He stands above her, panting, his heavy breathing echoing hers.
It’s not the only echo in the room.
The marks and lovebites on her flesh echo the scratches and lipstick stains on his.
Their mewls of pleasure, cries of joy and surprise, still echo in their ears.
Another refrain: the scent of sex and expensive perfume.
While they are still, in many ways, virtually strangers, such echos resound.
This prompt made me think less of sex and more about bravery and honesty when it comes to sex, for some reason. I’ve been thinking a lot about living double lives, and what it is to be honest with one’s self and one’s society. My thoughts have come out a bit, here.
They’ve done this dance a hundred times before, but never with each other. The patterns are familiar: The initial glances turning into a sustained gaze; the first, polite greetings that become conversation; the chance taken to touch an elbow, a hip, a shoulder, building into that erasure of personal space that tells the other they are wanted.
The marvel occurs when first one, then the other, recognizes that this dance partner is different. What had been a familiar, sedate waltz, turns into something faster, more wild, less practiced. Their pulse raises, their bodies strain to match the tempo, their desire sublimates their reason. Suddenly, everything they had practiced is meaningless as the music whirls, unfamiliar.
Their bodies, locked together, follow the reel, careening wildly against each other until an inevitable climax sweeps them both away, leaving them panting and disoriented.
They are left, then, with a choice. Will they go back to waltzing, that dance that is safe, or are they brave enough to sustain this wild rhythm?
The cravings hit at the oddest time. Cooking dinner, for example, a friend says something completely random about poultry twine, and that single word, “twine,” sends my mind spinning in a thousand directions.
The twining of our bodies, your hands twined in my hair, your belt twined around my wrists…
Suddenly, I’m wet and wanting. Completely distracted.
And absolutely no use in finding the poultry twine.
His body already blankets hers, his chest pressed against her back. The rough hair on his thighs scratches her own soft flesh, and another, softer patch of hair tickles against the V in her legs.
His cock, insistent, seeks out her heat, her wetness. She gasps as he plunges deep.
“Such a dirty girl,” he whispers in her ear, before his teeth find the nape of her neck.
At the sound of his voice, another blanket falls over their twined bodies. Underneath the weight of such words, she become faceless, nameless, a receptacle for his pleasure, and consequently for hers. Stripped of the trappings of education, civilization, socialization–in this city neither of them belong to, in this anonymous room–his rough language transforms them.
“Mine,” he grunts, as he thrusts.
Swaddled in the weight of fantasy, she allows herself to be, and to be his.
Hi all. I’ve seen these on Twitter for quite awhile, and thought I’d join in. This is my first Wank Wednesday…hope I do it right.
Spine bowed. Hair twisted in a rough queue at the nape of my neck, reminding me of his presence, his strength,
And my vulnerability.
All gifts freely given, greeted with another sharp tug and my body arcing further back as his mouth devours
Throat, nipple, belly, and lower still–a wet cunt dripping, aching, making its own demands. Wanting to be filled, to remind him who, exactly, is whose,
writhing in our perfect arc.