Page 13 of Fire on the Ice

She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tut at me for being bossy, but does as I’ve asked, and that’s better. A good start. I take them easily and start to move my hips, rocking up to meet her easy thrusts. Then she’s pressing hard, working those fingers deep inside until she’s in me up to her knuckles.

It doesn’t take long until I’m ready for four, feeling open and greedy because if three fingers give me so much pleasure, four are going to be even better. More of the slick spreading and stretch, feeling worked into and worked over, eventually letting the tight bud of arousal burst into the bloom of orgasm. Thankfully, Blaze doesn’t make me ask for four, just gives them to me, pulling out and pressing back in until she meets some actual resistance.

Some women I’ve been with have been almost . . . afraid of fisting? I guess the name isn’t particularly encouraging and if you’ve only seen it in cis het porn, yeah, that doesn’t look fun to me, either. More like someone’s trying to punch your uterus. No, thank you. But a slow, tender opening? Coaxing? The stretch and the pressure and the feeling of something so articulate inside of you? Sorry to everyone who likes dick, but penises are a pretty blunt instrument. Hands, though, they’re capable of so much more.

As Blaze seems eager to prove. Her thrusts have slowed, but they’re as deep as before, and the tension coils in my pelvis, making me hot and eager. My body resists her at first but then starts to give way at her patient and thorough insistence. It’s funny in some ways that Blaze has agreed to this, because faster and more direct seems to be more her style at life. But she also knows how to work hard, how to stick with something, to persist at something until she’s good enough, has as much as she can possibly get. So yes, maybe I can see why this would appeal to her. I’d bet she enjoys being on the receiving end as well. I wonder if I’ll ever get to find out.

For today, I’m the center of her attention, and that’s what it feels like as she dedicates herself to opening me up, working inside of me. That I could be worth that much to someone, that I deserve that much, that someone would forsake me for all others for any length of time because I am perhaps enough instead of both less and more than—a chill goes through me. Blaze blinks her gaze that had been fixed on what she’s been doing, to my face. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

I shake my head, but realize that weak answer won’t satisfy. “You’re not hurting me; you’re good at this. It’s just getting to the intense part, you know?”

“Oh, I know.” Blaze smiles at me knowingly, and there’s a kinship there, an understanding, ease. In this one way, we’re very similar. Unlike along any other metric. She rolls her lips between her teeth, thoughtful, maybe plotting, and then looks up at me again. “How intense do you want this to be?”

I suspect my scale of intensity is not the same as Blaze’s, but she won’t give me more than I can handle. If she heads there, I can tell her to stop and I have all the faith in the world that she will. I suppose that’s one of the nice things about knowing I’m not her one and only—someone else can fulfill her wishes that I’m unwilling or unable to. Which means I won’t feel like a disappointment. Like I’m not enough. Not how so many other people in my life make me feel. There’s always someone else on her horizon whereas I’m my parents’ last shot to get it right, and they’re not shy about letting me know exactly how short I’m falling while at the same time having gone completely out of the bounds of what they consider acceptable.

That trust and confidence in her is what gives me the ability to say, “Very. I want this to be very intense.”

Blaze

That’s my girl. I love the contrast of how delicate she looks and how badass she actually is. On the outside, she’s this insubstantial spun sugar, all sweetness and elegance, but should anyone try to break her? They’re going to find a tank underneath. A very sexually adventurous tank.

“Then sit up, get on your knees. I want your back against the slope of the ceiling.”

We could play finger-Twister to get her in the right position without me having to move my hand, but it’s getting time for actually gloving up anyhow, so I let her go to come onto her knees, which she does without arguing, and spreads her legs as much as she’s able while still keeping her back pressed to the wall. It’s a strenuous position—she has to use her core to keep this posture, and her thighs are bearing the brunt of keeping her hips hovering at the right height. That’ll make my job easier, and force her to lean on me at some point, something I suspect Maisy wouldn’t willingly do otherwise. Stubborn, aloof woman. Fiery and frozen at the same time. She drives me fucking crazy.

I could obsess over all the things she doesn’t give me or I could enjoy the things she does. I’ll take the latter because I don’t want to feel stymied.

“Good,” I say, knowing she doesn’t need my praise, but maybe she’d like it anyway? She doesn’t seem to be weak like me, always seeking approval, affection, attention, reassurance that I fucking matter. Validation. No, she seems perfectly content to be self-contained, only letting people in who she really has to. I will take advantage while she’s willing to let me be one of those people. “Now the fun can really start.”

I snap the glove on my right hand and take up the lube, slicking some over the latex, and start off a step behind where I left off. Fisting takes a lot of patience, and I’m going to do this—her—right. I want her leaving Denver dreaming about how good it felt having my whole hand inside her.

Three fingers are easy, four not much harder, and I press my knuckles against her inner walls, stretching and spreading gently, getting her prepared for me to fold in my thumb and keep pressing. It’s in some ways like kneading dough. Her flesh is supple, strong and resilient all at once, and it’s mine to shape, mine to manipulate.

“Do you want to come before I’m all the way in? After? Both?”

“Both, of course.” Girl after my own heart.

I use my other hand to brace her pelvis against the angle of the ceiling, and thumb her clit in the small rough circles she seems to favor. It’s not long before her hands are on my shoulders and her head’s dropped forward, her breath coming in pants. She’s so pretty like this, and sexy as hell as she works her cunt on my hands. Not shy, she’s going to take what she wants from me. Plus, she’ll get wetter when she comes and that’ll be even better than the lube to help get that inconvenient thumb knuckle and heel of my hand into the promised land of Maisy Harper’s hot, slick pussy.

The angle’s doing its job, too, forcing her to lean onto, into me, and gravity’s bringing her weight to bear on my hand, my wrist. This was a good idea, and I hope she thinks so. Right now, though, she’s consumed with her race to orgasm. Fine with me. She doesn’t need to know my plot, maybe better if she doesn’t, because I don’t know that she’d rest her forehead on my shoulder as she’s doing now. The pressure, the feeling of her breath that wafts through the thin cotton of my tank makes it so that my skin is ridiculously hot, and I suspect if she reached a hand into my leggings, she’d gasp with delight at precisely how wet I am. I can tell with how heavy my pelvis feels that my blood is pooling there, making my labia puffy and swollen, and my body’s getting ready for sex, penetration by slicking the path, practically an invitation: fuck me.

But the party I’ve RSVP’d to is between Maisy’s legs that are starting to show some strain. Trembling.

“Let go, Mais.”

She makes a helpless desperate noise and rolls her forehead against my chest, a gesture I’ll take as affectionate. “Can’t.”

That single word, reeking of vulnerability makes blood roar in my ears. “Yes, you can. It’s not going to be easy, but it’s not going to hurt because we’re being careful. You’ll be brave for a little bit, and then you can take a break with my whole hand inside you. Won’t that feel good?”

She nods against me, grips my biceps, her breath coming harder.

“Then come on. I’m going to make you come right here and again when I’m inside you. Got it?”

“Yes.”

She rocks and pitches her hips, working my hand deeper with every buck and I keep up my thumb’s work on her swollen clit. I can tell she’s almost there when her movements become more insistent but erratic. “Yes. Come on. I want to feel you. Hear you. Sink your teeth into me if you want, let me know how you feel.”

Now she’s making tiny half-moan, half grunts as she sinks onto my hand a fraction of an inch with every push. And with a sound that feels both surprising and inevitable, she’s pulsing around my hand, her teeth clamping around the meat of my trapezius. The noise is muffled by my flesh, but the vibration of it is powerful, the pitch desperate. Christ, she’s hot.

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