It’s somewhere between a wheeze and a squeak, this delicious sound. It comes rushing out of her lips as his slides his cock into her.
He can feel her stomach construct beneath him, her legs tightening beside him
She tries to speak, this light blonde blue eyed darlin’, but all that comes out is a strained whisper. A husky moan.
Her grey dress, a collage of 1980s science fiction pop culture featuring the likes of Marty McFly, Doctor Who and Luke Skywalker, is bunched up around her stomach, ready to be lifted up and over.
Her panties are simple – dark green and cotton. Bought down at plaza at the K Mart. He’s seen her there before a coupla times.
Her dark green panties are pulled to the side, revealing a cunt with blonde fuzz growing back across her lips. It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. The holiest Of holies.
As he pull them down her pale legs, they tangle. He thinks of a scrunchie. He thinks of their bodies strewn across her bedroom floor while the party outside rages on. He thinks of her dumbass boyfriend with the jock friends and the shaved head and the tattoo of 49 on his biceps even though he’s like 30 and no where near that age. Or her age, 23.
But it’s fleeting, these thoughts. His cock aches with an intensity he’s never experienced. It drives him forward, pulling back out of her so the tip of his head teases her lips before he slides back in, her low gasp a sonata to his ears.
She’s telling him they shouldn’t, he needs to get off, they need to stop, this is wrong, this is wrong, but she doesn’t move. She struggles, she kicks her legs, as if her body agrees with the idea of getting away from him but her mind isn’t. Her face is contorted, yet he sees her still, the woman he’s known, the one underneath, locked away.
Her grey dress goes up and over. It’s not as easy as he’d like, some part of her resists,yet he continues. He spots her rib cage as he pulls it over her. Then he sees – she’s not wearing a bra. Her tits are small, even lying down only her nipples remain, pointed, betraying her words.
Her hands so swat at him, feebly, lazily almost, so he holds them above her tangle of sun kissed hair.
With his left hand, he has to see for himself. He runs his thumb along her stiff nipple, a small beautiful nub. Her response is that low wheeze.
He can’t recall how they ended up here, these old friends. He’s conscious of this as he is driven by the need to push and pull, the need to pump. Everything is vulgar. Yet the plunge on the bedroom escapes him. He must have her. He must taste her lips.
She’s insulting him now, spitting her words at him. They come out razor sharp, seething with venom. He’s never heard her like this. Is she crying or is that a moan? But something has him now and he can’t stop. He might never stop.
He can smell her, all around. This rich aroma. It floods his senses. He thanks the universe he can finally understand, can finally breathe her in.
Her cries, her insults, her whimpers quicken. Tangled between a cry and a moan, a wheeze and a breath, she curses him, in front of all the devils and angels and beings watching.
It’s all there – hate, love, rage, betrayal, lust, pain, pleasure. She hits his back hard, once…twice. He barely registers, quickens, frenzied, grunting. All of his life is in that thrust.
As he lowers his mouth and sinks his teeth into her pale neck, she comes. It’s demonic, possessed, traveling from the pit of her stomach up her throat and out her lips. The tail end of her orgasmic cry comes with another curse. With tears, resentment.
He can’t control himself, he slips out as he reaches to kiss her lips, but it’s already in motion – he comes – shooting his load across her stomach, painting her tits in its image. She shrieks out loud, then pauses, panting. She’s frozen.
Though their eyes have stayed locked on for this entire time, he registers her fully now, as she registers him entirely. Her deep blue eyes regard his in the silence.