Recently Buster and I went on a roadtrip to see our nephew’s graduation. It was our first real roadtrip as adults (and it only took a decade to get around to.) While we were both excited to see sprawling hills dotted with frolicking cows, the most exciting aspect of traveling was staying at an Airbnb.
If you didn’t know, Buster and I live in the poor people’s version of a tiny house: a 20-foot RV from the late 1980’s. There’s a lot to love about RV living, but sometimes you just want a little more room to move. Renting an entire apartment for a night was an opportunity I couldn’t wait to take advantage of.
But while I packed an entire duffel bag of sex toys, lingerie, and high expectations, our plans for getting frisky on someone else’s property fell flat. As it turns out, driving for 13 hours straight depletes one’s desire for vigorous sex on ten different surfaces.
So to commemorate the orgasms that could have been, here’s a few fantasies I had while blinking sleepily at my surroundings before crawling into bed and being dead for eight hours.
the bedroom
I grab Buster by the hair and force them to their knees on the worn carpet, smacking their jaw to wordlessly demand they part their lips for my cock. They can smell the leather of my harness and the unfamiliar, vaguely fruity smell of an unseen glade plug-in – a subtle yet present reminder that this is not our space. They gag with every impatient shove of my hips, their jaw flexing against the urge to dig their teeth into the dildo’s soft-over-hard surface, but they’re too polite to drool on a floor that isn’t ours. And too polite not to swallow what’s given to them.
After, I fuck them on the soft, sinking memoryfoam mattress, with their hands on my shoulders and my mouth on their tits.
the tub
The bathtub isn’t especially impressive – if anything, it’s kinda small. But we don’t have a tub at home, so I run Buster a bath under the pretense of helping them unwind. They’re wise to my tricks, but they step into the warm water anyway – and as soon as they’re sitting, I shove their head back beneath the water.
Restricting their breathing is probably my favorite way of dominating them. They struggle at first, but then loosen up, gripping the side of the tub with black-painted nails that tap against the porcelain when I ask too long, too much.
They help me get a Satisfyer situated on their dick, and I hold it firm – I’ve heard the suction-like pulsations are stronger when submerged. Buster’s thrashing and quaking as I click to higher settings, water sloshing on the tile floor. (Which is fine, because our host has provided a truly obscene number of clean towels.) If they’re crying from the hard, suckling waves enveloping their dick, I can’t tell; their sopping hair is in their face and mascara is running all the way down to their chin.
the yellow chair
I’m wearing boots and a tank top and nothing else, sitting in the cute little armchair by the door. I’m not smoking but I wish I was; instead, I slowly run my fingertips over my lower lip, watching Buster crawl around the coffee table. They have to lower themselves to their belly to be at the right level to kiss my boot, but I like knowing they’re presenting themselves as lowly as physically possible. As their tongue drags over the rigid, tasteless faux leather of my cheap boots, I’m thankful I stopped smoking years ago – where would I put my cigarette out now, if not on my good boy’s naked shoulders?
If they’re good, I’m going to spread my thighs and let them lick me clean. If they’re bad – or if I decide to pretend they are – then I’m just going to rub their face against my cunt while I watch TV.
the glass desk
Glass furniture has always made me nervous, being a clumsy autistic. The tiny glass desk in the bedroom is no different – the fact that it’s so close to the route I have to walk to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night fills me with dread.
So how I end up leaning over it with my palms flat on the glass is almost inconceivable. I’m draped in some scant, lacy thing from our lingerie bag, self-conscious of how it contrasts to the hair on my legs and armpits and the gender soup in my brain. Buster stands behind me, reaching around my hip to hold a wand against my cunt. I don’t like to stand during sex, especially with someone else’s glass desk in front of me, but the aggressive vibrations don’t give a shit what I want.
Or maybe that’s Buster.
the bed, again
Buster’s body is hot from sleep as I nuzzle between their thighs, their sleepy faux protests making me grin as I lick last night’s come – marbled with this morning’s – from their crinkled inner labia. I love how their taste has changed over the years, and I eat them out with enthusiasm, smothered by the rasp of their bush on my face. I’m never happier than burying my face into that curly thatch.
The bed is so, so soft beneath us, so unlike the decades-old mattress with its fucked-up springs back home. Sinking into this one makes me think of floating on ocean waves; it’s bliss. Impulsively, I draw my hands up behind myself, chasing that floating feeling towards subspace as I fuck Buster on my tongue.
It’s home, and not home, at the same time.
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