As I fell in love with a butch lesbian’s music this weekend, I feel a little guilty about making this piece about lusting over a cis guy’s guitar playing fingers. Right now, though, I’m on my period and feeling really awful, my fantasies are all about being held while I cry in foetal position… and as that isn’t going to happen, I’m going to write about sex that is spontaneous and fun.
Content note for impact play and smirking dominants.
I watch his fingers while he’s on stage.
Though in truth it’s not a stage so much as a corner of the pub, and I don’t watch his fingers so much as drool over them. His fingers dance over the guitar’s fretboard and skilfully strum its strings, and on top of all that his voice is low and confident. I can imagine one of those clever hands around my throat while two calloused fingers from the other are inside me, thrusting against my a-spot, and he’s growling in my ear in that delicious voice that I’m a dirty little slut and I do not have permission to come yet.
I admit that it’s a very vivid fantasy, and confessing a little of what I’m thinking to my friends means I end up getting kicked off our table when his set ends. They’re right, forcing me to go and talk to me is the only way I’d dare to do so, but I’m blushing scarlet as I approach him. There is something scary and exciting about walking up to a guy who is knicker-slickingly attractive in the hope that he’ll fuck me before the end of the evening.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
He looks me up and down, the corner of his mouth twitches up.
“Did you like my set?”
“I liked your fingers,” I confess, grinning up at him.
“Well that’s a bold statement. There I was hoping you’d actually liked my music.”
Somehow, my cheeks blush an even deeper red. I open my mouth to apologise, but he’s still smirking. He leans forward, and tucking a curl of my hair behind my ear as he does. His breath is hot against my cheek and his voice even better when it’s whispering to me than when he was singing.
“But since we’re being honest, I’ll tell you a secret. I want to turn your arse as red as your cheeks are right now.”
I gasp, my mouth hanging open as I look at him. He holds my chin for a minute, gently, eyes sparkling as he watches my reaction.
“I think…” I stammer as I try to find the words to reply to that. “I think I’d be ok with that.”
He pauses for another moment, the pulls away.
I do my best to remember how to breathe. He waits, clearly amused.
“So do you want a drink?”
“I’d rather find out what you were fantasising about my fingers doing,” he tells me, and I start in surprise. “Oh, so there was something. Excellent. You got somewhere I can break you down and make you even more beautiful than you are right now?
He slips the strap over his head so his guitar rests on his back and picks up its battered case. He offers me his other hand, and I quirk an eyebrow at him as I hop down off the stool.
“If you carry your guitar on your back, what’s in the case?”
He grins, and it’s arrogant and playful all at once, and somehow I end up smiling back.
“Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
Half an hour later, we’ve made it to my flat and I’m bent over the arm of my sofa.
“Fuck, that hurts.”
“That’s kind of the point. And you’re the one who said you’d be able to stay still and take it for me. Want to try and make it through all six strokes without moving, or do you forfeit?”
“Never. Do your worst.”
“You’ll regret saying that,” he says, and I do a second later when he hits me again. It feels like he can get me in exactly the same place every time, and I wonder how much practice it’s taken him to be able to wield the cane with such precision. It stings, and I wiggle to try and dissipate the pain.
“Bad girl,” he scolds, tapping the cane lightly against my arse, and then laying down three burning strokes in quick succession. Somehow, I manage to keep still, braced against the sofa with my legs spread for him.
“Three more,” he confirms. “If you want to see what else is in my case, that is. I’m quite happy to fuck you right now: you look very fuckable from this position.”
“No. Hurt me, you pervert, and then show me what else you carry around to fuck people up with.”
He hits me again.
“It is useful to have all my tools to hand. You never know when you’re going to meet a little slut who drips for you to hurt her.”
With no warning, he slips two fingers inside me. My cunt, which I suddenly realise is wet and hungry for him, welcomes them greedily. I moan loudly.
“See, I think you like it.”
His fingers brush against my a-spot, and I moan again.
“Fine, I like it. But when you’ve finished with this evil cane, I have another deal for you. All that guitar playing makes your fingers all calloused, right? Do you think you could spank me with them?”
He grins, and when the caning is finished he does spank me. And when my arse is as read as my cheeks were earlier, he fucks me with those fingers. Those gorgeous, calloused fingers, which later still tangle in my hair while he fucks my throat.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.