A TAUT BACKSIDE perched above firm runner’s legs, feet in uncharacteristic high-heeled sandals, she is teetering on wedges of jute. Light dust of freckles over pale cream firmness she bends, arms stretched out on the bed, mane of hair scattered about her on the bright red sheets. Creamy white, dark brown, bright red, a tricoleur of trembling need.
wearing nothing now, her red knicks are in my fist and I kneel behind her, and breath deeply from them, sour-warm, salty deep and rich. Before me the tower of her splayed strong legs, the dark lush fur between them and the domes of arse above. Between her thighs I see her shadowed belly sweep down to the squashed moons of of bosom where she meets the bed. I am as hard as a cobra, and the head twitches on my risen tip.
I shuffle forward on my naked knees, ankles tangled in the mess of shorts and boxers. Sweat cools in the curled hair on my chest and belly. My lips meet her at the junction of arse and thigh, a spray of creases under the buttock and, on her right side, a fierce semi colon of finger bruises from her husband‘s eager grasp. I place my own finger tips exactly so and, unsurprised, find a matching grip of bruises on her other hip.
Between the delightful arcs of bum is a rich tangle of dark hair, spilling down her cleft and spreading out across the delta in whorls of bush and furze and climbing too, a little way up the columns of her thighs. The air above this grove is warm and musked, fragrant with her, the sharp tang of fresh lust and the rounder tones of sweat and salt and recent effort, last night’s sex.
My head swims as I lean in, my tongue a lone explorer, pushing through the uncut hair, the reeds obscuring the spring I seek.
Her hair is silk and wire, both coarse and smooth. In it’s convoluted spirals, twists and bunches it guides, it eases. Leads me in. It swirls across my tongue, subtle scents and savours rise and fill my mouth and nose. I close my eyes and relish her, while my ears are filled with hungry groans.
She mutters like a hidden stream, gurgles of water under knots of bush and round and under polished stones, and she twitches too and as I work, a hand, her hand, it flails and finds her thigh and working inward dives and finds my own wiry hair, clambers down to find my straining eager cock.
At first she merely explores too, her long and supple fingers mimicking the subtle probes of my dreaming tongue. Long strokes along the shaft and little tickling taps across the base and over the knurled surface of my tightened balls, a pause to twirl the hair, to wind it around her fingertips and tug and tug. These little tremors find their way to my eager mouth as I in rythmn press, press onward, and so we dance. A seesaw perched by her bed, driven by our mingled touch.
And so we dance, the rolling humid air from outside spilling humid across our bare and glistening backs, our grunts and cries mingling with the traffic noise, the distant thunder. The bed springs with the musing of songbirds in the trees.
Then at some point in that dance she moves her hand more purposefully and her heat and flavour deepens and she is driving back harder against my tongue and in long strokes her fist encloses me, begins to pump and this I follow with wide strokes of tongue flat across the blaze of flavour in her spread slick lips. The flavour of her comes hot and clean and fast, sour as cherries and sweet as a fresh high tide, and our dance grows faster and more reckless.
With her face half-buried in the rumpled red sheet and her breasts rubbed pink by the pressure of our weight she uses her other hand. Her fingers pull at my beard, pull me in, and our hair mingles as do my spit and the slick wetness that pours from her bright cunt. And then a fast plastic buzz, a toy, crisp blue and white. It’s drive thrums through her and my tongue and my chin and the tremors pour down her thighs and my spine and into, oh into, into the shaft and the head of my cock in the relentless grip of her fist.
She presses the little humming thing right on her crux and my head is filled with it and the rush of her blood and I. I. I…
And I no longer know where I end and she begins. We mingle in heat and light and pulse and rythmn, and as outside a motorcycle roars past in the thickening air her thighs clench and her knees buckle and as she thrashes and twists I drive my tongue deep and urgent into her sourness and she twitches and clenches and flows around me and in a voice full of strain and force and release she howls into the sheet and collapses across the bed. And I follow with her and perched up above still clenched in her fist it’s time for me, too.
It comes in three, four fast pulses that rip out of me, hurling itself in long splashes, white-hot up across her from belly to throat and she smiles as we fold, and whispers husky as Hepburn:
“In my cunt next time.”
We fall on the bed and stickily find a comfortable space of locked limbs and slow cuddles and in the musk of our sport we begin to drift. To drift off to sleep.
And there with the weather outside turning grey and the wind growing wet in front of massed clouds, she kisses me gently as she mutters towards sleep and tasting the wet in my matted beard says:
“Hey, that’s me….”
And she laughs like a gutter, a gutterful of summer storm.
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