Sunday 4

It is Sunday. Mid-afternoon, I'm guessing, by the way the light filters in through the slats in the blinds.

I've just returned from the bath. My skin is cool and still a little damp. I'm laying on my side... my right side. Naked. Freshly shaven.

You are behind me. Rubbing my neck and shoulders. Pressing firmly with your large, spread hands. Applying pressure with your thumbs. You are pressed up against me – completely – from your feet to your hips. Our bodies molded together.

My thighs are squeezed gently around your semi-sleeping cock. Legs crossed at the knee. This is nice...

But nice is not quite what I am in the mood for.

I smile to myself. And purr. I push just a little more firmly back and down. I feel you begin to stir, harden. I purr a little louder.

I'm pleased and relieved.

I was fully expecting you to say you had to get up.

Another squeeze of the thighs: this time not quite so gently. And I start to feel your pulse: vibrate, flicker -- resonate in my clit as you harden against me. Each beat bringing us – swelling us both – more fully toward each other. Increasing the pressure. Eliminating the unwanted space between us.

I place one hand beneath you. Firmly. Flattening the length of your hardened shaft – pressing it up flat against me. Carefully positioning you between my lips. Spreading myself around you.

Much better.

I begin moving now – slowly, back and forth – holding you in place, rubbing myself against you.

Your hands – massaging my neck and shoulders – stop in place occasionally, as you become distracted. The massage I'm now giving you – decidedly more interesting than the one you are giving me.

I'm moving slowly. Deliberately. Making you wet with me. Sliding along your shaft, squeezing you tightly against me.

A tiny, barely audible moan escapes my lips.

Your distraction is complete now.

I feel your hands slide from my neck, shoulders, trailing down my back and onto my hips. They rest there -- still for a moment -- as you shift yourself, move in... press your chest tightly against my back, bury your face into my hair. I hear you breathe in deeply. Hear you groan low – deep in your throat – almost a growl.

And with that, I feel your hands tighten abruptly, grasping my hips with all their strength – pressing in hard and pulling me down forcefully against you. Your knees pinned in against the back of mine.

I look down and see the head of your cock between my legs. It is wet from me. It is so swollen – the dark purple a violent contrast to the soft white thighs it throbs between. Your skin – stretched so tightly -- it gleams. It is screaming up at me for attention... having been left out of most of the warm sliding.

I push forward enough to hold it firmly against my swollen clit: rocking back and forth. Bringing another low guttural growl to your throat. Yes. It is definitely a growl now.

My eyes are closed. But I am envisioning what your swollen head looks like now – rubbing back and forth against my clit, between my lips, getting wet, throbbing in perfect time to the pulse you feel between my legs. That pulse is getting faster. You hear my breathing begin to match it: heavier, more urgent – in synch with my rocking. Locked in with your heart pounding.

Picturing you sliding against me. Aching to bend and push you into me. Feeling and hearing the pounding in my head: red and black flashes behind my closed eyes. Dizzy. Wanting.

Thankfully, you're not going to make me wait.

Your hands suddenly push in against my hips – take them firmly in your grasp – lift me forward and up in one swift, powerful, fluid motion. Just as swiftly – you bring me back down: hard and forcefully... pulling me down onto your fully ready, splendidly rearing, gloriously upright cock.

You hold me there. Hard. Feeling me shutter – my body reeling from the sudden impaling thrust.

You move your hands then – sliding your arms through on each side of me and bending them upward, so that your hands come to rest: one on each of my shoulders. You grab onto them roughly and buck your hips up violently against me – pulling me down onto you by the shoulders while pushing up with your hips.

I begin to move up – nearly off of you – with each upwards push of your hips: only to be thrust back down quickly again by your hands – heavy on my shoulders with all of your force behind them. Slamming me onto you and you into me.

I feel your teeth graze the back of my neck. I hear that low biting growl again. I feel your thrusts become more rhythmic, deliberate, deeper, longer – telling me you are getting close... too close, too soon.

In a rather frantic attempt at distraction, I reach down between my legs and grab you firmly by the balls. Pulling them up towards me – suddenly, feeling them in my hand, I long to discover the secret to having them inside me too.

I adore your balls. Have I ever told you this?

I feel the pressure building in you. Sense your urgency. Knowing now – in my own distraction -- my grasp on your balls is tighter than it should be. I feel your teeth clutch at my neck. And hear a far more serious growl escape from your throat. It sends me over the edge.

I take this as a challenge. I won't let you cum without me.

I peel your hand from its grip on my shoulder and force it down firmly between my legs, pushing it flat, holding it hard against my aching clit while I rise and fall back onto you –forcefully, furiously, repeatedly, hungrily. Riding you.

Rubbing against your hand. Delirious. Frantic. Out of myself.

Wrapping you in violent, repeated contractions as I begin to cum.

Each clutch now met with a force of your own, as you explode into me. One hand now on my head – fist full of my hair – pulling me down onto you, hard, with each hot flooding burst. Your low growls are now roars – burning into the back of my neck, branding me. The hand that was between my legs: now clutching my right breast. Smearing it with warm wet cum – yours and mine.

In a fraction of a second, a million dark thoughts race through your head – pounding disjointed distorted flashes.

The thought that my skin – liquid, cool velvet, stolen angel's flesh – has annihilated all desire to ever run your hands over any others skin. The heat that holds you inside me – electric, wet, searing heat – will render you indifferent to the clutch of all women. A tightness forms like a knot in your chest. Your breath sucked from you into the siren's song you imagine you hear in the cries of ecstasy pouring from my open mouth. Part of you wants to die. Part of you wants to choke me: destroy the demon, the temptress, your test... your whore. Succubus who lured you from your quiet comfortable safe place at your sleeping true love's side to drown you painfully and torturously slowly in her vast, cold, dark, cavernously vacuous heart. Part of you wants to stop time completely: freeze in this moment, stretch out this ecstasy. Stand on the very edge of climax for an eternity. Fucking me just like this without end – in your own personal, custom-designed, wonderfully painful, purgatory. But the rest of you – the best of you – longs to be able to pull from me without leaving my body. To lower yourself – slowly and silently – to bury your face between my thighs, breathe in deeply and call this home for the rest of your days. All else disappears. All pressures. All demands on your time. All needs. All gone. Nothing else exists. Even we two are reduced to the simplest, most perfect alliance: your mouth, my cunt. Blanketed in the knowledge that you can crawl to the place you call home and be safe, warm, protected, wanted. Nothing else matters... Nothing else exists.

Peace returns -- washing over you in a flood of warmth.

Your lungs fill again with air.

I feel your grip – on both my hair and my breast – give way, loosen, relax, slide. A haunting sound -- disturbingly similar to a death rattle – releases from my chest as you release me. Strangely, it brings you comfort.

Quiet.

You sigh.

You fall heavily into me. Dead weight.

I am comfortable under you. I have no desire to move.

* * * *

But one of us will break the silence or make the slightest shift in position, alter weight distribution. Yes – fools that we are – one of us will make a mistake that changes the air in the room.

The change that always wakes the rest of the world.

* * * *