A Word

There isn’t a word

for the feel of her lips

on my neck

there isn’t a sound for the whisper

she places in my ear


and there is no taste

like her breast

my teeth biting harder

than before as she






wakes up monsters

that have long

been asleep


We didn’t sleep all night.

It was hot, but we found our bodies touching over and over again, each time lasting longer than the time before. She pulled away when I caressed her arm, and I rolled over when her knee slid too high up my thigh. Early in the morning I watched, not feeling connected to my body or actions, as I leaned in and kissed her bare shoulder. When she turned to her back, her legs parted and her hand on her stomach, I didn’t look away.

When my hand replaced hers, neither of us moved it. When my fingers traced the edge of elastic neither of us said a word. Her leg pushed against mine, her hand felt my skin with intention, and I didn’t stop. She moaned when I touched hair, and she parted her thighs wider, seemingly holding her breath as I leaned forward until my hand was hovering above her wet skin. I kissed her cheek, my fingers barely tracing her, and she opened her eyes.

“Kiss me,” I whispered.

When her lips touched mine, my hand dropped, fingers opening her even as our tongues did the same. I pulled her to me, kissing her harder as she struggled with my boxers, pushing them down until her hand was around my cock. We moaned and squirmed, losing our few items of clothing until finally our sweaty bodies were just skin against skin and it was too much.

“I want you,” I said, climbing between her legs and pinning her arms above her head. “Now.”

“Yes,” she said, lifting her hips off the bed. “Yes, yes, yes.”

It took effort to penetrate her, and I finally had to reach between our legs and guide myself inside her. But when it was done, when we were as close as it was possible to be, time held still right along with us. I stared into her eyes, she slid her hands down to my ass, and then finally we kissed once more before we started to fuck.

She came within minutes, her legs wrapped around me body, her teeth pulling on my lip, and my cock buried inside her. I breathed her orgasm, never letting go of our kiss, even as she shuddered beneath me. I slowed down only enough to feel her around me, clenching and trembling as she came, and then I was fucking her once more, needing to join her in her release more than anything I had needed before.

When I came she was laughing, her body still in convulsions as I closed my eyes and arched my back, thrusting inside her over and over again as my orgasm ripped through me. My toes tingled, my hands went numb, and it felt like every ounce of life, soul, and heart filled her at the same time. I gave over completely, letting go of the world, and for a few glorious seconds I didn’t exist.

We kissed for a long time, my body growing soft inside her. Her giggles spread to me as I pushed her hair from her face and stared at her knowing eyes. She was prettier than should be allowed, and I loved her impossibly.

“Do you feel guilty?” I finally asked.

“No,” she whispered, touching my lips. “I feel stupid.”

“Why stupid?”

“Because, you silly boy. If we had done that earlier, we might have fucking slept.”



It didn’t take long for me to move into Diana’s old room. She had packed everything she owned into a 1974 Volvo, which meant that she left a desk, a garbage can, and a four-poster canopy bed with a mattress and boxspring. I drove my car across town, and within a couple of hours the entire…

And this week we have a bonus chapter. Since I want the book to be finished at the end of December, you get an extra chapter this week. 

Shit gets intense. Very intense. 


When we woke up the next morning I was hard against Jane’s ass. I had my arms wrapped around her and her hair was a mess in my face. She had closed the window before I got back to her apartment, but it was still chilly inside and her thick blankets were down at the foot of the bed.

“Get your…

Chapter three is out! 

Messy Thoughts on Language and Sex

The time has come the walrus said to rethink the language of sex. Or maybe I should say the language of love, emotion, heartbreak and ciriosis, because Christ you don’t know the meaning of heartbreak. But the meaning of insert tab A into slot B is an old story, older than even that of Amaterasu, birthing the world from her fiery womb. So what does the moon say and how talks the sunset when blankets aren’t enough? And in the middle of the night, which shifts from decade to decade, how now do slippery limbs find entrance? If our oldest stories stop before the moment, because they might be too sticky to share in the light, then it’s up to us to write myths again that stop far beyond it. It’s only enough to to say ‘they lay with one another,’ if you don’t remember the three thousand-four-hundred-sixteen variations that comprise the universal book of how to fuck.

There’s a long history of language that describes a man doing something to a woman, and for maybe all of history it almost made sense. At least in the most mundane of instances, in the common and the mud, in the barns and the fields where rutting was the norm and slot B was indeed put upon over and over again, it might have made sense. But history is written by those who can write, and those who can write often avoid the squishy bits, because putting a thing down on a page is oh so different than doing it in the flesh.

And the winners are always uptight. Maybe there’s an ancient myth to tell this truth far clearer, but it’s a truth all the same. From the Pilgrims to the righteous commies throwing down the Czar, the winners are always uptight. So the story is written over and over again without the grunting and the thrusting, all which is left to the lower decks and the darkness. All of which is left to those with nothing to lose; those who can switch on nothing without blinking an eye. Between monks, priests, and politicians, the history of sex has been written by those with no experience of it, and the times it has broken through into the masses, it’s been snuck in like a horse at dusk.

But Lucretia didn’t ‘slip down between the sheets’ with her lover, and Marcus never felt the ‘rush of waves as pleasure was won and lost.’ They fucked and sucked, the overwhelming smell of human behavior lingering in their nostrils as they made a mess of everything in exactly the right way. Sampson didn’t ‘delight in the love nest’ of Delilah any more than Cuchulainn ‘spent his bliss upon the womb’ of his lover. There was come and sweat and tears, and for thousands of years we’ve drawn it, painted it, and then hidden the words in the dusty waterfront bars and brothels where no one has enough money to make up metaphors for something they do as easily as they breath.

But now the world has changed once more, and while our great literature still stops short of describing the divine with all it’s warts and blood, the light is brighter. We can write a million sounds and a million words, each one taking us closer to the truth, but we’ve lost the poets and the heartbroken. We’ve medicated our way out of romance and channeled emotion into anxiety that can be cured in so many different ways. We’ve abdicated our poetry to Bang Bros and Mandingo. We’ve let it go, as we’ve done so many times before, asking someone else to shine the light in the places we fear the most. And shine it they have, often too brightly to see a thing. They’ve shined it on piss and shit, on come and milk, and they’ve shined it on rape with a laugh and a nod. The light shows anger, fear, and guilt, and as small men watch while their wives are taken by big black fantasies, we pretend that it was never us at all. It was not what we meant at all.

But there are a million words for a million things and they change every day, allowing us to say new things that have never been said. Allowing us to say new things have that been said a million times again.

If the photographer shows us the reality of a thing in stark contrast, forcing us to see it for what it is without the comfort of a muddy imagination, than the poet talks around it, hoping that her language might be a finger pointing at the moon. This way lies bliss and exhaustion. This way lies exaltation.

This ways lies the things we do in the dark.




The city changes slowly enough that sometimes I don’t notice. As I walked from Cornelia Street over to West 4th and then towards the south end of Washington Square Park, I looked at every bar, restaurant, and shop to see what I remembered. That one was there last time, and that one, too, but…

Chapter two of my new novel is live! I’ll be posting one chapter a week every Friday until it’s done. Should be about 32 weeks.

Back in January I spent two weeks furiously writing a novel, and I’m excited to announce that it has finally come out! 

Disgusting, Beautiful, Immoral is my second full length book, and this one clocks in at close to 350 pages. It takes place in New York back in 1999, and it’s one of the filthiest, grittiest, and funniest things I’ve written. I don’t want to give anything away, so you’ll have to read it yourself. I will note that it has a whole lot more sex than my last novel.

I’ll also be posting the whole book, one chapter at a time, to a new blog DisgustingNovel.tumblr.com. You can follow along each Friday when the new chapter comes out. Ideally the whole thing will be published on the blog by the end of December, which is when the novel itself ends.

I hope you’ll share it, read it, review it, and enjoy spending time with it. I certainly enjoyed writing it (and even rewriting it and editing it).

It’s currently an Amazon e-book and a Nook e-book. There will soon be a print version as well. If you want it in some other file format, just make a donation through our Paypal link with a note, and I’ll send it to you.

Many thanks to my beta readers, J, K, and A. And of course, my complete gratitude to the brilliant Piper for her editing skills.

Thanks for sticking with me for all these years. 

Guy New York
ps. I always love blog and Amazon reviews, so if you’d like a review copy just drop me a note and I’ll send you one. 
Even if you don’t have a Kindle there are a hundred other ways to read Kindle books.

Back in January I spent two weeks furiously writing a novel, and I’m excited to announce that it has finally come out!

Disgusting, Beautiful, Immoral is my second full length book, and this one clocks in at close to 350 pages. It takes place in New York back in 1999, and it’s one of the filthiest, grittiest, and funniest things I’ve written. I don’t want to give anything away, so you’ll have to read it yourself. I will note that it has a whole lot more sex than my last novel.

I’ll also be posting the whole book, one chapter at a time, to a new blog DisgustingNovel.tumblr.com. You can follow along each Friday when the new chapter comes out. Ideally the whole thing will be published on the blog by the end of December, which is when the novel itself ends.

I hope you’ll share it, read it, review it, and enjoy spending time with it. I certainly enjoyed writing it (and even rewriting it and editing it).

It’s currently an Amazon e-book and a Nook e-book. There will soon be a print version as well. If you want it in some other file format, just make a donation through our Paypal link with a note, and I’ll send it to you.

Many thanks to my beta readers, J, K, and A. And of course, my complete gratitude to the brilliant Piper for her editing skills.

Thanks for sticking with me for all these years.

Guy New York

ps. I always love blog and Amazon reviews, so if you’d like a review copy just drop me a note and I’ll send you one.

Even if you don’t have a Kindle there are a hundred other ways to read Kindle books.

A Fragile and Tactile Thing

I met Stephanie at an event somewhere on campus in our various roles as political organizers. It was important in college to be involved in something, no matter how little influence we might have on the world. A part of us knew it was a game, but we dove in headfirst with all the energy and enthusiasm of youth, and the skill of the same. We argued with each other mostly, because yelling about language was more accessible than having real conversations with people who came from different worlds. It was easier to discuss the nuances of feminist literary theory than it was to organize the Walmart employees, who just ten years earlier had lost well paying jobs at the now abandoned factories.


She had long brown hair with hints of red that felt like autumn. Her face was round, her hands strong, and she intimidated me instantly. Everyone knew she was a lesbian, and she had a friend with a shaved head. I was toying with my sexuality, as all of us were, and I tagged along to write letters, raise money, and stare at this woman who scared me and drew me in at the same time. But she flirted with me when I wasn’t paying attention, and we slowly began to spend more and more time together.


One afternoon I told her I was getting attached to her. We were walking and laughing and it felt like a natural thing to say. It was as close as I could come to saying I think I’m falling for you. I think I might love you, or at least want you. You make my heart do strange things, and I think about you far too often.


She smiled at me and shook her head. Don’t do that she said. Don’t ever get attached to me.


This was not all my love for all my life. This was not, I long for you too. And yet, there she was, still holding my hand as we walked through the falling leaves on a chilly afternoon. She smiled and she laughed. She leaned in closely to me, and at that moment I decided I wouldn’t mention it again. I had no illusions that my feelings might change, not that I really understood them, but I was sure that talking was the problem, not doing. Not being, or acting, because all of those things were easy. She didn’t tell me to go away. We were together, not separated by slow words and the post office, and I suppressed every urge I had to work something out with words.


The first time we climbed into bed she was on the phone with an ex-boyfriend. It’s not a romantic story, and even now I’m amazed at my nerve and her response. I was lounging in her room, like I had learned quickly to do, and she had been on the phone for nearly twenty minutes. She mouthed apologizes, but made no move to hang up. I finally stood behind her and wrapped my arms around her. She smiled at me over her shoulder and let her body fall against my own. When I slid my hands beneath her shirt she did nothing, and when I undid the button on her jeans she sighed as she wiggled out of them.


Before we ever kissed I knelt on Stephanie’s floor, my mouth between her thighs as she struggled not to give anything away to the man on the other end of the receiver. When she finally mumbled her goodbyes, we crawled to the couch where we lost the rest of our clothes. I’d like to say we made love, and maybe we did, but what I remember is that we fucked. We fucked and we fucked, hours slipping by with our young bodies somehow pushing us on through orgasm and recovery, until finally we were simply done. I held her and kissed her, and she caressed my face without saying a word. I choked back all the sweet things I wanted to say, and somehow I managed to let her smile be enough. I desperately wanted her words, but somewhere within me I knew that her breath and her skin were all she had to offer, and they were a far greater gift for it.


And so suddenly I had a relationship with no words at all. We saw each other most every day, we fucked hard and often, and we took longs walks and attended lectures and concerts together. We ate together, studied together, and did all the things that couples do without ever once mentioning that fact at all. For a long time it felt precarious, like it might fall and break at any moment, but as the months went by it was simply what it was.


It was love without words. It was a relationship without boundaries, and it was in fact a fragile and tactile thing, that while nearly impossible to destroy with action, could be brought down with a few simple words that I held in my throat each time they pushed to the surface.


The time has come the walrus said, to speak of many things. Like why the sea is boiling hot and why Guy New York wrote a book of poems about his penis. 

And to this, I say, why not? Some of them are funny, some are touching, most are dirty, and I think they’re all pretty damn honest. If you’ve ever thought your life needed more penis poetry, then now is the time to change that.

Available as an e-book, or in case your want to carry it around in your back pocket next to your clove cigarettes, a printed thing.

E-book: 32 Poems about my penis on Amazon

Printed: 32 Poems about my penis on Create Space

Schillers, Oysters, and Poly Bliss

The bartenders at Schillers pour some of the best Manhattans around. They add a splash of Grand Marnier which gives a taste of citrus but somehow doesn’t make it overly sweet. I only drank about half of mine before my boyfriend showed up, and I quickly ordered him one as well. He had the day off from work, which meant that instead of his normal attire he was dressed in jeans, a black t-shirt and a black jacket, all of which made him look like a fucking rockstar.

A few minutes later my girlfriend and her husband arrived, and we moved to a table, ordered a few dozen oysters and another round of drinks. Our plan was to meet up early for a bite and good cocktails before heading over to the monthly Poly Happy Hour event on Delancey. We’ve been going on and off for about five or six years now, and it’s an event that brings in family members from across a wide range of scenes in New York. There are kinksters, swingers, unicorns, and radical-trans-queers who are into library science. There are bi-boys, leather daddies, non-leather daddies, and the simply curious.

We sat and laughed over our drinks, our oysters, and our sliders, as all four of us basked in the warm air blowing through the window. Spring has finally come to New York and it is perfect. A and I held hands beneath the table while her husband and J laughed and smiled, and I had one of those rare poly moments that have felt elusive for a long time. I felt loved, I felt happy, and I felt content. And maybe, most of all, I felt at ease with three dear friends who reveled in each other’s company.

Happy Hour was full of old friends, new friends, and joyful acquaintances, and we moved about easily, sliding from one to another as we talked, shared drinks, and kissed in the dark corners of the bar. When J and I held hands or kissed, A looked on with a smile, and when I wrapped my arms around her, he kissed my head and told us how pretty we were. There was more laughter than anything else, but as the evening wore on, I felt happier and happier by the minute.

Later that night, as I made my way home by myself, I paused long enough to be grateful. It isn’t always like this, and even when it is, I don’t always notice. Maybe it was spring, maybe the warm breeze, or maybe it was simply the full moon lending her bright reflection, but as I moved seamlessly between friends and lovers, I was reminded of what it feels like to experience complete and boundless joy.

It says something that I still find my own happiness to be a surprise, but through all the challenges and trials that come with an open life, it does often catch me unaware. But with their warm hands on mine, their lips against my cheek, and the smell of spring in the air, I am reminded once more that it’s possible.

And that makes everything else worthwhile.


Healthier than Pepsi…

Her pussy did not taste like Pepsi Cola.

It was more of a margarita with salt on the rim and intoxication close behind. Her pussy was a dirty martini with an olive that demanded to be savoured. It was strong coffee late at night.

Her pussy was not sweet. In fact, at the end of the day–or in this case the early morning–her pussy mostly tasted like pussy.

Which is much healthier than Pepsi anyway.


Separating Love and Sex (or not)

I’ve never been good at separating love and sex.

It’s possible that I’m just not great at handling my brain chemistry, so when I’m buried inside someone, looking into their eyes as we fuck, I believe all those hormones that are pumped into my head telling me it’s love. I had a belief as a teenager that sex would fundamentally change any relationship—acquired god knows where—and it stuck with me for a long time. Combined with my physiology, it meant that not only did I accept it, but I expected it as well.

After saying I love you at just the wrong moment, I’ve had a lot of awkward conversations that didn’t always go over as I would have like. You know, when I said I loved you back then it was just as a friend. Obviously. Or maybe it was her who brought it up, often as a rejection formed in a question. You don’t really love me, do you? Why would you say that?

And worst of all, at least most of the time, was I love you too. After that we would both lie there silently wondering if we could take it back, or if we needed to double down on it and see where we ended up. Maybe it was love and maybe it was true. And now where do we go?

This might explain why I mostly fuck my friends now. With someone I’ve known for even just a year, chances are high I’ve been saying I love you for a long time before we ever crawl into bed. When it’s been even longer, when we’ve put off sex for whatever reasons we can imagine, it’s a different story altogether.

“I love you,” I’ll moan as we writhe on the bed, in the bathroom stall, or on the couch at a party.

“Aww,” she’ll whisper back to me with easy sincerity. “I love you too.”



(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here. You can also contribute via pay pal on quickienewyork.com if you enjoy the content.)

Talia’s Little Sister

“Kelly, this is insane. I’m not going to fuck Talia’s little sister.”

She looked at me, then looked back down to where her hand was wrapped around my once again hard cock. Without another word she climbed on top of me and slid me inside her. I was still amazed that we could do that. That we could just fuck any time we wanted. She felt so good, it was impossible to focus.

“It won’t take long for her to tell you she wants you, and you won’t be able to resist. She’ll drop to the floor and pull out your cock, no matter how many times you tell her to stop.”

“Kelly, don’t do this,” I said, pushing up into her and trying not to picture that blonde hair and awkward smile.

“Tell me you want her,” she said, leaning down and kissing me as we fucked. “Call me Maddy and fuck me, just like you’re going to fuck her later. You know you want it.”

And then without thinking I rolled her onto her back, pulled out for just a second as I stared at her open pussy, and then I slammed back inside her, my eyes closed as I pictured the bed covered in long blonde hair.

“Oh fuck,” I said, thrusting into her faster and harder.

“That’s right Thomas. Say it,” she urged, her nails digging into my back. “Tell Maddy you want to fuck her tight little cunt.”

“Oh god, Maddy,” I finally whispered, anger mixing in with my arousal. “Oh Maddy, you are so fucking tight.”

“Yes, Thomas. Fuck me before my sister gets back. Fuck me so hard.”

“You are so pretty,” I said, kissing her eyes one at a time. I ran my hand down her face. “You’re so pretty and sweet.” I slowed down, moving inside her as if time was stopping. I didn’t even think as the words left my mouth.

“You are so much sweeter than my girlfriend,” I whispered. “So much prettier and tighter too.”

Kelly’s moans turned into whines, and as I kept talking they turned into sobs. She held me tightly as I fucked her, but still I didn’t stop.

“She’s such a whore, but you? You are a perfect little girl, and I love you,” I moaned, knowing that each word would push Kelly closer to the edge. “Oh fuck Maddy, you are so perfect.”

“Tell me more,” she cried, clenching around me, even as her crying grew louder with each thrust.

“I  don’t know why I’m with her,” I said, moving so slowly it was dangerous. “She’s nothing like you at all. You’re pretty and smart, and so much better than her. Don’t make me go back to her.”

“I won’t,” she whispered into my ear, as I pushed as deeply inside her as I could go. “You can stay here forever. I’ll love you for real, and I’ll never leave you. It will just be us. Just you and me, fucking forever. Please Thomas. Fuck me harder.”

I started moving again, my eyes shut so tightly it hurt, and it was all too real. Maddy’s body trembled beneath me. Maddy’s breasts pressed against my chest, and Maddy’s cunt clenched perfectly around me as we made love over and over again. Love and relief flooded my body as I arched my back, and I finally said it once more.

“I love you Maddy, I love you so much more than her.”

And then we were both coming, her through her tears, and mine in anger, want, and revenge. If she was going to push me she could take it as well. Kelly wanted to pull my strings, but I could pull back. No matter how far she wanted to take it, I could meet her there, and we’d see who gave in first…


(From my forthcoming novel Disgusting, Beautiful, Immoral.)

Always Perfect

“What do you want to do?” she whispered between kisses.

“I want to watch you undress,” I said, sure of my desire for the first time all evening. I set her down and sat on her bed, which was really just a thick mattress on the floor. I hardly noticed the rest of the room as she pulled off her light jacket. She was wearing a tank top and jeans, and her body swayed as if there was music. When she pulled off the her top – with her back to me – I suddenly realized she was naked beneath it. She turned to face me, her hands covering her breasts, and I stared at her with open awe.

The buttons of her jeans went slower, and she walked to me until she was only inches away. She pulled down the zipper and I could see a thin patch of brown hair beneath the denim.

“I fucking love Vassar,” I whispered.

She leaned forward and kissed me as her jeans came off, and when she stood up again she was completely naked in front of me. If I thought she was tiny with clothes on, this was something else. I had a moment of doubt wondering how old she actually was before she was on my lap pulling off my shirt, and I stopped caring about everything.

Kelly and I spent hours in bed that night. We licked, sucked, and fucked each other until the sun came up, and even then we had to tell ourselves that we needed to sleep. Each time one of us bit a little harder or kissed more gently the other was right there. If I held her arms above her head she moaned into my ear, and when she sank her teeth into my inner thigh with one hand wrapped around the base of my cock, I nearly screamed. When I was inside her the world vanished, and even when we waited for me to grow hard once more our bodies felt perfect.

We were far safer than Jane and I had been, and by the time morning came we had a garbage can full of used condoms, a beer bottle full of cigarette butts, and more than a few bruises covering our bodies. In spite of our scratching and pushing though, the sex was incredibly sweet. It was tender, powerful, and slow, and I fell in love over and over again.

When we finally fell asleep it was only after she managed to make me come one last time.

“You do like how tiny I am, don’t you,” she whispered, as she tried to get me hard.

“Of course,” I said, pushing her back and staring at her body.

“Do you want me to be your little girl?” she purred as she threw a leg over mine. Her cunt pressed into my thigh and somehow my cock twitched back awake. “You like that, don’t you? You want to fuck your little girl, I can feel it. How old do you want me to be?”

“I don’t even know how old you are,” I moaned as I rolled on top of her, my cock now hard against her stomach.

“I’ll be anything for you,” she whispered as she rolled our last condom down over me. “I’ll be as little as you like.”

And then I was inside her and she was kissing me. My eyes were open, amazed at the sight of her, and she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into her with everything she had.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, mumbling something else that I couldn’t make out.

“What did you say?” I asked, thrusting faster and harder.

“Fuck your little girl,” she moaned, and seconds later I was coming and so was she, bucking her hips off the ground as I thrust. Her face was against my neck and her breathing so loud it was musical. I kissed her everywhere as my body exploded, and I never wanted anything else ever again. I wanted to stay there, coming inside her, in spite of my utter exhaustion, but most of all I wanted it to always be perfect: sweet, hot, joyous, and easy.


-gny (from my new novel Disgusting, Beautiful, Immoral, which will be done one of these days.)

I’ll Always Be Here

She lay in bed when I walked in, the blankets around her waist and her hair a tangle on the pillow.

“I couldn’t sleep. I kept picturing you with her.”

“I’m home now,” I said, pulling off my tie and hanging my suit up in the closet. It was the most I could offer.

“I don’t like it. You shouldn’t leave me alone. Ever.”

“Should I just stay here in bed with you? For ever and ever?” I climbed naked beneath the covers and wrapped her in my arms. She backed up against me and clenched my fingers in her hand as she pulled me close.

“Yes. For ever and ever. Except when you go make coffee in the morning. Or order food. And maybe shower on occasion. No smelly boys allowed.”

“And what will you do with me all that time?” I asked, my body moving slowly against her. She reached one hand between us and took me firmly in hand, rubbing the head of my cock between her legs. I was barely hard, but she turned just enough to kiss me.

“I’ll make you fuck me. Just like this, with your arms around me as you promise to stay.”

And then I was inside her, and I would have promised anything. She sighed and pushed back against me as we moved slowly in the dark room. I kissed her neck and pulled on her hip bone, needing to be farther inside her than was ever possible.

“I promise,” I whispered, turning her head and kissing her lips once more. “We’ll never leave. We’ll never stop, and we’ll never get out of bed again.”

“And you have to make me come. A lot.”

My hand moved between her legs as she arched her back. Her thighs parted as my fingers found her, even as my other hand moved to her throat. I thrust faster and deeper, pulling her to me in so many ways. Her breath grew ragged and quick, and with each moan she moved closer and closer to the edge.

“When I get to five,” I whispered, letting go of her just long enough for her to catch her breath. “When I get to five you can come for me.”

She bit her lip and clenched around my hand and cock. I whispered the words in her ear, and by the time I reached three she was sobbing as her body shook and trembled. When I finally released her she screamed into the pillow; my privileged ears devoured every sound she made.

“I’ll always be here,” I whispered over and over again. “Always.”