Rooftop Glass: Remote Egg Orgasms

The club sat under the avenue like a held breath, all low amber lamps and cigarette-colored shadows, and I kept my hand in my pocket around the little black remote while the quartet warmed up. You were twenty-four and impossible in that dress, Cassidy, and I was Benedict, twenty-nine, already half-wrecked from walking you in on my arm. We had talked this through for weeks in the apartment, both of us clear-eyed, both of us saying yes until the word felt worn smooth. No surprises between us. You wanted the egg. You wanted my hand on the switch. You wanted to find out how long you could sit in a room full of people and pretend you were only there for the jazz.

Before we left, you had bent over our bed and let me work the sleek remote egg into your pussy, slow, with your own slick and a patient thumb, until it nested deep and the thin retrieval cord rested inside the edge of your black panties. You had kissed me after, shaky and grinning, and told me you could already feel it waiting. I had promised I would stop the second you tapped my wrist twice. You had laughed into my mouth and said you would tap if you needed to, and until then I should ruin you. That was the whole agreement. Eager. Mutual. Ours.

The saxophone climbed a long blue note. I thumbed the remote once, lowest setting, a murmur under the music. Your thighs tightened under the little round table. You bit your lip and cut me a look that was half warning and half plea, color already rising in your cheeks. I kept my face mild, a man on a date, and let the pulse die. The ice in your club soda clicked. We had skipped liquor on purpose. You wanted every second of this sharp, and so did I.

“Be good,” I said near your ear, and you shivered as if the words had their own dial.

The singer came in husky, and I gave you another short throb, then a longer one, the remote warm in my fist. You crossed your legs and uncrossed them. I could picture the egg seated in you, the way your cunt would flutter when I teased the button. Your hand found my knee and squeezed, nails careful, a silent yes that matched the one you had given me at the door. Around us, couples in their thirties and forties leaned into each other over short glasses of something we were not drinking. Nobody looked at you long enough to know. You played it with your mouth parted and your eyes on the stage while your body gave you away in small, gorgeous flinches.

The tenor sax moaned through the next tune, low and filthy, and I answered it with three quick pulses that made your hips twitch against the velvet chair. You caught your lip between your teeth and held it there, eyes bright, daring me and begging me in the same look. I smiled like we were only sharing a private joke and slid my free hand along your thigh under the table, not to finish you, just to feel how tense you had gone.

The low throb never quite died after that. I kept it idling under the table, a mean little motor you could not ignore, and watched it work on you the way heat works on glass. Your cheeks went from warm to flushed. You pressed your thighs together and tried to look composed while the egg purred in your pussy, and every time the saxophonist bent a note you made a tiny helpless sound you hoped the brass would cover. I could see the pulse in your throat. I could see you fighting not to rock.

I leaned in until my mouth was at your ear and told you exactly how I meant to ruin you later, because you had asked me, on the walk over, to talk you through it, and because the words always made you wetter than the toy.

“I’m going to get you somewhere with a view,” I murmured, “and I’m going to put my mouth on your clit while that egg is still buried in you. Then I’m going to pull it out and fuck you until your legs stop working.”

Your breath broke. You nodded, small and fierce, and your nails dug into my knee hard enough to promise me you meant it. I nudged the remote up one setting. Not the top. Not yet. The new buzz rolled through you and your eyes went briefly unfocused, lashes low, mouth open on a breath you refused to turn into a moan. A waiter in his forties passed with a tray. You managed a smile that almost looked ordinary.

I let you ride that edge through two more songs. Your color stayed high. Your thighs stayed locked. Once you shifted and I knew, from the jump of your shoulders, that the egg had seated exactly where you needed it, and I killed the vibration for ten cruel seconds so you would not tip over in the club. You made a wounded little noise into my shoulder.

“Not here,” I said. “I want the first one on glass.”

You swallowed and nodded. The agreement sat between us as solid as the table. You could have tapped my wrist. You did not. You wanted the ache, and I wanted to give it to you somewhere the night opened wide.

I took my phone out and texted Roman, the rooftop garden’s manager, thirty-six and reliable, a man who had told me more than once that the garden was wasted after midnight. I told him we wanted it alone after hours, no staff, and that we would lock the door behind us. His reply landed before the chorus ended. Come up. Key under the mat. Don’t make me regret it, Benedict.

I showed you the screen. Your eyes went wide and hungry. “Now?” you whispered.

“Now,” I said, and I thumbed the egg down to a faint idle so you could walk without folding in the aisle.

We paid and climbed out into air that still held the day’s heat, sultry on your bare arms. The service stair was where Roman had said, and the key waited under the mat. The garden door opened on gravel, potted citrus, and a dark run of lawn. He had kept his word. We were alone. I turned the lock and pocketed the key, and the city answered from far below in a scatter of white and gold.

The railings were glass, thick and clear, running the whole edge. Far under them the street moved: a man of about forty in a suit checking his phone, a woman of thirty in a long coat laughing into hers, none of them looking up. You went to the glass like it had your name on it. I set my hands on your hips, and you leaned back into me, already breathing hard.

“Still yes?” I asked against your hair.

“Yes,” you said. “Crank it. I want it mean. I want to feel it before you even get your mouth on me.”

I backed you against the railing until the cool glass met your spine through the silk. I took the remote out where you could see my thumb. Your eyes locked on it. You nodded once more, explicit, hungry, sure. I pushed the dial to the highest setting.

The egg roared to life inside you.

You made a sound that was almost a sob and grabbed the glass with both hands, knuckles pale, dress twisting at your waist as your hips jerked. The highest setting was not a tease. It was a relentless, thick buzz seated deep in your cunt, and I watched it take you apart in the open air. Wind off the street lifted the hem of your dress. City light climbed the glass and painted your throat. Far below, those grown pedestrians kept walking, small and oblivious, and the distance made you bolder instead of smaller.

I dropped to my knees on the warm stone. Your panties were already soaked through, the black cotton dark and clinging, the retrieval cord a thin pale line against your thigh. I dragged the panties down to your knees and left them there, a hobble, and the smell of you hit me, hot and sweet and shameless. The egg’s base sat just inside you, buzzing so hard I could see the faint tremor in your lower belly. I spread you with my thumbs and put my mouth on your clit.

You cried out, then bit it back, then failed. My tongue was flat and filthy and patient, licking you in slow, heavy strokes while the egg hammered the deep place I could not reach with my mouth. I sealed my lips around your clit and sucked, and your hips punched forward, grinding your pussy against my face, smearing me. The glass rattled softly in its frame when you shoved back against it. I groaned into you and did it again, tongue flicking, then circling, then pressing until your thighs shook around my ears.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Benedict, don’t you dare stop. They’re right there, they’re walking, and I’m going to—”

“Come,” I said into your cunt, and I sucked harder.

It hit you like a blow. Your first orgasm broke against the glass, shattering, loud, your voice cracking open over the garden while your pussy clenched and fluttered around the merciless egg. I held your hips and licked you through it, tasting the rush of you, feeling your clit throb against my tongue. Your knees buckled. I pinned you to the railing so you would not fall, and you came and came, sobbing my name, one hand fisted in my hair, the other slapping the glass. Far below, a man in a dark coat kept walking. A woman with a shopping bag did not look up. They had no idea you were coming apart above them, soaked and shaking, the night air on your bare ass.

I stayed on my knees until the worst of the shaking eased, kissing the inside of your thigh, letting you hear how wet my mouth was. Then I stood, turned you, and bent you over the railing. The glass was cold under your breasts through the thin dress. Your panties still tangled your knees. Your ass tilted up for me, glistening, and the cord of the egg hung between your thighs, shining. Down on the street, headlights slid past like slow fish. Nobody glanced at the dark garden.

“Pull it out,” you said, wrecked and clear. “I want your cock. I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”

I wrapped the cord around my fingers and yanked. The egg came free with a wet, obscene sound, dripping, still buzzing in my fist like a furious little heart. I switched it off and shoved it into my pocket, and then I had my pants open, my cock out, thick and aching, the head already wet. I dragged it through your slick, once, twice, coating myself in what the toy and my tongue had pulled out of you. You pushed back, impatient, animal, and I lined up and sank in.

Deep. All the way. Your pussy was scalding, swollen from the egg, and it swallowed me in one long, greedy clutch that punched the air out of both of us. I grabbed your hips and held there, buried, feeling you flutter, feeling how open and desperate you were. Then I started to fuck you. Not careful. Not polite. Animalistic strokes, deep and mean, my hips slapping your ass, the sound filthy in the quiet garden. The railing thumped a soft rhythm under your hands. You moaned into the night with no music left to hide you, and you took every inch.

I pounded you through it. One hand in your hair, not cruel, just claiming, the other spread over your lower back to keep you bent and offered. Every thrust shoved a wet sound out of you. Your cunt gripped and released, gripped harder, and I could feel the second one building in the way you went tight and started to babble.

“Harder,” you said. “Fuck, Benedict, harder, I’m going to scream, I don’t care if they hear—”

“Then scream,” I growled, and I fucked you harder, deep as I could go, the head of my cock kissing the end of you on every stroke.

Your second orgasm tore out of you screaming. You came around my cock in hard, milking pulses, voice breaking over the rooftops, and I did not slow down. I pounded you through it, animal and relentless, riding the clutch of your pussy while you shook and sobbed and soaked my cock and my balls. Your hands slipped on the glass. I hauled you back onto me and kept going until the scream thinned into a wrecked, grateful moan and your legs trembled like they might quit.

I pulled out just long enough to spin you. You were flushed, mouth open, gorgeous and ruined and still reaching for me. I lifted one of your legs, hooked it high on my hip, and drove back into your dripping pussy while you faced me. The new angle made you gasp. Your clit dragged against me with every thrust. The glass was at your back again, city lights in your eyes, my cock buried to the root.

“Look at me,” I said. “This one you give me looking at me.”

You did. You held my face and took it, moaning each time I sank in, your lifted leg tightening, your pussy already climbing again. I fucked you in deep, rolling strokes, then sharper ones, the wet slap of us loud between the plants. Your nails bit my shoulders through my shirt. I felt you start to clench, that warning grip, and I drove in and stayed deep, grinding, giving you pressure exactly where the egg had left you swollen and raw.

“Come on my cock,” I told you. “Third one. Give it to me.”

You broke with a hoarse cry, clenching around me so hard I had to grit my teeth not to follow you. Your third orgasm rolled through your whole body, your cunt pulsing, sucking, fluttering, your heel digging into my ass to keep me in. I held you up and let you use me, watching your face while you came, beautiful and animal and mine, the glass cold at your spine and the city glittering under your shoulder.

Still buried in your spasming pussy, I put my mouth to your ear and growled the filth you like. “That’s my girl. Still gripping me. You came where the street could almost see you, and you’re going to come again. Take it while they walk under you and never know.”

I thrust harder, deep and driving, your leg still hooked on me. You were oversensitive and you still chased it, moaning yes against my jaw. Anonymous pedestrians passed below, a pair of men in work boots and a woman in a pale coat, all of them grown, all of them unaware. You looked down, saw them, and clenched. The next orgasm hit you while I was buried to the hilt, sharp and helpless, your pussy pulling at my cock in tight rhythmic spasms while you shook and laughed once, breathless, amazed.

I pulled out at the last second and painted your trembling thighs with thick ropes of cum, hot stripes across your skin and the tops of your panties. You sagged against the glass railing, dress rucked up, chest heaving. I leaned into you, both of us panting, both of us grinning at the wicked thrill of it, very public, very consensual, and entirely ours.

I was already scheming. I kissed your temple and said, low, “Next Friday. Same egg. The hotel mezzanine with the glass overlook. Corner table. I won’t let you come until we’re against their railing too.” You nodded into my throat, shaky and sure, already yes.