Chapter 8: The Confession of Fantasies
A slow, dangerous smile spread across Matt’s face. The tenderness from moments before dissolved, replaced by a predatory focus that made Dasha’s heart hammer against her ribs. He moved with a sudden, fluid strength, rolling her onto her back and pinning her wrists to the pillow above her head. His weight settled over her, a delicious, inescapable pressure.
“You want the rest?” His voice was a low rumble against her ear. “The one where I stopped being polite?”
She nodded, her throat too dry to speak.
“I imagined you here,” he said, his gaze sweeping the cabin bedroom. “In my actual bed in New York. I’d have silk ties. I’d knot them around these pretty wrists,” he tightened his grip for emphasis, “and loop them around the headboard. Tight. A blindfold over those clever eyes so you couldn’t see a goddamn thing. Just feel.” He dipped his head, nipping at her jawline. “I’d start with your mouth. Just use it. Fuck that sweet throat until you gagged and cried, until your lips were raw. I’d pull out and come all over your face, your tongue hanging out, desperate for air. Then I’d make you clean my cock with your mouth, tasting yourself and me mixed together.”
Dasha arched beneath him, a moan escaping her. The image was obscene, dehumanizing, and it set every nerve alight.
“Then,” he continued, his lips brushing her temple, “I’d untie your legs, spread you wide, and get my mouth on your cunt. But not to make you come. To get you wet enough so I could slide right into that perfect ass. I’d take my time opening you up, listening to you beg, not knowing if I was going to fuck you or just tease you. The blindfold would be soaked with your tears.”
He released one of her wrists, his hand sliding down her body, over her ribcage, her hip, to grip the flesh of her thigh. His fingers dug in. “That’s what I thought about when you’d laugh at one of my jokes. When you’d bring me soup when I was sick. I thought about reducing you to a shaking, sobbing, used-up mess in my sheets. And I hated myself for it. And I came harder than I ever had in my life.”
The confession hung between them, ugly and electrifying. Dasha twisted her free hand into his hair, pulling his face to hers. Her own fear was a distant echo, drowned out by a surge of reckless power. She had her own secrets.
“My turn,” she breathed against his mouth. “You want to know what I thought about? Alone in my apartment after one of our ‘friend’ dinners?”
He went very still above her, his eyes searching hers.
“I’d stand in front of my full-length mirror,” she said, the words tumbling out in a hushed, fervent stream. “I’d imagine you coming up behind me, your hands on my hips, turning me to face it. You’d hike my skirt up, no panties, and just push inside me from behind. I’d have to watch. Watch your hands grab my tits, pinch my nipples until I gasped. Watch your face, all focused and mean, over my shoulder. Watch your cock disappear into me, see how wet I was for you, how I took every inch.” She dragged his head down so her lips were against his ear. “And I imagined your hand sliding up from my tit, wrapping around my throat from behind, squeezing just enough so I could feel it while I watched my own eyes go dark with it. So I could see myself being fucked and owned in my own mirror.”
A ragged groan tore from Matt’s chest. The last vestige of his control shattered. He rolled off her, his movement a blur of intention. Before she could process it, he had flipped her onto her stomach, dragging her hips up until she was on her knees, her upper body pressed into the quilt. The posture was submissive, vulnerable, and she felt a fresh flood of arousal soak her thighs.
He didn’t enter her. He didn’t touch her pussy.
Instead, his big hands spread her ass cheeks apart, exposing her completely. The cool air hit the most private part of her, and she flinched.
“Look at that,” he muttered, his voice thick with awe and filth. “Look at this pretty little hole. All pink and tight. You thought about this? While you were editing manuscripts and picking out wine?”
Before she could answer, he leaned in.
The first touch of his tongue there was a lightning strike of sensation—shocking, intimate, profoundly taboo. It was a flat, wet lick from her perineum all the way up. She cried out, her fists clenching in the quilt.
“Matt—”
“Shut up,” he growled, and did it again. This time his tongue pressed insistently against the tight furl of muscle, circling it, lapping at it like she was something to be devoured. The obscene wet sounds filled the quiet room. He spat, the fluid landing directly on her asshole, and she whimpered as he used his thumb to smear it, working it in tiny, dizzying circles.
“You’re gonna take my tongue here,” he said, his breath hot against her skin. “You’re gonna take it, and you’re gonna fucking love it.”
He dove back in, his assault relentless. He ate her ass with a singular, focused gluttony. His tongue stabbed and licked and probed, a crude, thorough penetration that had her shaking, her toes curling. The stimulation was indirect, a wild, reverberating pleasure that amplified the aching emptiness between her legs. Each slick thrust of his tongue made her cunt pulse helplessly.
“Please,” she sobbed, not sure what she was begging for. “Please, please…”
He added a finger, his thumb still working her asshole as his index finger slid effortlessly into her dripping pussy from behind. The dual sensation, his mouth on one hole, his finger fucking the other, unspooled her completely. She was babbling, a stream of incoherent curses and pleas, pushing back against his face, against his hand.
He suckled at her flesh, his free hand snaking around her hip to find her clit. He rubbed rough, rapid circles there, a third point of overwhelming contact. The coil snapped.
Her orgasm was a silent, stunning convulsion at first, a seizure of pure sensation that locked her muscles and stole her voice. Then the sound broke free—a long, shattered scream that scraped her throat raw. She clamped around his finger, her body bowing, as wave after wave of brutal pleasure tore through her.
Only when the last tremor subsided did he pull back. He rested his forehead against the small of her back, his breathing harsh. He kissed the skin there, a surprisingly tender gesture on the place he’d just defiled with his mouth.
Slowly, he turned her over. She was limp, pliant, her eyes unfocused. He gathered her into his arms, pulling the quilt over their cooled skin. The cabin was silent except for the crackle of the dying fire in the hearth and their gradually slowing breaths.
He didn’t speak. He just held her, his chin resting on top of her head, his heartbeat a steady drum against her cheek. The ghosts of their darkest thoughts, now given breath and flesh, seemed to hover in the shadows before slowly dissipating. There were no more secrets here. No more fantasies waiting in the wings.
There was only this exhaustion, this profound, unsettling peace, and the terrifying, exhilarating truth of what they had just revealed to each other. The future, whatever it was, began now, in the wreckage of their former friendship, under a blanket that smelled of sex, sage, and them.
The future, whatever it was, began now, in the wreckage of their former friendship, under a blanket that smelled of sex, sage, and them. His hand stroked her hair in a slow, absent rhythm. The violence of their shared confessions lingered in the air, a palpable charge that had shifted something forever. Dasha listened to the strong, steady beat of his heart, her mind clearer than it had been in a year.
“Matt.”
“Hmm?”
She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at him. The lamplight caught the stubble on his jaw, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked back, his expression open, waiting. She traced the contour of his bottom lip with her thumb.
“I’ve never done that,” she said, her voice quiet but clear. “Anal. Not with anyone.”
His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move. He just listened.
“What you just did with your mouth,” she continued, holding his gaze. “After that… I want to try it. With you. I want you to fuck me there.” She saw the leap of heat in his face, the quick clench of his jaw. “But before you do,” she said, shifting her weight to straddle his hips, the quilt falling away, “I want to suck you. I want to lick your balls until you shake. I want to put my tongue in your ass, if you’ll let me. I want to taste you everywhere, the way you just tasted me.”
A stunned, breathless silence followed her words. It wasn’t a submission. It was a claim. Matt’s hands came up to grip her waist, his thumbs digging into her hip bones. “Christ, Dasha.”
“Do you want that?” she asked, leaning down so her chestnut hair brushed his chest. “Or was the fantasy just about you taking?”
His answer was a raw, guttural sound. He surged up, crushing his mouth to hers in a kiss that was all teeth and desperate gratitude. “Yes,” he rasped against her lips. “Fuck, yes, I want it. But you lead. However you want me.”
She kissed him again, softer this time, then pushed him back down against the pillows. She moved down his body with a deliberate slowness that felt like torture. She kissed the hollow of his throat, the defined planes of his pectorals, the ripple of his abdomen. She nipped at the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel.
He was already fully hard again, his cock lying thick and flushed against his stomach. She didn’t touch it yet. She nuzzled the coarse hair at the base, breathing him in—musky, salty, purely male. She turned her head and licked a long, slow stripe from the root of his shaft down to his scrotum.
He jerked, a hissed “fuck” escaping him.
She took his balls, one then the other, into her mouth, sucking gently, rolling the weight of them with her tongue. She lavished attention there, licking and sucking until his thighs tensed and a low, continuous groan rumbled in his chest. Her own need was a distant throb, secondary to the power of this, of feeling him come apart under her ministrations.
“Your ass,” she murmured, her breath hot against his damp skin. “Turn over.”
For a moment, he simply stared at her, his blue eyes wide with a vulnerability that stripped him bare. Then, wordlessly, he rolled onto his stomach, his arms curling under his head. He was completely exposed to her, the powerful landscape of his back tapering to his waist, the twin curves of his ass. He was trembling.
Dasha ran her hands over the muscles of his back, soothing him. She kneeled between his legs, spreading him. She saw the tight, clenched muscle, so similar to her own. She leaned down and, without hesitation, pressed her tongue flat against him.
His whole body shuddered. A broken, muffled cry was smothered by the pillow.
She explored him with the same thorough, crude intimacy he had shown her. She licked, she probed, she spit and used her thumb to slick and loosen the tense ring. She pushed her tongue inside, just a little, feeling him yield. The taste was clean, musky, profoundly intimate. His hips pushed back minutely against her face, a silent, pleading demand for more.
“You like that,” she whispered, not a question. She inserted the tip of her finger alongside her tongue, a slow, relentless pressure. He was tight, impossibly so, but she worked him open with a patient, filthy dedication, her mouth busy on his perineum, her finger sinking deeper by millimeters. His sounds were animal, ragged, lost.
When she finally pulled back, he was panting. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Now,” she said, her voice husky. “I want you in my mouth.”
He turned over, his face wrecked with pleasure. His cock stood rigid, slick at the tip. She didn’t make him wait. She took him deep, swallowing him to the root in one smooth motion, her nose buried in the thatch of dark hair. She gagged, relaxed, and began to move.
She set a ruthless, deep-throating rhythm, one hand working the base of his shaft, the other cupping his balls. She looked up, meeting his dazed, horrified, ecstatic gaze as she took him all the way. Drool slicked her chin. The obscene, wet sounds of her sucking filled the room.
“I’m not gonna last,” he warned, his voice strangled. His hands fisted in the sheets.
She pulled off with a pop. “Then don’t.” She crawled up his body, her cunt sliding against his thigh, leaving a wet smear. She reached for the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand, a practical addition from some prior, unspoken hope. She squeezed a generous amount onto her fingers, warming it.
She coated her fingers thoroughly, the gel slick and cool before she rubbed it between her palms. Looking down at him, she saw the raw trust in his eyes, mingled with a hunger that mirrored her own from earlier. “How do you want me?” she asked, her voice steady.
“Like you said,” he breathed, his hands coming up to rest on her thighs. “From behind. I want to watch in the mirror.”
A shiver of recognition went through her. He was granting her fantasy, morphing it into their shared reality. She nodded and moved off the bed. The full-length mirror on the closet door reflected the room’s intimate chaos—the disheveled quilt, the lamplight, their naked forms. She led him to stand before it.
She turned her back to him, leaning forward slightly, bracing her hands on the cool wooden doorframe. The position arched her spine, presenting herself. In the glass, she watched him approach, his gaze locked on her reflection.
He didn’t enter her. He took the lubricant from her hand. She heard the slick sound as he coated himself. Then his fingers, slippery and warm, found her asshole again. He rubbed slow, firm circles, working the lube into the already-sensitive ring his mouth had softened.
“This is it, Dasha,” he murmured, his eyes on hers in the mirror. “This is that tight little fuckhole you said you wanted me to have.” He pressed the pad of his index finger against her, and she felt the muscle give, allowing the tip to sink in. A sharp, full sensation made her gasp. “Yeah, there you go. Taking my finger so pretty. Think you can take more?”
She pushed back against his hand, her answer physical. He added a second finger alongside the first, the stretch a breathtaking burn that teetered on pain. He scissored them gently, opening her. The lubricant gleamed on her skin. In the mirror, she saw his concentrated face, the tendons in his neck standing out.
“Look,” he commanded, his voice gruff. She forced her eyes open, meeting his reflected gaze. “Watch my fingers disappear in your ass. Watch how fucking dirty it is.” He pushed them deeper, curling them slightly, and a shocking bolt of pleasure radiated outwards, making her cunt ache emptily. “You see that? You see how open you are for me?”
He withdrew his fingers. The cold air touched the slick, stretched place, a brief shock. Then she felt the broad, blunt pressure of his cockhead replacing them. He held it there, not pushing, just letting her feel the insistent promise of it.
“Now,” he said.
He pushed.
The burn was immense, a searing fullness that stole her breath. It wasn’t like his fingers. This was thicker, harder, a claiming invasion that forced a ragged cry from her throat. Her nails dug into the wood. He went slowly, an agonizing, millimeter-by-millimeter conquest, his hands gripping her hips to hold her still.
“Breathe,” he gritted out, his own breath hitching. “Just breathe through it, baby. Let it in.”
She obeyed, sucking in air, and as she relaxed, the pain transformed. It melted into a deep, stretching fullness that bordered on the sublime. He sank the rest of the way home, his pelvis flush against her ass, and they both groaned at the complete, shocking join. He was buried to the hilt in her ass. In the mirror, her eyes were wide, her mouth slack with stunned pleasure.
He began to move. Short, shallow strokes at first, letting her body adjust to the impossible girth. The slick, tight drag was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Each withdrawal felt like a loss, each thrust a rough, perfect reclaiming. He found a rhythm, deeper now, his balls slapping against her wet cunt with every drive forward.
“Fuck,” he choked out, watching himself. “Look at you. Look at how you take it.” His hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, the dual stimulation short-circuiting her thoughts. Pleasure built, a coil of fire in her gut drawn from that forbidden, filled place.
“I’m gonna come,” she warned, the words barely audible.
“Come all over my fingers,” he growled, his thrusts becoming harder, less controlled. “Come while I’m in your ass. Do it.”
The command shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her with a silent, seismic intensity, her internal muscles clamping around his invading length in rhythmic pulses that milked him. The sensation pushed him over the edge.
With a final, brutal drive, he buried himself and shouted, his release hot and pumping deep inside her. She felt every pulse, a visceral marking in the most intimate territory. He collapsed forward, his sweat-slick chest against her back, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. They stayed like that, locked together, breathing in ragged unison, their reflected image a portrait of utter ravishment.
Gradually, he softened and slipped out. A strange, empty ache remained. He turned her gently, his hands cupping her face. He kissed her, slow and deep, a kiss of profound aftermath. Without a word, he led her to the bathroom, started the shower, and washed her with a tender thoroughness that felt like an apology and a benediction all at once.
Back in bed, wrapped in clean sheets and each other, the world outside the cabin felt a lifetime away. He traced the line of her eyebrow. “That mirror,” he said softly. “It was better than the fantasy.”
She nestled closer, her body sore, her mind quiet. “Why?”
“Because I could see your face,” he whispered into her hair. “And you didn’t look owned. You looked found.”
The truth of it settled between them. The night’s explicit transactions—the filthy words, the crude acts—had all been a violent, honest language for something else. She placed her palm over his heart, feeling its steady beat. The fear of loss was still there, a cold stone in her gut, but it was now pressed against something warmer and heavier: the terrifying weight of a love that had stripped itself bare.
Sleep, when it finally came, was deep and dreamless. She woke once to find him awake, watching her in the dark. “Okay?” he murmured.
She nodded, her throat tight. “Okay.”
He pulled her closer, and she drifted off again, knowing everything had changed. The first, pale light of dawn was just starting to bleed around the edges of the curtains when the sound of tires on gravel cut through the silence. Then, a frantic, repetitive pounding shook the cabin’s front door.