Page 92 of Scrimmage

“You’re teasing me,” she says point blank.

“I’m going to keep doing it until you come, and then I’ll think about giving you what you really want.”

“I have shit to do, Koda.”

“Then be a good girl and come all over yourself.”

She yanks on the restraints, but they don’t budge. “I can’t.”

“You can, and you will. I’ll wait all night if that’s what it takes. You might not be patient, but I am.”

It takes an hour of torture for Ashland to finally finish. It’s an hour where every second tortures me, too. Seeing her eyes roll into her head. The frustrated disappointment on her face is a high. I control that.

I’m fucking dying to be inside of her. I let her out of the restraints and give her no time to recover before I dive in. My dick throbs just at the prospect of feeling her around it, and with how much she came it’s not a fight to get myself inside. Not as much as it usually is.

I want to take my time. I want it to last because it’ll be three days before I see her again. It’s like I’ve just discovered porn. She’s the best porn I’ve ever watched. I can’t hold it though. I’m too amped up. So I pretend I’m not going to come inside of her because that’s what she wants to do. It’s all fucking make believe.

“Ko,” she whines, with her legs over my shoulders.

“Shut up.” I put my hand around her neck and squeeze, feeling her clench around me. “If you keep squeezing me like that, baby girl, I’m not going to be able to stop myself.”

She moans and clenches tighter.

“I’m serious, Ash. I…I can’t.” And I can’t. When she’s choking my dick like that I cannot control it, not the way I want to.

Her eyes roll into her head again while her face turns red from lack of oxygen. She’s such a cum slut. Ashland rides my cock, and it’s like a week of pent up cum leaves my body. She’s fucking exhausted. Her eyes are fighting sleep, and I would let her pass out except she forces herself up. She gives me an irritated look and gestures to the shirt then to her leggings which have been shredded at this point.

“Take a shower. I’ll get you clothes.”

“I’m not fucking showering here.”

“You’re covered in sweat and cum. Shower. I’ll get you clothes and take you home after. Alright?”

“Whatever,” she mumbles.

I hear the water start and have the incessant urge to go take one with her. I set a pair of my sweatpants and one of my football shirts on the counter and take her underwear from the floor, shoving it in my side table that is actually starting to resemble a serial killer’s trophies. Ashland’s underwear. Her sketch book. Some charcoal that fell out of her bag the last time she was here. The phone from the Weekender last year. If she had handed me a playlist on a CD I would have stuffed it there, too. I go back and hover in the doorway, watching her through the blurred glass.

Ashland hums. I don’t think she realizes it. I don’t recognize the song, but she hums. It’s a soft and sweet melody. Nothing like the songs she made me listen to in the car. I keep myself from going into the shower and go to the living room so I don’t do something stupid. When she comes out of my room she looks less than enthused.

“I’m not giving this back.”

“Don’t worry, I already know you’re a thief.”

She accepts my answer and goes to the door to get her stuff. When I don’t move she comes and stands next to the couch.

“You said you would take me home.”

The question slips out. “What’s that song?”

“Which one? The flute song?”

“No. The song you were humming in the shower. What is it?”

“Oh.” She seems shocked that I asked, and her face turns red. “Just a song.”

“Why are you being weird about it?”

“I’m not.”

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