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This week’s S L I C K is curated and edited by Malic White.
Content notes: friend sex, masturbation, oral sex

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I looked in the mirror.
I was wearing a crisp, clean white button up shirt delivered to me from the dry cleaner at Fran’s request. I’d paired it with fitted cigarette pants that showed off my ass. A pair of loafers. Fran really knew how to spoil a girl. They even had my initials monogrammed on the left breast pocket. I felt as if I was playing dress up.

Who, me? Oh, I’m just the last remaining baron at the peak of the revolution. I’m making my case as to how I can service the new proletariat ruling class of big-titted academics on my hands and knees. My palms are bloodied, but my pressed white shirt remains untouched — a uniform to show that I am ready to work. I am ready to please.

I buttoned the top button. My tits just barely warping the pinstripes. My nipples just a whisper.
Wise beyond my years. Arrogant. Powerful. The graduate student Naomi goes to for tutoring. Spouting philosophy — quoting great minds as Naomi places her fingers to my lips and offers to blow my own great mind.

I unbuttoned the top button.
Unbothered. Unpredictable. Naomi’s tongue to my lips, she can already taste her own pleasure. She is reaching around behind me while she kisses me and fishing the keys to my yacht out of my back pocket. We’ll take turns servicing one another as we captain a ship around the world, docking only to stock up on food and lube and to make love in the sand.

I buttoned the top button back.
The patriarchy has fallen — call me mommy. Lick my boots. Wait, will we still say that? We outline the terms of our sexual agreement in a hurried, but diplomatic fashion. I can barely steady my hand to the paper as Naomi describes in detail the ways in which she wants to drink me one sip at a time until there’s nothing left of me.

I unbuttoned it again.
Who, me? You want me to what? Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of my vibrator. Please, I’m just a simple citizen. I’ll fall to my knees for whomever can promise to distribute orgasms in abundance.

I unbuttoned a second button.
Naomi is leaving scratches on my chest, grasping for anything to hold onto while she sits on my face. Grinding her clit into my mouth, trying to decide if her goal is to use her hands to choke me or to twist both my nipples. Too enraptured to make big decisions. Her clit engorged growing between my teeth.

I unbuttoned a third button.
This is the me that says “Pack a bag. Bring an evening dress, a bottle of wine, rope, and nothing else. We’re going on a trip.” This is the me that blindfolds Naomi, feeds her, fingers her from behind while she tries to do her hair to prepare for dinner at a restaurant that neither of us can afford.

I buttoned one button back up.
This look was me. The me that she’s always known. Her doting designated driver. Her ever-available service bottom.

“Naomi, I will clean your gutters, and you don’t even have gutters. I will buy you a house. I will wait for Autumn and then beg you to let me do the honor of vacuuming your gutters while you touch yourself on the sheets that I just laundered. I promise not to come until enough leaves have collected for me to work up a sweat removing them. I will, however, touch myself and think of you each morning that the leaves yellow.”

I buttoned back up the third and final button. I affixed a short gold chain around my neck.* Drip a string of pearls beneath. I imagine those pearls in Naomi’s mouth. I imagine pulling them out pearl by pearl from her asshole as she giggles. Her eyes roll back in her heard. Every tooth in her grin — holding me by the back of my neck as I carefully count the beads aloud.

“Fifteen.”
She snorts

“Sixteen. Seventeen.”
She chirps, surprised as I increase speed.

“Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.”
She moans deeply.

“Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three”
“How the fuck are you doing that, Halle,” she demands breathlessly.

Fuck.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s just a shirt. With any luck, it won’t be on for long anyway.

Or what if it is? I thought. What if I strip her down to nothing upon arrival and eat her out on my knees fully dressed in business casual, cum dripping down my chin and onto a double-breasted sport coat. The sport coat only comes off to roll up my sleeves just far enough to plunge my finger inside of her while she screams out in pleasure.

I imagined her begging me to take my clothes off so that she can kiss my nipples, put her warm wet mouth on the small of my back, lick down my spine, bite my ass. I imagine my forceful refusal.

I pictured myself growing so wet that it seeps through my Calvin Klein underwear, through my fitted pin-stiped cigarette pants. My toes curled so deeply beneath me that it creases my sharp black leather loafers.

I saw Naomi swimming naked through her silk sheets.

It’s just a shirt, I thought to myself. Maybe it’s too much after all.

I considered wearing my little spandex bodysuit and a pair of jeans.

That’s it. That was more than enough. Just a casual look that says “Naomi, please cuff my writs together and instruct me not to dare reach for your body while you pleasure yourself until you come no less than eight times.”

I imagined my nipples protruding from the sleek black bodysuit, destroying any chance that I had of concealing my excitement to see her. My chest exposed, goosebumps blossoming. My chest rising and falling faster and faster with anticipation.

Naomi’s manicured fingers hooked in the two front loops of my old, faded jeans that frame my pussy, hungry for her mouth.

She can feel my waist drifting towards her own — belly button to belly button, clit to clit. I want her so badly.

Okay, I thought. I’ll split the difference. I put on my button-up shirt over my body suit, leave it completely unbuttoned. Zipped my jeans up. Wiggled my ass. My clit was already so sensitive that just this act increased my heart rate. I slid each foot into a loafer. I grabbed my bag and got in the car.

Just as I pulled out of my parking spot, Naomi texted me.

“can’t wait to see u. bring yr pussy and oj. making mimosas.”
I smiled.

When I arrived, Naomi was in just her bra and shorts. As I opened the door, she ceremoniously uncorked the bottle of champagne — a few bubbles kissing her chest. She put the bottle to her lips slowly.

“Pour some OJ, won’t you?” she said with a laugh.

I could barely keep steady as I sift through her cabinets for a pair of glasses.

I was floating above myself as I absentmindedly poured orange juice into each glass.

She snuck up behind me and put her hands around my waist.

My focus thrown, I crashed the orange juice into the glass splashing it all over my chest.

She cooed and quickly took my white button up off and ran it under cold water in the sink. I was too dumbstruck to be of much help so when she finally turned around, satisfied that the pigment wouldn’t hold, I was still standing there my spandex bodysuit stuck to me with orange juice.

“Take that off!” She laughed.

I tried to take the top off, forgetting that it was one piece. I clumsily unbuttoned my jeans and started to take them off. I remembered to take off my shoes, and then wriggled out of the pants. My bodysuit so wet and sticky that any chance of concealing my nipples was a distant memory.

She watched me still giggling. She pulled the straps of my bodysuit down ,revealing my breasts. She took a swig of the champagne, tsked, and licked my breasts, slowly inching closer and closer to my left nipple. Her free hand sliding under the crotch of my body suit. The scene so comical even from the inside that I couldn’t help but laugh.

She laughed along and asked, “May I?”

I nodded.

She pulled the body suit off of me and placed it gently on the kitchen counter.

I countered, “May I?”

She nodded.

I took the bottle of champagne out of her hand and as quickly as I could press it to my lips, she was on her knees, her tongue on my wet pussy. She moaned into me. Touching herself while she ate me out. I couldn’t decide what I wanted more — to remain in my own ecstasy or to be Naomi’s own left hand, feeling her getting warmer and wetter as my own sounds grew.

Luckily, Naomi is as fair as she is generous. We spent the day taking turns giving and receiving, heaving sighs of bliss and hunger into each other. Inflating and deflating with sensation. Hairs standing up on parts of my body that I had yet to discover. At some point I fell asleep in her arms so saturated with pleasure that I felt a mile north of my own body.

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* This one is another gift from Fran. This gold chain was a peace offering from the time that they fell asleep without returning the favor after I pleasured them for six straight hours. They came first in their elaborate marble shower trying desperately to meet my eye through the thick steam. Their hair stuck to their face, my fingers pruning. What was steam and what was sweat as muddled as the line between one orgasm and the next. While I toweled off and put my clothes back on they wrote “one more time?” in the steamy bathroom mirror. We barely made it downstairs to their living room, my hand already down their pants. I ate them out on their coffee table. Fran trying so hard not to scream that they tore pages from the oversized book of art that they’d swept off the table as I laid them down. I draped them over the sofa, my face in their ass cheeks while I inched farther and farther inside them. One more time? Too many to count. They breathlessly promised again and again to suck gently on my clit in exchange, but they conked out promptly after a finale of an orgasm, their back stuck to their yoga mat with sweat. The next Sunday that we spent together, Fran gifted me a dainty gold chain with a tiny pendant in the shape of a mouth. Fitting.