May I
Our last Thanksgiving, the night we stopped playing almost.
⚠️ Content Warning (18+): Explicit sexual content between consenting adults. All characters are 18+. Includes oral sex, a “May I / You may” consent dynamic, and unprotected sex. If that’s not for you, feel free to skip this one.
My phone buzzes under the pillow—three dots, then the code we’ve used since sophomore year:
🌙🪟→
Translation: I’m coming over. Outside door.
Thanksgiving at our place is in full blast upstairs—laughter, dishes, the Lions trying to remember how to football. Down here in the basement, it’s dim and quiet, the way I like it before big days. I pad across the carpet in boxers, no shirt, skin still warm from a post-turkey shower. Running backs collect muscles like trophies; the basement air turns them into chill bumps.
Another buzz: 2 mins. Don’t lock me out, MVP.
I flip the deadbolt on the side entrance and crack the door. Cold slides in first, then Maya—hood up, long coat swallowing her to mid-calf. Her cheeks are pink from November. She’s eighteen like me, London-bound in January, and she moves like the night made space.
“Hey,” she whispers, stepping in. “Upstairs is a zoo. I went looking for you, realized you’d vanished, ran next door to change, and came back.”
I kick the door shut and click the lock. The rush of cold air bumps into the last steam of my shower; soap and skin-warmth meet the faint vanilla-amber on her scarf, and the basement smells like trouble I’ve wanted for years.
“Why aren’t you up there with everybody?” she asks, voice low, eyes searching my face.
“I should be,” I say. “But this is the last Thanksgiving.”
She frowns. “You’re just going to college. You’ll have a million more with your family.”
My chest tightens the way it does right before a snap—breath shallow, everything loud inside. I rub my thumb over the old callus on my palm to steady the nerves that Friday nights never touch. “It’s the last Thanksgiving with you,” I say.
Her breath catches; the line of her throat works like she just swallowed something bright. Color rises in her cheeks, not just from the cold. The lace at her neckline lifts with a fuller inhale, and for a second neither of us looks away.
The coat unspools from her shoulders, and underneath is the slate-blue slip I can’t stop remembering from last summer. Thin straps. A little bow at the center like a secret. The fabric whispers when she moves; a hint of skin-warm lotion and cool night air rides off it. My mouth goes dry in a good way. We’ve been next-door kids since we were seven—our moms grew up side by side, and Thanksgiving has always been a two-house tradition, a shared fence and a shared table. That’s the story of us: neighbors, families braided, growing up together.
“You’re—uh—underdressed,” she says, eyes doing a quick tour of abs I didn’t specifically invite. Her gaze lingers at the waistband of my boxers—at the obvious shape there—and she bites the corner of her lip before she remembers to look back up.
“Laundry day,” I lie.
She laughs into her scarf, unwinding it. “May I sit?” she asks, chin tipping toward the bed.
“You may,” I say, patting the edge of the quilt.
She drops the coat on the chair by my desk and toes out of her flats. The house rumbles above us—cabinets, cousins, a timer that no one claims. Down here it’s just the two of us, exactly how we’ve been sneaking it from time to time for years without ever stepping over the line.
“You good?” she asks, eyes skimming the old posters, the taped-up play diagrams, circling back to me.
“Yeah. Just…thinking about next year.” In nine months I’ll be running behind a different line, far from this basement, this door, from her. She’s leaving sooner—London. The word sits heavy in my mouth, like a one-way ticket I’m not ready to punch.
She leans against the window well. Outside, the maple in our shared yard chews up the wind. Inside, her dress straps look like lines on a music staff.
“I’m leaving too,” she says, like I don’t know her itinerary by heart. “Feels like the last level of a game we’ve been playing forever.”
“What game?”
Her smile angles. “May I.”
We played it as little kids—Mother May I—her voice sending me giant steps across each other’s living rooms. As we got older, the game shrank into a private rule between us: always ask first, always answer clean. One of us says, May I…? and the other says, You may—or Not today. May I walk you home? May I borrow your hoodie? May I sit? May I stay? It became a language only we speak, a way to make room for yes and easy exits for no. It shouldn’t still matter. It does.
She sits closer than the quilt requires. My heartbeat climbs the stadium stairs, not winded. There’s a strand of hair trespassing her cheek like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
“You’re quiet,” she says.
“You’re leaving,” I answer.
“I am,” she says, and she doesn’t blink. “And we keep not saying what we mean.”
She’s right. We’ve been speaking in parentheses for a year—me with practices, her with passports, both of us pretending it’s funny how many late-night walks home turned into longer driveways and longer goodbyes.
I clear my throat. “Okay. No parentheses.”
“Deal.” She tucks the wandering strand behind her ear. “Then start.”
I start with the truth I can carry. “I’m going to miss you. A lot.”
“Same.” She nudges my knee with hers. “Your turn to ask.”
“May I—” The words jump the line like they’re late to warmups. “May I hold your hand?”
Her mouth does that half-smile I’ve known since braces and paper-cut valentines. “You may,” she says, and her fingers slip into mine like she’s always known the route.
Her hand is cool from the night and then warm from me. The ceiling pipes hum; someone laughs two floors up. I stare at our hands like they’re a new play drawn on my palm.
“Your turn,” I say.
She studies my face. “May I feel your chest?”
“You may,” I say. Her palm lands warm on my sternum, fingers spreading like she’s counting ribs; my heartbeat thuds steady into her hand. The pad of her thumb skims lightly over an old turf mark and I can’t tell whether to breathe slower or faster. Then she slides in, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, a puzzle waiting on its last piece. She smells like vanilla and the citrus from my mom’s fancy soap, and beneath that is something only I get to know: the quiet after a long day, the stretch before a sprint.
“May I tell you something?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been obsessed with you since we were little.” She says it like a dare and like a confession. “I didn’t have the word yet. But I knew.”
My laugh breaks on something inside me. “That makes two of us.”
She leans in, forehead against mine. “Okay,” she whispers. “Let’s finish the game?”
“May I kiss you?” I ask, because words matter. Because if this is the last level, I want to play it right.
“You may.” It’s barely a sound.
I meet her halfway—soft at first, the kind of kiss that reads the room before it speaks. She tastes like stolen cinnamon pie. We pause and breathe and go again, deeper. Her hand finds my chest again, spreads warm, then drifts to my stomach in a slow, careful caress. I’m lost in the way she unwinds my world with a simple twirl of her fingers against my abs.
Somewhere above us, a touchdown lands—cheers explode, pounding the vents—and nobody’s coming to check on us. Heat pools low and steady, then climbs. She shifts onto her knees on the mattress, the dress riding up her thigh, and I have to swallow a thank‑you to whoever engineered a mattress that doesn’t squeak.
“May I—” she starts, then laughs under her breath. “This is getting awkward.”
“Good awkward,” I say. My hands rest at her waist, not pushing, not pulling, just there. “May you what? You’re almost there.”
She nods, suddenly serious. “May I ask the question we’ve always wanted to ask?” She exhales. “I don’t want to leave wishing I’d been braver.”
“You’re being braver than I ever was. Don’t stop now,” I say, even though my voice is low and a little wrecked.
She kisses me again, slower, like she’s rewriting something old. The room fades into edges: the hum of the vent, the scratch of quilt threads on my wrists, the tiny catch in her breath when I trace my thumb along her hipbone.
“May I take these off?” she asks, fingertips hooking the waistband of my boxers.
“You may,” I say.
She eases them down, knuckles grazing my hips; cool air meets warm skin. I inhale—sharp; her eyes flick up, widen, then settle with a quiet, satisfied oh.
“Now my turn,” I murmur.
I hook a finger at the ribbon on her dress instead. “May I?”
Her eyes flick to the door and then back to mine. “You may,” she says.
I undo the bow; the ribbon loosens with a sigh, fabric soft under my suddenly careful hands. She shivers—not from cold, but from the way the room has gone very, very quiet around us.
I ease the straps off her shoulders; the loosened slip slides down her body in a hush and pools at her feet. She steps out of it, bare and breathtaking in the low basement light.
“Hey,” I say, because I want this crystal clear. “Maya. We can stop whenever.”
She smiles at my full-name tone. “I know. That’s one of the reasons.”
“Reasons?” I ask.
“That I picked you,” she says, and it lands like a whistle I’ve been waiting to hear.
She swallows, eyes steady. “Because no matter how much you might’ve wanted to, you never made it weird. You were my friend first. You showed up—rides after practice, homework meltdowns, awkward family blowups. You always asked before you touched. You never asked for this, even when I could tell you wanted to.” She lifts my hand and presses it to her breast. “So I want to give you something you never asked me for—because I want it too.”
The next kisses are patient but not polite, heat layered on heat, each ask answered, each answer asked back. The world shrinks to the square footage of a mattress and the distance between a yes and another yes. Her laugh dissolves into a sigh, my breath into her chest. Time blurs—in the way two-minute drills do—fast and forever.
A stair creaks above us. We freeze, grinning like we robbed the dessert tray and got away with it. The footsteps fade.
She looks at me, cheeks flushed, pupils wide like midnight. “May I,” she whispers, and this time her voice is steady, “stay? With you tonight.”
I breathe in, breathe out. “Yeah,” I say, and my hand finds hers again. “You may.”
We ease back on the pillows, the house roaring and settling like the sea you forget is there until you stop listening. Her fingertips trace a slow, deliberate path down my stomach, skating over muscle I’ve carved out on a hundred practice fields. They dip lower, where the heat is a live wire, and her knuckles brush against my cock. A jolt, sharp and electric, fires up my spine. Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and dark, asking a question her mouth hasn’t formed yet.
She meets my eyes. “May I?”
“You may,” I say, heartbeat in my throat, the edge right there, the night tilting toward whatever comes next.
The permission is a gasp, a release of air I didn’t know I was holding. Her hand closes around me, and my head falls back. Maya. Her grip learns my shape, my weight. She pumps once, slowly, a dry run that makes my hips twitch.
Then she sinks off the bed, knees on the carpet, and her mouth follows.
The wet heat of her is a shock, a perfect, consuming fire. Her tongue flattens against the underside of my cock, a long, slow lick from root to tip that wrings a ragged sound from my throat. Her lips close over the head, and she sucks, gently at first, then with a firm pressure that makes my vision blur at the edges. My fingers knot in the quilt; my other hand settles in her hair—not steering, just steadying me. Something to hold onto. Her silky hair spills over my fingers as she takes me deeper, her throat working, her breath hot against my skin.
Every slide of her mouth is a play I didn’t see coming. She explores me with a hungry curiosity, swirling her tongue, finding a spot just below the head that makes my legs tremble. I look down, and the sight of her—lips stretched around me, eyes fluttering shut—threatens to end this before it truly begins. I bite my lip, fighting for that pre-snap calm, finding my center in the feel of her, the scent of her vanilla-amber lotion mixing with the musky taste of me on her tongue.
I need to be inside her, but more than that, I need to taste her, too. The want is a physical ache, a deep, pulling need.
I gently ease back, my cock slipping from her mouth with a soft, wet pop. Her eyes open, questioning.
“May I taste you, Maya?”
A brilliant, wicked smile flashes across her face. “You may.”
I guide her up onto the mattress, turning her so she’s straddling my chest, facing my feet. Her bare thighs frame my ribs; the perfect curve of her ass fills my hands. She’s all smooth skin and hidden heat. I grip her hips and she understands, lowering herself until her opening is poised right above my mouth.
The scent of her is incredible—sweet, musky, entirely her. I don’t wait. I lift my head and lick a slow, firm stripe through her folds.
She cries out, a muffled, broken sound, and her hands fly to the headboard for support. Her whole body shudders. I do it again, circling her clit with the flat of my tongue, and her hips jerk downward, seeking more pressure. I give it to her, sucking that little bud into my mouth, flicking it with my tongue until her breathing is a series of sharp, frantic gasps. Above me, I feel her take my cock back into her mouth, her rhythm becoming desperate, sloppy with her own building pleasure. The dual sensation is fucking unreal—the wet heat of her mouth on me, the taste of her on my tongue, the way her thighs tighten around my head. I steady her hips with my palms and keep her right there, letting us both breathe for a beat before I give her more.
I drive her higher, licking and sucking, tracing her opening with one finger before sliding it inside. She’s so wet, so ready. She moans around my cock, the vibration shooting through me like lightning. I add a second finger, curling them, finding a rhythm that matches the work of my tongue. Her hips grind down on my face, fucking herself on my mouth, her control unraveling.
She lifts just enough to breathe, taps my wrist, and gives me a mock glare. “You didn’t ask—‘May I’—for the second finger.”
I freeze, ease back to one, contrite. “You’re right. May I?”
“No, you may not,” she pants, a smile breaking. “Just one.”
I can feel her getting close, her muscles clenching around my finger, her cries becoming more urgent. But I want more. I need to be inside her when she comes.
I pull my mouth away, my chin slick. “Maya,” I rasp.
She stills, releasing me with a gasp. She turns her head to look back at me, her expression dazed, wrecked.
I gently guide her off of me, turning her onto her back. I settle between her legs, my cock resting against her wetness. I brace myself on my forearms, caging her in. The world has shrunk to this space, to her face, to the question that hangs between us.
“May I?” I ask, my voice rough with need. “May I fuck you?”
She reaches up, her palm cool against my cheek. Her eyes are serious, clear. She knows what this is. Her first time. Our first time. “You may.”
I guide myself to her entrance, the head of my dick pressing against her tight heat. I push, just a little. She tenses, a sharp inhale catching in her throat. I stop immediately, kissing her forehead, her temple.
“Okay?” I murmur.
She nods, her eyes squeezed shut. “Yeah. Just… just go slow.”
I press forward again, with infinite slowness, feeling her incredible tightness give way, stretching to accommodate me. A single tear leaks from the corner of her eye. I kiss it away. “You are so fucking beautiful,” I whisper against her skin. I sink deeper, a slow, burning inch at a time, until I am fully sheathed inside her. We both go utterly still, breathing hard, connected in a way that feels more profound than any game.
I begin to move, a shallow rocking of my hips. Each thrust is a revelation—the slick, hot clasp of her cunt, the way her breath shudders out of her each time I fill her. I drop my head to the crook of her neck, biting down gently on the soft skin there to keep from shouting. Her legs go wider, allowing me deeper access, her arms locking around my neck.
“Damn, Maya, you feel so good,” I groan into her ear. “You don’t know how amazing you feel around me.”
Her answer is a broken moan. She brings a hand to her own mouth, biting down on her knuckles to silence herself as our pace quickens. The only sounds are our ragged breathing, the wet slap of our skin meeting, the distant hum of the house above us. Heat coils low, tightening with each stroke, building under the ribs and down my spine.
I slow, wanting to make this last, wanting to feel her come around me first. I shift, angling my hips, driving into her at a different spot. Her eyes fly open, a shocked, pleasure-filled “Oh!” escaping her lips.
“There?” I ask, hitting that spot again, and again.
“Yes—there… just like that,” she gasps, surprise and wonder threading her voice.
I watch her fall apart beneath me. Her back arches off the bed, a silent scream on her lips as her orgasm rips through her. She tightens around me in steady, rolling pulses, coaxing me toward the brink with her.
Release presses hard at the edges of me, bright and insistent. I drive into her once, twice more, deep and hard. I grit my teeth, fighting for control. “Maya… I’m so close. May I… may I finish inside you?”
Her eyes flutter open. She looks utterly spent, utterly possessed. She nods, pulling me down for a searing kiss. “You may,” she breathes against my lips. “Make me yours.”
A last shred of responsibility makes me ask, my voice strangled, “Are you sure?”
“I want this. You may.”
That’s all it takes. I bury myself to the hilt as my own climax explodes. Everything snaps to bright static—heat and breath and nothing else. I pulse inside her, hot and deep, my release seeming to go on forever. I groan, a low, guttural sound torn from the deepest part of me, as I empty myself into her welcoming heat. My body shakes with the force of it, every muscle straining, then going limp.
I collapse on top of her, spent, my face buried in her neck. We lie there, tangled together, breathing in ragged unison. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat and her vanilla perfume. I can feel her heart hammering against my chest, a wild rhythm slowly settling into a steady beat.
After a long moment, I push myself up on my arms and look down at her. She’s smiling, a lazy, sated, gorgeous smile. I lean down and kiss her, slow and deep.
“You never looked more beautiful.”
Then, with a strength that still surprises even me, I roll us over and stand up in one fluid motion, holding her in my arms. Her legs lock around my waist, her arms around my neck. She laughs, a breathy, astonished sound, and kisses me again. We stay like that, standing in the middle of my basement room, locked together, kissing like we have all the time in the world.
The house is quiet upstairs—a post‑cheer lull; somewhere, the timer finally stops beeping. It’s just us.
She pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips, “You want to go...Again?”
I laugh, low and warm, and tighten my arms around her.
“May I?”
If you would heart it, then share it…
For more Dark Erotic content from Black Spyder Publishing’s Dark Web
Free is good, do so and I’ll bring the next one straight to your inbox.
Paid… well, that helps keeps the lights on.
or
Buy Me a Coffee ☕ to ease the strain.
&
Stop by www.blkspyder.com to check in on the Brand.
Basement door, last Thanksgiving, and the game we never stopped playing—#Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #Maya #NeighborsToLovers #FirstTime #Thanksgiving