Ravaged Against the Wall

May 2023. I tossed the story online without overthinking it. A half-empty iced coffee sat on my desk, my chipped teal nail polish glinting under the lamp, my arms freckled from lazy afternoons in the park.

It was nothing groundbreaking, but ten minutes later, a notification popped up.

— That coffee’s got your name on it, huh? Bet it tastes better with you around.

I smirked, caught off guard. Who was this Lucas? I clicked his profile, and his photo alone sparked something — dark curly hair, a crooked grin, and eyes that promised chaos and charm in equal measure.

He had that rugged, self-assured look, like he could sweet-talk you into trouble and you’d thank him for it.

We messaged for a few days and planned to meet up Saturday after my shift. The chats started light — music, movies, dumb work stories — but the vibe shifted, crackling with heat we didn’t acknowledge at first.

— You free late Saturday? — he asked after telling me his weekend camping trip fell through.

— Out by nine. Dead tired, though.

— Tired, but up for a drink? Maybe someone to keep you awake.

— Drink, yeah. The rest… I’m not so sure.

— Come on, Nora. You’re saying no, but your vibe’s screaming yes.

— You’re full of it.

— Full of it, but I’ll swing by if you tell me where.

I laughed, playing coy, but my pulse was already racing.

— Saturday, we’ll see. But don’t get any ideas.

— Too late. Got a whole plan for when you stop pretending.

— Cocky much?

— You love it.

His texts, that blend of brazen and playful, lit something in me. Alone in my room, I let my hand wander under my skirt, brushing lightly at first, then pressing harder. As we bantered, I slid my fingers deeper, picturing his hands, his voice. When he teased about showing up, I arched against my own touch, stifling a moan against my pillow.

That Saturday, I slipped into a short black dress that clung to my hips, a cropped leather jacket, and, hidden beneath, a secret: a sheer black bra and panties with delicate lace edges.

We met at a dive bar on the edge of town, perched at a sticky high-top with neon signs buzzing and jukebox tunes blaring.

His greeting—a quick kiss on the cheek — sent a jolt through me. He was taller than I expected, smelling of pine and faint whiskey, a combo that made my thighs clench.

We talked about everything: his side gig fixing motorcycles, my late-night poetry habit, the messes we’d both survived. But the air between us hummed, charged, like we were circling something inevitable.

I twirled a strand of hair, let my sandal nudge his ankle, licked my lips slow. He watched, his gaze heavy, that grin saying he knew exactly what I was doing and was just waiting for me to cave.

When he leaned in and asked if I wanted to check out his place, I shot him a half-glare:

— Fine, but I’m not crashing. Just need a quick stop.

We walked through humid night air to his loft. The door barely clicked shut before he had me against it, his mouth crashing into mine, all heat and need. His kiss was hungry, teeth grazing my lip, tongue claiming me like he’d been starving for it.

I yanked at his flannel, buttons popping, while he peeled off my jacket and dress in one fluid move. His hands roamed, squeezing my waist, skimming my ribs. He left me in my bra and panties, then paused, eyes dark as he traced the lace with a fingertip, sending shivers across my skin.

He knelt, kissing down my stomach, then pressed his mouth against the sheer fabric between my thighs. I was already slick, the heat pooling fast. He hooked a finger under the lace, tugging it aside, and his tongue found me — slow, deliberate licks that made my knees buckle. He gripped my hips, pinning me to the door, his lips and fingers working in tandem, teasing, then plunging deeper. My hands tangled in his curls, pulling hard as I gasped, my body trembling with each flick of his tongue. I came undone, thighs shaking, a sharp cry escaping as waves of pleasure crashed through me.

He stood, wiping his mouth with a smug grin, and I shoved him toward the couch, my turn to take control. I straddled him, unzipping his jeans, freeing him. He was thick, hard, and I took my time, dragging my tongue along his length, savoring the way he groaned, his head tipping back. I teased lower, exploring with slow, wet licks, feeling him tense, his hands fisting my hair.

— Fuck, Nora… you’re killing me… keep going…

When he couldn’t take it anymore, he flipped me onto the couch, spreading my legs. He eased in, inch by torturous inch, letting me feel every bit of him. Then he moved, hard and fast, the couch creaking under us. His hands gripped my ass, lifting me to meet each thrust, his breath hot against my ear:

— You’re so fucking perfect… taking it like this… all mine.

I clawed at his back, lost in the rhythm, the stretch, the way he filled me completely. He angled just right, hitting a spot that made me see stars, and I came again, screaming his name, my nails digging into his shoulders. He followed, pulling out and spilling across my stomach, warm and slick, his groans ragged.