Tacky – Edited.

Er, yeah. I edited because, you know, it sucked *laughs* Unlike me, for once. *grins* Pervs. Sheesh.

And for those who know me and find my confessions here a little too in the realm of “I didn’t need to know that”, I hereby fulfill your request by giving you a heads up that this be one of those posts. Don’t say I never do anything for you.

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I look up and all I can see is his hands; white knuckled as they grapple like flesh nooses around the polished wrought iron bed rail that arcs like a machete, blunt from use, over my head. It anchors him, earths him, as he releases a grunt from the exertion of pulling back his hips, struggling as if the action defies a magnetic force that forbids the separation of our polar centres. He pauses in movement for a moment, to relish the anticipation rather than for positioning, and then, slams his body forward, driving his hard cock into my barely wet cunt.

Breath billows from me in expulsions of air, as if a gasp in rewind, and my own hands come into view as I press them against him; appearing small and delicate amidst the smattering of dark curls that decorate the expanse of his dark, muscle moulded chest. It’s a senseless action – pushing him away even as my nails dig into him, silently, clawingly, imploring him to stay.The discomfort of his thickness stretching me, comforts me, the reminder of pain in sex a familiar friend.

He whispers something. I can barely hear him over my own breaths. “Take it,” I think his words are. And the revelation comes; he knew I wasn’t ready.

I wriggle under his weight, dragging my legs up to bend awkwardly at the knee, flattening my outer thighs against the tousled sheets to making room in the narrow tunnel of my sex for his intruding hardness. It is in vain. I can feel him growing inside me even as I struggle for respite from the ache of my cunt stretching beyond her limits to accommodate him.

He releases his grip on the rail with one hand, dragging his nails along my left thigh with a touch devoid of tenderness; I make a note to check for the markings of that four fingered trail later just as he pushes my left knee over to meet its right counterpart, flipping me onto my side. My legs, clasped together like clammy hands in prayer, trap his pistoning cockshaft between my fleshy thighs, his balls slapping against the plump loaves of my labia, like a pair of vulgar rosary beads, as if voicing their need to be caressed between kneading fingertips.

Towering over me, his chest presses against my shoulder, strong, warm, heaving, damp, to match the glistening trail of his tongue as he traces the red inked scratch marks on my back. It’s a ritual, a fixation, a part of me he can’t understand, that mocks him for being unable to possess it. As if angered by this reminder, he moves his mouth to mine, shoving his tongue between my lips with the clumsiness afforded by blind want, and I feel him slip from my cunt. For a moment, we’re like teenagers in lust, a frantic, frenzied dancing of wet tongues and warm, sweet breath and the exchange of desire through saliva – but only for a moment.

Amidst the breathless kisses, he takes my hands and, together with his, clasps them around the overhead bedrail as he rams the entire length of his cock deep into the tightened walls of my cunt.

A scream dies a strangled death in the back of my throat as he traps it with his teeth, grazing their jagged porcelain edges against my throat. He knows what I want, before I want it. Knows anger only makes me want it more. His thrusts are relentless; in and out, in and out, he fucks me with a rhythm that matches that of his mouth against my pulse, as I lay helpless to the savage pounding of him in and out of my dripping cunt.

Is there any grace, any tenderness, any art to our sudden afternoon tryst? I don’t know.

All I know is the leeching of my strength, as I feel the inevitable heat of climax seep through my veins like cyanide ice, crippling, in its ability to overcome the senses. My movement, the antithesis to his movements, pushing against him as he propels himself forward, away when he pulls back, converting each collision into a tableau of pure physics, maximising each and every impact.

I want him deeper, harder, faster – more and more.

Sensing my need, he tears my hands from the rails and lifts himself away from my body, moulding me, a fuck puppet in his hands, until I’m bent on my knees and elbows in front of him, pivoting on his cock as he keeps his hips attached to me, taking handfuls of my ass as he returns to his frantic fucking.

I grasp for fistfuls of the duvet as I lift my hips, pressing my face into the pillow, moaning with him in unison as the friction of his shaft, dragging along the valley leading to my ass launches me one more leap towards orgasm. His hands knead at my bruising flesh, harder and harder, pulling my ass open and closed; the cold breaths of air washing over me, teasing me, taunting me. I ram my fingers into my mouth, then reach behind me to slide my drenched index finger into the star shaped opening of my ass.

I explode in a torrent of curses and whole body tremors, my cunt clenching like a fist of quivering velvet muscle around his cock, even as it floods him with my come. My nails catching on the edge of the mattress as my ribcage burns and buckles for air, my finger released from the clutching depths of my ass only when I’m drained of strength.

Gripping my hips to slam against back him and ignoring the collapsed frame of my torso as I beg for breath, he fucks me faster and faster, the ferocity of his thrusts blazing an ice hot trail in my cunt; faster and faster, until there isn’t a sliver of time between each plunge of his straining cock into me. Then, ramming the tip of his thumb into the tight passage of my anus, he comes with a final thrust, burying himself into my womb, groaning with each propulsion of his come from the tip of his aching cock, his other hand finding a grip on the back of my neck as his muscles jerk with his receding climax.

I swallow, my throat constricting under his hand, and he collapses, falling to the side, pulling me into him.

I turn in his arms to face him and lay a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat life against the heel of my palm. He smiles and runs a finger along my flushed cheek, pulling an errant hair from my face.

“You’re pretty after you come,” he says, somewhat out of character and with, perhaps, just perhaps, a tinge of an apology.

“I’m pretty before, too,” I answer, grinning at him, hardly concerned with modesty considering what had just occurred.

He laughs and pulls the duvet over my bare back as he sits up, inspecting the clothes strewn on the floor with slight amusement. “Are you going to tell HIM about this?”

I laugh, knowing now I have to.

“Is that a yes?” He prods, cocking an eyebrow, knowing full well my ability to avoid a direct question.

I can’t help but laugh again at his none too subtle need to know and hang off the side of the bed to reach for his clothes, kicking my legs at him as he runs his hand over my bare calf.

“It is! It’s a yes! Well, tell him how sexy and manly I am!” He winks at me as he catches the clothes I throw in his face, and slides his arms into the long crumpled sleeves of his favourite blue pinstripe shirt.

“I can’t, I don’t lie to him! That’s tacky!”

“And telling him about us fucking, isn’t?” He asks, struggling once more to comprehend those parts of me that don’t make sense to him.

“Telling him about us fucking isn’t what?” I ask, knowing full well what he means, as I sit up, bunching up the sheets against my chest and tucking them under my chin.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, tugging the blanket down to my lap to expose my breasts and leans over to press a kiss to my shoulder. Then, flicking his thumb over my right nipple, he pulls away as I reach out to slap his hand, “I said, telling him about our fucking isn’t tacky?”

I slide out from under the duvet and stretch out, naked, behind him, “Of course it is!”

He tucks his feet into his shoes before turning around to slap his hand over my ass, grinning as I squeal and run my fingers over the reddening skin. He watches me and ponders for a moment before asking me one last question,“Then why do it?”

I smile and shrug, and give him the answer even I’ve only now begun to understand, “Because I tell him everything.”

~ by libertiness on March 19, 2009.