, however, that I wanted that man inside me. I was dog-sitting for a friend of my father's, walking in the rain with this huge red Irish Setter that ignored every command I gave it. The wet leather leash slipped from my hands when he lunged after a squirrel, I fell on the soaked sidewalk, and I was cussing out the damn dog, limping after him, when a tall man with wet, penny-colored hair brought him back.
At first I didn't pay too much attention. He looked like any other young guy in the greater Seattle area: black North Face jacket, thick black-rimmed glasses, pale skin touched with pink along his ears and the tip of his nose, no umbrella, uncaring as the rain pelted down.
"I think this is yours." He held the leash out to me.
I stopped cursing and raised my eyes to thank him. A crooked, almost shy smile etched its way across his mouth. He pulled his wet glasses off with one hand, blinking as his vision cleared.
When I saw the brilliant green of his friendly, amused gaze, that was it for me. I didn't care how, I just wanted that man.
Fast forward, and we've been living together for about two years. I adore him. I adore the way he scrunches up his eyes and sucks the corner of his lip into his mouth when presented with a problem, the single-minded way he searches for a solution. I love that not everybody knows just how incredibly hot he is, and yeah, I'm kinda jealous of any girl who got to see him naked before I did. A naked Edward is a wonderful thing.
My dad wasn't too thrilled about me moving in with a guy when I was just out of college, but I knew what I wanted. We have a good life. I graduated magna cum laude from the University of Washington with degrees in Applied Linguistics and Library Science, and I'm now the junior archivist for the city of Seattle. Landing the job was a dream. There's not a lot of work in archiving, but everything is changing so quickly to keep up with technology and they need young people like me to step in with skills the oldsters just don't have.
Edward and I have a very nice apartment in Belltown: technically a two-bedroom, but we're not planning on kids anytime soon, so the second room is an office, or a library, or whatever. It's where I lock myself away when Edward's boys are over, being irritating with their video games, if I'm not out with my own friends. It's where he holes up with his fancy-pants computer if I've taken over the living room with Alice, Jane and Jess. It's where we lock the cat when we want to have sex without judgy yellow eyes staring at us.
It also happens to be where Edward always, always, hides presents. The man is nothing if not predictable.
He's out tonight at a gig with his band, What? No Bed?. I usually go to support him, but I had plans with Alice and when they fell through, I just didn't feel like making the trek all the way up to Ballard when I could mope at home with ice cream and Edward's cat, whining about how much shit I still want to do before I kick the bucket.
And yeah, I won't deny it. I totally ransacked the spare room when I got home, looking for any sign of presents, since it was only about a week until my birthday. Sue me. I even tried to con Andy into divulging secrets. That smooshed-face gray cat is kinda creepy, but Edward's had him for years. We've made our peace, Andy and me. He doesn't pee or hack up hairballs on my stuff, and I don't complain too bitterly when he curls up in Edward's lap in the evening.
Little shit won't tell me anything about presents, though.
The thing is, Edward's kind of craptastic when it comes to presents. He tries hard, which makes his failures even worse, somehow. After two-plus years of dating, we've made some headway. He now understands that I buy the lingerie, not him, if he expects the opportunity to take it off me. Jewelry is also off-limits, because the poor man caves to sales pressure and walks away with something so gaudy my grandmother would be embarrassed to wear it.
I've told him over and over that I don't really want anything more than maybe a nice dinner with him and lots of quality time with his cock afterwards, but it's like a challenge now. He's determined to get this "gift" thing right, or die trying.
I admire his persistence, but the results are...somewhat lacking.
This past Valentine's Day, he gave me a cookbook. A cookbook of "meals for two," and he put little sticky notes in places to mark some of the recipes.
The sticky notes were what got the book lobbed at his head.
"I thought you liked to cook!" he protested, peering around the bathroom door, where he'd ducked to avoid the hardcover projectile.
"When I want to! Not because you tell me to!"
I got three orgasms as an apology, so it wasn't a total loss.
But I'm worried now. My twenty-fifth birthday is creeping up, and I can't find any evidence of my present. Edward is a planner; he doesn't wait until the last minute.
"If you're good for anything," I tell Andy, "you will inform your too-hot-for-his-own-good owner not to overdo it." We're not destitute, but we're young. I hate to see him waste money that could be put to better uses.
Like crossing some of this shit off my bucket list.
"Do you think Edward would ever go skydiving with me?" I ask Andy. He hoists a leg in the air and licks his ass. "Yeah, I don't think so, either." Alice totally will. My bucket list is currently a bunch of columns—I'm nothing if not organized—and I add skydiving to the "With Friends" column. I also have a "Solo" column, a "Work-Related" column, a "With Edward" column, an "After I Win the Lottery" column, and a "Miscellaneous" column, because, hey, you never know.
The first stuff I add to the list is travel: some by myself and some with friends, but mostly with Edward. With both of us trying to get our careers off the ground we don't have much time right now, but I want to go everywhere. Europe. New Zealand. Costa Rica. Brazil. I want to see baby sea turtles hatch on a beach, and watch whales breach in the middle of the ocean—from safely aboard a nice big boat. I want to tuck myself under Edward's arm as we stroll through a Paris twilight, and fuck him silly with the lights of Tokyo gleaming through our high-rise hotel windows.
That last one has me shifting in my chair, glancing at the clock, hoping he comes home soon. I crave that man and his body in ways that are probably illegal in some countries.
After that image, the Edward column fills quickly with the dirtiest, sweatiest things my imagination can conjure. I'm not averse to sexual experimentation, and I grab my laptop to help fuel my fantasies. The Internet is a wonderful resource for all things sexual, in case you haven't heard. Edward's always happy to try anything I suggest in bed, though he usually doesn't initiate experiments; that's always been my job in this relationship. I have absolutely no cause for complaint; more than two years in and we're still going at it like we just hooked up. We've been caught by my father, his mother, and poor Jasper—Jasper more times than I care to count. I maintain that it's not my fault, it's Jasper and Edward's for never employing the sock code when they were roommates. Now that Edward and I live together, Jasper has learned never to use his key to our apartment unless he knows for a fact that we're both out.
The fact that I'm addicted to my boyfriend's cock is not much of a secret, is what I'm saying. Not that he minds. He's a good sport, even that one time I got hammered playing a Harry Potter drinking game, then insisted on making miniature glasses for his dick out of a bent black pipe cleaner. He asked me not to refer to it as Harry, and I informed him that his pubes were neither black enough nor messy enough to qualify his cock for that name.
Yeah, I was drunk.
But now there's something else I want.
The Internet swears it can be good, but I can't blame it for planting the seed: that was all Alice.
"He doesn't fuck your ass?" she asked, crystal-blue eyes wide with shock, during a girls night. She held a brush laden with nail polish near my toes, and I pushed her hand away once she stopped paying attention to my feet. "I thought that was like the Holy Grail for all guys."
"He's never asked or tried." I wasn't really sure I wanted him to. I loved the feel of that thick cock deep inside me, but...there? I didn't exactly relish the thought of being torn apart, which was kind of what I envisioned.
Alice swore I was wrong. "If you do it right, it feels..." She sat back on her heels. "...transcendental."
That's Alice-speak for fuckawesome.
So, yeah, now I'm curious. I'll admit it. And the Internet, god bless it, seems to agree with her. There are all sorts of how-to guides with promises of bliss for both parties. It took awhile to get the hang of regular sex at first so I'm not stupid enough to think we could be transcendental right away or anything, but yeah, I want to try. I love feeling stretched and full when he's deep inside me, the physical sensation, the incredible closeness in those moments. If he's up for it—no pun intended—anal is definitely something I'd like to try.
I add it to the "With Edward" column of my bucket list and grab my phone to send him a text. If I'm asleep when you get home, you'd better wake me up.
I'm naked in our bed, Andy locked in the spare room, and I wake to the smell of a freshly showered Edward, his lips trailing down my spine. I smile into my pillow, exhaling a slow breath as my body melts into his. I love this man. I love the beautiful person he is, inside and out. I'm pretty sure I'd do just about anything for him.
My soft hum of pleasure is involuntary as his lips slide back, teeth grazing the round curve of my ass. He likes my backside an awful lot. Is it weird, then, that he's never asked to fuck it? "How was What? No Bed? tonight?" I turn my head enough to find his black silhouette in the darkness.
"Bed, floor, couch—whatever." It isn't really an answer, but whatever. I wiggle, shifting further onto my belly, so ready when his warm body covers mine. His teeth latch onto my shoulder, bearing down for a moment, and my ass arches up as his cock glides, heavy and slow and perfect, into me. "Yesss..." he hisses, sucking in air, moving his body sinuously as he eases into a good rhythm. "I missed you tonight. Next time we play there, I want you to come."
"Why? Was there some private space backstage?"
He groans, shifting our bodies so he can slide a hand under me. "You know it."
My boy loves to fuck in semi-public. Not that I'm ever complaining.
His hand cups me, two fingers slipping between my swollen folds, slick and wanting. He doesn't circle or rub my clit, but he holds his fingers against it so I can rock and thrust with him, finding my own pleasure. He knows just how to touch me by now, knows how this drives me crazy, drawing out my need, making me work for what I want. He fills me perfectly, over and over, pushing me into the mattress with each firm thrust. My body is warm and strong, small and lithe, working with his, matching him, taking what he gives. His fingers pulse every now and then on my clit in no particular rhythm, a flicker of movement I can't brace for. It doesn't take long before I'm gone, crying out, nothing but a boneless mess of wet heat and pulses of pleasure, and he follows me a moment later.
Best wake up call ever.
"What time is it?" I ask as he spoons his body around mine, rolling us onto our sides and drawing the blankets over us. I can hear that damn cat scratching at the door, begging to be let in. Not tonight, fucker. Tonight, Edward's ass is all mine.
"Around three." He brushes a kiss along the deliciously sore spot on my shoulder where he bit me.
"Can you think of any reason we'd want or need to be up before noon?"
This is why I love weekends.
I'm up first in the morning—not surprising considering how late Edward was out. I start a pot of coffee, feed Andy, and let my guy sleep. Of course, I mean "morning" in the loosest sense of the word. Also "up," because I'm in pajamas, haven't brushed my hair, and as soon as I have coffee and my laptop, I'm horizontal on the sofa.
Sundays rock like that.
When I open my computer, the first thing I see is my bucket list and the last few items I added to it. They're staring me in the face, and I have to wonder. Why hasn't Edward asked to fuck my ass? Or just done it? Talking about sex isn't his forte. He gets tongue-tied and, god help me, even blushy...and a blushy Edward makes me want to do dirty, dirty things. So, yeah. Talking about sex doesn't really work for us. But if he got me in the right position, pulled out some warm lube...I wouldn't say no. Probably just the opposite. Is a loud "Fuck yes!" an appropriate response to a man sticking something in your ass for the first time?
I wouldn't know, because Edward has never tried.
Maybe there's something wrong with my ass? He's always seemed to like doing other things to it. Grabbing, squeezing. The odd smack now and then. I work out. My butt's grab-able, but not flabby. Frowning, I hoist myself off the couch and set my laptop down. There's a full length mirror in the bedroom closet, but Edward's asleep, so I go into the bathroom instead. I drop my panties and turn, craning to see my backside in the mirror. Either the counter's too high or I'm too short—I can't quite see. The bathtub is directly across from the mirror, so I climb up on the rim, holding onto the shower curtain bar because if there's a way to slip and humiliate myself, I definitely will.
Turning my head, I inspect my ass. I think it's kinda cute. It's round and firm, and there's a little beauty mark on my right cheek. I try bending forward, to see what Edward sees when he takes me from behind, but now I can't see the mirror. I think it looks hot in porn, anyway: a nice tight ass, a glimpse of pussy lips underneath.
My feet wobble and I lose my balance, and I catch myself with my palms on the tile wall. Now I'm standing on the edge of the tub and kind of...bridging it?
Yep. Clumsy and fairly shameless. That's me.
I'm in this position anyway. Might as well take advantage. I arch my back, stick my butt out more, and try desperately to peer around my shoulder. I still can't do it. Why the fuck wasn't I born a contortionist?
"What the hell are you doing?"
I shriek—Edward's groggy voice scared the shit out of me—and I almost lose my balance. As it is, I think I'm stuck. There's no way pushing off the wall and levering myself upright will go well. My shoulders slump, but it's not so bad when I feel two big, warm hands at my hips and a slow kiss on my lower back. "Don't scare me like that!"
"Sorry." His warm chuckle tells me he isn't really. "Seriously, what are you doing up there?"
A little whimper escapes me. I'm not ready to tell him the truth: that I was checking out my own ass because I have no idea why he's never fucked it and I really, really want him to. He just woke up, and I'm not that cruel. "Would you believe there's a new bathtub yoga fad?"
"You're stuck, aren't you?"
"Yes." My voice is small; sheepish. I'm hoping he'll take pity on me.
"How long do you think you can hold yourself there?"
"Why?" I'm clumsy, but no weakling. I'm not in any danger of falling, I just can't right myself.
"No reason." Edward's voice is far too innocent, and a moment later I feel wet warmth as he bends and licks a slow line up my exposed pussy.
Oh, yeah. I can hold myself here for that, no problem. I shimmy lower, because we've already established that I'm shameless, and walk my feet further apart on the rim of the tub. Morning stubble—his, not mine—feels so good! He knows it, too, and deliberately rubs the side of his chin against my thigh.
"Do you know you have a little mole right here?" His nose skims the round curve of my ass and he bites down.
If I didn't know about the mark before, I certainly would after this morning. "Fuck," I hiss, and my muscles clench. It doesn't really hurt, but it tickles and I'm not interested in being tickled. I'd push back toward him, but I can't exactly move.
Edward chuckles and runs his tongue along my slit one more time before straightening. "Come here," he says, wrapping his arms around me. "I've got you. Let's get you down."
I feel his bare chest against my ass and legs, and I'm not at all interested in stepping down. "Off," I tell him. "Let's get me off. You used the wrong preposition."
He kisses my lower back, and this time I can feel his laugh. It shakes us both, and I love it. "Bella, sweetheart, you'll fall and hurt yourself if you come in that position. You know that."
Yeah, I do. But still.
"Besides, I need to piss."
"Blah blah blah, your needs." I let him brace my lower body so I don't fall as I push myself off the wall with my hands. He lifts me by my midsection to the floor, gives me a squeeze, then pushes me toward the door.
"If I get a bladder infection from holding it, you won't be happy."
"Men hardly ever get bladder infections, it's a girl thing." I don't know if this is true, but it sounds good. "Besides, your bladder isn't in your dick."
"Close enough." He hands me my boyshorts and I leave, but I don't put them back on. I slip my top off, too, and dump the clothes on our unmade bed. I'm not sure I have enough clean underwear for the week, so I shrug and start sorting laundry. Naked, because this is my damn apartment, so why the fuck not?
I hear the bathroom door open a few minutes later, then clinking from the kitchen. My mind can perfectly visualize him standing at the counter drinking coffee in his boxer-briefs, one hand flat on the granite, elbow slightly bent. He drinks his coffee black, even though he prefers it sweet. That's one sacrifice I refuse to make in the name of good health. Besides, every once in awhile I see empty Starbucks cups in the trash that definitely aren't mine, the inside coated with the residue of whipped cream and chocolate.
"Brunch?" he calls.
I load up my arms with whites, then head to the little stacked washer and dryer in the hall closet. "What are you offering? I want salt." It's a sure sign my period's coming. Inconvenient bitch.
"Salt? How about something with ham?"
"Add cheese and I might even forgive you for that stunt earlier." I head back to the bedroom for another load of clothes.
"Stunt?" His amusement makes me smile. I'm not exactly a 1950's housewife or anything but, yes, I'll admit it: I like it when my guy is happy. His smile is as contagious as a bad mood at the DMV. I don't even have to see it to know it's there. "You were the one who looked like you were practicing some sort of circus act."
"What sort of circus would—never mind. I don't want to know." I measure detergent and turn on the washer.
There's a snort in Edward's laugh, and I hear the springs in the couch creak. It's comfy as all hell, but I wish it didn't make so much noise when someone sits down. "Baby," he says, "that naked body is all mine."
Yeah, I love this man.
He makes us toasted sandwiches with grilled ham, egg, Havarti, and tomato, which is just the sort of thing I'm craving. Edward's quiet, which isn't necessarily unusual, but it's a definite shift in his mood. I gather the dishes, pushing Andy out of the way with my foot, and Edward tells me he's gonna spend some time in the spare room. I figure he has a work problem; he knows my eyes glaze over whenever he starts talking about coding, so it's not really something I can help him with.
He stays in there all afternoon with his fancy computer. I wonder if something's wrong, but I'm not too worried. Edward's good about talking to me when he needs to, unless it's about sex. I add some things to my bucket list, read a thoughtless Sunday-afternoon book, and make the obligatory weekly call to my dad, who still worries about me even though I'm grown. When dinnertime rolls around I investigate the state of our refrigerator. My options are somewhat limited, but I absolutely refuse to grocery shop on Sundays when all the crazy mothers and their kids swarm the stores. I'd order in, but almost everything that sounds appealing is closed on Sundays: Thai, Chinese, Indian, Greek. I'm sure I could find a pizza place open, but I'm not on my period yet so starting my monthly pig-out isn't really warranted. I make do with some bagged salad that's only a little wilted, and add some chunks of cold chicken leftover from earlier in the week. I use spicy Thai peanut sauce instead of salad dressing. Edward thinks it's disgusting, but I love it.
When I open the office door to ask Edward what kind of dressing he wants, he jerks and quickly minimizes his browser window, even though I can't really see the screen from this angle. Silly man. I know he's got porn on his computer, and he knows I've got it on mine. I hide a smile and stay in the doorway.
"Look, I know it's not for everyone," I say, popping a bite of peanut sauce and lettuce in my mouth. "But I really wish you'd try it just once. You might really love it. Lots of people do. Alice says Jasper converted her, and now she's a believer."
Edward makes a strange noise that might be choking, and his face turns bright red.
"Edward? D'you need the Heimlich Maneuver? Because it's been awhile since I took a first-aid class." I watch him carefully, ready to drop my salad and at least try to help if he doesn't start breathing right. "I mean, it's pretty simple, I guess. Any idiot can do it. You just line up behind the other person and bend them over..."
"Please!" Edward chokes as he points to the door.
Yeah, I get it. But I'm not gonna dress his salad after he kicks me out of the room.
It's not until later that I know something's actually wrong.
Sunday nights mean a long soak in the tub and then incredibly satisfying sex with my boyfriend. It's our way of preparing for the week ahead. But today when I'm smooth and clean just out of the bath, Edward's still shut up in the spare room.
I let my towel drop to the floor—he can gripe to me about it later—and open the door. Again, he jumps like a kid who's been caught passing notes in class. I don't fucking care what sort of porn he's watching: I want my boyfriend. I ignore his computer screen—he's minimized the window again anyway—and focus on him. There's a slight inward tilt to his eyebrows that only deepens when I slip onto his lap and latch my hands behind his neck.
"Edward." I brush a kiss across his lips. He responds a second too late. "It's Sunday night."
"I know." He doesn't sound particularly happy about it. He looks down at where my nipples graze his shirt, then back up. "Look, Bella, can we...raincheck, maybe? I just..." He tugs at his hair and his pretty green eyes are so...confused? Conflicted? His lips part and it looks like he's going to speak, but then doesn't.
It's not like Edward's never turned me down before. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen. This is different, though. He pushes at my naked thighs until I get off him, then stands.
"I'm sorry." His hand's in his hair. "I'm gonna go find Jazz." He doesn't look at me as he leaves the room.
I don't know what to think. This doesn't seem like bashfulness about his porn stash. I mean, it's possible he jerked off in the afternoon and now he's afraid he won't be able to get it up again. He usually has awesome recovery time, though, and that wouldn't be enough to make him leave the house. I think about snooping on his computer, but he's got that sucker password-protected and he's not stupid enough to make it easy to guess.
I'm kind of hurt as I put on my thickest, fluffiest pajamas—the ones I wear when Edward's out of town on business. More than that, I think I'm worried. Edward doesn't shut me out; he just doesn't. Part of me hopes Jasper will be able to talk him out of whatever funk this is, and part of me is grumpy that he wants his friend instead of me—even though I know the feeling is irrational. I've got friends, he's got friends, we have our own lives. Normally I'm not clingy.
The bed feels cold without him, though. I hate how he moves around when he's getting comfortable, jarring me and bouncing the mattress, but when he's gone I miss it.
I read myself to sleep, and I don't know when he comes home. In the morning he's there, where he belongs. He's somehow stolen my pillow and hugs it while he sleeps. He smells like a bar, which doesn't really surprise me. I stroke his cheek and kiss his hair before getting up for work.
My period arrives that afternoon, right on time. When Edward comes home to see me curled up on the couch with a blanket and a humongous bowl of macaroni and cheese, there's relief in his eyes. He knows he's off the hook, sexually, for a few days. I scowl at him and go back to the craptastic reality show I'm watching. I'm crampy, bloated, and leaking, and because of that, I take his weirdness more personally than I otherwise would. We've always been highly sexually compatible, and I do not want to suddenly have issues about this. Just the thought of Edward in couples therapy, talking about our sex life, makes me laugh ugly, big, snorty laughs. We wouldn't get anywhere.
I'm somewhat mollified when he goes out later and brings me back ice cream and Nilla Wafers. "I'm sorry you're hurting." They're the first words he's spoken to me since last night, and even in my state I melt a little.
"It's better than the alternative." I cram a bite of ice cream in my mouth.
Edward exhales a little laugh—or an attempt at one, anyway. He leans over the back of the couch and kisses my head.
The next three days we dance a weird sort of fucked-up limbo: he doesn't run away from me, he holds me when we sleep, but neither of us confronts the huge elephant in the room, and I'm not comfortable. Neither is he—I can practically see the stress oozing from him. I want to fix this, but I'm pretty sure he has to make the next move. It's not something I can push.
On the fourth night, we're eating salmon with yellow squash and green beans—I'm off my period and therefore off junk food—when Edward starts talking to me. He stares at his plate, poking the innocent fish with his fork, and I have to strain to hear him.
"Bella? Do you like having sex?" He coughs and talks a little louder, but also faster, rushing the words. "I mean, I know you like having sex. That's not what I...I mean with me. Do you like having sex...with me?"
What. The. Fuck.
I stare at the man across our little dining table. He won't look at me and he's turning red; I can see the cherry tips of his ears. For once, it doesn't make me want to fuck him silly. Two and a half years of fuckhot sex, and he's asking me this? Now? I don't know what to say. For me, there's never been a question. My pleasure isn't an afterthought to him. Nor is it difficult to achieve with him. He's quite honestly the best I've ever had.
"Are you kidding me right now?"
His head jerks up, and for the first time since he spoke, he looks at me. Those eyes. He slays me with those eyes.
"How can you even ask me something like that?" I lick my lips. "How much louder should I be when I come? How much wetter should I get whenever you walk into the fucking room?"
He drops his eyes and swallows several times. My shy boy—I didn't mean to make him feel worse. I'm just honestly really, really shocked.
"Edward." I go to him. He looks up at me from his seat and lets me slip my fingers into his silky hair. One of my thumbs caresses his cheek. Such a beautiful man. "Baby, talk to me. What's wrong?"
He sighs and leans forward, burying his face against me. "Nothing. It's okay. I was just curious."
I don't really believe him, but I hold him and stroke his hair and don't say anything.
Either he works it out in his own head or my not-very-sensitive answer to his question gets through his thick skull, because he takes my pajama pants out of my hands as I'm getting ready for bed. There's a hesitant wariness to his touch, but I go with it. I miss him. I love him. If he needs proof that he fulfills me, I'll gladly scream my throat raw. I do my kegels—I'll squeeze his cock so hard, he won't be able to pull out until he's soft.
Or something like that.
He kisses me gently, and I try to respond in kind. Let him set the pace. My body melts into the mattress as he urges me down, his hard frame covering mine with that delicious heat I crave. I can feel his cock growing, hardening against my belly as he kisses me, and I throb in response. I nip at his lower lip; he kisses me harder. He shifts to one side and his free hand slips from my throat to my chest, big palm covering my breasts, moving slowly, caressing.
"I love your little pink nipples," he whispers, leaning forward to ghost his lips across one. I arch appreciatively, and it feels so, so good when the warm flat of his tongue licks. I swear I can feel his tastebuds.
I'm putty, boneless, as he touches me, caresses me. When he presses a kiss right between my hipbones, it feels like an apology.
"I think I started something I never finished last Sunday," he murmurs, tipping his head to find my eyes. His eyes a dark forest. I'm wet and aching for him.
"I think you did," I manage.
"That wasn't very nice of me."
"Unconscionable." And god, yes, he nips at my abdomen before sinking lower, mouth reaching for needy flesh, hands pushing my legs wide. "Please." I'm gasping by this point. I have no idea how he can think I don't enjoy this. I'm addicted to him.
He kisses my bare lips before sliding his tongue between them, one long lick from my entrance to my clit, then a teasing swirl as I fall apart. He closes his mouth in soft, pecking kisses on my wet, swollen pussy, my body pulsing with each touch, and I'm whimpering, melting, gone.
"Fill me," I beg, and he does, first with his tongue, then with his fingers. He pushes deep—two, then three; he knows I love feeling stretched and full. He curls his fingers just right and my body moves with his, taking the sensation, swimming in everything he gives. I could happily drown. "I fucking love your tongue," I hiss. If he needs reassurance, I'll give it. Anything, as long as he doesn't stop.
He groans, his mouth firm as his fingers move faster, hurtling me quickly toward the feeling I've been craving all week. My body tightens around his fingers—I'm tense but fluid, body rocking, hips reaching as he sucks my clit into his mouth, tongue flicking, and then I'm there. He holds me down, keeps my legs apart and makes me take it.
He's so fucking good at this. I melt and tense until I honestly can't anymore. My thighs quiver and try to close in jerky movements. Edward chuckles against my soaked pussy and holds me still a moment longer before releasing my legs. So fucking hot.
"I missed you," I manage to tell him as he works his way back up my body, sweat on sweat, slick skin swirling, gliding.
"I'm right here."
Yes, he is. Sex doesn't fix whatever's wrong, but at least he's here. "I want you inside me, please." I reach for him, and he drops a light kiss on my lips before drawing back.
"Turn over, baby. Hands and knees."
I do as I'm told. I love feeling him behind me like that. He's lithe and strong, and in this position he hits me just right...
He doesn't enter me immediately. I drop a little lower in front, elbows instead of hands, forcing my ass further into the air. I'm so ready.
I feel the warmth of his hands. They slide down my back and cup my ass, squeezing, kneading. I love it. Nobody has ever touched me like he does. He's so much bigger than me, but we match so well. His cock brushes between my thighs.
Slowly he moves. His cock disappears and his hands grab harder at my ass cheeks. I might have marks tomorrow. I hold still, close my eyes, and wait for that perfect feeling when he first enters me.
There's the brush of his cock, so soft—my body's sensitive and I whimper. His hands grip harder, and then suddenly there's pressure at my asshole, pressure I don't expect. He's moist with precum but not wet enough for that, and my body locks down. I clench shut—I'm closed for business.
"What the fucking hell?" I screech, jerking away. "What the fuck are you trying to pull?"
I whirl. Edward's a statue, kneeling on the bed, staring at me with huge, horrified eyes. His mouth opens and shuts like a fish, but no sound comes out.
"Edward. What. The. Fuck?"
He stares at me for another heartbeat before stumbling off the bed and out of the room. A moment later I hear the bathroom door slam.
"Edward!" I grab the nearest shirt I can find—it's his, of course—and follow him. He's locked himself in, and I can hear him muttering to himself in there.
"Edward!" I rattle the handle in vain, then sink to the floor, staring at the little bar of light under the door. "Edward, you have to talk to me."
"You said! You said you wanted me to! I was only trying to make you happy!"
"When the hell did I—" I freeze. "Were you on my computer?"
"It was sitting out! I couldn't help it!"
His voice is so muffled I know he's talking into his hands.
"So you decided it was a good idea to just go for it? No warning? No lube? Nothing?"
Mumbling from inside. I think I hear him mention Jasper.
"Jasper? What does Jasper have to do with this?" Even as I ask, I think I know. Jasper's a huge practical joker. It would be just like him to feed Edward faulty info and not set him straight, especially about sex. I'm not the only one who knows how shy Edward is. If it's true, I'm gonna get that little fucker back. I don't know how, but I will. "Jasper should know better," I tell the door, because Edward sure as hell isn't coming out anytime soon. "He and Alice do it all the time. I think he played you." I try to sound understanding, but really, this is kind of ridiculous. Edward is a planner. He's a thinker. He doesn't just rush into anything. "Didn't you at least go online to find some information? Try to corroborate whatever crap Jasper fed you?"
Kind of? "What the hell does that mean?" I wish he'd open the damn door. I wish I could see his face. "Edward?" Then, as his silence stretches between us, I remember last Sunday—how weird he acted, and how he minimized his screen quickly whenever I opened the door. "Edward, anal porn is not a training course." Honestly, what was he thinking?
"I gathered." he says, short and clipped. "I mean, when the guys kept spitting in the girls' asses, and when they pulled apart and..." I can hear the mortification in his voice.
"You mean gapers?" I can't help the laugh that bubbles out of me. "I couldn't do that if I tried. Those porn stars have lots of, um, training, as it were."
"Well...good," he says after a moment. "Because it looked weird. I mean, I don't understand. Why are tight pussies and huge assholes hot? Why the double standard?"
My poor confused boy. He sounds legitimately irked.
"Edward, baby, come out of the bathroom."
"Yes. Don't make me take the hinges off the door. Because I'm pretty sure I'd fuck it up."
"Look, you're not the only one who's embarrassed, okay? You looked at my bucket list!"
"Is that what it was?" Edward sounds tired. "I just wanted to do something you'd really want. For your birthday and everything..."
I snort. "Dry anal is not what I'd call a fabulous birthday present."
"I'm sorry." He sounds pretty miserable.
"Just come out of there, please? We don't have to talk about it right now if you don't want to."
"But you want it, and I fucked up!"
He's upset anyway; I can't resist asking. "Why don't you want to fuck my ass? I thought all guys wanted to do that."
"But girls don't! Not good girls. I mean, if we're going by what society thinks and everything. And is it so...why is it a bad thing that I love your vagina?"
It isn't. It really isn't. I shake my head slowly and smile at the door. "Edward." My beautiful lunatic. My poor, naive boy. "Open the door."
I don't give him a chance to bolt. Not this time. I'm on my feet when I hear the lock click, and I push the door open.
He's not hard anymore, and I don't blame him. I wind my arms around him, weaving my fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and brush a kiss along his lips. "I love you, you lunatic."
He sighs and pulls me close. I'm wearing his shirt, and it's the only thing keeping my skin from his. "I want to satisfy you."
"You do." I press a kiss to the side of his throat.
"But you want this."
I'm not gonna lie. "I do. You know I like to try new things. And Alice and Jane both say it can be really, really good."
"Except I did it all wrong."
Still not gonna lie. "Yeah, you did. But it was sweet of you to try. Look, I don't want to pressure you if this isn't your thing. But if you're willing, I do want to try it."
A long sigh escapes him. "I do love that ass."
I grin. "I know you do."
"Give me a little time? To...prepare?"
He's gonna go overboard; I know he is. I can feel it in the way he steels himself for the task ahead. I'm resigned—at least he's not wailing behind a locked door anymore. "Sure," I agree. "As long as you need."
As long as he needs turns out to be the time it takes for priority shipping.
He calls me into the bedroom a few days later, and...I should have expected what I find.
Spread across the bed is the most daunting array of sex toys I'd ever imagined, let alone seen. I may have underestimated Edward's tendency to go overboard. Not only are the toys spread out like prizes on a game show, but Edward seems determined to give me an in-depth description of everything. He's selling ass toys so hard I'm almost convinced he landed a new job pushing the damn things at kinky bridal showers.
He's already detailed the Assifier, which is apparently a butt plug that is perfect to "tease my pucker open," the Sassy Anal beads, which Edward tells me will give me "maximum ass satisfaction," and the disturbingly named Crystal Jellies Anal Stuffer. I tune out Edward's description of this one, a little worried that it will somehow destroy childhood memories of The Dark Crystal.
It's not like I'm a stranger to sex toys. I mean, what girl doesn't have a goodie drawer? Hell, we've used them together more than a few times. But Edward's taken it to the extreme. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm more than a little intimidated by the remaining items, which appear to be a triple-pronged vibrator, some kind of smooth inflatable dildo, a finger vibe that looks like it should be adorning a cocktail glass, and what I hope to god is not an actual enema kit, as well as enough lube to put WD-40 out of business.
I should be unbelievably turned on by the sight of my fuckhot boyfriend amid a treasure trove of sex toys, but he's so detailed and clinical that it has all the sex appeal of my last pap smear. From the look on his face I'm not sure Edward's faring much better.
In the middle of explaining the Flexi Felix, which I swear to God looks like a hot pink caterpillar that swallowed a bunch of marbles, he cuts himself off. "I fucked up again."
He looks so miserable that I can't do it—I can't make myself verbally agree with him. "Umm..." I chew on my lip for a second. "C'mere." I bring my body in line with his, and one of my hands reaches for his jaw as the other traces his hidden cock. He's not hard. Why would he be? This has become a clusterfuck of epic proportions. "Just...I don't think it has to be this difficult, you know? I mean, sodomy's been legal in this state since 1976, and I'm sure people were doing it way before that. If you think about it, your parents—"
"No!" Edward claps his hands over his ears. "No no no! If you ever expect me to be relaxed enough for this to work, you will not traumatize me by suggesting my father or anyone else has ever done this to my mother!"
Okay, yeah, that wasn't the greatest idea. I wanted him to laugh, not seek therapy. "Sorry, baby," I tell him. I take one of his hands from his ear and bring it to my mouth, teasing his fingertips with my lips.
"And don't call it sodomy, either." He's whining now, eyes closed, and I'm pretty sure he's not paying attention to what I'm doing with my mouth. "Preparing to commit one of the deadly sins isn't exactly a turn-on."
"I don't think it's actually one of the big seven," I say, but how the hell should I know? My mom's some kind of crystal-gazing hippie and my dad never made me go to church.
"Still." He swallows hard. I want to reach up and bite the bob of his Adam's apple, but with our luck I'd just give him a coughing fit.
"Shut up, please."
I kiss him.
And kiss him.
And kiss him.
He palms my ass, grabs my breasts...and stays flaccid.
With a wail he tries to duck away—to lock himself in the bathroom again, I'm sure—but I grab the waist of his jeans and hang on. Sorry, Edward, but you can't run away this time. We're gonna get through this. You might have a higher IQ than me, but I'm pretty sure I'm much more devious than you'll ever be.
It takes several days after what I call in my head the Smorgasbord of Sex Toys—yes, in the Swedish Chef voice, don't judge me—before Edward is willing to touch me again. I knew mentioning his mother was a mistake.
But finally, finally, he does.
I tease him, wearing the laciest lingerie I own, making breakfast in it before work. I'm horrible, I know. He'll be distracted all day by burgundy and gold lace. He's a geek, as I've said more than once. Any resemblance to Princess Leia in that slave outfit and, like any good sci-fi boy, he can't think about anything else.
It works, of course. When I get home, Edward's waiting for me in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts. He's on me before I can kick off my shoes—first a polite hello peck on my lips, followed by a not-at-all-polite sweep of his tongue up the side of my throat. Fuck yes. There's my boy.
Determined that this is the end of our Edward-imposed abstinence, I drag him into the bedroom and slam the door so the damn cat can't follow us. I'm usually starving when I get home, but fuck food. This is way more important...and way more fun.
Edward's not wasting time. My work clothes disappear as we stumble like drunks to the bed, unwilling to let go of each other even though neither of us is exactly what I'd call particularly coordinated. He bites my shoulder as he palms my lace-covered breasts, and I'm mildly astonished that I make it safely to the bed without either of us falling.
"I need to taste you. Can I taste you?" His mouth trails across my sternum, leaving little stinging nips with his teeth. All I can do is nod; that's more than all right with me. I undo the front clasp of my bra and immediately he's there, a low noise of pleasure buzzing from him as his mouth closes around one rosy nipple. He pinches and pulls the other with his fingers, rolling it to hardness, awakening the fierce drive that's always existed between us. We love, yes, but we also want. We crave. No one's ever matched my needs so well. I've never loved sating anyone as much as I love sating him.
His hands are hot on my skin as he helps me out of the last bits of lace, and when his mouth reaches my pussy I give in and let him take over. This boy has always known exactly what to do with his tongue. He licks agonizingly slowly up my slit, then blows a cool, teasing breath against my sopping flesh. I whimper for contact. I'm a live wire, and I need his body to ground me, focus me.
I let him push my legs up and apart, bending my knees, opening me wide. I'm his completely when he's like this, and I happily surrender. I know he'll never harm me. It's what makes me trust that he'll make back-door sex good for both of us.
Unlike Edward, I did my research. Properly. No porn. No insane shopping sprees. I know which positions are likely to cause the least discomfort. I know lube with a slight numbing agent will help with the initial stretching, and I discovered that one of my favorite toys, a small dual bullet vibe, is an excellent way to enhance the experience for both of us.
So while I'm fully enjoying the swirls and strokes of Edward's mouth on my pussy, I reach under my pillow for the stuff I hid there this morning. I really don't know if this will work, but Edward's hard and wanting and wonderfully distracted. He's had no chance to think himself into a panic, because he has no idea what I'm about to propose he do.
Devious, like I said.
And, honestly, if it doesn't work, it's not like I'd leave him. Sex with Edward is incredible no matter how we do it; I'd be a fucking idiot to lose him because he's too nervous to try anal. I'm not giving up the hungry way he looks at me when we wake up on Saturday mornings. I'm not giving up that fuckhot little groan he makes when he comes, or the feel of his mouth driving me to the edge. As his fingers curl just so and his tongue flicks against me, I arch off the bed, clutching at the sheets, completely out of control. Edward's tongue works me expertly to the brink and hurtles me over, swirling at just the right pace and pressing at just the right angle until he has my body so electrified, so alive, that I can't help but explode. And oh, fuck, I've missed this.
He slides up my body, using his hands to ensure my every nerve remains at attention for him, clearly intent on taking his own pleasure now that he has assured mine. Our eyes lock and all I see is desire. As his lips pause to tease my nipples, I slip a condom and the lube into his hand, hoping to convey with my eyes what they're intended for.
"Now? Are you sure?" Before he can work himself up, my hands are on his hard cock. He groans, body trembling, and as I stroke his thick length I know I have him. He won't out now. "Should you, um, you know, flip over?" His faltering words aren't from anxiety. This is a voice I know very well. His eyes blink several times, but his rational thinking has all but left him. Like me, he's pure need.
Instead of answering him, I take control. I sheath him in latex, caressing him slowly before placing him right where I want him—where I need him. My body, loose in the aftermath of orgasm, tries to tighten with nerves. I don't let it. This is it. We're really going to try. I stay on my back, and he doesn't ask me to turn over again.
The bottle of lube passes from my hand to his, and I relax into the mattress as I feel his fingers coat me liberally, watch him do the same to his cock. He twitches in his hand, and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. My legs lift up and out of the way and I reach for him as he settles over me, lined up at my smaller entrance, where he's never been before.
"Yes?" he breathes. I can hear the need in his voice.
I nod. "Slow."
He pushes forward.
I freeze. The sudden intrusion is too overwhelming, painful enough that I want it to stop. It stings. I don't remember losing my virginity feeling like this. For a moment, I'm convinced it isn't going to work. He's too big and I'm too small. Maybe Alice was lying, or Jasper has a really tiny prick.
I force myself to clench my jaw rather than my ass, breathing hard through my nose, waiting for my body to either accept Edward or tell me once and for all that it's too much. He pushes slowly, working his way deeper, and while it still hurts, suddenly the pain turns into something...more.
"Fuck," Edward hisses. "So...so much. So tight. So..." His words trail into a groan as he loses himself in the sensation—in me. That sound of pure pleasure in his voice...it's bliss.
He moves slowly, just as I asked. He's gentle and perfect; I knew he would be. No one knows my body like he does. I won't lie—it hurts. He's long and thick, and I'm new at this. But once he's fully inside me, the feeling of completeness, of fullness, of being consumed by him, is everything. It overrides the pain—complements it, even. I sting, I throb. I want.
Edward's face tells me he feels the same.
"Baby, please—move." I'm begging, and I don't care. This feeling...I'll never get used to it. It's foreign and yet familiar, the burn of desire, the stretch of my body striving to accommodate him.
"Bella, I never knew. I never knew." He withdraws slightly only to work his way back in, learning to deal with the constriction of my body, the tightness squeezing him.
Before he loses himself entirely, I slip the two pieces of the vibrator into his hand. He loves to watch me play, so he knows exactly what to do. He slips one inside my pussy and swirls the other around my clit, never stopping his agonizingly slow thrusting, in and out, driving me to the brink of insanity.
A deep, guttural groan from his chest tells me the exact moment he feels the vibrations from the bullet against his cock, only a thin wall separating the two. "Holy fuck," he hisses. He's sweating now. I am, too. "How did you know? Fuck."
His thrusts speed up slightly as he presses the bullet vibe to my clit. He's not playing around now, and I've never felt anything so overwhelming. There's no pause, no moment of relief from the mind-blowing feeling of being taken like this. It's just so...so much, my ass filled with Edward's cock, my pussy clenching around the bullet and my clit demanding release. There's no hide-and-seek with my orgasm, no teasing before it takes my body. It slams into me and I shatter, swept up in the most intense sensation I've ever felt. It's pleasure, it's pain, it's a massive hit of feel-good chemicals right to my brain as my body seizes, pulsing over and over again, pushed to its limits.
Vaguely, as I'm caught up in my body's involuntary responses, I feel Edward begin to let go. He licks up my neck before burying his forehead against my shoulder as his body stiffens and a feral sound tears from his chest. He jerks, his cock thrusting deeper, deeper—the bullet vibe, still buzzing, shifts in my pussy. I cry out as it wrenches another orgasm from me, my body beyond conscious control, any chance of coherent words utterly gone.
Edward doesn't seem much better, answering my cries with a chanted "fuckfuckfuck," as my clenching muscles milk him, prolonging his pleasure.
I barely have the presence of mind to reach for the vibrator's control, stopping the intense buzz as Edward collapses onto me. His mouth seeks mine instinctively and we kiss, gentle and lazy now that we're sated. I wince as he carefully extracts first himself, then the bullet from my spent, trembling body; it takes a moment to accept feeling so empty after being so full.
"Did I hurt you?"
I shake my head and pull his mouth back to mine. "You were perfect. I knew you would be." My legs ache and I know I'm going to be so fucking sore in the morning. Normally I'm not a stickler for cleaning up after sex—I like the smell of us on our skin—but tonight we definitely both need a shower. Not quite yet, though. My body isn't ready to move.
"I love you," Edward says, and the sweetness of his kiss brings tears to my eyes. My beautiful boy. He maneuvers into a more comfortable position against me and nods at the clock. "Happy birthday, Bella."
The glowing digits tell me it's a little past eleven—less than an hour until my birthday. I'm exhausted. I'm perfect.
"This ended up being one of the more expensive birthdays," Edward says ruefully as we start to drag ourselves out of bed. "What are we going to do with all that stuff? There's no returns on, uh, toys."
I stumble toward the door, intent on a scalding hot shower with my boyfriend. I don't really care what he does with all that stuff, as long as it doesn't get anywhere near my ass.
A low yowl meets my ears when I open the door. In the rectangle of light from our bedroom door, I see Edward's stupid cat, Andy. He has the pink caterpillar-thing in his mouth, the Flexi Felix, and he looks inordinately proud of himself.
"I'm not sure," I tell the cat, "but I don't think that was meant for pussy play."
Edward groans and hides his head in his hands.
A/N: Once again, this is NOT MY FAULT! ;-)