The Night of Their Nights

Had you seen them kneeling there, side by side, you might at a distance have mistaken them for some anachronistically pious couple at their nightly devotions. But a closer inspection would have revealed them to be naked, and that their hands, far from being joined in prayer, are engaged in altogether more carnal pursuits.

They are kneeling on the sitting-room floor, leaning against the sofa. Jessie, her arms extended, is clutching its back-rest, kneading it, catlike, in a paroxysm of pleasure. With her body at full stretch, her dipping back and out-thrust behind form a sinuous curve -- a line of beauty -- traversing the sofa's seat, and her breasts, softly pendant, are swaying freely like ripe fruit. Ira is pressed hard up against her, thigh to thigh, his right forearm lying casually across her left buttock, his hand almost lost to view in the deep canyon of her arse, and his fingers -- the edge of his forefinger mainly -- are exploring the fissure now welling in that canyon's slippery floor.

Apart from his lover's sonorous sighs, the only sound is that of the sluicing of Ira's hand against the swollen lips of Jessie's cunt. From time to time he inclines his body towards her, and, with his other hand, caresses the suspended breasts and trails his fingers down the long, firm plain of her belly until the edge of the sofa (against which his penis -- as elegantly curved as a scimitar -- is also resting) halts further downward progress.

In the valley of Jessie's arse, what had begun as a bubbling spring is now a stream in full spate. And in that flowing channel, Ira's hand, moving rhythmically under her, marks no distinction between anus and perineum, vulva and clitoris, but treats them as an aggregate -- islands in a stream -- while yet conveying the silent promise, that during the night ahead, there will be countless opportunities for each precious part --clit, cunt, arsehole, and what lies between -- to receive its loving due.

Jessie's response to the somewhat mechanical back and forth action of his hand against her underparts is intriguing to Ira. It piques, as well as excites him that she is finding his rather perfunctory handling of her cunt so evidently pleasurable -- that an action so crudely fundamental can so readily turn her on. She is breathing heavily now, each rasping intake of breath deeper and more sonorous than the last; her exhalations emerging as voluptuous sighs punctuated by sharp intakes of breath and whimpers of pleasure whenever his fingers venture near, or touch, a particularly sensitive part. He employs the edge, as well as the palm of his hand, using the big knuckle at the base of his forefinger to massage, as one, the groove of her anus and the tight nub of muscle between anus and vulva, and to part the swollen lips. He's preparing that long moist furrow -- readying it for both plough and seed. From time to time, as if inadvertently, his middle finger taps against her clitoris and Jess, catching her breath, shivers along her spine.

You should not assume, from what I have said above, that Ira is an unadventurous, or less than ardent lover, and doubtless, the quivering state of readiness of his engorged member, resting on the couch would -- could you but see it -- suffice to dispel any such notion. But, to this, let me add, that Ira can imagine no subject more inspiring for an artist than Jessie's naked body. Were she his wife, rather than his clandestine lover, and had they but other than snatched moments together, he could not imagine any occupation more pleasurable than looking at Jess, painting her, and, in between times, fucking her. And so, whenever possible, he holds back, seeking to enhance not just her pleasure, but also his own, in observing her. The alternative course of leaping on top of her and filling her cunt with his sperm, though efficient from a biological standpoint, holds very little appeal for him (although it would be a lie to say that not once, during the course of their relationship, did this happen).

By now, the streaming valley that is Jessie's perineum has become a conduit of pure sensation, and the infusion engorging her loins is spreading its mellowing warmth through her hindmost-parts. Meanwhile, Ira has become aware that a generous effusion is welling in the hollow of his upturned palm. Gravely, he anoints the globes of Jessie's buttocks with her juices and watches, enthralled, as their glistening rotundities reflect the flickering firelight.

The inevitable consequence of prolonged teasing is an exponential increase in arousal. Jessie's sighs and moans; the subcutaneous twitching and the trembling of her arse; her hands spastically kneading the backrest of the sofa, all signal the intensity of her pleasure and the growing urgency of her craving for orgasmic release.

Ira is watching these signs intently.

Particularly, he is watching her hands, or, more precisely, one of them. For Jessie's left hand, as if with a will of is own, has detached itself from the sofa's backrest, and, with palm out-turned, is inscribing a graceful downward arc onto the settee, settling there, briefly, before continuing its blind progress and finding (to his wonderment and delight) its terminus in the location and enfolding of Ira's erect penis, which is still at rest on the edge the seat. Jess favours his prick with a couple of brisk strokes, then tugs it sideways towards her.

But Ira resists. He's not ready to fuck her yet - it's too early. Jessie, on the other hand, still hopeful, continues to frig him. This he does not resist, and he's already panting slightly by the time he gets around to asking her: How did you do that with your hand? How did you know where it was? There's no way you could've seen it.

What, your prick?

Yes, Jess, my prick. You couldn't see it, so, how could you tell where it was?

I don't know. I guess I just sensed it; although, let's face it, it'd be pretty hard to miss, wouldn't it? Anyway, what does it matter? Why don't you just go ahead and put it in me?

It's too soon Jess, he says, we've a long night ahead of us let's not rush it, and, thoughtfully, with his middle finger, starts to massage her clit.

Oh my god, Ira, that feels so good! Oh sweet Jesus, I need fucking so bad! Please, put it in me. Just for a little while. I'll be good. I promise.

In point of fact, Ira is by no means averse to putting it in, even as he continues to make a show of resistance. Reluctant to forego the mildly sadistic thrill of hearing her beg for it, he lets her continue with her pleading before abandoning the pretence.

Okay, my love, okay, he goes at last as if reluctantly conceding a favour, I'll let you have ten strokes. After that it's back to fooling around.

('Fooling around!' It was a joke between them -- an idiom she'd use for foreplay. How'd you like to fool around with me? she'd ask him. It always killed him to hear her say it.)

Ten strokes? Jesus Ira, it's not even worth putting it in for that. It's got to be twenty at least, or thirty even. Jesus, Ira, I'm desperate; I need you in me.

Alright, twenty strokes it is then, and that's your lot. And you've got to count them Jess. Out loud. I don't want any arguments later.

While speaking, he has got himself behind her, lodged the tip of his prick into her wet pussy, and, holding it between his forefinger and thumb, is now making a series of loops or ellipses with its helmet, around the lips of her cunt -- the aperture of which provides the template to ease it open more fully. She moans softly, and taking this as an indication of acceptance, he enters her.

His first thrust is slow, languorous, and very deep, as are the four that follow, and Jess rewards each stroke with a soulful sigh. But then, getting up onto his haunches, Ira favours her with five swift uppercuts, his balls slapping hard and fast against her upturned clitoris. She gasps, shocked by the change of angle and tempo, panting with each stroke, huh, huh, huh, huh, huh.

You're supposed to be counting, girl, he growls.

I'm sorry! I'm sorry! That was so sudden and quick I lost count.

Well I haven't. I owe you ten. So how do you want it, Jess, fast or slow?

Oh god! I don't know. It's all lovely. Do me any way you like.

Okay, he says, start counting from ten, and pushes it in to the hilt.

Ngaaahhh!...Lovely!...Ten...huh...huh...elev...aaahhh...eleven...twe...huh...huh... twelve...thir...thir...thir...thirteen...four...huh...four...huh...fourteen...fif...huh...fif...Ohmygod, I'm going to come

.

Keep counting

!

I can't, I can't, I'm coming! Ohmygod! I'm coming! Now! Now! Now! N-gaaaahhhh!

And he pulls her further on to him, to fully extend the reach of his penis inside her, and holds her quivering butt fast against his static loins till she's done.

As orgasms go -- though adequate for the moment -- this had not been, one of Jessie's spectacular ones, and, consequently, Ira had been able (despite her best efforts to extract it from him) to withhold his sperm. And, although it was never quite so satisfying when he didn't come (she missed the engine's pumping and the surge of wetness), she knew there were plenty more where that one had come from, and that it was good that Ira had held back. Their long night of love had just begun, and the prospect of many more pleasure-filled hours still lay ahead.

Jess is dozing, still kneeling, her arms, now on the seat of the sofa, making a cradle for her head. Sitting on the floor beside her, Ira notices that whereas the tops of her breasts are squashed against the settee's edge, their pink-tipped lower halves have spilled out below. He anticipates that soon they will be receptive to his caresses. Indeed, knowing her, he thinks they probably are already.

Ira's hand is resting on his prick. He is astonished by how wet he is given that his only contribution to Jessie's pussy, so far, has been in the form of hard flesh. He cups his hand around his balls. They are saturated. Curious, he slides his hand under her and cups her mound. It is saturated too -- like a mossy bank after rain. At the touch of his hand between her thighs Jess stirs and responds with appreciative murmuring sounds. He slips his thumb into her slit and down to her clitoris. She shudders as it slides off its tip, causing the release into his palm of a trickle of love juice. Not as copious as earlier, when there'd been enough to coat both hemispheres of her arse, but not negligible. She gasps, shivers again, and turns her face towards him. Her dark eyes are fathoms deep. They ask many questions. These, she knows will be met with as many answers.

Kneeling behind her he caresses her haunches. Matching the curve of his hand to their convexity, he eases it edgeways into the cleft of her arse, allowing it to brush lightly across her anus, but avoiding her cunt. This gives rise to a little yearning in her breast -- a slightly needy feeling: why is he avoiding the most sensitive part of her; when he must know how much it is longing to be touched?

But now he is kissing her along her spine -- butterfly kisses from the cleft of her arse to the nape of her neck. And when at last he drapes his body over hers, the fit could not feel more sublime -- but homely; like when you don a familiar garment. And he, as he covers her, relishes how perfectly her back moulds itself into his torso, and the protrusion of her buttocks fits the concavity of his loins. There is but one mild irritant: his penis is squashed awkwardly between them. He resolves this by parting the deep cleft of her arse and bedding his prick along its canyon's slippery floor -- her butt-cheeks enfold it to make a perfect holster. Then, he covers her again, and, crossing his arms under her slender frame, cups her breasts in his hands, lifting them slightly, as if testing them for weight. He feels her nipples hardening like little rods.

For a while, Ira is content to keep still, just cradling her breasts like nestlings in his hands. But he is not impervious to the suggestive upward tilt and soft urgings of Jessie's behind, to which he now begins to respond, his penis, like some reciprocating engine, or well-oiled bolt, moving smoothly backwards and forwards in the channel -- where it had previously rested -- of Jessie's arse.

And he is fondling her breasts more firmly now; stroking their sides with his thumbs, stretching her nipples between thumb and forefinger -- first one, then the other -- rather as if he were milking them. Then, leaving them in the care of just one hand, he trails the other, down the flat plane of her belly, setting his thumb in the hollow of her navel, even as his fanned fingers brush -- feather light --across the tight-packed curls which adorn his lover's snatch. From there it is but a small stretch to her clit which he agitates with his middle finger, like flicking on and off a switch. Her arse begins a violent trembling and her breath is sizzling through the spit pooling in her mouth. To use the crude vernacular, she is literally gagging for it. Put it in, put it in, she's begging. But he doesn't. He just takes his finger off her clit.

No Ira, she wails, that's not fair, if you don't put it in me.

Jesus, Jess, that's one hungry pussy. It's not been half an hour since I fucked you. How come it wants more more cock already?

It probably thinks it didn't count as a fuck cos you didn't come.

Well, if that's what it thinks, it's just going to to have to think again. I'm a long way from being done with you yet. Come on, girl, give my eyes a treat. Get your knees up onto the couch and let me worship that gorgeous behind.

As if to assist her assent, and using the heels of his hands, he pushes her buttocks upwards and apart, his thumbs stretching both perineum and anus, tugging them sideways. With the tip of his tongue he traverses, back and forth, the little bridge this has formed between the twin hemispheres of her arse. Sometimes his tongue-tip strays slightly north, grazing the pucker of her anus, but more often it travels southwards, to trace, with relish, the lovely curved ridge made by the rounded end of her cunt where it meets the tautly stretched muscle of her perineum.

And his lover's sonorous sighs, her gasps, her whimpers, her mewling cries, are like the sweetest music in his ears.

Giving his tongue a moment's respite he parts her vulva, and feasts his eyes on that vivid pulsing gash. Beautiful, he murmurs, and kisses it in its centre, before running his tongue around its demulcent inner lining in a series of vertical ellipses (as he had done earlier with his cock), taking care to give her clit a couple of flicks with the tip of his tongue at each passing. This and the echoing caress of his beard against her inner thighs, sets her atremble and he, feeling that another orgasm is imminent, withdraws his face and strokes her buttocks gently till they cease their quivering; and massages her neck and shoulders.

An interlude follows during which the only sound is of heavy breathing. Then Ira says,

I'm having second thoughts about what I said earlier Jess, I wouldn't mind giving my cock a nice warm bath for a bit. You know, just to relax it. How do you feel about that?

Do you really have to ask? I'd love it.

Okay, but I'm going to hold you to ten strokes -- slow ones, and this time I'll do the counting. After that I'm going to eat your pussy some more.

She wiggles her butt by way of reply.

Do you want it from behind again?

Oh god, any way you like, just do me.

Spread your cheeks then. Let's see what's on offer.

Reaching back, she parts the two perfect hemispheres with urgent hands.

Now your cunt, he says -- redundantly, as it happens, for, in her frantic haste, she has already slipped her middle fingers between the swollen, outer lips and tugged them apart, offering to his gaze the -- now diamond-shaped -- target, vivid within its dark and bosky bower.

Lovely, he murmurs, and, teasing it with the tip of his hand-held prick, inserts it by the merest fraction, holding it there as if poised and ready to strike. And Jess, breath held in anticipation of his master-stroke, is ready too -- indeed quite desperate -- to receive him, when she hears him say -- rather disingenuously, for she is dripping wet -- I think it's in need of more attention Jess -- I don't think it's quite ready yet.

God Ira, you can't stop now. It's ready! It's ready! Can't you tell? How could it not be? Christ Ira, you're killing me!

But he ignores her bleating entreaties. You need to be wetter, darling, he lies. I've got a massive hard on. I don't want to hurt you. And pushing his face, once more, into the, valley of her arse, he sucks on her clit, and penetrates her with his nose. She feels him snuffling in her waters, and her clitoris lengthening as he sucks it deeper into his mouth, and cries out, No Ira, no! and pushes the soles of her feet against his chest, trying to get him off her. It's too much Ira! It's too intense! I can't stand it. You've got to fuck me Ira. Right now! Please Ira, please! Just finish me off.

He gets to his feet and looks down at her. Kneeling there, she's like a banquet for his eyes: her long back at full stretch; one arm hooked over the back of the sofa; one hand now busy between her thighs, and her sweetly tilted arse quivering. He feels the sap rising in the stout stem. It's decision time. There'll be no more delays he resolves; no more 'fooling around'; the time for play is definitely over.

He slips two fingers into her, and tugs her cunt up towards her rectum. The posterior wall of her vagina, vaulted like a cathedral, feels wonderfully smooth and firm to his finger's touch. By means of this finger-hold he raises her a fraction, till she's properly aligned with his prick. The crescent of her vulva is as vivid against her dark pelt as a slice of melon.

On either side of her body, where her waist morphs into the voluptuous contours of her arse, Jessie feels his hands grasping her, his splayed fingers dimpling her soft flesh, and the animal weight of him bearing down on her haunches. She visualises him hovering above her, poised and ready to strike, and holds her breath, waiting for the blow. And when it comes, she feels as if a lightening-stroke has split her upwards, and hears his groan blending with her own cry as it rends the air.

And then his hard flanks are battering her soft fundament. So wet is she, and so agape, he feels, with each stroke, the growing saturation of his balls from their repeated encounters with that long, wet gash. Her breasts are swinging under her like two tender bells, and the touch and sound of his flesh slapping against hers is immensely exciting. Never before has his penis felt so huge in all its dimensions, and the canal of her cunt so deeply invaded, so swollen and so full.

They settle into a steady rhythm, and, at every piston-stroke, he's rewarded with an appreciative moan. Then he stops momentarily, just long enough to bring his mouth close to her ear. I've such a load for you, Jess, he tells her. I hope you're ready, because I intend to soak your sweet cunt, and rinse it, from end to end.

Oh yes, she moans. Why don't you do that? I'm so ready. Do it, Ira, Please! Do it. Do it now!

And his loins are battering the cushions of her quaking arse and his balls her swollen clit; and her vagina is quivering against his stout shaft, a sort of kissing of it by her cunt from base to tip. First, a kissing, then a milking. NOW! she cries, and hears his answering groan. OH, YES! NOW!

And then an explosion between her thighs, a starburst in her skull, and pulsing jets of semen which, to her distracted brain, seem to be entering her like streaming ribbons of light. OH FUCK, YES! she cries again, FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!