Page 1 of Crawl for Me

Sable

J ust to the right, champ. I believe in you. You’ve got this. You’ve totally got this.

His hand shifts down between us, heading right for gold.

But he slips too far, fingers grazing a spot that definitely isn’t the target.

He adjusts, presses down a little harder, then lands clumsily on the side of my labia, thumb mashing in like he’s trying to bruise a fucking peach as a bead of sweat trickles down the side of his temple.

Jesus. I take it back. He does not have this.

My hand slides down between our bodies, nudging his out of the way. Because I know what I’m doing. Because someone in this bed needs to finish the damn job, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be him.

“Oh, God,” he groans, eyes flaring with lust. “That’s so fucking hot. That’s right. Rub yourself while I fuck you.”

I bite my lip—not from pleasure, not from anything close to it—but to stop the sound of laughter from bubbling up my throat.

He thrusts again, rhythm awkward and slightly off, hips slapping into mine as he stares down at me like I’ve just parted the fucking Red Sea, like my fingers circling my clit are some sacred act of submission instead of what it really is—me salvaging this night from complete and utter mediocrity.

Once upon a time, I would’ve taken this as normal.

Just how it is. Back when I was twenty-one and still pretending bad sex was better than no sex, still convincing myself that a guy sweating and grunting on top of me counted as intimacy.

I’d lie there, bored out of my skull, and tell myself it was fine.

That wanting more made me picky. That maybe orgasms were just for other people.

But now I’m twenty-seven, and the boredom hasn’t changed—but I have.

Now it comes with a crawling throb of impatience behind my eyes and a quiet, infuriating awareness that I’ve been in this moment before.

Because no matter how much he wants this to work, no amount of enthusiasm changes the simple, infuriating fact that his fingers are lost, his dick has more chance of locating Atlantis than my G-spot, and I am still—entirely, inevitably—nowhere near an orgasm.

They always promise the world, don’t they?

The fireworks. The wrecked sheets. The toe-curling, eye-rolling, soul-exiting event of the year.

And what do they actually deliver? A few mediocre pumps, a labia burn, and the quiet indignity of being a dollar out of pocket for the condom.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, breath hot and uneven, spilling across my neck in damp bursts.

Six weeks. Six weeks of Connor sweating and fumbling while I’ve coached, redirected, even physically guided his hand—only for him to miss the point every single time.

All because I let myself be charmed by a nice smile and a half-decent Tinder bio.

Rookie move. Because here I am again, saving myself while he pants like a dog in July.

Should I pet him? Offer him a bowl of water and a towel?

No, I’m fine, it’s fine, I can do this.

I keep circling, stubbornly chasing the edge of that sweet release, willing my body to give me something—but there’s a cramp creeping down the back of my thigh that I’m ninety percent sure is a nasty cramp waiting to pounce, and then my eyes catch the glow of his PC screen over his shoulder.

The game’s paused mid-combat—some muscle-bound warrior flexing under dramatic lighting—and sitting right beside it is his open Spotify, proudly blasting a playlist titled “ Stroke Game .”

The laugh I’d been biting back slips out, breaking into a soft giggle I can’t fully catch in time, and I pull my hand from my bored clit, bringing it up to press lightly against his chest.

“Alright,” I say, voice caught between amused and completely done. “Get out of me.”

He stutters, frozen mid-thrust, eyes darting down. “Oh… uh… you wanna get on top?”

I blink at him once, then I lift my foot, press the ball of it square against the center of his chest, and push—slow and steady—until he rocks back on his heels and pulls out, confusion spreading across his face.

“No, I definitely don’t want to get on top,” I say, stretching my arms overhead, spine cracking faintly as I lean back into the pillows.

Then I push upright with a lazy exhale, rolling my shoulders.

“I have leftover pad Thai and half a bottle of red at home calling my name—and frankly, both of them are a hell of a lot more likely to make my night more enjoyable than you are.”

He sinks back on his knees with a frown on his face, his cock still standing there between his thighs, proud and pointless, a little red, a little confused, still sheathed in glistening latex.

I swing my legs off the edge of the mattress, bare feet hitting the floor with a soft slap, and start scanning the room for my clothes—his laundry’s everywhere, shirts draped over desk corners, socks in mating pairs scattered across the carpet.

There —my underwear, peeking out from beneath what might be a hoodie or possibly a blanket. I tug it free and pull it on.

My bra’s inside out and tangled under his desk chair, caught on the wheel. I yank it free and fasten it while the thought loops again, sharp and certain.

Behind me, the mattress creaks violently as he scrambles forward.

“Sable, are you fucking serious?” he stutters out. “You can’t just leave me with blue balls.”

I straighten up and step into my jeans, yanking them over my hips with the practiced efficiency of a woman who’s dressed post-disappointment before. “Not my problem,” I say over my shoulder, voice light. “You’ll survive. Maybe try jerking off with a sock or with your left hand instead.”

I spot my shirt half-draped over the back of his gaming chair and reach for it, tugging it free just as I hear the unmistakable squelch of him peeling off the condom behind me.

“Come on,” he groans, stepping toward me, bare feet slapping the laminate floor. “It’s been six weeks. Don’t throw it away over this. I can do better. Please.”

He sounds so earnest it almost pulls at my heart. Almost. But if six weeks of coaching didn’t do it, one more mercy round isn’t going to save us.

I pull my shirt over my head, smooth it down, then glance at him properly. His hair’s sticking up in sad little tufts, and his dick, finally defeated, hangs like it’s embarrassed to be here.

“Connor,” I say, slinging my bag over one shoulder, “You’ve had more than enough chances.”

He scoffs and moves toward me, voice rising. “What, so you’re just gonna bail?”

I arch a brow and glance toward the door. “Yes.”

“Seriously?”

“Deadly.”

Silent static fills the air for a second before venom creeps out between his teeth. “Jesus, Sable. You act like sex is supposed to be some… performance. Like it’s a crime if I don’t make you come every single time.”

Ah. There it is. Not rage, not logic—just pissy indignation dressed up as defense. Because God forbid a woman wants to actually get off. Suddenly it’s not about effort, it’s about me asking too much.

“Normal people don’t overthink it,” he snaps, face flushed. “They enjoy it for what it is.”

I laugh under my breath. “Normal people, huh? We’ve been doing this for six weeks, Connor.

Not once. Not one fucking orgasm. And not for lack of trying—because I’ve guided you, I’ve told you, I’ve practically drawn a damn map.

If that’s your definition of ‘enjoying it,’ you might want to get a refund on whatever sex ed you skipped. ”

His brow knots angrily. “Every time you move my hands or try to switch shit up, it makes me feel like shit and I don’t want it like that. So this on you, not me. I tried. It isn’t my fault women like you fry their nerves with fucking vibrators and then expect us to compete with machines.”

“Right,” I scoff. “If we’re playing the blame game, maybe we should talk about men and their porn-rotted brains.

Half of you think jackhammering for three minutes counts as foreplay, and the other half think women come from being in the same vicinity as your dick.

Pump in, pump out, scream, squirt all over the sheets like some staged production—that’s the fantasy, right?

And when reality doesn’t look like those staged productions, suddenly it’s my vibrator’s fault? ”

He sputters, face blotching redder by the second.

I smirk slowly, one hand already on the door. “Mediocrity isn’t a kink of mine. We’re done, Connor. Lose my number.”

I twist the knob, but his arm plants against the doorframe, blocking me. His breath is ragged, chest heaving, eyes wide and ugly. “You’re a fucking bitch.”

“Mm.” I glance down at his deflated dick, then back up at him. “And you’re background noise. Goodbye, Connor.”

He jerks his arm back, muttering something bitter under his breath, but I don’t give him the dignity of catching it.

I rag the door open and slip through it without so much as a backward glance.

By the time I hit the stairwell, my pulse has already leveled out.

There’s pad Thai in the fridge, a vibrator in my nightstand, and not a single fuck left to give to men who think a sliver below bare minimum deserves a round of applause.