Sweat 9

I catch you by the wrist as you make your way down the hall to the bedroom in your rush to grab a towel. I tread over your discarded shorts and wrap myself around you.

"Stop, Kris." You laugh. "I need to get cleaned up."

"That's what I'm here for," I answer.

You're helpless, arms snared in your half-removed sports bra. I bury my nose in your short, chestnut hair, tousled and tangled by exercise. I inhale, the earthen scent of your evening run blooming through my senses. Your body heat is fresh and powerful in the humid air. My lips clasp your neck. You moan tentatively—unsure, eager to rebuke me, to escape my clutches and get on with your much-needed shower.

"Come on," you say. "I'm a mess."

My touch rocks over your tight stomach, dragging you back against me. My breasts compress between us. My tongue smears out, indulging in the salty taste of sweat dappled across your skin. Giggling, you rustle your arms free of your bra, leaving it around your neck like a collar, and dig your nails into my forearm.

"Let me go," you say. "I'm serious."

But so am I.

It's hard to tell what draws the bigger gasp: my arms wrenching you closer, no hope for escape, or my tongue laving over your neck, collecting every tangy hint of the workout from your bronze skin. Each time you moan, I punctuate the sound with a sharp press of my teeth, surging you to greater, deeper moans, forcing you into a cycle. The bite of my teeth, the whimper that catches in your throat, over and over, again and again, until you submit.

I rove my fingers up your abdomen. I find your breasts—small, athletic, easy to hold, just like the rest of you. Your nipples are crinkled and small, loaded for bear. I roll the left one between my thumb and forefinger, indulging a bit, sadistically, in the jerk of your spine as you rise to attention. I wrap my arm around your stomach and chest, squeezing you until you can hardly breathe. You don't get to, not unless I say so.

I roll my hips into the rise of your taut little ass. You stumble under my weight, tripping forwards into welcome support of the wall in front of you. Your hands slap down against the plaster, ringing out a hollow thump I'm sure the neighbors hear.

Even if they don't, they definitely catch the nice-and-easy groan that rebounds through the hallway as my teeth sink into your neck.

"Don't!" You give a snorting laugh, rustling your shoulders back against me. "I have a fucking meeting tomorrow, don't you mark me!"

"Wear a turtleneck," I say.

This time, my teeth clench down until it hurts.

You squeal like a stuck pig. That's what you are, after all—stuck. Fat load of good those workouts do for you: I have you pinned, a sandwich between the wall and me, both parties equally unyielding.

You sneak out little pants beneath the claiming compression of my forearm. I take the full swell of one of your breasts in my palm, grinding the bone of my wrist into that giving, pliant tit. A sharp choke catches in your throat.

Your hand presses down atop my arm. You've come around to the idea; knew you would.

I dip as I pass your belly button, swirling the tip of my middle finger, exploring the tender inlet of your flesh. You shudder. Your hips butt forward against the wall.

I find the band of your panties. The elastic stretches over my knuckles. My nails rock through the tangled forest of your pubic hair, damp and matted down, just like the rest of you. I rock my hand against the fat bulge of your pubic mound. Your thighs clench, some small hit of decency wriggling out of you in a last gasp of resistance.

"W-wait," you say. "I'm gross, seriously."

You're beautiful.

A sharp pinch of my fingers upon your nipple—you haven't forgotten my right hand, have you?—discourages any further modesty. I take another whiff, indulge in the bitter tinge of sweat mixing with the lingering scent of body wash on your skin. I pepper your neck with kisses and the odor of your building stimulation swells to join the panoply of scents emanating off you. I arch my body forward, atop your back, forcing you to bear my weight. I scoop my fingers between the crux of your thighs. I find your furnace, already stoked.

I scoop my fingers inwards, eking out of you a reticent flux of skin and sound. I rock my touch over the hidden lips of your pussy. You mewl. My fingertips collect the moisture of your precipitous lust. Again, the wall responds in echo beneath the slap of your palm. Your legs clench around my hand, trying to trap it; you're finally ready. I flex my knuckles, resting the embrace of your thighs; that's for me to decide, not you.

"Please," you say.

My fingers explore the edges of your cunt, tracing every curl and line of your lips. You whine with need, immature, and impatient, like you always are. Damp, you're that too—and not just from sweat, you're positively moist. Slippery arousal all but spills from you, your pussy a font of mute urgency, slicking my fingers and easing their progress. I sink my nails into your tit when a petulant groan cracks in your throat. Shush.

My hand on your breast scrawls upwards, gracing over your clavicle and the shallow curve of your neck, over your chin and against your lips. You cry out, parting them for me, and I enter you there, knowing it only casts in sharp relief the ache building in your unfucked cunt. My fingers depress the firm muscle of your tongue. You respond with quaking motions, slathering my digits, pulsing your lips, begging me inside of you, willing to take it any way you can get it.

Never idle, the pad of my right thumb presses down against the tented fold of flesh at the apex of your cunt, seeking the sensitive button of your clit. Your body goes rigid, stock still as an electric current runs up your spine and locks you to me.

"Please!" You cry out, sputtering the word past the foraging fingers filling your mouth. But the downward thrust of your yearning hips is far more evocative than some single, clumsy syllable.

Oh, all right. You've been patient enough.

I slip just one finger through the portal of your cunt. A rumble starts in your chest. "Yes, Kris," you say, lips morphing around my fingers both above and below. You sob out a sound of timid passion the moment my finger curls inside of you, securing its claim on your g-spot like planting a flag on some precious, fertile ground. I claim your neck with another bite, digging in my teeth, trying to stifle you.

When it doesn't work, when you cry my name again, I resort to harsher tactics. I jerk your sports bra upwards, stuffing the stretched fabric past your lips. Your nostrils flare. Your hips slap backwards to meld with mine. The motion throws my finger into you, deep as it can go.

My thumb presses down, grinding your clit beneath it, distracting you from the pinch of my second finger slipping inside of you. Your tunnel's overwhelming slickness permits my further entrance with ease despite the stretching tension rippling through your inner walls. Muffled, you cry out through your gag. I cram the bra deeper in your mouth, sharing with you the same scent of sweat and exercise that I furrow my nose against your scalp to relish in myself.

Our bodies thump forward, ratting the picture frames on the wall. The uncomfortable position skews my arm at an odd angle, but I've never let a little aching wrist stop me before. I hammer my fingers into you, scraping my nails against your inner button. Your heartbeat soars. I can feel it pounding against my chest through your back.

Your pussy clenches, countering each of my thrusts with a pulse of fresh resistance. Suffocating through your bra, you pull shallow breaths through your nose. I press my hand against the back of your head, slapping your cheek against the wall so I can look you in the eyes. Your sweat pours better than any workout, staining the white paint. I drink in the sight of your eyes, blurring with the tears of your climatic effort just to stay . You lips flex against the makeshift gag. You sob your effort into the fabric, teetering at the edge of collapse. I spread my fingers in a vee, stretching your tight fucking cunt to its absolute limit.

You spill over the edge, the tattered screams of your climax no less beautiful for being muffled. You lurch backwards, melting against me for a hot instant.

Then, you collapse, emitting a feeble sound as your buckling knees impale your immaculately sensitive, post-climax cunt upon me all the way to my knuckles. I wrench my arm around your lagging body to keep you standing. You spit loose the gag and your panting breath sings a wonderful sympathy for me as your lungs force fresh oxygen into your body.

My fingers extract themselves from you. A moan unravels in the air. I wipe those slickened fingers above your lip. Your heaving, desperate breathing giving you no option but to suffuse yourself with the passionate, overwhelming aroma I've painted beneath your nose, marking you with your own personal essence. I sift my nose through your hair and behind your ear, letting you hear how ragged my own breathing has become.

"Christ, you're fucking drenched," I hiss. "That straight chick with the red hair and nice tits was on the elliptical again, wasn't she?"

You sigh with idle satiation as the image of that hetero babe stirs in your mind. "Not my fault she's got an ass made for yoga pants."

I utter a playful, possessive growl. "You trying to make me jealous?"

You rock your hips back to meet mine, a tiny tease—but your foreplay's wasted, the deed's already done. "Jealous?" You ask. "Don't see how that's possible. You're the one who reaps the proceeds of all her hard work."

"Little bitch," I whisper.

"You are," you reply.

The surge of my hips, flattening you to the wall, confirms which of those statements is true. I bite down on your earlobe hard enough to make you yelp.

I bury myself in your hair one last time, pulling in as much of your musk as I can before the shower washes it away. Your hips rock in reflexive motion, your cunt unconsciously hungry for its next orgasm. Who can blame it, when the first was so fleeting?

You squirm enough to turn and face me. I shove you back up against the wall, reminding you of your position. Your eyes are bright and blue as a mountain stream. Your face is ruddy and flushed. You smile at me, deep and kind and overflowing with a warmth even your rugged, well-toned and well-used body can't match. I plant frank kisses all over your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. I claim and clear every inch of fresh, clean sweat from your face and still I'm hungry for me.

You giggle, swatting your hand at my side and shaking your shoulders to muscle me away. "Can I take my shower now, please?"

"Fine. But you better be quick about it." I grab your hip and steal a chaste smooch from those kissable lips. "I expect you to return the favor, and I can't promise I'll wait for you to finish cleaning up."

"Who says you have to wait?" You smirk, slipping from my grasp like a contortion artist. As you make your escape into the bathroom, your voice sing-songs to me over the hydraulic spray of the shower. "Grab me a towel while you're at it."