I look up into sorrowful, chocolate-brown pools. My lover the stonemason, who’s hands have carved a thousand tombstones and who looks as though he holds night time inside the silence of his eyes. His hands are scarred too, rough and lovely. They pass over my skin, annotating the geography of my body, my curves, crevices and fleshy mistakes. I writhe beneath him, feverish with lust.
His cock thrusts in me, rigid, turgid. Dilated pupils shine from within a hard, closed face. Even whilst he pushes blissfully into my softness in age-old intimacy, I cannot reach him. My complex lover empties his hot breath onto my neck, making me squirm. I am impaled on a length of sweetness, wanting him to burst open. I haven’t a hope. He inhales, spreading a contrasting coolness onto my nape. His thudding, impressive rod continues deliciously stretching me. I am meringue, cracking delicately under the weight of his demanding pace. Despite his impossible proximity, my mysterious fuck puppet fails to yield.
“I want you.” I whisper, hoping to slide under his cool resolve.
Brown eyes bore through me, their heavy lids fringed with long, dark lashes. His full mouth drops open, revealing a gap in his front teeth. His tanned arms extend either side of my torso. He shifts his gaze to the liquid weight of my large breasts. Flattened beneath him, my rounded flesh sways with our movements. I cup his arse cheeks, willing him to push more cock inside me. I want him to break. He dips his head and traps a nipple, bites, sucks and lets it pop free. My breath comes out in a whimper. My bruised, wet skin is puckered, ruby red. The rest of my breast feels hot and tight.
His cheeks are flushed. Speared beneath him, constantly recoating his cockmeat with my slickness, every nerve ending attuned to our movements, I note with satisfaction as a fraction of his composure slips. I reach out and stroke his face. My clit strains to be part of the action. I hitch my legs up higher, part my thighs wider.
“I want you.”
I am dizzy, panting. The old bed creaks as he pounds. The mattress springs push into my back, forming an uneven pattern. I don’t care. I shift my hips to meet his. I wish I knew him well enough to ask for a pillow, I want to push our pelvic bones together, I want him harder, deeper. I want to dissolve into his cock. I don’t say anything, loathe to speak lest our sweet spell crumbles.
“Urnghh.” My mouth betrays me with a groan of pleasure.
His lips curl briefly in a smile. A spark of appreciation crosses his beautiful, impassive face. My pussy is sopping, juices run, escaping my cockhole, pussy cream leaking into my arse crack, delicately tickling my passage. I quiver. His mouth descends on mine, distracting me with hot, placatory fullness. I am drowning in slick heat. He smells of wood shavings, sorrow and silence. Between us the faint musky scent of surrender grows. I wriggle and roll with my hips.
The springs beneath us sing with our movements.
All I can see are his lips. He wets them. I stretch my arms, pulling him down to feast on his sticky saliva amid the click of our eager teeth.
My words are fractured. I want to convey the growing bubble of bliss in my belly. My imminent orgasm froths and surges. Sensible sentences crash and splinter. I push his chest from mine with a hint of urgency, brace my hands against his thighs. My pussy contracts around it’s delicious invasion.
I think of lounge-rooms, disco balls and raw mince meat, preventing an orgasmic explosion. My anus tingles. My lover grunts. Eyes wide open, he looms above me, strong arms slung either side of my breast bone, sinewy limbs clenched, desperate and perspiring. A muscle in his proud jaw throbs. His cock does the same.
A sound that might have come from either one of us.
A sly hand reaches in and rubs my clit. I’m so wet the noise of our fucking fills the room. He stops. We sit up and I flip over. Shaking hands roam over the round flesh of my buttocks and creamy hips. I crouch on all fours and claw at the bed. He pulls my rear towards his waiting, distended cock, one foot planted on the floor.
Re-entry into my slit is swift and blissful. He parks in my pussy and I rock back against him, meeting his strokes. Fingers grip my arse with savage intensity. If I wasn’t so aroused his clawing would hurt. Inside my cunt, his dick thickens. Hot, hairy thighs thud gently against the meat of my arse mounds. Coarse leg hair tickles the sensitive skin of my fleshy rear. I never want it to end.
Spunk zings into my pussy, it sets off a colourful explosion in my mouth.
He grows and grows.
“You’re. So. Big.”
He shudders inside me.
“Fuck. Cunt. Jesus. OooOh.”
I slide down off my hands, rolling onto my back, panting. I stare at the shitty, peeling ceiling of an unfamiliar room. He comes to lie next to me. Tendrils of glossy black hair stick to his nape, he sucks and expels air like an athlete.
A kiss on the cheek. In the silence, our eyes don’t meet.
He is my brother’s boyfriend. In exchange for these few exquisite moments there will be misunderstanding and a wealth of pain. All this is for later. Now, he is only my lover.
A man with a painful past who will add to my aching future. Right now though, it’s worth it. He is a demi-god, a poet and a whore.
Outside, afternoon turns to darkness. In our little room neither one of us moves to turn on the light. I slide a hand down into my nest of curls and play with my moist, swollen folds. Everything is hot and sloppy. I smile with my eyes closed. I feel the weight of his body as he leans across to kiss my lips. A moment later the mattress tips as he gets up. It’s over.
“I love you” He whispers.
He doesn’t. It can’t be true.
I rest on my elbows to watch a beautiful man pull on a well-worn, cotton singlet and his shirt. He leaves the buttons undone. I roll over, facing the wall. His belt buckle clinks as it hits the button on his jeans.
Soon he’ll be gone. I ache already. I want more.
Read Clarabelle’s other sexy story published on Every Night Erotica, here.
Clarabelle is an aspiring writer of erotica, she is Australian, open-minded, married and works full time. Writing is her favourite hobby, touch is her favourite sense. More often than not, she writes short, steamy fiction based around complex characters. Clarabelle’s stories are usually snippets of people’s lives and just like real life, the sex depicted often raises more questions than it answers. In this way, she infuses believable situations with a sensual zing, leaving you hot under the collar and wishing for more.