Scene 01. Itchen. Licing. Fucing.

She was standing in front of the sink, doing the dishes. All he could see were the back of her arms, as they flexed and unflexed. The sound of sloshing water, soap and the sponge rubbing on porcelain. An everyday image that had always brought to mind memories of his mother, but never before created a sexual stir in him. But it did now.

He approached her. Didn't say a word. Gently touched the sleeves of her shirt. He gave a slight tag and her shoulders were bare. Smooth skin, white blonde hairs standing on edge. The shirt fell all the way to her waist and stopped. She didn't turn around, kept on with her work, the dishes. He grabbed the fabric that had pooled around her middle and kneeled, taking it with him, all the way to the floor.

Without even acknowledging him, she raised her feet one at a time, to help him get it off. Her back was now naked. Shoulder blades moving, that line down her back that every cameraman in every period film seemed to focus on. It was such a sensual line. It moved languidly, dipping in and making you want to touch it with your fingers.

His next move was just as technical. His fingers touched the waistband of her tights. He moved them down, peeled them off. Again, he kneeled on the floor and she wordlessly helped him along. First one sole, then the other. She appeared nonchalant, as if she didn't even realise what was going on. Just went on with the dish washing. Water sloshing, sponge rubbing, plates cracking against each other. Everyday sounds. Un-sexy sounds.

But what he was looking at was sexy. Naked back, naked legs and a black thong. It disappeared inside her ass, creating that half-moon he so admired. The fabric seemed to stop just before her flesh rose up, as if to present the globe of her ass to him, telling him: "Here, grab it, this is for you!"

He grabbed it. Palmed it. Squeezed it. Gently massaged it. For those few moments, his entire world was that arse cheek. And although she tried not to show it, he noticed that she had slightly curved her back, brought her arse up, to give him better access.

She wanted this. She was hot for it.

But still she didn't make a sound. Didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge his presence in any other way. He was there simply to admire her. He was there simply because he couldn't help himself. Couldn't not touch her. Couldn't not grab her arse and hips and bring himself against her. Couldn't not rub his dick on the seam of her arse. And now he knew she was into this, because he finally stopped washing the dishes and her elbows came down on the sink for support. And she was bending over, more and more. Now it was on.

He started moving her panties down her legs. He was kneeling on the floor and he was so close to her pussy, that he actually saw the fabric stick to her wetness, before it peeled off. He knew the moment the cold air hit her genitals and turned her on even more. He smelled it. And he was could see her pussy lips glistening, red and plump. All he wanted was to lick the syrup off. Get it on his mouth, his nose, his cheeks.

So he did. He grabbed her arse cheeks, made her bend over more and brought her pussy to his mouth. He could smell sweat and pussy and salt. He could smell sex and arousal. And he wanted to get deeper. Fuck her with his tongue and teeth and feel her come on his face.

By now, she had completely forgotten about the dishes. Her hands were still soapy but her fingers were trying to grab onto the sink, the tap, the wooden board, anything that would steady her and support her. She needed something to push off against, because by now, she was rubbing her pussy against his mouth, fucking him as much as he was fucking her. She was moaning and breathing heavily and moving like a cat in heat. She looked feral and so did he.

And then she came. She came with a groan that almost sounded pained. And it might have been because he was licking her pussy so hard and she was pushing up against his tongue with such force, that it might actually have been painful. But it was what she wanted then, what she needed. Pain and pleasure and come and cream and tongue and teeth and groans and fingers and orifices and knowing that the dirtier it got, the more vulgar it became, the hotter it was.

After she came on his tongue, he wanted to fuck her again. She was unresponsive. Her head lying on the mount of dishes, her hair wet, her entire body limp and sweaty. But she moved her legs further apart and the message was clear. Fuck me.

He took off his belt, unzipped his jeans and took his dick out. He was hard, dripping, almost to the point of coming. He could have actually come just from licking her taste off his lips. But he wanted more. He wanted to fuck her. Fuck her good and hard and steady, until she came again on his dick. He wanted to stretch her and push her and feel her spasm around his dick because it felt so good. He wanted her vagina to take him in and suck him off.

So he did. He went in. Smoothly, cos she was so wet it was just sticky cream by now. He could see his dick disappearing inside her, could see it come out through the seam of her ass. She was exhausted, could barely keep her balance but she looked happy being fucked. Sated. Until he started fucking her harder and she looked almost surprised, as if she couldn't decide if it was pain or pleasure that she felt. Until he grabbed her hair and tagged her head back and whispered something in her ear and bit down on her shoulder, close to the neck, like animals do. And then she came. Again. In an instant, while his teeth were still pushing into her flesh and his fingers were in her hair and his dick was pumping so hard and deep insider her, it HAD to hurt.

He came as well, as her walls were tightening around him. He came inside just to mark her in the most intrusive way possible. And when he came out, he could his red handprint on her arse cheek, the purple bruise on her thigh from his zipper and his white semen dripping out of her pussy lips.

She looked good. She looked sated. And she still hadn't said a word to him. As if everything that had happened had been her idea, an answer to her need for sex. As if he had just fallen prey to her irresistibility. He kind of liked it. But he also kind of didn't.

So he turned her around, looked at her face, saw the red colour in her cheeks and the tired grin on her lips.

And he kissed her.

Sweetly, but with tongue. Just to show that he was in this as well.

She wasn't the boss of him, even though all she had to do was crook a finger and he'd be hard again.