Country Girl Teases Her Mute Boyfriend's Butt Fetish

The screen door stuck on the swollen frame the way it always did, and Talia shoved it with her hip, twenty-two and already knowing every stubborn board of the old farmhouse by feel. Late light lay across the kitchen table in long gold bars. Kofi's notebook sat open where he'd left it when he carried his coffee out to the porch, the spiral binding catching the sun.

She almost closed it without looking. He was twenty-four, mute since a fever years ago had taken his voice, and the notebook was how he talked to her when his hands were busy or the signs got too fast for her still-learning eyes. She respected that book. But the page was already turned toward her, her own name written at the top in his careful print, and she stopped.

Talia. I have to put this somewhere or I'll go crazy with it.

Her pulse climbed as she read.

I love the way she thinks. I love that she argues with me about the soil and the rain and whether the tomatoes need another week. I love her laugh and the way her drawl gets thicker when she's tired. I would rather sit on that porch and listen to her talk for the rest of my life than touch anyone else. That is the truth, and I need it written down so I don't forget it when the other thing gets loud.

The other thing.

Her ass. I can't stop looking. When she bends to pull weeds I have to turn away or I'll stare until she catches me. The way those cutoff shorts ride up. The weight of her, sun on her skin, the way she walks like she owns the ground. I want to put my face there. I want to hold her open and breathe her in and lick her until she can't stand. I want her cheeks in my hands, both of them, spreading her, massaging her, nuzzling in until I can't tell where I end. I get hard just watching her walk away from me. I am ashamed of how much I want it. She is not a body for me to use. She is Talia. If she knew, she would think I don't see her at all. I do. I see her first. Her mind. Her mouth running on about nothing and everything. The rest of it is a hunger I don't know how to carry without dirtying what we have. I will not ask. I will not make her feel like a piece of meat. I would rather ache.

Talia's mouth had gone dry. Heat moved low in her belly, slow and thick as honey left in the sun. She read it twice, standing barefoot on the cool kitchen boards, one hand braced on the table. The shame in the lines was real. So was the wanting. And underneath both of them, plain as the print, was the man she already knew. The one who brought her wildflowers and wrote her notes about the book she was halfway through. The one who sat through her long stories about her mama's kitchen and her daddy's bad knees and never once looked bored, his eyes on her face like her words were the whole weather. Months of porch talks and quiet drives and his pencil racing to keep up with her had already taught her the truth. He cherished her mind. He cherished her personality, her temper, her jokes, the way she thought a thing all the way through before she said it. The notebook only proved it in his own hand, right beside the secret he was afraid would ruin that.

She was not ruined. She was lit up.

Empowered. That was the word that rose in her, surprising and hot. He had been protecting her from a desire she would have welcomed with both hands. He thought wanting her backside meant he didn't respect her. She knew better, knew it in her bones, and the knowledge sat in her like a key turning in a lock she hadn't realized was there. Delicious tension pulled tight between what he'd hidden and what she already trusted. Her pussy clenched around nothing. A smile started, slow, private, a little wicked.

Outside, the porch boards creaked under his weight. She could see him through the screen, long-limbed and quiet in a faded T-shirt, watching the fields go gold. Twenty-four. Her boyfriend. Mute, and more eloquent with a pencil than most men were with a whole tongue. Ashamed of a hunger she suddenly wanted to feed until neither of them could think straight.

Talia closed the notebook. She did not feel guilty for reading what he'd left open in the middle of their shared table. She felt chosen, and aroused, and very sure of what she wanted to do with the rest of the afternoon.

She went down the hall to the bedroom and changed into the denim cutoffs. They were old, bleached pale across the seat, the hems frayed into white threads that tickled the undersides of her cheeks when she walked. No panties underneath. The decision made her thighs press together. A thin tank top, nothing else that would get in the way. She looked at herself in the mirror nailed beside the dresser: sun-kissed skin, the kind of tan that came from real work in real fields, a body that had never been delicate and had stopped apologizing for it years ago. Her ass filled the shorts and then some, plump and high and exactly what he'd been afraid to name. She turned, looked over her shoulder, and smiled at her own reflection like a woman who had just been handed a gift she intended to unwrap in front of him.

Then she went out to the porch.

Kofi looked up when the screen door banged. His face did what it always did when he saw her. It softened, brightened, the corner of his mouth lifting in that quiet way that had undone her the first week she knew him. He set his mug on the rail. His hands started to shape a greeting and then stalled, because she wasn't walking toward the chair beside him. She was walking to the open stretch of porch where the late sun hit full, and she was moving like she had a song only she could hear.

"Evenin', darlin'," she said, letting the drawl sit thick on her tongue. "You left your book open on the table."

His eyes flicked toward the kitchen. Color rose under his brown skin, high on his cheekbones. He reached for a notebook that wasn't there, then dropped his hands, fingers curling against his thighs. Shame arrived all over him, in his shoulders, in the way he wouldn't quite meet her eyes. She watched it land and she did not let it settle.

"I read it," she said. "The page with my name on it. All of it."

He looked like he might stand and leave, or fold in on himself. His throat worked. No sound came, the way no sound ever came, but she could see the apology trying to build in the set of his mouth. She stepped closer, close enough that he had to tip his head back in the chair to hold her gaze, and she put two fingers under his chin so he couldn't look away.

"Don't you dare go writin' me a sorry note before I finish talkin'." Her voice stayed warm, sure. "I know you. I know you love the way I think. I know you'd sit out here and listen to me run my mouth about nothin' till the stars came up, and you'd mean every minute of it. You put that in the book before you put the other thing. I saw it. So don't you sit there actin' like wantin' my ass means you don't see me. I ain't a fool, Kofi. And I ain't offended."

His breath left him in a rush. His eyes were wide, wet at the edges, searching her face for the trick and not finding one.

"I'm aroused," she said plainly, because he deserved the plain word and she was done dancing around it. "Readin' that made me wet. And I feel powerful as hell knowin' I can do this to you just by existin', just by walkin' away from you in these shorts. You were scared you'd objectify me. You didn't. You put my mind first in your own private book, when nobody was gonna grade you on it. That's how I know. So here's what's gonna happen." She held his eyes. "You're gonna sit right there. You're gonna watch. And you ain't gonna touch me till I say you can. If you don't want this, you shake your head and I'll stop and we'll talk it out with your pencil and I'll still love you in the mornin'. You understand me?"

He nodded. Once. Hard. No hesitation in it, only hunger finally allowed to show its face. His hands stayed on his own thighs, obedient, shaking a little.

"Good boy," she said, soft, and watched the words hit him like a hand between his shoulders.

She turned her back to him and let the quiet stretch. The fields rolled out beyond the rail, green going gold, a line of pines black against the lowering sun. Cicadas had started their evening racket. A breeze came up off the grass and cooled the sweat at the nape of her neck. She set her feet apart on the warm boards, rolled her shoulders, and began to move.

Slow, at first. A roll of her hips that started low in her spine and traveled down until her ass swayed, heavy and deliberate, the denim pulling tight across both cheeks and then loosening as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. She did it again. Hypnotic. She could feel the seam of the shorts pressing into her, could feel the air on the strip of bare skin below the frayed hems. Behind her, Kofi made a sound that wasn't a word, a caught breath, almost a groan, punched out of a throat that had forgotten how.

"You like that," she said, not asking. She glanced over her shoulder. His hands were fists on his knees. His eyes were locked on the motion of her, dark and starving and still somehow full of that careful love she trusted more than anything. The combination made her wetter. She let him see her smile. "Keep lookin'. This is for you. I want you lookin'. I want you sittin' there hard in your pants because of me, and I want you to know I like it."

She bent her knees and gave it to him harder. Booty shaking, the kind that made her cheeks move and softly clap inside the denim, a slow side-to-side she dragged out until her thighs burned and her lower back sang. She circled her hips. She popped one cheek and then the other, watching his face over her shoulder the whole time, drinking in the way his lips parted and his chest rose too fast. Then she planted her palms on her own knees, arched, and twerked. Short, sharp pops of her hips, energetic, the cutoff shorts riding higher with every bounce until the lower curves of her ass flashed bare beneath the frayed hems. The porch boards answered her. Her tank top stuck to the small of her back. Sweat gathered between her shoulder blades and she didn't care. She was grinning, breathless, powerfully turned on by the control of it, by the knowledge that she could stop or go harder and he would take whatever she chose to give.

"Lord," she laughed, low and rough. "You're sittin' there tryin' so hard to be good. I can feel you holdin' yourself still. That's sweet. That's so sweet I might lose my mind."

She twerked until the rhythm lived in her hips without her having to think about it, until her pussy throbbed in time with the bounce, until the denim was a frustrating scrape against skin that wanted air and hands and his mouth. Her ass jiggled and snapped and she put on a show like the porch was a stage and he was the only audience that had ever mattered. Every time she glanced back he was rapt, ashamed of nothing now except maybe how badly he wanted to get out of that chair. She loved him for staying in it. She loved him for the notebook. She loved the hot, filthy power of making him watch.

Then she straightened, hooked her thumbs in the waistband, and looked back at him one more time so he would see her face when she did it. See that this was her choice, her appetite, not something taken.

"Last part," she said. Her voice had gone husky. "You ready?"

He nodded, wrecked, beautiful, both hands white-knuckled on his knees.

Talia pushed the cutoffs down. They caught on the wideness of her hips and she worked them past, slow, peeling denim off sun-kissed skin, bending as she went so he got the full reveal inch by inch. The shorts slumped around her ankles. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside. Bare. The evening air kissed her ass and the wetness between her thighs and she shivered, not from cold. She bent at the waist, set both hands on the porch railing, and pushed her backside out toward him in a full, unhidden moon. Both cheeks, the cleft between them, the gleam of how aroused the teasing had made her. She held it. Let him look his fill at what he'd been afraid to want out loud.

"There," she said. "That's what you wrote about. That's mine to give, and I'm givin' you the look of it. You want to touch me, Kofi?"

His nod was immediate. His hands lifted an inch off his knees and stopped, waiting, because she had told him to wait and he was still the man who would not take what wasn't offered.

"Then I'm tellin' you yes." She spread her stance a little wider, ass still presented, heart hammering against her ribs. "You have my permission. Touch me. However you need to. Nuzzle me, lick me, put your hands on me. I want it. I want you. This is me askin'. Come here."

The chair scraped. He was on his knees before the sound finished, the porch boards hard under him, and then his hands were on her. Both of them. Big, warm, careful for one stunned second and then not careful at all, palms filling with the weight of her cheeks, squeezing, spreading. A groan vibrated against her skin as he pressed his face in.

Talia's fingers clamped the railing. "Oh. Oh, honey."

He nuzzled deep. There was no other word for it. His nose, his mouth, the rough of his evening stubble, all of it buried in the cleft of her ass like he had been drowning on dry land and this was air. He breathed her in, loud and shaky, and the heat of that breath on her asshole made her jerk and then push back, greedy. He held her open with both hands and nuzzled harder, rubbing his face between her cheeks, smearing his mouth over her, worshipping with the whole of his attention the way he worshipped her words when she talked. Devoted. Hungry. Ashamed of nothing now that she had unlocked the door and invited him through it.

"That's it," she panted. "Right there. God, Kofi, you feel so good. Don't you stop. I gave you permission and I meant it. Take what you wrote about."

He licked. A long, wet stripe, flat-tongued, starting low where her pussy had already soaked her and dragging up, slow, over her entrance, through the sensitive skin between, and all the way over her asshole. She cried out, the sound bouncing off the fields and coming back thinner. He did it again. And again. Long wet stripes, patient and filthy, licking her asshole and her pussy from behind like he meant to learn every fold by taste. His tongue circled her rim, soft and then firmer, teasing the tight ring of muscle until her knees nearly went. She braced harder against the railing, wood grain biting her palms, ass tipped up, offering him everything she had.

"Yes. Yes, lick me. Both. I don't care, I want all of it, I want your mouth on my ass, oh my God, just like that."

He massaged while he licked. Both hands working her plump cheeks, kneading deep, spreading her wider so his tongue could get where it wanted, then squeezing her back together around his face and groaning into her like a man at prayer. The pressure was perfect, grounding and dirty at once. He thumbed the muscle of her ass, dug his fingers in until she knew she'd feel the shape of his grip tomorrow, pulled her open and held her there and licked a steady, devoted path from her dripping pussy up to her hole and back down. Over and over. Until she was grinding on his face without deciding to. Her hips rolled. She fucked back against his tongue, chasing it, painting his mouth and his chin with how wet he'd made her.

"You're drivin' me wild," she managed, and it came out broken, Southern vowels dragged long by pleasure. "The way you hold me open and just eat me. I can feel how much you want it. I can feel you lovin' it. Don't you hide from me anymore. This ain't objectifyin' me. This is you lovin' me with your mouth where I told you to. Take it."

He took it. He nuzzled in again between licks, face buried so deep she felt the bridge of his nose against her, his breath huffing hot over spit-slick skin. One hand kept massaging, palm rolling over the curve of her cheek, squeezing, releasing, squeezing again, while the other spread her and his tongue pushed at her asshole in small, filthy strokes that made her toes curl against the boards. The devotion in it undid her. He wasn't rushing to get somewhere else. He was exactly where his notebook had confessed he wanted to be, and he was grateful, and he was starving, and both of those things lived in the way his hands never left her.

Then he dropped lower and sealed his mouth over her pussy from behind, sucking, tongue sliding into her, and the switch punched a sob of pleasure out of her chest. She dripped. She could hear it, obscene and wet in the quiet country air, his mouth working, his nose pressed to her, his hands kneading her ass like she was something sacred he had finally been allowed to touch. He licked back up without being asked. Long stripe. Asshole. Back down. Pussy. A rhythm he built with his whole face, nuzzling when he needed to breathe and never really leaving her, spreading her cheeks wide so nothing was hidden from him.

The sun sat fat and orange on the tree line. Cicadas screamed. Talia moaned loud enough that if anyone had been in the near fields they would have heard a woman coming apart on her own porch, and she did not care. She ground back against his tongue and his face, ecstatic, chasing the tight bright coil winding up through her belly. Her clit throbbed, swollen and untouched, and she didn't need fingers on it, not with the way he was devouring her, not with his hands spreading her plump cheeks and his tongue striping her hole and dipping into her pussy and his whole hungry devotion poured into the part of her he had been afraid to want. Every knead of his palms sent a fresh shock up her spine. Every nuzzle made her wetter. She was shaking, braced on the railing, pushing her ass into his worship like she could climb inside the feeling and live there.

"Kofi. Honey. I'm gonna come. Don't stop, don't you dare stop, right there, lick me, oh fuck, I'm right there—"

It hit her like weather rolling in off the fields. A shuddering orgasm, full-body, her thighs shaking, her ass clenching around nothing and around the flat of his tongue as he kept licking her through it because he felt her coming and would not abandon her in it. She moaned, long and raw and unpretty, grinding back helplessly, dripping down onto his chin and his kneeling mouth, the railing biting her palms. Wave after wave. He massaged her through all of it, hands steady and greedy, mouth devoted, nuzzling back in when her hips jerked so he wouldn't lose her, licking long wet stripes over her asshole and her pulsing pussy until the shocks softened into aftershocks and she was gasping, laughing a little, wrecked and shining with sweat.

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay, darlin'. You did so good. Come up here. I want your mouth."

She turned on unsteady legs. Her cutoffs were a pale heap on the boards. She was bare from the waist down, flushed, sun-kissed skin gone rosy across her chest, her ass still tingling from his stubble and his tongue and the deep work of his hands. Kofi looked up at her from his knees, mouth wet, chin shining, eyes blown dark, and the love in his face was so plain it undid her all over again. No shame left in it. Only her. She caught his wrists and pulled him to his feet. He came willingly, tall over her, hard against the front of his pants, breathing hard through a smile he couldn't hide.

Talia kissed him. Deep. She tasted herself on his tongue, salty and sweet, and didn't shy from it. She licked into his mouth and felt him groan against her, hands hovering at her sides until she dragged them back to her waist and then around to the ass he'd just worshipped, giving him permission to keep holding what he'd wanted. While she kissed him she reached down, opened his pants with unsteady fingers, and freed his cock. Thick, hot, still hard, slick at the tip from how long he had knelt there wanting her. She guided him between her thighs. Not inside her. Between. The length of him slid along her soaked pussy, nestled in the wet heat of her, and she closed her legs around him and held him there, kissing him through the shiver that ran up both of them at once.

They broke the kiss because they had to breathe. Foreheads touched. His cock throbbed once, trapped sweet and snug between her thighs, and she smiled against his mouth at the feeling of it. Out past the railing the sun was going down over the fields, the whole country burning quiet gold and then softer, pink at the edges of the sky. Kofi's hands rested on her hips, warm, sure, no apology in the grip. Talia looked at him, breathless, and he looked back, wide open, smiling, the notebook's secret turned into something they were both holding in the open air.

She stayed right there with him in the afterglow, his smile answering hers, the porch smelling like evening and sex and cut grass, and let that be the whole of the world for as long as the light lasted.