Erotica by William Crimson
Two having sex may not have it with each other. The bodies can meet when the minds don’t. Maybe that’s what happened last night – sometimes that’s the best kind. I was already home when you stormed through the door. It had been a week since we’d had sex, fucked, made love. I was out of the mood to ask politely and out of the mood to wait for you to come looking; and unless I did something about it tonight wasn’t going to be any different.
I’d been reading. I didn’t move from the couch. I watched you walk in. I watched you throw your bags on the mudroom countertop. You glanced at me, you exhaled like the day had been hellacious, and you made a beeline for the bedroom. I was tempted to follow you. I didn’t. You were in a mood. When you came out you were wearing red shorts, the kind a gal jogs in, and one of my tank tops. But you weren’t going outside dressed like that.
The outdoors was January and 3 below zero. You went for the exercise bike – an ugly thing I’ve never liked, unless you were on it.
You didn’t give me the time of day. You went straight for the bike and got on your way.
Maybe you had a bad case of cabin fever. Within a minute or two you were pedaling a steady clip. I put my book down. I watched your legs. I watched your breasts, your tits appearing and disappearing through the oversized sleeves of my tank top. I soaked in the curl of your back and the jut of your ass on the bicycle seat. Christ, I swear sometimes women don’t know what they do to men – or maybe you did. I squeezed my cock through the crotch of my jeans. You were somewhere else: a country road on outskirts of Paris, the open plains of South Dakota, a New Zealand coastline.
I’d stood up. I tossed my book behind me. I lifted my shirt over my head.
I took your Yoga magazine off the coffee table and rolled it tight. I was in a mood to punish. I was tired of being ignored. You on the other hand, you were half way to Brazil by the time Yoga Today loudly smacked your ass. And you want to know the funny thing? You didn’t turn around. You uttered a breathy little cry and you pedaled faster. That’s when I knew how this wasn’t going to end and by that I mean this wasn’t going to end with me walking away.
I smacked your ass harder – the crack of it sharp as a knife. What were you trying to escape? I did it again and each time, the harder I smacked, the harder you pedaled, like there was demon on your ass, like you were trying to get away. I was hard as flint. By the time your were starting to breathe and break a sweat, you weren’t sitting anymore. Your ass was in the air lifted left, right, and left as you struggled up some mountain. I yanked down your shorts as far as they could go. The dark smudge of your pussy appeared, lifted, thrust backward, just above the stretched band of the shorts. This time when the magazine licked your ass, you mewled and whined with winded cries.
You were wet. I unzipped and my cock thrust upward, as full, as long and as hard as it had ever been. You’re a small gal and I’m a big guy. I straddled the bicycle seat, spread my legs so you could keep racing along whatever road you need to follow, and thrust.
You inhaled. You grunted sharply. You arched. Your pedaling faltered. Your grip tightened on the handle bars and then you were pedaling again. I won’t say it wasn’t awkward, but it worked. Whatever demon had been nipping at your ass, stinging your ass, making you whine and your breathing hitch, had gotten hold of your hips, your hips moving a mile a minute, and shoved his cock straight up inside you – caught some part of you from behind – the only part that you weren’t fast enough to protect or to save.
Maybe this is how some women imagine their lives: struggling, always breathless, racing to get someplace they’re not; but there’s that design, that biology that’s made their hips to be held, so they can be positioned, so they can be taken while they furiously pedal; and the worst of it is the trick that nature plays on them. They like it. Once there, they want it there again, deep, filling them, like a centering anchor, a trick of pleasure that floods their wombs with moisture, that will turn them from whatever direction they’d been racing toward, whatever goal they’d been aiming for, and makes them round with birthing.
You weren’t any different.
You pedaled, awkwardly, clumsily, fast, slower and faster with a cock’s length stiffly in your abdomen. You grunted. You woofed. Your shouts were chopped and frustrated. If you were trying to pedal away on some imagined stretch in the desert heat, you also lifted your ass, cunt thrust behind you. The demon held your hips, fucking, nudging your womb. What were you thinking? Which did you want?Was it not-knowing that you raced away from?
The back of the tank top clung with sweat. The band of the shorts dug into your beautiful ass and the tops of your legs. Where was I? I was fucking a beautiful woman. I didn’t need a fantasy. You were it. That night, you were all the fantasy I needed: slim, muscular, sweating with life, with health, with the divine motion of a woman. Your hair swayed left and right.
Your motion massaged the length of my cock. I hardly had to withdraw, just deep, sharp thrusts. I had you. Wherever you were racing to, I wasn’t going to let go. Was it in the name of lust or love? I can’t be in love with you and not be in lust with you.
But you were pedaling. You were crossing the plains, on the switchback of a mountainside. You were in the black forest and sweating, breathless, thighs wet, shorts half binding your muscular legs. No matter where you turned, no matter how fast you sluiced the pavement, the demon didn’t let go of your hips. The demon didn’t quit. You could only race – to where or to win or lose what, nobody knew but you. You couldn’t turn. All you could do was to feel it fucking you, behind you, swinging its long cock up and up into your womb harder the harder you tried to escape it.
You stuttered. Your eyes widened with shock. Your pedaling lost its rhythm, its determination, and you half fell over the handlebars, elbows up and splayed. Still you pedaled, as the juices of your body’s betrayal slipped down and mixed with the sweat of your thighs. Still you pedaled, looking somewhere ahead as the demon’s juices spurted deeply into you from behind, through your moving hips, between your stuttering legs, and into your womb. Little by little your pedaling slowed. Had you lost? Had you won?
You groaned. I backed away. Your pedaling slowed and stopped.
I stepped round to kiss you, but you were getting off the bike, your shorts still half down your hips, semen dribbling over the back of them. You pushed me back with a palm against my chest. Then your tongue was at my chest, your mouth sucking at my nipple, going lower, licking, tasting, holding my hips, positioning them, until your mouth could close over my cock. You knelt, thighs wide, back coiling and sucked.
There would be more and there was. Last night.
The second time you took a different road, your broke into a different kind of sweat as you rode my cock up, down, hard, fast, as if in a different kind of race. I still don’t know what it all meant. Was it a surrender? Were you owning the demon? Was that it? Was it enough, his own shoulders a sheen of sweat, his ass lifted off the floor when he broke, when you took, when you captured his orgasm in the vault your belly – and kept it there — yours?
January 26, 2014