Tasting Her in the Itchen

She walks like trash. Trash sprinkled with pixie six. Her skirt is high up, rather than short, and she breathes in her polo shirt better than I could. I keep my collar turned up, my hood rests against my hair and I feel starved. She poses in front of me, offers me a drink; so offhand and dominant that I must accept. My posture is poor.

Silently she pushes past me to the kitchen, her legs are frail and varnished; sexless and gorgeous. My breathing moves to a psychotic metronome and my mind fills with lust as she pours my glass. I feel the whiskey from the late afternoon groaning in my chest, and as we sink into evening we sink onto her sofa and dry hump through conversation. My legs twitch but I speak slow and reasoned, my cock is warm and stirs every time she moves her legs.

Wrapped up in herself like a cat; daringly dark eyes and fingers you want to tear at your skin. Her voice is background and my eyes sit in the centre, travelling up the contours of her skinny, polished legs, peering up to the consuming white V of her knickers. I am hard yet my arms lie limp, as if my fear were to drive me to sleep upon them. More raven than cat she spies my motives, and with confidence and calm she walks to pour once more. On the balls of my feet I watch her, so straight against the cabinets, the long cascades of her hair facing me. That and the symmetrical globes of her delicate arse, as my pupils adjust to the glare. She looks over her shoulder and pouts. I am rigid, yet overcome with desires that altogether transcend my need to mate.

Shaking and worthless like a drunken decision I fall off the sofa onto my hands. So merciless and mocking in her glances, she continues to pour as I paw my way to her pillows, a slobbering mutt. For a moment her legs bend and quiver, and my instinct takes my shaken hands to each one of her thighs. The first touch of skin is like cold water. I run my hands up and down, understanding my passion, controlling it. She does not move, I imagine she is holding the glasses, ready to tip them over me. A dog that needs putting down.

I glide under her skirt and grip the string of her knickers, wrapping my finger round either side, and slowly reveal my victory. Her hands run down and pull her skirt to her waist, and in one fluid motion I face her bare buttocks, my mouth resting inches from her vibrant snatch. I snake my tongue against her pussy lips, the sting of my ethanol and the taste of her droplets of sweat combine. I am harsher than I think, running my tongue back and forth against her soft pink layers, my head rutting against her cheeks. She takes her hand to the back of my head and grasps it like she's falling. I slide my tongue into her and taste the gentle buzz of sex inside. Back and forth my face rocks into her, fucking her wetly with my tongue, and she tugs at my hair with what feels like hatred. I feel the wetness of my cock ramming itself against my boxers, but I let it suffer. When I cum I am nothing; before I do I am everything.

In a fit of wet sex and drool I grasp each cheek of her bottom and run my searching tongue across her valley. She senses the flicks against her hole, and freezes, not letting go of my head. I stop and breathe. Then in one motion I ram my face into her cheeks and slip my tongue up her arse, fucking it's entrance with piston like speed. I kiss and maul at her buttocks, running my hands as far up her body as I can. I want to violate all of her, yet I do not move. She pounds back at my face with her hips and rubs her craters across the scratch of my stubble. I drool and moan like a dog and she squeals with a new fear and lust.

My cock is bulging and groaning against my boxers, against my trousers, against my fantasy. But I am but a beast and pull for it immediately. The sound of my belt buckle clattering as I pull my trousers down stiffens her again. I am hard and dry and feel nothing but what I feel. Like they were my first steps I rise to my feet, and rub a spit ridden hand against my bell, almost foaming at the mouth. I grab at her throat and she stays silent in waiting. I know she is burning as I grip her tightly and force the heat of my cock between her solid buttocks and into the delicate cavern of her arse. I feel resistance, I feel frozen. Then like a great storm I feel the pull of a great wave, as her arse hole sucks me in and grips greatly. Her hands are like mine were, delicate and shaking. resting somewhere on my body.

I pound maybe fifteen strokes into her, and in my mind see a field of poppies. I feel the heat of the sun and rush of a river, the death of a lake. I am sucked and spat out just as smoothly, as I pull away from her, hanging on one last breath. I grip her by the head, and in one jerky motion, pull her to the floor and to face me. Her eyes shut and she tilts her head, but her hands rest on my wrists patiently. I gush my spunk without even touching myself, and hot lines of wax molest her face, running from her left eye to her chin. I push it gently against her pursed lips. She parts them, and for nearly a minute I rest inside her mouth and feel like an animal no more.