“Don’t laugh,” you warned as you pressed me against the side of the building.
I couldn’t help it. I could feel the bricks against my back, poking me through my dress. Hurting me.
I liked it. I liked the feeling of being held, being forced to do it. I liked the feeling of your chest, warm against me, and your hands on my wrists, pinning me to the wall. I liked your kiss. It was gentle and hard, both at once.
I liked feeling urgent and out of place on a busy street.
I liked the possibility of passersby seeing us, noticing that we were not just kissing. I liked their interest and their passing judgment. I liked the energy of their eyes on us, almost more than I liked your body against mine.
I liked the smell of chocolate in the air and I liked the echoing of metal against metal from the train. I liked the coolness in the air, the tightness in my belly, and my wetness.
I laughed. It was an ironic kind of laugh, a sidelong laugh that’s part self-consciousness, part pure joy.
I liked not quite believing that you wanted this, and liked even more when you showed me that you did.
“Don’t laugh,” you said. “That was hot.”
You grabbed my hand and pressed it against your hard cock.
I liked it.