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The first time it happened they were drunk, or at least that’s what they told each other the next morning when they were naked, tangled in Corey’s bedsheets and laughing.
Hella smiles to herself, sitting back in her desk chair and looking at the spot in her dorm room where Corey had vanished from, minutes ago. She lets her mind wander back to that night when they had come to know one another intimately.
They’re together, arm-in-arm, and it’s so cold that Hella can see Corey’s breath. It’s so cold that she holds on to him for stability on the wet, slippery cobblestone. They’re laughing at how terribly Corey struck out with the bartender at the after-afterparty that they’re coming home from. He’d spent all night buying complicated drinks and tipping generously only to find out that the man was happily, monogamously married.
“Like you’ve done any better,” Corey says to her.
“I never said I was trying to go home with anyone tonight.”
“Ahh but you’re coming home with me,” Corey says.
Hella laughs and Corey laughs with her.
“We’re going to my flat, it’s closer,” Hella says.
“Ah, so technically you have brought someone home.”
Hella elbows him gently in the side and he pushes her away, then he grabs her by the wrist, looping his elbow around her arm and pulling her back into his side.
“And what do you know, it’s me!” He leans in close and kisses her on the cheek and laughs
She shivers.
“Don’t let your head get too big,” Hella says, softly, without much bravado.
Corey skips ahead of her, “Too late,” he grins.
“I’m going home with Hella Wilsner!” He shouts into the night, his voice echoes down the narrow street.
“Corey!” She hisses.
“The most beautiful woman on the continent has picked me to come home with her,” he shouts, even louder still as he dances, a metre ahead of her.
“You’re sleeping on the couch,” she says.
“And I’m sleeping on her couch,” he declares and then he circles back, still skipping merrily and loops his arm into hers.
“You’re a menace.”
She leans into him this time, resting her head on his shoulder.
Inside of her flat, Corey immediately begins stripping off parts of his elaborate costume. The first to come off is the half-cape made of multi-coloured feathers, then the dainty headpiece covered in sparkling crystals in the same colour. He falls backwards onto the sofa and pulls off his shoulder length white gloves.
Hella kicks off her boots and joins him. Her feet ache from wearing new shoes before properly breaking them in first, but Corey had insisted that nothing else would go with the dirt and grass stained wedding dress that she’s wearing.
She has to hike up the skirt in order to sit next to Corey, and even then, the dress is spilling over into his lap. The afternoon before, they had bought the wedding gown from a second hand store and then taken it down to the Riverfront park so that they could drag it through some mud. She too is wearing a headpiece, but hers is a top hat with sticks and leaves glued carelessly around the brim.
Corey kicks his feet up on the ottoman, his wide legged pants drape dramatically beneath his legs. Hella looks over at him as he fumbles with the buckles on the thick harness that he wears over top of a lacy black undershirt.
“Struggling with that?” Hella asks.
Corey flops backwards, giving up.
“Bondage really isn’t my thing,” he says.
“That’s not what you said last weekend when you were letting that fire dancer tie you up in front of the entire room.”
Corey reddens at that. If it were anyone but Hella, they wouldn’t have noticed. Corey is a master of concealing his own embarrassment and he only blushes light pink on the tip of his nose and the top of his cheeks.
“Well that was different.”
“Was it?”
“Well I wasn’t into the bondage, I was into the fire dancer!”
As he protests, the orange glitter that he’s combed through his dark hair catches in the light.
“Whatever you say.”
“Would you just help me out of this,” Corey says, “It’s yours.”
Hella snorts, “Yeah okay.”
She leans over and easily loosens the leather belt that wraps around his waist. With it loosened, it’s easier to slip a finger underneath of it and flip open the buckle. His skin is warm through his shirt, which she tells herself that she’s noticing, only because she herself is so cold. She loosens the shoulder straps and the harness starts to fall from his shoulders. She has the split second impulse to reach out and touch his chest, right where the harness frames it, curving downward and then upward to create the illusion of boobs. She resists and finishes pulling the harness from his body.
“It is a good look on you,” Hella says as she sets it down on the floor.
“Oh really? Is that a compliment?”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He leans back against the couch, spreading his arms wide and grinning.
Hella shrugs and she clears her throat.
“I’m going to get a washcloth,” she says.
Corey helps her take off her own makeup (shoddily applied red lipstick, and dark, thick brown eyeliner) because he says that she always does it wrong. His face is so close to her face. His straight, full lips are so close to hers. She can see the slope of his nose up close, dramatic and familiar.
“Did you mean it?” He asks, “About the leather gear?”
He brushes the cold washcloth along the top of her eyelid.
Hella laughs, “Narcisist.”
“I just like to know my looks!”
“I did,” she says, “It’s very edgy, and you look good with a little edge.”
“Hmm,” he says absentmindedly, then, “Sorry,” as he swings his legs overtop of her, “I want to get it all off.”
He’s straddling her now, washcloth in hand, looking very intently at her lips. She nods, keeping utterly still as he carefully strips her of the lipstick.
“Looked good with the whole outfit,” Hella adds, “The leather with the lace and the feathers and the glitter. All the right kinds of messy,” she gestures at his whole body with a small hand motion.
She snatches the washcloth out of his hands and turns it on him. First using it to wipe the glitter off of his cheekbones, then to wipe something sticky and pink off of his shoulder.
In the morning, Hella will insist that she doesn’t know who made the first move, but right now, it’s her who puts her hand on the back of Corey’s neck and presses her lips to his.
Corey looks and sounds surprised, but he doesn’t get up, he doesn’t pull back. It is certainly Corey who escalates things. He pushes Hella back, so that her head is resting against the couch, and he kisses her deeply, pushing his tongue inside of her mouth. His teeth scrape against her bottom lip and she groans.
He smirks against her, both of them taking a breath at the same time before Hella surges forward. Her hand slides down to the smallest part of his waist. Her hips buck up against his, rolling against each with the same rhythmic desperation as they’re kissing each other with. He’s getting hard against her, she can feel it every time he moves.
He’s shoving one hand into the top of the wedding gown, reaching in to hold one of her breasts. They’re kissing open mouthed, breathing and moaning and slobbering all over each other. She can feel spit on her cheek and she’s not sure whose it is. Corey’s lips draw a line from her mouth down to her neck. He nips at her pulse point at the same time as he rolls her nipple between two fingers, something that he only knows she likes because she’d sung the praises of a dancer who’d used the same move on her two months ago.
She gasps, angling her head back so that his head slots in nicely against her neck. He grinds against her leg, grunting with irritation when all he has to rub up against is tulle.
Hella grabs his face in both of her hands and forces him to look at her. She laughs.
“Are we doing this?” She asks.
Corey’s eyes are big as he catches his breath, “Can’t believe we haven’t yet, to be frank,” he says.
Hella reaches between them and palms at the front of his pants. He lets out a pinched off whine and buries his head in her shoulders.
“Please,” he gasps, “Please take me to bed.”
Hella nods. She pushes him off of her, but only long enough for her to stand. Just long enough for her to grab him by the waist and pull his body close to hers, to kiss him again, to push him backwards towards the bedroom.
Corey turns from her, making sure that they’re avoiding any obstacles. He does a poor job, his movements are big and clumsy and he knocks into the coatrack behind the sofa.
“Oh shit,” he swings back around trying to catch the mess of jackets falling to the floor. He catches one and drops the others.
“Ah fuck,” Corey says.
He throws the coat over the back of the couch.
Corey’s smiling, grinning actually, when he turns back. Hella finds this eagerness charming and pushes him through the open doorway into her bedroom. She doesn’t think about whether or not this is a bad idea, her good sense is dulled by arousal and gin, and she quite likes it this way.
She doesn’t wait for his help to start taking off the dress. She pushes the bodice down over her chest and her stomach so that it’s bunched at her waist. It gets stuck at her hips no matter how much she pushes.
“I need you to unzip me,” she groans.
She looks at Corey, who’s in the process of unbuttoning his trousers,his lace shirt already discarded somewhere in the mess of her room.
Corey immediately abandons his own buttons to tug at her zipper until it finally budges. None of the Corey that she sees before her is unfamiliar. The dark lusty look in his eyes is one she’s seen on countless nights, at countless parties, directing at countless women and the odd handful of men.
“My eyes are up here.”
His eyes snap upwards from where they had been making contact with her chest.
“Much better,” she says, “Wouldn’t want anyone to think you were un-gentlemanly,” she puts on her poshest accent for the last word.
“Yes yes, of course, I would never do anything ungentlemanly,” he responds in equally posh tones.
He shamelessly refuses to make eye contact as she pushes the dress down over her stomach and her ass. It leaves her standing only in her underwear in front of Corey who she can see straining through the fly of his pants.
He pulls them back together, and this time it’s him who directs. He tugs her gently onto the bed, positioning her on top of him. With one hand on her waist he pulls her hips to his, with the other, he pushes her tit against her chest, squeezing and pushing and watching all of the ways that it moves in his hand. She kisses him again and again and again. On the mouth, on the face, on the neck, on the top parts of his chest.
Hella rolls off of him so that she’s in the middle of the bed and pulls him on top of her. She rolls her hips once, then twice, then he finally gets the hint and presses his hips against hers. She longs to feel more of him as they writhe against one another, both of them needy for something.
“Take these off,” Hella says, pushing at the source of her irritation; his half-undone pants hanging on his hips.
He nods, going in for one last kiss before standing up and shoving his pants down and abandoning them at the side of the bed.
He stands there, looking at Hella like she’s every part of a meal. He licks his lips and she feels goosebumps forming on her arms.
Every part of him has become visible to her; his stomach, his collar bones, the little tuft of hair that leads to his hard cock, his desire for her.
“Hella,” he says.
His eyes trace the outline of her body as it's pressed against her mattress. He travels down her torso, over the curve of her chest, the pinch of her waist, the roundness of her stomach. He follows her thighs down to her knees, down to her calves, down to her ankles, and then back up the other side to the soft, dimpled flesh of her inner thigh, to the coarse hair between her legs.
“Corey,” she answers and she nods.
That’s all he needs to climb back onto the bed, to position himself above her.
There is no teasing. Where other lovers would have caressed her thighs, kissed her from clavicle to stomach, Corey simply parts her thighs wide enough for him to lie between. With one swipe of his tongue, he splits her open.
Hella gasps at the sudden sensation. She props herself up on her elbows only to fall backwards just as soon. He grabs one of her legs just underneath of the knee and pushes it back, letting it fall over one of his shoulders. The new angle is delicious.
He licks into her with strong, deliberate movements, building to something quicker and more desperate. She’s making noises that she’ll deny having ever made in the morning, but equally, he’s moaning into her pubic bone and rubbing his erection against the mattress and whining.
His lips brush against her clit and she groans loud enough that he’ll know he’s doing a good job.
“Fuck, Core,” she fists her hands into his hair and holds him in place.
She feels him taking a steady breath before he presses the entire lower half of his face against her. His tongue makes messy circles around her clit. She lies back and closes her eyes, keeping one hand on top of his head, stroking his hair with the palm of her hand.
He puts one hand on her lower stomach while the other holds her leg in position. She tangles her fingers into his hair and tugs at him, pulling him to look up at her. The entire bottom half of his face is wet.
“Good?” He asks.
“Good,” Hella answers.
And then he puts his head back down.
She’s told him all kinds of things that she likes and doesn’t like, all under the guise of flirtatious friendship. He uses them all to his advantage now that he’s found himself squished between her thighs. He slides in one of his fingers, because she once came back from a date complaining that he “made her come too many times without putting anything inside of her.” He presses his lips together and sucks against her clit because she once espoused “the glory of cunnilingus with someone who sucks on it like they suck cock.” He moans into her because she’s deeply on the record as liking it when her partners get vocal about her pleasure.
He builds up to a steady pace, flicking his tongue over the hard nub of her clit, and flexing two fingers inside of her.
Her grip on his hair tightens as her thighs start trembling around him. On her good honour, she swears that she feels him smile as she gets closer.
“Yes,” she cries out, “Yes,” she repeats over and over, throwing in the occasional, “Corey don’t stop,” as she feels herself approaching the peak of her orgasm.
He doesn’t change a thing, he keeps the same pace, the same rhythm. His body tenses along with hers, as if her orgasm is the most important thing in the world right now, as if he needs it to happen.
She squeezes her eyes shut, her muscles tense, her feet go numb and she clenches her fists. Her fingernails press into the palms of her hands as her hips buck up. Corey keeps his hand on her thigh, pressing her into the mattress as he slows his ministrations, but never quite stops them. He brings her just to the edge of what’s painful and then backs off, planting a soft, wet kiss to her inner thigh, resting his head just below.
He grins like he’s looking at a job well done.