I emphasize. “Not into the slapping. While we’re at it, I’m also not into either of us drawing blood, head-butting or any phrase that starts with donkey—just not my thing.”
“Well, you’ve got to give me a little more than some light spanking and handcuffs,” she says, her voice most of the way back to what it was when she uttered those memorable words: “Shut up, bitch!”
“This isn’t your first time with any of this, is it?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “Most guys like to hear that sort of thing,” she says.
“Isn’t it funny the things we say to each other, never really knowing if it’s what the other person wants or not?”
“I know, right?” she smiles.
I feel like the term emotional roller coaster is too slow a metaphor to capture this particular moment.
“Okay,” she says. “How do you feel about adding someone else? If you’re going to veto the fun stuff, we could at least switch gears.”
I lightly clap my hands together. “Okay,” I tell her. “That’s something we might be able to—”
“Yeah,” she interrupts. “I have a friend who’s a dom—”
“You know, maybe we should figure this out between the two of us before we bring a third party into the equation?”
“Okay,” she says, and shrugs.
About a minute goes by in awkward silence with me sitting with my pants on but undone, her still naked beside me.
“I know!” she shouts, clapping her hands hard in triumph.
A few minutes later, we’re on top of her roof, she’s up on the ledge, leaning back, and my arms are wrapped around her lower back, just trying to figure out a way to get through this without her falling.
Don’t misunderstand; I’m definitely feeling the draw.
Her hands go above her head and she leans back even farther. I have to move my grip from around her back to around her legs, but she’s quick to pull them together and rest them on my shoulder.
She’s not quiet, but that only adds to the thrill of the moment as I enter her, the sound of our skin hyphenating every movement as she falls again and again onto my hard, throbbing cock.
“This is fucking great!” she calls into the night, and I can’t help but agree with her.
I tighten my grip around her thighs as her legs begin to quiver in my arms, and as she erupts into screaming orgasm, I’m checking the windows of the building across the street to see if anyone’s filming this.
We’re in public, so it’s not really an invasion of privacy.
Really, I’d just like a copy for myself.
No luck, though. There are plenty of people nudging their friends and pointing, but not one of them is holding a camera.
Lame.
I’m not much of an exhibitionist, but it is a bit of a rush being on display like this, bringing this gorgeous woman to orgasm on the very edge of the building.
As her contracting muscles relax again, I reach up and put a hand on her shoulder.
She gets the idea and grabs my arm with one hand and pulls herself up. Without a word, she hops down from the ledge and turns around, placing her stomach over the towel we set on the ledge—which, by the way, only made keeping her from slipping that much harder—her breasts hanging just over the side of the building.
A few drapes have shut in the building across the street, but even more have opened.
That’s one thing about New York: almost everyone’s a voyeur.
I run one hand down her back, while with the other, I reach around her front and write the alphabet in cursive, print, and at one point, I’m pretty sure, Cyrillic over her clit with the pad of my middle finger.