Its Everything

It's going to hurt. Tomorrow with every step she takes, she will feel it. Not pain, not really. It'll be a stiffness in her legs, an awkward gait. It'll be a reminder of how the muscles of her inner thighs were stretched just past their limits. But the discomfort will hardly matter, because tonight the pleasure feels so good.

And, yeah, part of that's the obvious. He is so big and hard inside her. He fills her completely and he's found a rhythm that coaxes her g-spot to life.

But it's not just the obvious. It's everything. Everything feels good.

It's the way her legs are spread apart, strained past their limits, wrapping around him as best they can, pulling him closer. It's how her toes point, her calf muscles flex. It's the way her thighs take the impact of each one of his thrusts.

It's how the sheet tangles under and around her, how it's slipped off one corner of the mattress. It's the way the bed creaks, how it knocks against the wall. There's no mistaking the sounds, the rhythm.

The neighbors must know what they're doing.

It's the air around them, heavy with his sweat and her pheromones. She can almost feel their combined scents trigger certain areas of her brain, the areas that make her content, amenable and horny. It will linger in the sheets, their fragrance, until laundry day. In the morning, after he leaves, she'll inhale it, just to breathe him in and purposefully trigger her brain again.

It's his hand on her hip, holding her in place. His fingers dig into her, claiming her. He's already marked her with little bite marks on her neck. She isn't sure why she loves receiving hickies, but she does. Maybe it's submitting to his dominance, or spicing pleasure with a pinch of pain. Of course, she'll roll her eyes at it tomorrow when she has to wear a turtleneck to cover up the remnants of his foreplay.

It's him, above her. He holds himself up, maybe out of consideration for her or maybe so he can get better leverage. Whatever the reason, it allows her the perfect view of his chest, his stomach, his arms, his face.

It's his face, his damp hair curling around it, his flushed skin. It's how his nose crinkles and his nostrils flare. It's how his breath is ragged, underscored with soft grunts.

It's his eyes, his lush brown eyes, warm and golden. They won't leave hers, even when she's forced to shut her eyes, to stretch her neck and moan his name. When she opens them again, when she looks at him, he's staring back at her.

Does he like what he sees? Her hair fans out around her, tangles forming where her head rubs against the pillow. Her lips are parted. They feel a little swollen, the lingering effect of his kisses. Her breasts bounce and jiggle. Like the creaking bed, her body keeps time with his thrusts.

It's her. It's the heat of her skin. It's the way she moves counter to him. It's those intense stabs of pleasure that tighten her muscles, that force her to cry out or whimper. They only last a second, but they promise more. He feels her pleasure too. In that second it grips him, he bites down on his lip and thrusts faster.

It's all of it, the sight, the sound, the taste, the scent, the touch. They come together, swirling and building. They vibrate. They pulse. They create a moment of perfection that lasts forever, that's over too soon. It rushes over her, infusing her, consuming her. She is that moment and nothing more.

He's the one who brings her back. His strangled cry draws her attention. His eyes finally release her and clamp shut. His lips tremble. His hot ecstasy floods her.

But it isn't over. It still feels good.

It feels good how he collapses down, mostly at her side, but still partially on top of her. It's how his hand caresses her waist, how his tender, tired kiss teases her lips. It's his low chuckle that elicits her giggle.

It's how he fights to keep his eyes open but loses the battle and drifts off to sleep. There's a vulnerability in being unconscious. The trust he must feel to allow himself to lie helpless in her presence. The comfort he must have to close his eyes and spend the night dreaming next to her. That's part of it too, a big part of it.

Tomorrow she's going to feel it. Each stiff, awkward step will be a reminder of tonight and every little perfect thing about it. Tomorrow she's going to feel it, but she won't mind.

The End