His debut just last month was met with a rousing chorus of likes and reblogs. Today, he returns to open this week’s chapter.
“I’m bored” he murmured in her ear, his lips and teeth working down her neck.
His hands first on her hips, pressing her firmly back against the wall, and then inching slowly up to her waist. Strong hands, with a tight grip.
Hands with a purpose.
Hands meaning business.
The lights dimmed, then brightened. Intermission was ending and the crowd filtered past them in the hallway, heading back to their seats. He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. Wagner. All that sturm und drang left him cold.
“I want to do a test.” Nibbling at her ear lobe
“No” she said. “I want to see the second act.” She said it because she felt obligated — they had planned the evening long ago, spent a fortune for the tickets, and had both dressed for the occasion. She’d bought these new badass heels and loved how the slinky sheath felt against her body. She was enjoying the ravenous way he had been watching her all evening.
But there was no conviction in her voice. Whatever desire she had for being in her seat when the curtain rose again was swiftly being replaced by a more urgent, elemental desire. His hands crept from her waist up her torso, stopping just short of her breasts.
“Stop it. People are staring.”
“C’mere then.” He gripped her arm firmly and pulled her toward a door marked “exit” a few feet away.
Once in the stairwell, he spun her around so that his back was against the wall and her back against his chest. His lips at her ear.
“Let’s see how long this takes.”
Sex for them wasn’t usually a hurried affair. Sunday, for example, they had spent the entire day naked, the sun on the bed, some fresh strawberries from the market and the morning papers, and they just explored each other. He mapped her body with his lips and his tongue and his teeth, from the nape of her neck to the soles of her feet, touching every cell of her. He spent what seemed like hours with his head between her thighs.
But sometimes, they craved it quick and dirty. Quick. And dirty. Both.
His hands on her. Owning her flesh. Pressing, kneading, pulling at the fabric of her dress. Both of his hands gripping her neck. Both hands on her shoulders. Both hands on her breasts, starting with the soft, neglected flesh underneath and them working up, squeezing them. Hard. Her nipples instantly stiff at his touch. Both hands probing, scraping, digging into the flesh at her core, then on to her waist. Both hands sliding down the front of her thighs, pulling her legs apart. Both hands lifting her hem, exposing her panties, so wispy they hardly existed at all. Both hands tracing a line up her inner thighs.
She leaned back against him and closed her eyes. God it felt good. He felt good. His hands seemed to have cataloged and recorded every desire she had ever had to be touched. From the first moment they met — when their conversations were still awkward and tentative — his hands and her body seemed lifelong companions. Like they shared a prior life.
“On your mark … “
He cupped her mound in his right hand and she gave a soft moan. She was already soaked. He pressed his fingers against her slit through the lace of her panties and began rubbing her in a circular motion. Without conscious thought, she spread her legs further to welcome his touch. His left hand returned to her breasts. She pressed back against him, feeling him grow stiff against the small of her back.
She tried — she really did try — to stifle the sounds that always accompanied her arousal. But she failed, and her moans and her panting and her approach mixed with the sounds of the orchestra filtering into the stairwell.
“Inside. Put them inside me. Fuck me with your fingers” she pleaded, and almost before the echo of her plea had died his fingers were inside her, curled up and urgently pressing on her spot. The savage sound that resulted didn’t appear to come from her mouth at all, but from some beastly spirit inside her. Her body almost instantly folded at the waist as he stroked inside her, his hand a blur.
To keep her erect, he reached his left arm around her body and firmly grabbed her right shoulder and held her tightly against him, her breasts crushed under his arm.
As he fucked her, her body first went limp in his grasp as she lost the ability or the will to control any muscles other than those between her legs. Then, when her orgasm came rushing, every muscle in her body constricted simultaneously, drawing up tight as a fist. Every muscle, from her neck —snapping to attention like ropes on a sail — to her feet, which lifted off the floor, her new heels dropping, first the left and then the right, down the stairs.
And she screamed. She didn’t want to, and would be mortified later when she thought about it, but she wailed loudly as her pleasure pooled in his hand.
When he had his fingers on her spot this way, her orgasms were not discrete events; they came in bunches, in rapid succession, like pearls on a strand, and as he continued to knead her pussy, she continued to cum until her body simply collapsed against his arm.
When he finally stopped, she leaned back against him. Panting, sweating, leaking sap down her thighs.
He slowly pulled his fingers from her pussy and brought them to his lips.
“New record I think but I think I can do better. There is a second intermission, isn’t there?”
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