Roasted Beans - Backup

I'm the guy at the school gate, picking up kids, rarely late, in the airport lounge, typing away, focused, professional, throughout the day.

I'm the guy at lunch, eating solo, in my own world, my thoughts follow, laughing with friends, jokes abound, walking the dog, on familiar ground.

Unremarkable. Steady. Yours to ignore.

But behind closed doors I change — something feral, something strange uncoils slow, fills up the room, a different man steps from the gloom.

Public face, calm and clear. Inside, it's hunger you'd hear if you pressed your ear to the wall — a low sound. Patient. Wanting it all.

I'm the guy who needs it raw, hands that grip and nails that claw, who'll spend an hour between your thighs just to watch the ceiling leave your eyes.

I want you writhing, losing breath, fingers tracing, testing depth, my mouth finding every place that makes you turn your burning face

into the pillow — no, look at me. I want to watch you come undone slowly, then all at once.

I'm the guy who whispers low exactly what I'm going to do before I do it — so you feel it twice, once in your mind, once when I make good on every word.

I crave the mix of soft and hard, a tender mouth, a grip that leaves its mark, tongue and teeth, give and take, building you up until you break the way I knew you would the moment that I looked at you and saw what you'd been hiding underneath the ordinary day.

Each night I learn what's mine to keep — the sounds you make, the way you breathe, the precise moment you stop thinking and just feel.

You see me in public, calm, composed. You have no idea what I've been planning since morning.

You saw it coming. Every flag. You didn't text your friends, didn't build a case, because before they ever touched you they were already inside your head. Past your rational mind. Past your better judgment. Into the part of you that doesn't negotiate.

The raw want. The animal want. The thing that lives below everything you've constructed to appear reasonable.

They found it immediately. Like they had the coordinates all along.

You knew better. You fucking knew better. And it didn't matter, because the wanting was so loud and so specific that no wasn't a language you spoke anymore. Didn't want to speak.

The taboo is different for everyone and identical for everyone.

Spread your legs and say what you want, whispered directly into your ear, and you did. Immediately. Before you'd decided whether you were ready to want it out loud. And what came out of your mouth surprised you and didn't surprise you at all.

Being told to touch yourself while they watched. Eyes on your fingers, on your face, on every unguarded sound you made. You came harder than you ever had alone because being seen doing it made it real.

Being folded and flipped and held open in positions that left nothing covered, nothing protected. Fucked from behind with your face in the mattress and your hips pulled back to take every inch. The embarrassment burned off in thirty seconds and what was underneath was just yes, more, don't stop.

Being fucked hard enough that you felt it the next day and thought about it every time you did. Deep enough that your whole body reorganized itself around it. Rough enough that gentle started feeling like a consolation prize.

Once someone finds that place, you cannot unfind it.

And now you fuck. Really fuck. Like you know what you are. Like you have the coordinates to your own want and refuse to pretend otherwise.

And when it isn't there, you feel it. Someone touches you and you're wet and present and going through every right motion, and underneath it your body is asking: where are the hands that pinned you down? Where is the voice that said spread your legs and say what you want? Where is the person who looked at you like your desire was worth following all the way to the bottom?

You're not missing them.

You now understand what your cunt was trying to tell you.

mount my cock, beautiful friend. it’s for science.

she laughs but she does it.

afternoon light cutting across the floorboards, warm enough to feel on bare skin, coffee going cold on the counter.

I give myself a few slow pumps first, watching her watch me do it, then lay back on the floor. she straddles me, reaches down, positions me, and I watch my cock disappear inside her, inch by inch, until she’s fully seated and still. I reach over and hand her the draft.

I look up at her.

just that. feeling everything her body does and her face doesn’t show.

page three and something shifts. a small increase in warmth, a softness opening around me that wasn’t there before.

what section, I whisper.

she tells me. I make a note.

page six and she gets wet enough that I feel it change, her body making a decision her eyes haven’t acknowledged, still moving across the lines like a professional, like she’s not sitting on my cock getting quietly wrecked by a metaphor.

what section.

her voice is even. her body is not even.

page nine she clenches, slow and deep, involuntary, the kind that comes from something landing exactly right. she makes a small sound and keeps reading.

I don’t say anything. I just feel it.

page twelve her hand drops from the draft and slides down between her thighs. she starts rubbing herself, slow circles, and her hips begin to rock, just slightly, forward and back, using me.

I put both hands on her hips and stop her.

hold her still.

what section.

she tells me, breathless, one word shorter than she needs to be.

warming only.

a sound escapes her that is not quite frustration and not quite a moan. her hand stays where it is but her hips don’t move. I feel her pulse around me, feel how close she is, feel her trying to stay still under my hands and failing in small increments.

keep reading.

she does. full and held and desperate and increasingly undone, turning pages like I am not looking up at her from the floor cataloguing every honest thing her body says.

she finishes, closes the draft, doesn’t speak.

well, I say.

it’s good. it’s really good.

I already know which parts. I was there for all of it.

then I grab her hips and thrust up into her, hard, finally, and feel her gasp and clench and come apart, and I fuck her from the floor until she comes around me and I come inside her and we both stay there, wrecked and still.

cockwarming (v.) — the act of keeping a cock seated fully inside the vagina while remaining still; no thrusting, no grinding, no relief.

Your brain short-circuits. Your cunt pulses around him, walls gripping and releasing without your permission, slick and insistent, begging for more before anything has even started. His tip is nestled against your cervix, seated all the way home, and you are not moving. That is the discipline. That is the practice.

I need your help with something.

Some of you know I write more than Tumblr posts. Occasionally I disappear into something longer — full short story collections that live over here: https://mybook.to/favorites — and I'm building a new one and I want your fingerprints on it.

The working title is In Transit: Stories of Desire Between Strangers.

The concept is simple: all the stories happen in the spaces between real life. Airports. Planes. Hotel rooms. The places where you're nobody's wife, nobody's colleague, nobody anybody knows — and something happens that you'll be thinking about on the flight home.

Here's what's already in it:

A woman stranded at O'Hare who ends up in shower room four with a man she met at the bar two hours earlier, both of their wedding rings very much still on, her skirt still on, watching both their faces in the mirror while he fucks her slow and deliberate and neither of them pretends this is anything other than what it is.

A long flight home, a blanket, and the man in the next seat who makes a quiet suggestion about how she might want to spend the next hour. She does. When she finishes he brings her fingers to his mouth. They don't exchange a single word for the rest of the flight.

A businesswoman alone in her hotel room at dusk who notices the couple in the window across the alley — and then the woman over there notices her watching — and instead of stopping, pulls her partner toward the glass and gives her the most explicit twenty minutes of her life. Performed entirely for a stranger. No names exchanged. Ever.

Months of late-night DMs, voice notes, explicit instructions followed alone in the dark — finally collapsing into a real hotel room, a real door, a real man who already knows exactly what to do with her before he's touched her once. They had rules. The rules lasted forty minutes.

That's where I am. That's what this is.

Now here's where you come in.

What's the story you want to read? A real experience you've never told anyone. A fantasy that lives in your head on long flights. The thing that happened in a hotel bar that you've replayed a hundred times. The scenario that makes your thighs press together every time you think about it.

DM me. All of it. Anonymous is fine. The filthier the better. The more specific the better — real details are what make a story land.

Maybe you’re someone who’s done this. Maybe you’re someone who’s thought about it. Or maybe you’re someone so intrigued the idea will not escape your mind after you stop reading this.

Whichever you are — you’re still here.

That tells me everything.

You’re one of us.

There is a particular kind of person who needs the outdoors the way other people need sleep. Who gets short-tempered after too many days under fluorescent light. Who steps under open sky and feels something in the chest physically release — not metaphorically, actually — like the body remembers something the mind spent years forgetting.

Feral. Quietly spiritual. Both correct.

These people have a secret. Not all of them know it yet. Some of them are reading this right now thinking — I would never — while something lower says you absolutely would.

It starts with a hike. A rest. A moment somewhere genuinely private where the creek is loud enough to cover you and the trees close in and the city finally goes quiet in your shoulders.

You sit. You breathe. You take a sip of water.

You notice the peace. You notice something else — a contentment in your body, as if you belong here. As if you have always belonged here.

You look around.

Your hand moves.

Not as decision. As return. As remembering something the body never forgot.

There is nothing quite like feeling fully exposed in nature — shorts down, lying back against the earth, the sun arriving warm and direct between your legs. No ceiling. No context. No one’s opinion for a half mile in any direction.

Just sky above and dirt below and your own fingers finding what they came here to find.

You take your time. That cock swelling in your hand, or that pussy slick and opening under your fingers — alive, unhurried, answering everything you’ve been holding since Monday.

Your hips tilt up. Offering. Receiving. Both at once.

The forest doesn’t pause. The woodpecker keeps working. The world continues without you and it feels like freedom.

Feel the warmth of the sun where the sun rarely reaches. Feel the ground receiving your weight completely — heels pressing in, back against the earth, something building that is larger than the thing that started it.

Sacred is not too strong a word. Filthy is not too strong a word.

Both live here. In the dirt. In the light. In the wet heat of your own body giving itself back to the thing that made it.

You come with your face to the sky.

Hips lifting off the ground. Voices of other hikers somewhere down the trail, oblivious, ordinary. Thighs shaking against the earth.

You let it move through you completely — the full length of it, every wave, nothing managed or shortened or performed for anyone.

Your voice taken by the creek before it gets anywhere.

Lie there. You’ve earned this.

Pulse finding its way back like water finding its level.

Afterward — warm, open, returned — you understand something very hard to understand indoors.

That you are an animal. That this is not an insult. That the ground has been here longer than your anxiety and will be here long after. That it received you without condition, without judgment, without any of the noise the world makes about bodies and wanting and what you’re supposed to do with both.

You were never the problem. You were always just overdue for this.

You button your shorts and walk back down the trail.

Loose. Unhurried. Dirt under your fingernails. Something put back in its exact right place.

You will come back.

They always do.

When she agreed to let me guide her through it, I could tell she didn’t quite know what she was agreeing to. Maybe she thought I’d tell her how to touch herself, where to move her fingers, what pressure to use. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to take her somewhere else — somewhere deeper, somewhere she hadn’t dared to go alone.

I told her to sit on her bed. Lights low, just enough glow for me to see her. I stayed on the other side of the room at first, settled in a chair, my voice low and steady as I walked her through it.

“Take off your clothes,” I told her.

She hesitated — not out of shyness, but out of curiosity. She was starting to sense this wasn’t going to be what she expected. But she followed my voice, peeling her top over her head, shimmying out of her jeans. No rush, no nerves. Just the slow, steady reveal of bare skin in the soft light.

“Lie back,” I said, and she did — stretching out across her sheets, her arms resting at her sides.

“Open your legs,” I said quietly.

I saw her swallow, her breath quickening as she shifted her knees apart. Her thighs flexed, a hint of tension showing in the lines of her muscles, like she wasn’t sure how vulnerable she was willing to get.

“Wider,” I added.

She exhaled slowly, easing her legs further apart, baring herself completely. Her skin was soft, smooth in the glow, and I could see the faint slickness between her thighs — proof she’d been thinking about this longer than she wanted to admit.

“Good,” I murmured. “Now… keep your hands by your sides.”

Her breath hitched. That wasn’t what she expected either. I waited, letting her sit in it — the tension, the ache of being so exposed without the relief of her own touch.

“Just breathe,” I said, softer now. “I want you to feel it — all of it.”

Her lips parted as she drew in a breath, her chest rising. She swallowed again, shifting slightly on the sheets. Her thighs quivered just enough for me to notice.

“Don’t close your legs,” I warned.

Her body stilled, muscles flexing like she was fighting her own instincts.

“Feel that?” I asked. “That heat between your legs?”

She nodded, her breath shaky now.

“That’s where I want you,” I said. “Stay right there… and wait.”

“Now,” I continued, “spread your lips for me. Hold yourself open.”

She hesitated, but her fingers moved, parting herself so I could see. She kept her fingers there, holding herself open, trembling slightly as I watched. She had a beautiful pussy — soft and delicate, still dry but flush with curiosity. I felt my own arousal stirring, but I kept my focus sharp.

“Are you going to warm me up?” she asked, her voice tinged with both impatience and expectation.

“That’s not what I have in mind,” I told her. “I want you to stay like this for me — just like this.”

She shifted slightly, uncertain, but she held the pose. She wasn’t aroused yet, but she was brave — curious enough to trust me.

“Now,” I said, “I want you to start clenching. Your Kegels.”

She blinked, then looked at me. “You mean…?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Slow and steady. Just squeeze and release. Show me you understand.”

Her fingers trembled slightly as I watched. Then I saw it — the faintest twitch between her fingers, the little flex of her muscles as she obeyed. Her breath hitched as she found the rhythm, her body just beginning to respond. I could see her little asshole clenching too — tight little twitches that made her hips shift slightly as she tried to focus.

Have you ever watched a woman become visibly aroused? Not just the sighs, the breathy moans — but the way her body physically changes?

That’s what was unfolding in front of me. The soft folds of her pussy began to glisten, a faint sheen of wetness starting to show. Her breathing grew heavier, her chest rising and falling in longer, slower waves. With each slow pulse of her muscles, I could see her entrance start to widen — soft and slick, her body giving way to the ache that had been building inside her.

She was opening up like a flower.

She was starting to understand now — starting to sense that this was going to take her somewhere deeper than she’d expected. No rubbing, no penetration — just slow, deliberate tension building beneath her skin.

“Keep going,” I said softly. “A little stronger this time.”

She obeyed, tightening with more intensity. Her pussy started to open up now, the entrance parting wider as her muscles flexed. Each squeeze made her body respond — her wetness thickening, her folds glistening brighter in the low light. There’s something magical about how a woman’s body changes when she’s aroused — soft skin flushing, muscles relaxing while heat blooms from within.

“Stronger,” I murmured again.

Her fingers flexed tighter as she clenched hard, and I could see her body respond — her muscles drawing inward, her entrance opening wider with each pulse. Wetness clung to her skin, a clear sheen coating her fingers now. Her body was ready to be penetrated — soft, warm, and inviting — but I wasn’t giving her that yet.

I rose from the chair then, slow and deliberate, crossing the room until I was close enough to feel her heat. The scent of her skin — warm and slightly sweet — filled my senses as I leaned in, my breath brushing her ear.

“You’re doing so well,” I murmured, my voice low and rough. “Look at you… spreading yourself open like that for me.”

I watched her shiver, her fingers trembling slightly where they held herself apart. She’s still flexing, slow pulses that made her glisten brighter with each squeeze.

“You know what I can see from here?” I whispered, my mouth so close now that my breath ghosted across her skin. “I can see inside you.”

Her breath stuttered, shaky and uneven.

“Every time you clench,” I went on, “I can see your muscles flex and tighten… and then relax, pulling yourself open even wider.” I paused, letting the words hang heavy in the air. “It’s beautiful — watching you like this.”

I let my hand slide down her arm, curling loosely around her wrist. “This time,” I murmured, “I want you to push. Like you’re trying to push something out of you… like you’re opening yourself up from the inside.”

She hesitated, her breath shaky, but she obeyed. Her fingers trembled as she shifted her focus — squeezing, then bearing down with slow, deliberate pressure.

And this time… her body really opened.

Her muscles stretched wide, her entrance parting like her body had been waiting for permission to let go. I could see her folds glisten and flex, soft and slick and wide open now — not just aroused, but ready.

Her body was ready.

She was ready to take anything — my cock, my fingers, my hand… anything I wanted to give her.

I leaned in closer then, lips grazing her ear as I whispered:

“Do you know what I’m preparing you for?”

Her breath caught, body tensing as if the question had unlocked something deeper — something dangerous, something thrilling. She swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper.

Date two. We had kissed, he had gotten his hands up my shirt a little, that was the entire extent of it. We were on his couch doing that thing where you’re half watching something and half just waiting to make out again and then he grabbed both my wrists in one hand and pinned them above my head and it turned into a whole thing. He started tickling my ribs and I lost it immediately.

Full screaming, kicking, trying to twist free and going absolutely nowhere because he had both my wrists in one hand like that was easy, like I was nothing, and was using the other hand to just destroy me. Ribs, sides, stomach, back up to my ribs. I could not breathe. Could not close my legs because when you are laughing that hard your body stops taking instructions entirely. I was pinned and falling open and completely helpless and honestly it was funny, we were both laughing, and then he moved to my inner thighs.

Still tickling. Fingers running up toward my hip and back down and every time my legs tried to close he pushed them open again. Pushed my dress up with the same hand. Still smiling. Like this was still the game we had been playing thirty seconds ago. And I was still laughing but quieter now and my hips were shifting and I was wet, I was really fucking wet, and I did not put that together until he moved my underwear to the side and pushed two fingers inside me.

I was soaked. Like embarrassingly, undeniably, this started way before his fingers got there, soaked.

And I just took it. Wrists pinned, dress up around my hips, getting finger fucked on his couch on the second date and rolling my hips into his hand like I had absolutely no dignity left and did not care even a little. He knew exactly what he was doing. Curled his fingers and worked me until I came and my wrists were in his hand the entire time and I couldn’t do anything but take it and come. I sat in my car afterward and texted you immediately because I do not know who that woman on that couch was but I want to hang out with her again.

We’re going on date three. Obviously.

You can hear them laughing, calling your name, but you’re biting your lip, legs trembling, desperate for just a few stolen minutes alone. The filthier the thought, the better—the idea of being caught, of almost moaning too loud, of edging until you’re shaking and have to pull your hand away so you don’t ruin yourself.

Afterwards you wash up, fix your hair, and go back out like nothing happened—cheeks flushed, heart pounding, holding your filthy secret behind the sweetest family smile.

She wasn’t opposed.

She wasn’t opposed to spreading herself wide, offering her body, letting herself be devoured until she was shaking, dripping, ruined. She wasn’t shy about sending filthy pictures, whispering dirty thoughts, imagining herself bent over and fucked until she broke.

But the truth?

She needed someone to help her find it.

Because that raw, desperate part of her — the slut she knew was buried deep inside — was tangled under layers of tension, hesitation, and years of keeping herself in check. She couldn’t pull it out alone.

She needed someone to take the time.

Not just someone to fuck her. Not just someone to use her. But someone to see her. To kneel down, look her in the eyes, and whisper, “She’s in there. Let me help bring her out.”

Someone patient. Someone steady. Someone who would cherish the process — the slow undoing, the trembling surrender, the way her body would open up inch by inch, until she was moaning, gasping, becoming.

Because yes, she wanted to be fucked. Yes, she wanted to be owned, filled, made to come until she was crying. But first — she needed someone to invest, to coax, to help her find the slut inside her and set her free.