You push me open, first one finger and then three, I feel your fingers in my cunt, pulsing, moving slow. Each finger moves like a starburst, curling around my questions, stilling me. Stopping me. Making my breath pause for what is eternity until you begin. Again. Your hand pushing further, further until your hard fist fills me, a gentle tugging wave of surrender.

And I lean back. And I say yes. Oh yes.

It wasn't always this way, she and I. I was patient. I was persistence itself, with so many letters edged under her front door, emails tapped away in the darkening nights. Letters filled with pornography and longing. Desires described, celebrated, drawn. I took her this way. Piece by piece, I surrounded her with the knowledge of my long fingers waiting. Pictures of my soft fingertips which I pressed gently into her hands. Never a word spoken. I never gave her my voice. Just my body. Just my hands. But for my voice I made her wait.

In response she sent emails without text. Blank pages that I slipped under my pillow, dreaming of her cloud of red hair against my sheets. I sent her directions to my house. I sketched her my front door, open. I invited her. I waited. I sent her silk scarves and told her I would let her tie me. To whatever bedpost she desired. I drew the outlines of my hands. My fingers, my long fingers. The emails with no words flooded my inbox, her email address a barcode of desire on my calm computer screen.

Yet I was wet all night and hard all morning. I grew restless, anxious, angry. So on Saturday night I wore my biggest dildo and strutted the length of my house, the leather straps of my harness tight. I strapped my chest, put on a crisp clean shirt. My black trousers. My hair slicked back. A hundred percent woman. A hundred percent man. And I went out.

In the club I drank. I smoked. I saw the butches looking, scanning. I pushed my fingers through my hair and met the eyes of a girl I once knew. Her skirt was high and her heels silver. Her eyes asked me questions I didn't know answers to. I let my eyes shift, move across the room, but came back to her. Her silver heels caught the light and she touched my lips, gently. She tried to speak but the music filled the air. I couldn't hear. I didn't want to. I just wanted to fuck her. In the corner of the room she pushed me. Bodies pressing up against, music pounding. When she kissed me my hands found her breasts, her hair, her arse. I cupped her body to me. I was aching. I was all need. But she wasn't the one I wanted.

I knew I was hard for the lady at home playing happy families with hubby. I pictured them, the two, huddled around the TV, watching the lives that weren't theirs. A 1950's paradise, she wearing a cotton apron while he smokes his heavy pipe. In her underwear drawer my letters lying, like hot coals. I pictured her thinking of them, my brave and brilliant words. I saw her turning them around in her mind. The positions. The possibilities. The promises I had made to make her breathe fire.

I left the club. The music, the smoke, I left. Noise still ringing in my ears. I drove fast, too fast. Humidity like an embrace, making me sweat. My tie loose around my neck. I stopped when I saw her house. Its picket fence. Its happy marriage. Its small, white framed windows.

I saw her at the front door, searching for keys and bending down. Home from working late. Her lace panties in the streetlight showing as she bent. My hands in my lap, busy. She turned, she saw, she blushed. I saw the door as it spilled open. Her husband standing in the open doorway, the light large behind him. The shock across my face – perhaps he saw me? – saw my hands under the band of my pants, and my wet mouth open with longing for his wife? The door closed. I heard nothing. The curtains closed.

I began to think myself a fool. I began to picture her laughter, her throaty laughter as she sat with him, showing him my words. My letters. My darkest thoughts. My secret dreams. I button my pants, start the car, thinking of the girl in silver shoes. Would she still be there, at the club?

Then the passenger door opens. A rush of hot air enters the car as you slip in. Your hands shake as you smooth your skirt. You do not speak. You do not beg. You cannot meet my eyes. I lift my eyes to the road and press gently the accelerator. You acquiesce. I take you home.

And that is how I find myself, wet and slick with aching, your fist deep in my pussy, your hair brushing my thighs, and you are there, speaking in tongues, your lipsticked mouth on my ready clit. The red letters of my clock radio saying 2:04am. Hours before the sun. The windows thrown open so the whole street can hear us fuck, the cool breezes blowing over our bodies. And only now do you hear my voice saying, please baby please – don't stop. Don't stop.

And you obey.