Chapter 3: Sasha Takes Control
The city’s glow painted her skin in streaks of neon blue and sulfur yellow through the slats of the blinds. Our breathing had just evened out, the sweat cooling on our bodies. My arm was going numb under her weight, but I didn’t dare move.
Her fingers traced idle patterns on my chest. “You’re quiet.”
“Just processing,” I said, and it was the truth. My mind was a quiet, humming blank. All the noise—the office politics, the quarterly projections, the anxious static of my own life—was gone. There was only the weight of her, the scent of us, the profound, quiet shock of what had just happened.
She shifted, propping herself up on an elbow to look down at me. Her hair fell in a dark curtain, brushing my shoulder. In the half-light, her expression was unreadable. “Regret is a cold bitch. She usually talks by now.”
“No regret,” I said, and meant it. I brought my hand up, pushing her hair back behind her ear. “Awe, maybe.”
A ghost of her old smile touched her lips. “Awe.” She tested the word. “I can work with awe.”
But there was a new energy coiling in her now. The vulnerability of her confession was gone, burned away in the heat of our first coupling. What was left was something more assertive, a reclamation of the power she’d momentarily surrendered. She slid her leg over my hips, straddling me again. I was soft, spent, but beneath her warmth I could feel a slow, answering stir.
“You said you wanted all of me,” she stated, her voice dropping to a low, smoky register. It wasn’t a question.
“I did.”
“Prove it.”
In one fluid motion, she pushed me flat against the pillows and moved up my body. She didn’t kiss my mouth. She settled her weight over my face, her knees framing my head. The view was dark, intimate, the musk of sex and her own unique scent filling my senses. She was still wet, slick from my earlier thrusts and her own release. “Eat me,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for gentle request. “Tongue my ass. I want to feel you there.”
The crude instruction sent a jolt through me. It was a territory uncharted, a demand that bypassed every polite script I knew. And I wanted to obey. I gripped her thighs, pulling her down onto my mouth. I found her, not where I’d been inside her before, but lower, the tight, furled knot of her asshole. I licked a broad, flat stroke through her slickness, tasting us both.
She shuddered. “Yes. Just like that.”
I dedicated myself to the task. I licked and probed, using my tongue to circle and press. The sounds she made were low, guttural, approving. Her hands fisted in my hair, not guiding, just holding. She began to move, rocking her hips, grinding herself against my mouth. Her own hand was between her legs, out of my sight, but I could hear the wet slide of her fingers on her cock.
“Deeper,” she gasped. “Get your tongue inside me, you fucking good boy.”
The praise, filthy and specific, ignited me. I pressed harder, my jaw aching, my tongue spearing as deep as I could manage. She was tightening around the intrusion, her whole body coiling like a spring. Her moans became ragged, broken things.
“I’m close… so close…”
Suddenly, she shoved off me. Before I could react, she’d pivoted, swinging a leg over so she was crouching over my head again, but facing my feet. Her hard, flushed cock bobbed inches from my mouth. She was gleaming with saliva and lube. Her eyes, looking back over her shoulder, were wild.
“Open,” she snarled.
I did. She grabbed the base of her shaft and guided herself past my lips. There was no tenderness, no slow acclimation. She fed herself into my mouth, pushing until the head nudged the back of my throat. I gagged, my eyes watering.
“Relax,” she ordered, her voice strained. She began to fuck my face in earnest, short, brutal strokes that stole my breath. I surrendered to it, letting my jaw go slack, focusing on the salty-bitter taste of her, the feel of her skin straining under my hands where I gripped her hips. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room. She was muttering, a stream of filth and praise. “Take it… yeah, that’s it… such a good fucking mouth… you love this, don’t you? Love my cock in your throat…”
I did. The sheer debasement of it, the complete surrender of control, was a drug. My own cock, ignored, was painfully hard again, leaking onto my stomach. Her rhythm grew frantic, her thrusts losing coordination. A guttural, raw sound ripped from her chest, part sob, part roar. Her body locked, and she pulsed into my throat, hot and insistent. I swallowed what I could, choking on the rest.
She collapsed off me, rolling onto her side, her back heaving. I coughed, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, tasting her on my skin. For a moment, there was only the sound of our wrecked breathing.
Then she turned. Her face was slick with sweat, her gaze feral and satisfied. “Now,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I want you inside me again. From behind. Now.”
We moved like animals. She got on her hands and knees, the elegant arch of her back a devastating curve in the dim light. I scrambled behind her, my hands shaking as I fumbled with another condom from her drawer. She was impatient, reaching back to guide me, her fingers slick with her own spend. She positioned me at her entrance—the same tight, hot channel as before—and pushed back, taking me in one slow, relentless slide.
“Fuck,” I groaned, my head falling forward between her shoulder blades. She was impossibly tight, clenching around me in rhythmic aftershocks.
“Don’t just sit there,” she hissed, pushing back against me. “Fuck me. Hard. Own it.”
I obeyed. I planted my hands on her hips and drove into her, setting a punishing pace. The slapping of skin was louder now, visceral. The bed rocked against the wall. I watched myself disappear into her, over and over, the sight obliterating every last coherent thought. She met every thrust, shoving back against me, her demands a filthy mantra.
“Yeah! Just like that! Give it to me! You feel so fucking big… claim it… claim this ass, Ethan, it’s yours…”
Her words unlocked something primal in me. My possessiveness, a feeling I’d never entertained with anyone else, surged up, dark and sharp. I leaned over her, one arm wrapping around her torso to pinch and twist her nipple, the other hand finding her cock, stroking her in a rough, hurried rhythm. She was hard again, or still, a fact that thrilled me.
“It is mine,” I growled into her ear, my thrusts becoming ragged, losing all rhythm as my own climax tore through me. “This is mine.” My release was a white-hot seizure, my body pumping into her as I buried my face in her sweat-damp hair.
We collapsed in a heap, a tangle of spent limbs. The room stank of sex and sweat and salt. The neon signs outside continued their silent, indifferent pulse.
A long time passed. The sweat dried. Our heartbeats slowed.
Finally, she stirred. “Shower,” she mumbled. “We’re disgusting.”
We helped each other up, moving stiffly. In the harsh, clean light of her bathroom, we were different people—stripped bare, marked, real. I saw the faint scars on her chest and hips, silver lines against olive skin. She saw the red scratches her nails had left on my back. We didn’t hide. We just stood under the scalding water, washing each other with a quiet, focused tenderness that felt more intimate than anything that had come before.
Later, wrapped in her robes, we stood in her kitchen. She made coffee, the mundane ritual a grounding anchor. The first gray light of dawn was creeping around the edges of her velvet curtains.
She handed me a chipped, heavy mug. Our eyes met over the steam.
“So,” she said, a faint, real smile touching her lips. “Monday. The office.”
“The office,” I echoed. The thought of the fluorescent lights, the gossip, the bullshit meetings, felt like a distant, absurd dream.
“They can’t know,” she said, not looking at me. “No one can. It’s not their business.”
“I know.” I reached out, my fingers brushing hers on the cool granite countertop. “This stays here. This is ours.”
She nodded, sipping her coffee. But a new tension had entered the space between us, cold and practical. The sanctuary of her apartment had boundaries. Outside was a world with rules, with dangers, with expectations that could shatter what we’d just built. The vulnerability was back in her eyes, not about her body anymore, but about us. About what came next.
I knew then that the falling was over. Now came the landing. And I had no idea what the ground would feel like.