This afternoon it’s my great pleasure to introduce a fab new guest story by Quinn Rhodes, one of my most precocious (and yes, by that I do mean ‘young, hot, smart, and talented’) sex blogger friends.
Pretty much anything Quinn writes is worth reading, and this smutty tale of verbal sparring – and the filthy fun that follows – is no exception. If you enjoy it, do go follow her on Twitter and check out all her awesome content over at ‘On Queer Street‘!
“EA asked me if I wanted to write a guest post for him a long time ago, and I imagine part of why it’s taken me so long to send him something is because I’m often in awe of his writing and wanted to try and create something worthy of being posted alongside his work. I’m still not sure I’ve done this, but I hope he – and you, dear reader – enjoy this smut.”
Can You Win At Sex?
Quick note: the characters in this story are all above the age of the consent, though I’ve been intentionally vague about their exact ages to allow you to interpret them as you wish. What I hope I have managed to capture, however, is the eagerness these characters have for each other, and their enthusiasm to fuck as much as physically possible.
It started, maybe as the best fucks do, over drinks in the pub. And, because it’s her, it starts with a challenge.
She’s sitting opposite you at the table and she’s smirking at you – secure for the moment that she’s made a good argument for her case. Her words are sarcastic and sharp as she spars with you, challenging you to keep up. You roll your eyes and retort with a biting counterpoint, biting back your own grin. The argument might be teasing, and her eyes might be playful, but you know she’ll take the piss out of you if you stumble over your words and lose the thread of what you’re saying because you get distracted by something.
Something like the fact it’s a warm summer evening, and she’s only wearing a sturdy sports bra under dungarees. Everything is covered, but that only seems to draw attention to the gaps, patches of bare skin, and the fact that the loose front to the dungarees would allow someone to finger her without the need to remove a single article of clothing.
It’s not the first time that the two of you have got enraptured in such a debate – to the extent that your peers have largely tuned out your playful argument, some dismissing it as flirting for a relationship that they think you’re doing a terrible job of hiding. She has a way of capturing your attention that makes you nearly forget you’re surrounded by others, also celebrating their teams’ victories,
Except you haven’t actually fucked her yet – apart from in the ridiculous, twisted way that sparring with her like these, verbal barbs traded with grins and washed down with alcohol, feels like fucking. The cliché of having met your match is an old one, but there is something about being challenged at every turn that turns you on, just a little bit. Just enough.
You’ve had your ass handed to you, though not as literally as you might like, a number of times – and she’d be the first to say that you often give as good as you get. Teasing her is fun: that’s why tonight you caught her eyes across the table as you made some support about field hockey requiring far greater stamina and skill than any other sport. Not words you fully believed, but words that are fun to say, especially when you can watch her face light up and her eyes narrow as she contemplates her response while a flurry of mock outrage at your statement goes up around you.
When she does reply, her grin is full of mischief and her cheeks are flushed. The debate that follows is full of scorn and laughter, and by the time you’ve offered to buy her a drink – because she’s been talking so fast and is animated in a way you’re not sure you should find arousing, and you feel like you owe her a drink at least – the argument has simplified slightly. Not just which sport is harder and requires more strength, but which of you is stronger, faster, fitter. With confidence bordering on arrogance, you both argue that you have better endurance, that you have greater stamina, that you could push yourself further.
It was technically you who set the challenge because the smug grin on her face – conveying how she didn’t think that you could match her physically in the way you can verbally – was infuriating. You sealed your own fate in three small words:
“Prove it then.”
You expect the challenge to be forgotten, chalked up to a night of bravado in the pub and never spoken of again. You don’t expect your phone to ping that afternoon, and to pick it up finding a message from her asking if you want to go running with her that evening. Reading the last line of her text made your cock twitch.
Of course, I understand if you want to back out and acknowledge my superior strength and stamina now, to save me rubbing your face in it later.
You have to admit that the sentence, innocent as she probably intended it to be, summons pictures of her rubbing your face in something entirely different.
You’re on edge when you meet her later, and even her teasing smile and friendly greeting – as though this was any other day and any other training session – doesn’t help you relax. Running, however, does. This is something you know how to do, and muscle memory takes over as you begin to warm up. You simply nod when she suggests a certain route, following her lead as she sets off. Part of you is relieved that you don’t struggle to keep up; more of you is focussed on your breathing and the adrenaline that pumps through you as you run beside her.
You taunt each other a little as you run but are both too serious about what you’re doing to let anything distract you from the steady pounding of your feet. When she bets you that she can make it to the top before you, you accept that challenge with a single-minded determination to win. She beats you by a clear twenty seconds and blows you a kiss before flopping down on the grass to watch you run the last fifty metres. It’s another gloriously warm summer evening, and as you lie next to her, panting, you are glad that her breath is uneven too, that she clearly pushed herself in that last sprint.
Sweaty, with the exhilaration from the run fading away, you … She has rolled on to her side and is cupping your cock through your shorts. Your cock that is very quickly becoming hard.
“What –” you shake your head and try again: coherent thought is a challenge, especially now she’s rubbing your dick through your shorts. “What are you doing?
“I won, didn’t I? I think I am allowed to make sure you really remember, next time you challenge me, how fit I really am. Enough so that I can blow you now, while you’re lying there helpless and sweaty and completely delicious. You threw down a challenge and I won, so this – fucking you with my mouth like this – is my reward.”
There’s not much you can say to that, and you let her tug your shorts and boxers down so your now fully-hard cock bobs out and wrap her lips around it. The reality of her sucking you off was a hundred times better than any fantasy of it was, especially combined with the warm breeze cooling the sweat on your skin and the confidence and control with which she straddles you. And only minutes later, when she looks up at you, making sure you’re watching as she deliberately swallows your come and licks her lips, you’re ready to admit defeat right there and then. She, as ever, surprises you.
“Rematch?”
Neither of you are sprinters – both of you favour endurance running and stamina sports – so of course it wouldn’t be fair to declare a winner after just one round. And you are evenly matched in many ways, though you occasionally feel like your natural speed and strength will ultimately be outweighed by hers, which is the hard-won reward of years of pushing herself. That’s why you have so much fun with her: she pushes you and responds with delight and enthusiasm when you do the same to her.
As much delight and enthusiasm, in fact, as she has for straining to look up at you, eyes sometimes watering with the effort, while your dick is in her mouth. Her blow jobs are wet and messy and enthusiastic, and it doesn’t take her long to learn exactly how to play with the head of your cock with her tongue in a way that brought me dangerously close to begging.
“Come on, is that all you’ve got? I thought you said you’d make this hard for me.”
It’s competition and companionship, with each of you spurring the other on to push themselves harder. You ask her how many push ups she can do in five minutes and beat her total easily, grinning as you claim triumph for today. But, because it’s her, even when you beat her she wins. She joins you in the men’s locker room with a bag that apparently holds lube and a butt plug as well as her rugby kit, and somehow you end up spreading yourself for her while she fingers your ass.
You end up still plugged in the pub that night, doing your best not to squirm because while everyone knows about your affectionate rivalry no one knows that the competition has extended to the filthy sex you’re having with increasing frequency. As she winks at you from across the table, enjoying your blushes, you’re already plotting how to get your own back. Stamina can be measured while fucking, in how many times you can make her come and how quickly you can make her beg for more.
She slips a hand down your shorts before you run together, playing with your cock just enough to leave you half-hard and far too horny to concentrate on keeping up with her. You accuse her of cheating, she offers to let you even the playing field. You send her to an endurance training session with a vibrator strapped to her cunt, the remote in your pocket as you sit nearby and watch her try to do jumping jacks and sit-ups and sprints while you torture her clit. She remembers, and you end up playing the first hockey match of the season with a different, and much bigger, butt plug in your ass.
Later she puts a cock-ring around your dick and fucks you with the butt plug until you come – and when you roll onto your back and ask if she’s going to take the cock ring off she only smirks and sits on your still-hard dick. She kisses you that night, not for the first time, but that night you return it with fierceness and tenderness in equal parts and feel her melt into your arms.
Not only can she push you physically, but she can match you word for word and fuck for fuck. She can throw down a challenge and twist it in such a way that you both end up winning. You’re ok with that, especially considering how often ‘winning’ involves coming all over her arse.