Mind Caviar

Isabelle Carruthers is Associate Editor of Mind Caviar and a fiction editor with CleanSheets Magazine. Her fiction has been published in various internet magazines and is forthcoming in print in Prometheus, Mammoth's Best Erotica, Best Women's Erotica, and Philogyny.

You Don't Want to Fuck Me
by Isabelle Carruthers 

"No," he says. Just that single syllable, mumbled, but menacing. He doesn't want to fuck me. I wonder if he really means it. I retreat and wait. After some minutes, the cadence of his breath is steady and deep, his defenses once more relaxed. 

My hand moves lower. I am a furtive thief, stealing a grope, copping a feel. My fingertips touch rigid flesh beneath the cotton fabric that covers him. He does not speak, but promptly smacks my hand away, like a prudish schoolteacher. His arm tightens around me, his thumb and forefinger squeezing at the base of my neck. It is a gentle pressure, but a warning. He doesn't want to fuck me. 

An old blues singer once admonished, "Honey, don't give it away if he don't appreciate it." Damn right, I think. I'm indignant at the very idea of rejection. But I'm also lying naked in the arms of a man that I want to fuck. A man who won't fuck me, despite the unmistakable signs of arousal, a man who won't succumb after two hours spent exploring the limits of his willpower. I've whispered, moaned, massaged, squirmed, fondled and nibbled. And still he says "No." 

He doesn't want to fuck me. At least, not yet. 

I know that men always want most the thing they cannot have. So I give up zigging and decide to zag instead. I roll away from him, pretending to abandon the quest for sex. But no man can resist the cool, smooth expanse of a woman's ass. I know this, too. It beckons the nestling penis like no other mating call. Like it beckons his. I smile to myself as he shifts and spoons around me, his unbidden erection pressing between my thighs. He sighs, contented, relieved that I've finally given up. His lips brush against the back of my neck. 

I entwine my fingers with his, as if to merely hold his hand. Sweetly, he accommodates me. He does not suspect my true motive. And then I begin to drag upward until his hand is draped over my breast, one uptight nipple peeking between his thumb and forefinger. His hand lifts, poised in indecision, then drifts over my nipple, too slowly to be an accident.

 My heart jumps at that simple touch, the pure impulse that overpowered his conscious mind and compelled his hand to action. Awakened at last, his fingers begin to move without any hint of reluctance. While he teases my distraught libido, I bite my lip and try to content myself with this hard-won moment of intimacy. But nipples are not cunts, and this is not what I want. I want more. It does not matter, at this moment, that he does not want to fuck me. 

We are meant to be only friends, decreed by the circumstances of our lives and a generation gap that cannot be denied. We will not be in love, even if we are, because Love is impossible. But in our shared bed, in the innocent intentions of warm flesh meant only to comfort, the taboo that separates us has faded, first for me and now, painfully, for him. In its place, there is a passion that leaves ethics undone, that turns the once sacred hopelessly profane. It is the reason he doesn't want to fuck me. 

Tucked inside his arms, I turn to face him, trapping him before he can move away. Now his cock is hard against me and his eyes are open, watching me. His expression is accepting, but not pleased. He doesn't want to fuck me. I see this and still I advance. I wrap my fingers around his cock, insistent, demanding surrender. This need to feel him inside me has overshadowed reason. In this moment, Love feels possible. I want it, and I want him, at any cost. 

It's beyond my control. And, in this moment, I am beyond his. 

I slide onto him, slowly, without remorse, and he brings me into his embrace. His body is no longer passive beneath me, and he moves me toward the inevitable conclusion. He doesn't want to fuck me, but he will. 

I lean down, pressing close in search of his kiss as our bodies join. He turns away, for this he will not give. He doesn't want to fuck me, but he does. He fucks me without the pretense of love. And I realize, too late, that this is not what I wanted at all. 

Copyright © 2001 Isabelle Carruthers. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

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