This Is What I Want

* * * This is what I want. Far away there is the sound of machinery. A mower, or a tractor. But inside the barn the only sound I hear is the rustle of the hay as you thrust the pitchfork into the pile, the sweet, soft chirp of nesting birds high in the rafters, the quiet snuffle of the horses pawing at the earth with sharp hooves. The occasional hitch of your breath as you work. I watch you from the doorway. I don’t want you to turn around yet. I like to watch the easy way you move. How strong you are. My eyes follow the bunch and curve of your muscles as you work.

You wear low-slung denim, low on the hips I want to bite. Worn work gloves protect the hands that have moved so often over my body and brought me such pleasure. You grunt, teeth caught for a moment in your lower lip as you concentrate on your task. You haven’t seen me, and that’s alright. For now.

Dust dances in the shafts of sunlight, golden, buttery, that have found their way through cracks and crevices in the walls. The barn is old, made of stone quarried a hundred years before you were born. A hundred and almost thirty before we ever met.

Yet here we are, inside it, in the buttery sunlight. A horse neighs from a stall far down the aisle and you turn. You smile. You straighten, bare-chested and gleaming. I could reach forward and pluck the stray piece of straw clinging to the rim of your collarbone, but I leave it for now. For now, I don’t touch you. You say my name and the pleasure in your voice is so rich I feel as though I can reach out to touch it. You’re glad to see me; I want you to be glad to see me. You lean on the pitchfork to stare, and I can guess what you see. My dress is white, sheer, with thin straps of lace that will tear when you tug them. If I let you tug them. I haven’t yet decided. You don’t ask me what I’m doing here, which would be a foolish question, indeed. You already know. You knew the moment you turned and saw me standing in the doorway, when your eyes caught the shape of my body, outlined beneath the white eyelet. When your gaze traced the curve of my hip, the place your hand fits so perfectly. You knew.

The barn is silent but for the soft, sweet chirping of nested birds and the far off drone of the tractor, for the occasional stomp of a hoof… and now, for your breath as it catches in your throat and trips on the dual syllables of my name. There is a room in the back, fragrant with the scent of leather and horses. Momentarily blinded, I blink against the shadows. I don’t need to see you to know where you are.

Inches apart we face one another. Now is the time for me to reach for single, lonely piece of straw stuck to your skin with the sweat of honest work, and I let my fingers skim up your side, over your belly. The straw bends between my fingers when I pull it off you, and it’s dropped, forgotten, to the floor.

I like the smell of you. Sweat and effort. It reminds me of how you smell when I’m done fucking you, when you can’t stand, when you can only lay like a broken doll on the twisted sheets. When I’ve used you up and worn you out, that’s how I like to smell you.

“Put your hands on the wall.”

You hesitate, of course, not expecting this. The jingle of metal is like a melody to my ears as you press your palms flat to the wall between the hanging bits and bridles. You could have fisted your hands against the wood, but you spread your fingers wide. Your shoulders, those broad, muscled shoulders, hunch, just a little.

Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?

I won’t, love. Not too much. I just want to see you this way, giving me what I want without asking me why I want it. I am unaccountably pleased at how you move, at once, to obey my request. And it is a request, because I don’t want it to be an order.

You must want this as much as I, else the point is lost. I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. You’re bigger than I am. Stronger. I know because you’ve pinned my hands above my head, bruised my flesh and soothed the hurts with kisses and the flat of your tongue, though in truth I didn’t mind the blossoms that served so well to remind me of how it felt to have you holding me down so tightly.

You wait for me to speak, and I hear the sound of your breath again as you shoulders rise and fall.

“Spread your legs. Wider.”

Impatient, I nudge them apart with my foot, though my slipper-clad toes are no match for your thick leather boots. Boots made for work. Your legs move easily enough, though.

Your head dips, emphasizing the way your shoulder blades protrude. For a moment I imagine you as an angel shorn of your wings. An angel in dirty denim. You are an angel to me.

Behind you, my hands find a place on each side of your belt. I hook my fingers in and pull your hips back until my crotch bumps your ass. I love the sound you make. Mingled surprise and arousal. I picture your eyes closing, those straight white teeth tugging the softness of your lower lip again.

If I were a man I could fuck you. I could fill you with my cock, make you groan, reach to stroke your erection in my fist while I moved in and out of your body until we both came. But I’m not a man, I don’t have a cock to fuck you with, and I have to be satisfied with running my hands down your hips and around the front of your thighs.

You groan again when my hands find the front of your belt and undo the buckle. When I unzip you. When I ease the worn denim and the blue cotton of your boxer briefs over your thighs and down past your knees, my cheek presses the hot, damp flesh of your back, and I feel the muscles there quiver.

Yet you make no attempt to turn or move your hands from their place on the wall, and this makes me smile. I pull my dress to my waist. I’m bare beneath. I have to go on tiptoe to reach press my bush against your ass, but a hand thrust between your thighs moves them apart just enough to bring our bodies together. My fingers dig deep into your hips at the places I want to put my teeth, but later. Later, for that. Now I rub myself against your ass, your back, your thighs. I rub your belly with the flat of my hand and pretend to ignore the tap of your cock on the back of it. When you push your hips forward I dig my nails deeper. The groan you make is mingled pleasure and pain, and my clit pulses at the sound of it. Metal jingles again and leather swings as you lean forward. For a moment I think about putting you in a harness, a bridle. Leather criss-crossing your lean body, straps molding to the curve of your head. I could hook you to a carriage and make you pull me. I could snap the thin whip of braided leather against your thighs and ass to make you run faster. I laugh when I tell you this, but your head turns and the look in your eye is not of pleasurable contemplation but alarm. Yet your cock taps again on the back of my hand, pressed flat to your rising and falling stomach, and your hips jerk, just a little.

“Would you like that?” I whisper. I can’t reach your ear. You’re too tall. But I have no doubt you hear me.

“Do you… want me to like that?”

It’s in me to say yes, that I would like to hook you to a carriage and make you my pony, but I know it’s really not. I don’t say so. I let my hand tell you what I really want. I cup your balls. I stroke your cock. I say nothing until you shudder and groan and duck your head again, and I know that you’ll do whatever I want… which is what I want, anyway.

“I want to fuck you.” It’s not the first time I’ve said it, and I doubt it will be the last.

I stroke harder and you push into my fist the way you’ll soon push into my cunt. I’m still behind you. I’m still rubbing myself against you, now and again. My breasts feel heavy. My cunt aches. I want you so much it’s like burning. I slip into the small space between you and the wall. My arms go around your neck. I use the pressure of the wall behind my back to climb you like a tree. My legs go around your waist. My dress bunches around my hips. Your cock, trapped between us, rubs my cunt. My clit. Delicious, but it’s not enough. I want you inside me.

“Fuck me,” I say, and you’re only too happy to oblige. With one hand still flat against the wall, you use the other to slide beneath my ass. I’ve got my arms around your neck, my legs wrapped around you, your prick so deep inside me I feel it in my belly. And you move, not bothering to start slow. You fuck me so hard we rattle the bridles and bits, we shake the wall. We shake the fucking mountains.

I watch your eyes flutter. It’s the look you get just before you come, and I come too. Hard. Like splintering. I kiss you when I come, your mouth beneath mine sweet and open, and I steal your breath.

I swallow your shout. You thrust again. Your body quakes and shudders; so does mine. We come together with small, sharp cries that drown out the far away sound of the tractor and the soft, sweet chirpings of nested birds.