In Praise of her Lover
A Daydream & Distraction by Will Crimson
- I wanted to try writing sex that was imbued with intention from beginning to end. You will have to let me know whether I’ve succeeded.
When she found him, he was leaning. His forehead was pressed against his fist and his fist against the entry-room wall. His eyes were closed. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned, as if he’d been too distracted to finish taking it off. His jeans were unbuckled and his fly was open. She smelled his sweat, heat and sunlight. His broad back slowly rose and fell. She called his name.
“I’ll be alright,” he answered.
He was a good man and honest. He was doing the right thing instead of what he was told to do. He suffered for it – the way he spoke his words, the way his name was spelled, the color of his skin. She wanted to lash out. She knew who it was. But she knew he didn’t want to commiserate. He didn’t want her sympathy. He didn’t want to talk about anger, frustration or pain.
She saw something else. His cock hung out of his fly, half tumescent. Maybe he just had to piss. Maybe there was another reason. She didn’t need to know why. The site of it, silhouetted against the white wall, sunlit by the further window, was a spark at the base of her spine, an unexpected coiling in her spine, a jolt that hardened her nipples, and called to her.
She moved quietly behind him. She pressed her breasts and cheek against hist back. She felt him breathe and she palmed his broad shoulders. She closed her eyes. She leaned against him. She felt downward. She inhaled the musk of his armpits. She felt the heavy muscles under them, then moved downward over his ribs, down his narrow and muscular waist.
She slid her hands forward, under the hem of his shirt, over the waist of his jeans, until she found what she was looking for. She softly closed her fingers round his cock, her lover’s cock, the cock of the man she had married, whose name she had taken and the name her children would take. She pulled back on the soft skin until she imagined the foreskin drawn back tight, the purple head sensitive, swelling and exposed. The muscles of his back registered her small hand. She felt a tremor and his subtle heartbeat.
His cock thickened and widened. She slid his skin forward as his cock rose. She pulled back and sensed his pleasure. His buttocks, pressed against her belly, tighten – a subtle thrust, a need, an expectation. She pressed her teeth into his back. She lengthened her strokes with his own lengthening. Her tears mixed with the damp sweat of his shirt.
She was already falling to her knees when he finally turned. She gazed up at him, as if asking permission, and licked the underside of his cock. She belonged to him. She always would. One of his large hands firmly pressed at the back of her neck, the other gripped her hair in the knot of his fist.
Her lips closed around his cock and she sucked. She met his gaze. She was his. She waited for permission, a sign, for direction. She lifted her shirt to show him her tits, how they were hard from him, how they were prepared for his lips. She widened her legs and cupped his cock with her tongue. Her motion was fluid. His hands were angry, rough and insistent. Her saliva, tinged with the taste of his cock, piss and sweat, fell from her bottom lip, glistened between her breasts and slipped over her belly button.
When he let her go she swallowed and breathed. Yes, she all but said, her mouth open, lips glistening. She fell back on her haunches. She waited for him, for his cock, mouth open, breasts rising and falling, legs and knees apart, welcoming him.
He abruptly shrugged off his shirt. His cock rose like a curved command. She could smell the tar and sawdust in the thighs of his jeans and her own smell, a different kind of dampness, feminine and receptive. He stepped behind her, roughly gripped her slender neck between the vice of his fingers. He held her head down. She heard the glide of his pants and his weight settle behind her.
She shuddered at the smooth, round, familiar head that pressed, that made her fingers stiffen, her thighs widen, her mouth open – with penetration. She voiced his presence. His size was never easy at first. She felt full before he had filled her. She opened her hands, splayed and palms down, elbows flat, pressed her cheek to the floor. He released her neck and she received all of him with a lift of her pussy. She spoke sounds, shapes and phrases as he began to thrust. They were descriptions, promises, and wordless entreaties.
His fucking was possessive. Yes, said the curve of her spine. Yes, said the arch of her feet. Yes, and yes, said the thrust of her nipples, you and no one else inside. The swing of his balls struck her clit. Her throat rang. Her fingers clawed the wood, not to escape, but to surrender more and more. His fucking was manly, strong and possessive. She abruptly lifted her head. Her orgasm was sudden – a fluttering, stiffening rhythm that lifted her torso in time with his thrusts. She squeezed him – a dozen yes’s, and then some, promising she was ready.
He pulled out. His absence was a painful emptiness.
She turned on her knees. She pushed him backward. She planted her knees to either side his hips. She drove the spike upward inside herself. When she rose, she inhaled. When she gave herself, she exhaled. Now she could look into his eyes. Now she could feel his nipples under her palms. Now she could press her weight against his pelvis. She could close her eyes. She could enjoy him in her womb, his width and unyielding length, how, at one moment, he pushed, from the inside, against the muscles of her abdomen and, at the next, darkly backward against her bowels.
Now she could show him. She could describe the pleasure he gave her.
She she could lift his arms. She could rise and fall as she gave her nipples. She opened her mouth so his finger could penetrate. She tongued his finger as her hips sucked on his cock. She showed him there was no part of him she didn’t welcome, that she was born to love him, to praise him, to give herself to him.
This is what his presence inside her did to her. Her orgasm bent her like a willow. The cornucopia of her breasts spilled into his hands and mouth. Her nails dug into his chest. She anchored herself. She would not lift herself. She would shape her orgasm to his cock. She wanted him to feel what he did to her. Her quirting bursts flowed over and around her impalement. She saw stars and a thread of blackness.
When she recovered; when she began to rise and fall; when his eyes were heavy and his mouth opened with helplessness; when he pressed at her thighs to lift her off his cock, to warn her, she shook her head. She pressed his wrists above his shoulders. She widened. She ground her clit against the bone of his groin and drove his cock into her breath.
His stiffened with a choked cry. She swiveled. His heels dug into the floor. His back lifted them both. She clamped her thighs and legs. She gripped his ass. She pulled his burgeoning explosion into her until it hurt. He grunted. The pangs of his orgasm were quick rapid-fire jolts that made her gasp every time. She cupped his face in her hands. She wouldn’t let him look anywhere but her eyes. Watch me as you fill me with yourself, she said with her eyes. It is you I want inside me,
He was, one moment, awe, then recognition, then love, then the radiant sun of his smile — the smile she had fallen in love with. She kissed him, then kissed him again, then let him lick the moisture from her eyes. She lifted herself off the slick, moist, thickness that still hadn’t softened.
She didn’t wipe herself. She stood above him, smiling. She drew a T-shirt over her head — one left hanging after they had painted, still smelling like paint — and nothing else. She let him see that he didn’t drip out of her. Later in the kitchen, she let him see that it was ten minutes before the first, pearlescent strand of his orgasm slipped like a delicate looping chain from between the lips of her pussy, so deeply had he come inside her, so deeply had she wanted him inside.