…brought to you by my campaign to clear my draft folder. If it ever empties, I may have to either a) have more sex, or b) start writing fiction.

There was a knock on the door, and I jumped up from the desk to answer it.

He was early. In my eagerness to let him in, I fumbled the door.

He pulled me in for a kiss. God, he was delicious: tight-wound lines of muscle, with just enough softness to his frame to be toothsome. We made out like teenagers until he threw me on the bed, and then I wrapped my legs around his and squirmed and rubbed with breathless abandon.

“I did have dinner in mind,” he said when I let him up.

“I’m hungry too. We could always fuck, go out to eat, and then come back and fuck some more.”

“I like the way you think.”

He shoved me down on my knees. I mouthed the crotch of his jeans, eliciting an encouraging groan, as he unbuckled them for me.

His cock is beautiful, if rather too big for me. I always take it as a challenge. When I finally fit it into my throat, he made a sound — that sound — and his hands clenched convulsively on the back of my head, forcing it down as far as it could go. So much for pacing. I was still wearing professional makeup from my video shoot earlier in the day. Ten minutes of cocksucking, and there was tears and spit and snot and that thick, mucilaginous drool that coats everything.

I reveled in the mess.

He grabbed my hair and tilted my head up. My face was streaked with tears (they were involuntary; he does not make me cry) and spit gleamed on my cheeks. I smiled. I’d missed him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. He slapped me hard across the face.

When he fucked me, I sank my teeth into the inside of my arm to keep from screaming his name.

——————————————-

I was on my knees, but he came around behind me instead. He guided my head back, all the way back, so that the floor and ceiling traded places in my vision. I held on to his thighs, made docile by fear of falling, and opened my mouth for his cock. I had to admit the angle was favorable. He fucked my throat with hands locked behind my head; spit gurgled and foamed in my mouth. It ran into my ears and down my chest in cooling rivulets, soaking the waistband of my jeans.

When he released me I fell down onto the floor, coughing. “Stay there,” he ordered.

He fetched a charger and a cord. I watched in bemusement.

“If it plugs into the wall,” I warned him, “you don’t want to use it on the carpet.”

He returned with vibrator and towel, the latter of which he kicked under me. When he pressed the vibrator to my clit, I nearly screamed. Warm liquid gushed between my legs. “Fuck!”

He pressed his cock back into my throat and I choked, shaking, while I came again and again, soaking the towel.

I was so sore that when he fucked me, I made little keening noises, like a hurt puppy. It wasn’t friction soreness: my cervix felt bruised from the violence of our earlier couplings. Neither pain nor reticence are my usual reactions to sex with him, but even without an explanation, he seemed to like the whimpers and my creased forehead.

I squirmed trying to tilt my hips, but it was rather like trying to stop the tide. I gave in and let it happen. The tenderness of it rolled all over into pleasure somehow, and soon I was moaning — yes, fuck, yes yes yes — and he pounded into me harder and harder, until with one monumental thrust he fell forward growling, and we shuddered together until we were still.

Posted in cocksucking, masochism, vibrator, female ejaculation, non-monogamy, face slapping, rough sex