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The bar was hot and crowded. Bodies pressed against bodies, beats pressed against ear drums, and all I wanted was for them* to press me against the wall. I wanted to be held up against the wall and fucked. I wanted their hands to push against me so hard they would leave marks. That feeling of being held up, thrown around, pressed on and pried at until I am completely pliable – that’s what I wanted more than anything.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I yelled up at them. The music carried my quiet voice away and so I propelled myself forward, my wheels gently knocking their ankles so that they stumbled back a little, their ass falling against me. They were straddling my chair now, their weight on top of me, and even this contact, having their sweaty back pressed against my chest, our bodies still fully clothed, felt like too much. I wanted it so bad.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said again, and to make my point clear, I pulled their earlobe into my mouth, drawing the soft skin between my sharp teeth.
They looked at me, obediently. They were as ready as I was.
People cleared a path for us as we went deeper into the bar. We reached our destination and entered the one-room wheelchair bathroom together. In situations like this, I sometimes wonder what people are thinking. Do they think my lover is only my assistant, helping me transfer onto the toilet? Does anyone suspect that what we do in these private places and darkened corners is not always about my disability, but is most often just about pure pleasure? We are usually just fucking each other in these bathrooms, a thin wall separating us from the public. The people at the party outside have no idea what kind of highs we are reaching in these stolen moments, and their ignorance just makes me wetter.
We were alone together in the grimy room and I wanted everything. I wanted it all, and all at once. I wanted them in my mouth, wanted them to cram their fingers down my throat with one hand while their other hand reached inside me. I wanted to feel full of them.
But I made myself wait.
Sweat had dripped down and pooled in my clavicle. “Lick it”, I told them, and their rough tongue complied, scratching against my skin, making my cunt wet.
“Take my shirt off,” and the silk was being pulled up over my head, exposing my tits to the hot, muggy air. My nipples were already hard, and they bent over me, pulling first one and then the other into their mouth.
“Now, put me..,” I began, but they interrupted.
“No, my turn,” they said.
We have this problem, the two of us. Two controlling people wanting to call all the shots, wanting to fuck and be fucked exactly the way we want, wanting to say how it’s going to be. But, sometimes I like being told what to do as much as I like doing the telling.
They didn’t tell me what to do but instead made me do it, putting my body exactly where they wanted it, controlling me, contorting me. They lifted me out of my chair and I was up against the wall. I held onto the bars, supporting myself with my arms. I can do this, but they know it makes me tired. They know that when they have me here like this, up against the wall and waiting, that they better fuck me and they better fuck me hard and fast until I am coming all over them, falling into their arms with the intensity of it all.
With one hand they pulled my hair, wrapped it tight around their fist so my head was pulled to the side, exposing my neck for their teeth to bite into. With the other hand they pulled off my skirt. Their fingers slipped down and pressed against the soft cotton of my underwear. I could feel my clit throbbing beneath their touch. They must have felt it too, my body pulsing against them, and so they eased their fingers around my thong and against my lips.
They started gently, stroking me, teasing me. They knew I wanted them inside me, that I was impatient and waiting and aching for it, but they wouldn’t give in right away. They kept it up, those subtle strokes, up and down, up and down, until I was so wet I was dripping on their fingers. My thighs were damp with my own juice and still they would not draw me open, would not reach deeper.
I couldn’t take it.
“Baby,” I said. “Baby, fuck me.”
“Now?” they asked.
“Right, right now?”
“And, if I don’t?”
“You have to.”
“I have to?”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me hard. I want you inside me up to your wrist.”
“And what’s the magic word?”
They acquiesced. Part of them wanted me there all night, pressed against them and begging, but they also wanted to please me.
I felt their hand move my lips open. Their rough thumb stroked my clit, while their long , beautiful fingers reached down inside me. One finger, then two, then three, were in my pussy, circling. My cunt clenched around their digits. I wanted to swallow them up, wanted them never to leave my body.
My clit got harder and harder under their thumb. I know that they love this, love feeling how much my body wants them. And as they rubbed my clit, over and over, I expanded to take them in. My slit got wider and wider and they slid all of themselves into me. Their wrist bone pressed up against my swollen sex.It felt like everything was happening all at once. My neck was in their mouth, my nipple twisted in between their fingers, my clit pressed under their thumb, and my whole body riding their hand as it thrust into me, deeper and deeper. We moved together. I propelled myself against their body, forcing them further into me, driving them faster, making them my own. They pressed harder and harder against my G-Spot, working me. They are rough with me but I can take it. Can take it and then some.
I began to tremble. My knees bucked. And then I crumbled. It felt too good. I felt too much. I couldn’t stand any more. I fell forward, my soft tits pressed against their hard chest, while I gushed all over them. I came, and came, and it felt like I wouldn’t stop coming, my whole body convulsing against theirs. My hair in their mouth, their neck against my lips, my cream wetting both of us, our sweat intermingled.
Finally, they stopped. They pulled out of me, and we just stared at each other, not wanting to move, not wanting to end it.
Until there was a knock at the door.
They hurriedly helped me dress. In these moments I love their range of touch. That they can fuck me hard and fast, so good that it hurts, and then gently pull my shirt over my arms, zip my zipper, and put me into my chair.
We left the bathroom, cheeks flushed. The people outside smiled at us politely. I smiled back. I imagine they thought “What a trooper!”. Often that’s what people are thinking, when they smile at me in a particular way. They don’t know that my return grin means so much more, that I am laughing at them. They are about to use a bathroom that I just flooded with my come, that smells like my sex.