Discrete Dick-down

Discrete Dick-down

The dim glow of the streetlamp flickered against the rain-slick pavement, casting long, languid shadows through the misty air. Leaning against the doorway of the quiet, tucked-away lounge, I let my fingers trail along the curve of my silk dress, smoothing it against my hips.  Indeed, I knew he was watching.  His presence was like the slow burn of whiskey down my throat. Indeed, he was always on time for our discrete Dick-down—always careful. That was part of the game. The secrecy. The anticipation. He didn’t speak right away, just stood close enough for the scent of cedar and smoke to curl into my senses. His voice, when it finally came, was low and rough at the edges. “You shouldn’t make it so easy to want you.”

Our discrete dick-down encounters are always intense.

I smirked, tilting my chin just enough to meet his eyes. “And you shouldn’t make it so obvious.” His lips twitched, but his hands—those hands—stayed in his pockets as if keeping them there took every ounce of restraint. I could feel the heat radiating between us. The unspoken tension danced like a live wire.  I let my fingers drift up to the nape of my neck, twisting a loose tendril of crimson hair, watching how his jaw flexed. “We don’t have much time,” he murmured, stepping close. Close enough that my breath tangled with his. I let my lips part just slightly, just enough to see his pulse flicker. “Then we shouldn’t waste it.” At that, I turned, stepping through the doorway. My laughter barely more than a sultry whisper in the dim light. My body is buzzing for our discrete dick-down!

The door clicked shut behind us.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old leather and aged brandy. A single lamp bathed the room in a golden hush, casting shadows that moved with the flicker of the flame in the hearth. He was behind me before I could say a word, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. “You’re reckless,” he murmured, but I felt the way his fingers ghosted down my arm, the way his restraint hung by a thread. I turned slowly, pressing my back against the door, while watching the hunger tighten in his gaze. My heart drummed against my ribs, but I was smiling, lips painted in a shade meant for trouble. A shade I always wear for our discrete dick-down.

Our discrete dick-down is always risky.

“If I were careful, I wouldn’t be here.” A sound rumbled from deep in his chest—approval, frustration, need. He braced a hand beside my head, his body close enough that I could feel the heat between us, the delicious ache of wanting and waiting. “I can’t stay long,” he said, though his fingers betrayed him, tracing the edge of my jaw, dipping lower, just enough to make me shiver. “I don’t need long,” I whispered, catching his tie between my fingers, and tugging him toward me. Soon his breath hitched. His resolve cracked. And then there was nothing but the taste of him, the press of his body against mine, and the fire we had no business playing with. What ensued was and unforgettable encounter. In due time we climbed higher together.  “Cum with me” he said. And finally, we climaxed together in perfect harmony.

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