Four writers for the price of one blog
It starts with basketball, at night,with a kid and dark-haired girl taking turns. It was cold. She wore a red vest and black tights. He wore black cargo pants and a green parka. His cargo pants were low-slung. They didn’t talk to each other. They took turns at the foul line. They didn’t look at each other. The one light from the street made long shadows. She steps to the line, he waits behind her. She’s better than he is. They take another turn. The next time she stands in front of him, he lets the basketball slip quietly to his feet. It bounces and slowly rolls to the right. One hand slips under her vest, then down, under her tights, between her legs. She inhales, eyes wide. Her right hand reaches over her shoulder, behind her, for the back of his neck. He’s kissing her neck, frantically.
Now his other hand is slipping under her vest, awkwardly lifting it as his fingers find her nipple. She leans her head back on his shoulder, eyes closed. Her spine receptively bends. She presses her ass against his groin. As if it were sudden, they both made a decision. First both his hands her pushing her tights down over her hips. Her hands are behind her, on his hips. She looks both ways to be sure there’s no one watching but he doesn’t care. One hand is in quickly her hair, jerking her face forward. He’s in control. He doesn’t care if anybody’s watching. His other had is at his crotch. He’s take out his cock. Then he’s widening his legs so his pelvis will be the right height.
They’re both still for a moment as he positions his cock. His right hand is still a fist in the back of her hair, holding her head perfectly still. Then her eyes flutter and her mouth opens as his hips slowly, firmly, pivot upward. She rises to her toes then seems to melt into his control. His thrusting starts. They’re both still standing. She acts as if she wants to reach behind her, as if to hold something: his hand that’s now in front, pressing her pivoted pelvis back against his own, or up to reach his neck and head. The thrusting continues and she utters her first clipped cries.
It’s not enough. The angle’s not right. Maybe he cant go deeply enough. He releases her hair and bends her over with a shove at the nape of her neck. Her balance is awkward. Her hands flail for the basketball court’s asphalt. Then a momentary stasis. He holds her hips tightly as his thrusts grow quicker, harder. Her tights are stretched above her knees. Just a little of her skin, the round curve of her ass, his visible. Her head is lifted. She looks straight ahead, but at nothing. Her mouth remains open. The frosted coiling of her breath rises almost in time with the thrusts behind her.
He can’t hold her but he won’t let her go. He follows her to his knees as she falls to her own hands and knees. Now, finally, she opens her knees as far as the tights will let her. One of her hands is forward, the other back. Her long hair hangs over her face. Her head is down, bowed, long neck curved, as if absorbed in what is happening to her. Is this her first time? He takes one hand off her hip. Moves it to her shouder, now pulls the girl back against his thrusts. Now something changes. Her head abruptly lifts. She’s looking straight ahead then she’s looking back at him. Something’s happening. His hand moves from her shoulder to her hair. Now he’s pulling her against his thrusts by the hair. Her back suddenly coils and snaps. Her eyes roll. She’s having an orgasm. She lowers herself to her elbows as if to catch her breath, head down. He follows, leaning over her back, kissing the nape of her neck. He stil thrusts, but the motion of hips is slow, methodical.
He straightens. He releases her. He pulls out. She rises back to her hands and knees and turns, looking behind her. He grabs her hair and stands as he does. She pivots onto her knees, hands at his knee, and he slides his cock into her mouth. He leans his head back, closes his eyes, and moves her lips back and forth. He doesn’t have to. She’s sucking. Licking. Her own hips move up and down. He opens his eyes. He doesn’t want it like this.
He pushes her back. She falls back on her ass, knees up and open, hands behind her. He knees. Their eyes meet as he pulls her tights over her knees and down to her ankles. He moves between them. She leans back onto her elbows, then her back. His cock is in his hand, guiding it. His other is over her shoulder, holding himself above her. He sinks into her slowly. She widens her knees. Then both his hands are over her shoulders. The swing of his pelvis, the force of his penetrations, shake her. Her hands are at his waist, then his pushing his pants below his buttocks, then drawing his head down to kiss him.
He begins to tremble. Is she pushing him away? Her hands are pushing at his abdomen, then his chest. He looks lost. What’s she doing? Her hands are behind him, as if she tried to lift him off by his parka, but she widens her knees, she draws her trapped ankles closer under her. She bites her lips. She cups his cheek with her hand. She wants him to look at her. He does. He stops. You can see their dark connection—the silhouette of his cock, its length, drawn back until just the very tip touches between her thighs. They both breathe as though they’ve been running. The heat of their bodies rises between them. Their shaking. One of her hands is behind his neck, the other cups his cheek. The muscles of his arms bulge. Is she shaking her head, no? Is she nodding?
His length plunges into her. For an instant you see the whites of her eyes. She clings to him. Is it clinging is she trying to stop him? But her thighs are as wide as they’ll go. Her chin is over his shoulder. Her lips are parted. She seems to gaze at the sky, eyes half-lidded, as she receives his orgasm. She grips his ass between one hand and with the other clings to his hair as if she meant to tear it out—or tear him away. He holds her off the asphalt, one arm under her, the other supporting them both. They convulse together, her chin driven into her shoulder, his pelvis between her thighs. And then they’re both still, as if they can’t believe what they’ve done. The boy seems to stare at the asphalt. His breath shimmers in the cold.
When he lets go, he leans back on his haunches.
She won’t quit looking at him. She rises to her knees. Does she want to know what he thinks? She pulls up her tights as she kisses him. For instant you can see the gleam of his orgasm running down her thigh. He stands and fastens his pants. She won’t leave his side. When they leave the basketball court she holds tightly to his arm and leans with her head half against his arm and shoulder. He reaches round her waist, finally, and he holds her as tightly as she holds him. They walk out from under the glow of dim of streetlight, and disappear into shadow.
Unfinished Tales | Instinct
Copyright 2015 William Crimson | November 19th 2015