This post is part of a series I started writing during Smutathon 2020, where I wanted to push myself a little in my filth writing. I’m not sure I’ve entirely captured what I wanted to in this piece, but I had a lot of fun writing it. I really hope I have all my tenses right in this piece, where a cute, nerdy guy in a cardigan surprises my protagonist with a surprisingly dominant fuck.
“But I knew you
Dancin’ in your Levi’s
Drunk under a streetlight
I knew you
Hand under my sweatshirt”
~ cardigan, ts
My body aches, in the way it only does after a gruelling work-out or an especially vigorous fuck. I’m glad it’s Sunday, because when I try to sit at my desk my arse reminds me – in no uncertain terms – exactly how hard and deep he fucked me last night. I give up on getting any work done and go back to lying on sheets that smell of sweat and sex.
By early afternoon, when my flatmate drops by my room to ask me where I got to last night, I’ve opened my window and I’m stretched out in a patch of sunshine with a paperback. I’m prepared to offer a vague excuse when he spots the dark grey cardigan hanging over the back of my chair.
“That’s not yours, is it?” he starts to grin. “Wait, did you have a girl back here last night?”
I probably blush, even though I’m trying to keep my face neutral. The cardigan had been carefully draped over the chair to dry before we fucked and must has been forgotten when he crept out early in the morning before I was properly awake. Before I could think clearly enough to stop myself asking for his number. Maybe it was a good thing that I had asked, because I’d have to see him again to give him back the cardigan.
Maybe he would fuck me again too. Fuck, I hoped so.
I hadn’t had especially high hopes for the previous evening. Henry had invited me to join some of his mates for a drink, and I hadn’t been able to think of a good reason to my new flatmate. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Henry, or his friends, but last night their joviality rubbed me the wrong way. I wasn’t really in the mood for company, and I didn’t want to pretend to be interested in people I barely knew and wasn’t sure I wanted to.
When I excused myself to get another drink I scanned the pub again, assessing its other patrons. This time the nerdy guy in the corner caught my eye. I’d initially dismissed him: he’d been wearing glasses and jeans with the dark grey cardigan over a white button-down shirt. Cute, sure, but I assumed that he’d be shy and submissive, unable to deliver the hard fuck I was craving after a few hours of my flatmate’s friends.
He’d walked over to join me, looking me up and down deliberately so it was clear that he was checking me out. He’d lent against the bar, pushing up the sleeves of his cardigan to reveal strong wrists and long fingers. Fingers that a few hours later had gripped my hips as his dick slammed into me again and again and he hissed in my ear that I better not make a sound or he wouldn’t let me come.
“Having a good evening?” he’d asked and I grinned ruefully.
“Not really my scene,” I told him. He’d made his interest clear enough so I took a risk: “I’m more in the mood for an anonymous blow job.”
He raised his eyebrow, lip twitching in amusement. “Well it’s not exactly a sordid encounter, but I’m heading to a comedy show when I’ve finished my drink. Would you like to join me?”
His voice was casual, but there was nothing casual about the way he brushed his hand against my dick. It a careful, experienced move that had my breath hitching in my throat. The young guy behind the bar returned at that moment, holding my drink, and while I was still trying to find coherent words my new friend had leaned forward and paid for it.
“I prefer to pay for myself,” I told him, and for the first time I saw a hint of his wolfish grin.
“Are you sure you don’t prefer to do as you’re told?” He let the words hang in the air for a moment before repeating his offer as though he hadn’t said something that made my stomach twist in arousal: “You up for some comedy?”
I looked over to Henry and his friends. They’d never notice that I was gone, and while I wasn’t sure what the cute, nerdy guy in front of me was offering, but my dick was definitely interested in finding out. Half an hour later we were walking along the street together. It felt oddly like a date – except usually my dates would have involved groping in the back row. Instead he sat close but not touching, making me laugh with his quiet commentary.
When we came out of the comedy club, it had been raining. The streetlights gleamed on the wet road and. Loud music from the club opposite spilled out into the street, and he turned to me grinning.
“Dance with me?”
It was an absurd request and dancing in the rain was miles away from the quick, anonymous fuck I’d been looking for tonight, but I took his hand. I laughed as he pulled me close – and then almost embarrassed myself by moaning as I felt his dick, rock hard through his jeans.
“You want to kiss me,” he said. He wasn’t seeking confirmation: the words were said with a quiet confidence that I’d probably have underestimated if he wasn’t right. I did want to kiss him. I wanted to kiss this cute, nerdy guy who hadn’t touched me all evening, but in a way that I’d decided must be carefully calculated to leave me yearning for his touch. I wanted to kiss this cute, nerdy guy whose thick erection was pressed against my hip.
I’d lent forwards and brushed my lips against his. I wasn’t prepared for the way his hand gripped the back of my neck, making me feel deliciously helpless, or the way he slipped a hand under my sweatshirt, under my t-shirt. I was wet and cold and his hand was a single warm point against skin. His touch felt electric and even with his hand resting lightly on my stomach the gesture seemed somehow possessive.
He was still cute, still nerdy, but his grin was now decidedly wolfish.
“Let me walk you home,” he said, and it wasn’t a request. Before I could protest he palmed my dick expertly. “No, I’m not saying I’m going to fuck you, but I want to know how you’d want me to fuck you if I did.”
“I can’t wake my flatmate,” I’d argued weakly. He smirked.
“Do you not think I’m capable of enforcing your silence?” he asked, and in that moment I was ready to beg him to not make me wait until we got home, but take me into the club and fuck me in the bathroom. Hell, I’d have got down on my knees right there and then in the street if he’d asked me to. Ordered me to, really, with his hand on my cock.
It had felt vulnerable to let him into the flat: more so than it hard to walk home with his hand on my dick or on the back of my neck, asking me questions about the ways I wanted him to use me that made me blush. He’d stopped me under a street light, teasing me about my flushed cheeks while holding my chin so I couldn’t look away. When we were in my room he’d pushed me against the door and kissed me so hard that I was panting when he pulled away.
“Strip,” he’d ordered and I’d obeyed. I felt awkward and clumsy as I tore off my wet clothes, while he took his time unbuttoning his shirt. Still wearing his jeans he’d knelt over on me on the bed, strong hands pinning me down while he used his mouth on my dick. Later he’d pressed his hand firmly over my mouth to keep me quiet while he worked my arse open. He asked if I needed something to bite down on while he fucked me, and when I said no he’d smirked as I whimpered when his thick, condom-covered dick started to press inside me.
It had been a hard, rough, almost cruel fuck.
I shifted slightly, aware that the memories of last night were having an affect on my dick and the last thing I wanted was a hard-on in front of Henry, who was still waiting for an answer to his question. Oh well, I’d have had to come out to him sooner or later, especially if I was going to see the guy whose name was now saved in my phone as Oliver again. To give back his cardigan, to get coffee; to be stretched out by his dick and brought to the edge of orgasm and made to wait.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a freelance journalist, sex writer, and professional transsexual. His work focuses on dismantling shame and queering sex.