he bent me over the kitchen counter while i was still holding the groceries. a bag of oranges in each hand and my shorts around my knees. cole pushed inside me before i could set anything down. i stood there with the plastic handles cutting into my fingers and let him have it. he put one hand on top of mine so the bag wouldn’t drop. later i found an orange on the floor by the fridge. i still don’t know if we needed lemons.
ok so where did this even start. cole’s a contractor, built like he eats other men for breakfast, and i’ve been obsessed since month one. i’m a femboy. lace, stockings, heels i can’t walk in, a cage that’s on more nights than not. i’m also the kind of guy who makes cole’s jaw do a thing. he gets this look like he’s about to say something mean, and i’ve been chasing that look since the first week.
the cage key went on his nightstand on a tuesday, right where he’d see it. he picked it up and turned it over for a full minute. i watched from the doorway with my coffee and said nothing. he put it back down. he didn’t ask what it opened. two days later he asked.
he asked with his mouth full of toast, like it was a question about the truck. i said i didn’t need it back. i didn’t look up from my phone. he chewed. he said ok.
i “forgot” underwear under my hoodie five times that month. i walked around his place like that, sat on the arm of the couch and stretched, bent to pick up a sock. i watched his eyes go dark and his hands get grabby. he started standing closer to me. he started putting his palm on the back of my neck when he walked past.
the lube went on the coffee table before he came over, next to the remote, like it was part of the room. he picked it up and turned it over and put it back. he used it that night and never mentioned it.
i did my makeup in his bathroom with the door open. stockings, lace, the works. i wanted him to walk in on it, and he did. he stood in the doorway with his hand flat on the frame and looked at me in the mirror. i kept doing my eyeliner. my hand was shaking so bad i had to start over.
then a night we were both drunk in bed. i waited until his hand was already on my hip. i said, “you could just use me whenever. i wouldn’t stop you. i’m serious.” he went quiet for a second. then he said “yeah?” and i said “yeah.” he was hard against my thigh in about ten seconds. i counted them.
so here’s the week.
mornings — i wake up with him already inside me most days now. no foreplay. he lifts my leg and slides in while i’m still half under and uses me for five or ten minutes. hard enough to get there. one morning i never opened my eyes. he finished, the coffee maker beeped, his feet went down the stairs, and i went back to sleep leaking into the sheet. he came back up an hour later with a mug and that smile. i know that smile. it’s the one he gets when a job comes in under budget. i put my face against his chest and drank the coffee.
some mornings he wakes me before the alarm on purpose. he rolls me onto my stomach, drags me up by the hips, and takes his time. slow is worse. slow means he has all day. i’m not awake enough to be quiet yet and he likes that. he likes when i’m still slurring into the pillow. he pulls out right before i get there and makes me wait, then slides back in when i’ve stopped begging. then he gets up and gets dressed like nothing happened. he hums while he buttons his shirt. i lie there and listen to it and don’t move until the front door shuts.
kitchen — the counter thing is real, and it happens more than you’d think. i timed it. wednesday, site inspection finishes early, i’m in his t-shirt and nothing else, chopping an onion. i don’t turn around when the door opens. i just bend a little more over the board. ten seconds later my shorts are around my knees. he fucks me with a bag of oranges in my hands because i grabbed it off the car seat on the way in. the oranges roll across the counter and one hits the floor. the milk goes warm. his hands are on my hips and he isn’t being gentle. groaning into my neck, no warm-up, just hard. he comes inside me and pulls out. five minutes later he’s on the couch with his phone. i’m still at the counter, dripping, onion half chopped, milk warm.
he comes back through later for a beer and steps over the orange like it’s furniture. i’m still not dressed. he doesn’t look at me. he opens the fridge and stands there with the door open and asks what’s for dinner.
gaming — my favorite. ranked night. i sit on his cock and i don’t move. that rule was mine. i said it out loud the first time and he said “deal” before i finished the sentence. so i sit there, full, clenching, and wait. if he dies in the match, i get to ride him. if he tells me to move, he loses his own game. his friends are in voice chat talking about a flank and someone’s aim. his voice stays level the whole time. mine isn’t, because i’m not talking. i’m right on the edge for twenty minutes straight. the cage gets wet. my thighs shake. sometimes he dies on purpose. i know he does. i can hear it in the way he says “fuck, i’m dead.” then i get to move, and he gets to feel me take what i want. his friends hear him go quiet and think the game has his attention.
he lost four in a row once and i couldn’t really sit down the next day. he told them his back was sore from work.
other nights he doesn’t play at all. he sits me on him and watches something on his phone and doesn’t tell me to move for an hour. i get so wet the fabric under us is a mess. he keeps one hand on my lower back and holds me still with his thumb.
cage — he locks me every night now. the key lives on his work keyring, next to the truck keys and the site badge. i leak in it all day. he comes home, sees the stain on my boxers, sees how hard i am under the metal, and doesn’t say anything. he touches it through the fabric. feels how hot it is. he checks the lock with two fingers, twice. then he goes and showers. sometimes he makes me stand in the doorway while he does it and doesn’t say a word the whole time. sometimes he leaves me on the couch for hours like that. sometimes he unlocks me and gets me right to the edge and locks me back up before i can do anything about it. once he made me sleep in it and i woke up stuck to the sheet. i don’t ask him for the key. i asked for the cage.
friday he comes home wrecked. dust in his hair, concrete on his boots, hands rough from whatever contractors do all day. he doesn’t say hi. he doesn’t look at me. i’m on the couch in a hoodie and nothing else, and he walks over and bends me face down. my shorts are gone before i register that he’s moved.
“been thinking about you all day,” he says. low. mean. he’s pushing inside me before i get a breath in. “been thinking about this hole the entire fucking time.”
he fucks me hard. mean hard. one hand in my hair, pulling my head back, forcing my neck to arch. the other hand on my hip, gripping so tight it’ll bruise. i want it to bruise. he doesn’t bother taking the hoodie off, so it’s bunched up around my shoulders the whole time. “whose hole is this,” he says. i gasp “yours, yours, it’s yours,” and it barely comes out. “always fucking ready for me, huh. always got my cock ready.” i nod. i drool a little on the cushion. i am ready. my body knows the difference between regular sex and being used. this is being used.
he slows down and holds still inside me and makes me say it again. i say it again. then he starts up harder than before.
he comes inside me after ten minutes. groans into my neck, stays there, breathing heavy, still hard. then he pulls back and grabs my hips and starts again. slower. meaner. long deep strokes. kissing my neck, biting, leaving marks i’ll have to hide tomorrow. “pretty boy,” he says, and his thumb drags over the marks he just made. “look at these. mine.” then “little bitch” and “mine, all fucking mine.” and i come in the cage. no permission. never happened before. he feels it through the metal and laughs right into my shoulder.
“you came without me saying,” he says. proud and mean. “i like that. do it again.”
and i do. he’s still deep in me, still saying filthy things about my body, about what he owns, about what he’s going to do with it. he pulls my head up by the hair so my back bends and i can hear him breathe. his thumb presses under my jaw and my eyes water a little. i come again. he comes a second time, pulls out at the end, finishes on my back. then he pulls me up and holds me against his chest. both of us wrecked.
after, we’re on the couch. i’m dripping into the cushion, sticky and sore. he’s half hard against my leg with his hand flat on my chest. so proud of himself.
“best idea i ever had,” he says, running his hand down my side. “this whole thing. free use. genius. i’m a fucking genius.”
“yeah babe,” i say. “so smart.”
i’m already thinking about the next one. maybe the key goes missing for a week and he has to decide something. maybe i mention that his friend thinks i’m hot. maybe i get him to take me somewhere we could get caught. i’ve been thinking about that one for a while.
anyway. his buddy tyler comes saturday to help hang drywall. i already picked the shorts.
