Drawing in the Sea

She wants to be fucked. She can't remember the last time she's been fucked so hard that she stops making lists in her head, or fucked so hard she looses her breath. That's how she wants it, low, immediate and rough. Enough of this soft, gentle nibbles and strokes. She needs to feel the pull from her nipples to her cunt, to feel raw and sore as she rides her lover's hips against a wall.

Her silver vibrator falls from her fingers to the floor, discarded, useless, in her need for fulfillment. How many times can one masturbate to the same erotica? This thought repeats in her mind, as she finds it hard to orgasm in the same fucking position each time.

She wants to wrap her fingers around his fingers, his being a relative gender of butch maleness, to follow him into the sand and sea, as the wind billows around them, flipping her homemade blue and yellow rose-patterned dress around her knees, snapping it against her thighs, as she runs after his lead. She's thinking about the rush-thump of her heart, in anticipation of their lips meeting across this gender divide, thrusting into each other, hers inside his mouth, as he tugs her head down to meet waiting mouth.

She waits, tries masturbating again, to anything, anything that's not him. Knowing that in order to orgasm, she's going to have to dream about following him into the warm salt of the ocean, swimming out behind him, with her skirt tied up, twisted around her waist, until they find a coral reef to plant their feet on. And back comes the rush-thump-rush of her disloyal heart, as he brushes against her dampened skin, and pulls her to him, daring to lightly touch her breasts, then emboldened by her low gasp, pinching her nipple and tugging her head back, by her white Mohawk, to expose the pale length of her neck to his sharpened advances.

She delights in the feel of him, of her pressing against the tall length of her torso, the pressure of two bodies lost in the desire to fuck, yet not yet daring to do so, savoring the delicious pain holding her against him. She knows that if she lets him open her legs, if she lets him touch exactly where she wants him to, if she allows him to sheath himself, his fingers, as deeply as she would have him go, she would be broken.

Split completely in two, not only by the deep, encompassing feel of that first fuck-thrust, but by the betrayal of her body, as she's learned how much it costs to receive a man inside her. This is the lust, and knowledge of her life that holds her back, away from him, even as his thighs accept the press of hers, gently bobbing above him, straining towards his cock, his clit, his strap-on as she mimics the movement of the waves.

If only, her body longs, if only, I didn't love her so much, I would lower myself onto him. She groans as the waves press her down against his bulging shorts, her cunt aching to envelop him, aching to slide over him, in the same way her silver vibrator has slid between the pink folds of her lips over and over and over, this week, in an attempt to chase the thought of fucking him, of fucking her, from her mind.

Instead, she takes the fantasy just the extra step further, allowing him, only in her finger fucking, to tug her skirt above her thighs, to rub her soaking panties against his sun warmed crotch, encouraging her to twist again and again against his cock, wordlessly pleading him to erase the barriers between the two swollen pieces of them. And he does, reaching between her thighs, and pulling her panties down, fingers stroking her lips and sliding just an inch inside, against, between her. The panties float away, a splash of neon green and pink trim against the cool blue and white of the waves, as he, as she, finally lowers herself onto him.

She's surprised at the aching moan that tumbles out of her throat as he, as she, stretches the walls of a cunt, used only by womyn for so many suns and moons, that she can't remember her last boi-male partner. This stretching, pulling, pulsing need catches her off guard and drives her hard, down onto his dick, over and over again, as her fingers fly, circling, flicking, stroking, circling, stroking, flicking over her clit and his hands cup and stroke her ass, as the waves crash against them, dripping down their frothing bodies, spraying up between them as they come together again and again.

With a keening cry, as he bottoms out in the tightened depths of her pussy, she cums, squeezing his silicone dick, milking, pulsing around him, forcing him to shoot deeply into her, seconds after her orgasm. As she falls back, caught in the confident embrace of the waves, he collapses around her, and they float above the coral, watching the sun sink deeply, into the sea.