Your tackling rush as you burst out of the bathroom, completely naked, leaves a trail of wet footprints on the floor and bowls me over onto the low couch in the middle of the room. The towel is dropped. My poor rumpled suit is trampled and scattered somewhere on the cushions nearby.
The upholstery feels rough against skin, a synthetic, burlap derivative of some kind that scrapes against my back as I slide across it, pinned down by the delirious weight of you atop me. The sounds we are making at one another now are not human, nor hardly worthy of primates or even terrestrial life. These are subsonic noises, inaudible in open air. Cetacea might be able to hear them, probably, if they were at the right depth.
Your body heat radiates against every inch of me, covering me, and this time, the initial shock gives way instantly to eager, unbearable want. Resistance isn't merely futile, it evaporates under the heat of you like wax in a blast furnace. The steam from the shower still clings to you as your legs entwine me, wisps of it enter my lungs along with the heady scent of your wet hair--still bearing traces of shampoo you didn't finish rinsing out before I interrupted you.
This time, I don't wait for permission to kiss you back, I'm half rising up, tensing my abdomen in a desperate reflex to find your mouth and merge with it. Tongues are interlocked and wrestling, just as surely as our limbs are, our torsos are, each part meeting its match.
I am extremely hard now, approxmating carbonized steel or industrial diamonds. I realize finally that I have been continuously in various stages of erection for months and months ever since I heard your voice for the first time. This isn't just hard. This is seven-years'-worth-of-pent-up-longing hard, and the wetness sliding along my length isn't shower water or drops of shampoo from your partly washed hair. It's you, still spasming slightly from the long, spiraling orgasm. The feel of those aftershocks still welling up from inside you turns my want into need and it occurs to me how easy it would be to slide inside you this way. I think it's imminent, I could shift my body very slightly down and then very firmly up... but you have other ideas.
Your mouth shifts from my tongue to my neck. Quickly, I turn and involuntarily moan another abyssal moan, my teeth gripping your shoulder -- your left shoulder, a little paler now after the winter has faded your tan, not to a dull white but a luminous one -- and eliciting an echo from you in turn. You respond in kind, biting me with savage restraint, too softly to draw blood but just hard enough to draw out something invisible and primal. I know exactly where you are going as your mouth makes it's way down my chest, teasing my nipples just for the fun of feeling me squirm, nipping at my stomach (not as firm as it once was, but still taut enough to give you a little resistance to work against) until you have crossed the invisible line between top-half and bottom.
Then it's sheer, unmitigated terror suddenly, the realization of all my hopes and fears, as your hands show up just where I'd always wanted to feel them, both gripping my cock to help anchor your downward drift. A pair of green eyes, two sultry emeralds are locked on me as you brush the tip of my cock with your lips. Steam escapes when I open my mouth, not a groan but a blast of vapor. I'm arching my back but straining my neck not to lose that magnetic eye lock. Your eyes are my true north as you kiss your way down one side of my shaft and run the smallest atomic surface of your tongue up the underside, back to the tip in a billion-year-long tectonic lick.
I really thought I'd never be here, like this, watching you tease me this way, running your lips in circular motion around the head of my cock. I'm a little surprised I haven't already come, as seven years of guilt-ridden, furtive self-pleasuring have conditioned me to. Not now, though. My frontal lobes might be worried about what all this means, the symbolism and significance of it all, but my hindbrain knows from the look of your sultry-emerald colored eyes that this is just the beginning. An amuse bouche, a prologue, an overture. The symphony itself, the real banquet hasn't even begun. My runaway thoughts stall out as your lips slowly part and you engulf me at last.
It's glacial initially, that downward motion of your lips, tongue and teeth on my cock. Your eyes never leave mine, except for the briefest moment when they roll back just a little, right when I feel the back of your throat against me. The temperature of your mouth is roughly the surface of the sun. There's a hand around the base of my shaft, mimicking the motion of your mouth and another gripping my balls, hard but not too hard, a counterpressure to the atmospheric storm inside them, building up, higher and higher.
Your tongue swirls inside your mouth for a moment, making my whole body squirm. Something about it amuses you, I can feel you laughing, but it doesn't interrupt the perfect, balletic rhythym that you have achieved.
It feels machine-like now, the hallucinating parts of my mind are starting to construct insane narratives where there are hydraulic gears, pneumatics and pistons happening. It's the only logical explanation for what I am experiencing.
Amidst the magma chamber pleasure-pressure growing a inside me, a thought occurs - I'm going to come if this goes on much longer. This is happening. She's feasting on my cock and soon, I am actually probably, definitely going to come.
The question of "will I come" is on the verge of being irrelevant. A hand is grabbing my ass, hard, digging into the muscle and shaping the bone to its will. My hips are elevated slightly, your hands and mouth are moving harmoniously around me, all the way up and all the way down, over and over and over and over. But...
Again, my forebrain, always waiting to pounce, leaps in as usual with unhelpful questions. Where should I come? In her mouth? Is that rude? Welcome? Wanted?
A dilemma that might soon resolve itself, points out another part of me. Yes, it will, and in spectacular fashion...
The upholstery feels rough against skin, a synthetic, burlap derivative of some kind that scrapes against my back as I slide across it, pinned down by the delirious weight of you atop me. The sounds we are making at one another now are not human, nor hardly worthy of primates or even terrestrial life. These are subsonic noises, inaudible in open air. Cetacea might be able to hear them, probably, if they were at the right depth.
Your body heat radiates against every inch of me, covering me, and this time, the initial shock gives way instantly to eager, unbearable want. Resistance isn't merely futile, it evaporates under the heat of you like wax in a blast furnace. The steam from the shower still clings to you as your legs entwine me, wisps of it enter my lungs along with the heady scent of your wet hair--still bearing traces of shampoo you didn't finish rinsing out before I interrupted you.
This time, I don't wait for permission to kiss you back, I'm half rising up, tensing my abdomen in a desperate reflex to find your mouth and merge with it. Tongues are interlocked and wrestling, just as surely as our limbs are, our torsos are, each part meeting its match.
I am extremely hard now, approxmating carbonized steel or industrial diamonds. I realize finally that I have been continuously in various stages of erection for months and months ever since I heard your voice for the first time. This isn't just hard. This is seven-years'-worth-of-pent-up-longing hard, and the wetness sliding along my length isn't shower water or drops of shampoo from your partly washed hair. It's you, still spasming slightly from the long, spiraling orgasm. The feel of those aftershocks still welling up from inside you turns my want into need and it occurs to me how easy it would be to slide inside you this way. I think it's imminent, I could shift my body very slightly down and then very firmly up... but you have other ideas.
Your mouth shifts from my tongue to my neck. Quickly, I turn and involuntarily moan another abyssal moan, my teeth gripping your shoulder -- your left shoulder, a little paler now after the winter has faded your tan, not to a dull white but a luminous one -- and eliciting an echo from you in turn. You respond in kind, biting me with savage restraint, too softly to draw blood but just hard enough to draw out something invisible and primal. I know exactly where you are going as your mouth makes it's way down my chest, teasing my nipples just for the fun of feeling me squirm, nipping at my stomach (not as firm as it once was, but still taut enough to give you a little resistance to work against) until you have crossed the invisible line between top-half and bottom.
Then it's sheer, unmitigated terror suddenly, the realization of all my hopes and fears, as your hands show up just where I'd always wanted to feel them, both gripping my cock to help anchor your downward drift. A pair of green eyes, two sultry emeralds are locked on me as you brush the tip of my cock with your lips. Steam escapes when I open my mouth, not a groan but a blast of vapor. I'm arching my back but straining my neck not to lose that magnetic eye lock. Your eyes are my true north as you kiss your way down one side of my shaft and run the smallest atomic surface of your tongue up the underside, back to the tip in a billion-year-long tectonic lick.
I really thought I'd never be here, like this, watching you tease me this way, running your lips in circular motion around the head of my cock. I'm a little surprised I haven't already come, as seven years of guilt-ridden, furtive self-pleasuring have conditioned me to. Not now, though. My frontal lobes might be worried about what all this means, the symbolism and significance of it all, but my hindbrain knows from the look of your sultry-emerald colored eyes that this is just the beginning. An amuse bouche, a prologue, an overture. The symphony itself, the real banquet hasn't even begun. My runaway thoughts stall out as your lips slowly part and you engulf me at last.
It's glacial initially, that downward motion of your lips, tongue and teeth on my cock. Your eyes never leave mine, except for the briefest moment when they roll back just a little, right when I feel the back of your throat against me. The temperature of your mouth is roughly the surface of the sun. There's a hand around the base of my shaft, mimicking the motion of your mouth and another gripping my balls, hard but not too hard, a counterpressure to the atmospheric storm inside them, building up, higher and higher.
Your tongue swirls inside your mouth for a moment, making my whole body squirm. Something about it amuses you, I can feel you laughing, but it doesn't interrupt the perfect, balletic rhythym that you have achieved.
It feels machine-like now, the hallucinating parts of my mind are starting to construct insane narratives where there are hydraulic gears, pneumatics and pistons happening. It's the only logical explanation for what I am experiencing.
Amidst the magma chamber pleasure-pressure growing a inside me, a thought occurs - I'm going to come if this goes on much longer. This is happening. She's feasting on my cock and soon, I am actually probably, definitely going to come.
The question of "will I come" is on the verge of being irrelevant. A hand is grabbing my ass, hard, digging into the muscle and shaping the bone to its will. My hips are elevated slightly, your hands and mouth are moving harmoniously around me, all the way up and all the way down, over and over and over and over. But...
Again, my forebrain, always waiting to pounce, leaps in as usual with unhelpful questions. Where should I come? In her mouth? Is that rude? Welcome? Wanted?
A dilemma that might soon resolve itself, points out another part of me. Yes, it will, and in spectacular fashion...