Editor’s note: This edition of Playboy Fiction is written by Playboy Club creator, podcaster, and neurodiversity expert Cate Osborn.
Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to go into the bedroom and make the bed. Then I want you to turn down the lights and put on some music, something beautiful, something complicated and remember this because it will become important later on. Then I want you to call me in, and tell me to take off my clothes —all of them—and lay down on the bed.
When I start to ask a question, or two, or three, I want you to gently grab a handful of hair at the back of my neck and pull my face up towards yours, until our eyes meet, and I want you to tell me to be quiet, and to do as you say. I’ll roll my eyes, and you’ll tug, just a little, tantalizingly harder, on your handful of my hair. I will gasp, and smile, and you will smirk, your eyes glinting.
I will, somewhat sheepishly, despite everything I purport to stand for, undress myself, and I want you to press yourself against me from behind, wrapping your arms around me, running your hands across my chest, down my stomach to the parts I still remain self conscious about despite those aforementioned everything, and I want you to tell me I’m beautiful, and when I refuse to take the compliment with another shrug and an eyeroll, I want you to kiss my neck, hard, and maybe pull my hair again. I will moan, a little, and as your hand continues down my body, while you whisper that I am beautiful and sexy as I am, you cup my ass and slip your hand underneath me, slowly and deliberately, to feel me growing wet.
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I want you to point to the bed, and tell me to lay down. I will flop, unceremoniously, stomach down on the bed, because sensuality makes me awkward, and put my chin on my hand as I look up at you standing over the bed. I will feel your eyes look me up and down, the curve of my back, my ass, my legs kicking back and forth as I wait for you to make your next move, and I will feel sensual and shy and suddenly present in my skin.
I want you to take your time, deliciously and deliberately, as you roll up the sleeves of your crisp white dress shirt and settle next to me on the bed. I want you to run your hands aimlessly, lightly, achingly over my skin, fingers tracing broad arcs, stroking gently through my hair, down my neck and all the way back again. Then I want you to lean down on a strong, muscular forearm and explain what you’re going to do to me.
I want you to tell me that my only job, the one thing I need to do in the world is to focus on the music and to lay very still. That you’re going to make me feel very, very good for as long as you can, but that to earn that, I have to be very, very good. I want you to draw out every very and put a pause just so between ‘very’ and good. I will giggle and blush and feel myself becoming a version of myself that annoys the shit out of me but somehow also delights and thrills me. I will attempt to deflect and it is here that you must be very, very perceptive. Perhaps it will be a tilt of my chin or a roll of my eyes or even (imagine) a witty retort, but it is imperative that in this moment, you growl into my ear and tell me that this is not a joke, perhaps, or maybe that this is not how good girls behave or maybe you’ll just slide two fingers inside of me and twist deliciously and my smile will be replaced with my eyes closing and my lips opening wide in a moan of authentic pleasure.
I want you to know that that’s hard for me, to show genuine pleasure, outside of myself and my constant inner monologue and allow myself to just gloriously feel for a moment and I want you to understand the trust that goes in to this, and to feel the depth of meaning in the fact that I am willing to show you this part of me. I want you to take a moment as that feeling washes over you and know it is the safekeeping of my heart, yours for the moment. I will still and close my eyes, and in that moment, my inner monologue will begin to whisper judgements and thoughts and wonderings and what ifs and say terrible, awful things until I am lost in a whirlpool of obsessive self reflection until I think of something outside myself as a buoy to pull myself out of the abyss and I will feel the familiar exhaustion creep over me and it is in that moment that I need you to begin to massage my shoulders, kneading deeply, along my neck and collarbones and down to my shoulders.
I want you to feel the way my body contracts and fights and I want you to know it’s not you, it’s anxiety and shame and hesitation and overthinking manifesting beneath your palms, and I want you to feel it melt away as you touch me, because you are safe and comfort and warmth. I want you to to continue, gently and delicately, as you caress my back, walking your thumbs and fingers down my spine, pressing the weary ache that burns through each vertebrae like the key of a piano, and I will sigh. I want you to grin, feeling justified in the smug self satisfaction of knowing it is you who is making me feel this way. I will sigh, or moan, or wriggle underneath you, in pain, in pleasure, and I want you to gently press down on my head, a wordless reminder to be still.
I want you to ask me how I’m doing, if there are any spots you can particularly pay attention to as you work your way across my body. I will nod and make a mumbled joke into the pillow about how good you are at this, I will inquire if you’ve been taking lessons and I will mean it, every time. I want you to keep going, harder, more deeply, feeling the warmth between my legs begin to grow as the distance between pleasure and pain grows shorter in my skin.
I want you to slowly take your thumb and drag it up my thigh until you get to that One Spot That Always Hurts, and I want you to lean over me again, stroking the hair away from my face and smiling as you take in my unfocused eyes and what is absolutely a little bit of drool on my face because this is the best thing that’s happened to me all day, and I want you to tell me to take a deep breath, and I want you to (a little bit not, but a little bit on purpose) go really hard on the spot and feel my muscles contract and contract and then finally, gloriously, feel it release underneath you, and a truly pornographic moan will escape my lips and I will be simultaneously a little bit embarrassed and a little bit more turned on.
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I want you to notice when I start fidgeting and I want you to ask me questions about the music, do I notice that melody and how it intersects with the second violin and the way the trumpets repeat the motif in the next movement, or maybe instead you will start talking about the science of black holes or how hard candy is made and every so often I want you to ask me a question that I should know the answer to and I want you to spank me if I get an answer wrong and I will arch my back and press my ass towards you, begging to be hit, and maybe you will notice and maybe it will turn into a game where you ask me math questions and I will cycle through a maelstrom of delight and frustration and raw desire and sexuality and feeling powerful and feeling ridiculous all while trying to answer questions about basic algebra, or maybe you will ignore this overt gesture for what it is and instead take your thumb and gently start playing with another column topic entirely.
I want you to keep going, every so often telling me to hold still or to take a deep breath or to, dare I say it, be a good girl and take it or count to three, no louder than that, do you think you could go to five until I am limp and exhausted and exhilarated and absolutely soaking wet on the bed. I want you to do that thing where the soul breaking intimacy of a touch on the inside of my forearm is immediately followed by a fucking fuck you you son of an asshole jesus christ motherfucker release of fascia and you will feel it all, a potter at the wheel, pushing and shaping my sharp and exhausting porcelain edges to a basking lump of sunwarmed clay, soft and moveable.
I want you to continue until my body is sore and I am exhausted and, realistically, until bruises are forming on my hips and I cannot keep my eyes open from the relaxation of it all. I want you to continue until my brain is quiet and all there is is silence and the sacred golden glow of pleasureandpainandpleasure and I cannot think of anything to be worried about and I want you to continue until the unending itch in my bones is still and I simply am, all parts of me, all at once, and I am here and now and present and you are here with me and it is perfect.
I want you to hold me, to wrap your arms around me, to whispergrowl tendrils of love into my ears while you play with my hair and maybe even grant me head scratchies, and I want you to see me, all of me, laid out on the bed before you, naked and warm and cozy. I want you to press me against you, warm skin on skin and comfort like a best friend. I want to kiss you, a lot, but not like a weird amount, and then I want you to reach your hand between my legs and feel what a mess you’ve made, and I want you to chuckle a little. And I will, maybe shyly or maybe hungrily or maybe demure and mindfully, I will take your hand and press it against me again and look up at you, and I will ask you a question with my eyes and I want you to slip your fingers inside of me.
I want you to slowly start to circle, one way, then the next, as you work your fingers inside. At some point, you will feel my hips begin to rock in rhythm, and it is here you have some options. Maybe you will go harder, thrusting another finger inside me, filling me as I gasp and moan and match your pursuits by pressing against you harder, wanting more, your feeling me stretch and slip against your fingers and you will make a genuine exclamation of approval as you manage to get in a fourth as you hear me moan in approval, and you will tell me to be a good girl for you, do I think I can do more, and I will nod and throw my head back and continue rocking my hips desperately against your hand.
Or maybe you will stop, and laugh, as you hear me whimper in frustration as you watch me writhe on the bed, desperately seeking the stimulation you’ve so rudely removed so suddenly, and you will, maybe, even call me a desperate slut or your beautiful horny girl and you will keep doing that, bringing me closer and closer to the edge each time until I am begging, pleading for you to let me cum, and maybe you will let me, in one final, frankly shocking werewolf transformation of an orgasm where I will make noises you may not have heard me make before on the internet and you will feel me pulse around you, harder then you think is reasonable, and I will squirt and I will laugh and cum and immediately start apologizing as it runs down your hand and secretly, I will want you to hold me down and make me cum three more times and I will feel greedy in the thinking of it but a girl can dream.
Or maybe this time, you will simply hold me against you as I breathe in your scent, feeling the safety of your arms around me and I will close my eyes, and you will so carefully and so intimately keep working your hand, caressing, grazing, pumping all by turns until my head arches back in pleasure and I close my eyes as I cum, hard, against you, and maybe you will softly, slowly keep going, holding me against you, as I climax over and over again until I am sweaty and exhausted and a little bit embarrassed and I will cuddle against you and you can wrap me in a blanket and call me a good girl and kiss me on the forehead and I will rest my head on your chest as I do nothing but lay there, still, and listen to music.
Whatever you want.
Enjoy this work of Playboy Fiction? Cate Osborn is on the Playboy Club. See more now.
