The intervening days have been so normal. He has been pleasant and business-as-usual with you, although every time you are in his presence you feel that half of you hangs wide open and unhinged, exposed and vulnerable, hopelessly compromised. You find yourself staring at him in sweet pain, waiting for him to acknowledge what you did, what happened. He never does. Finally one night after dinner, in the kitchen, when you have finished washing the dishes and he comes in to place the empty wine bottle in the trash. He stops to gaze at you and his eyes capture yours just as surely as his hand caught your wrist that morning, so that you cannot move or escape until something is said or done. The sensation of him staring into your eyes is like falling from a cliff or facing an approaching wave at the beach, the outrushing water dragging dizzyingly on the backs of your knees and threatening to suck you down and out to sea.
He only raises a hand to the side of your face and tucks your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your cheek. He says, so beautiful!, looks a moment more, then leaves with a slight smile while you twist and dangle in the gale, in the tumbling power of the broken wave, buffeted by water and sand, standing there in your apron.
The next day, a Saturday, you are spending a blissful hour with him as he instructs you how to make Swedish meatballs. He does it in full college instructor mode, or like an aspiring television chef, explaining every move, showing how to separate egg yolks by pouring from one shell half to the other.
“The recipe says to use a stand mixer,” he narrates, opening the allspice, “only we don’t have one so I make sure to sprinkle this all around since we’ll mix it with our hands.” He does the same with nutmeg and black pepper, dusting the pink meat, but the pepper gets into the air and he pauses, tenses, turns away and gives a tremendous sneeze into the cook of his elbow.
“And we don’t sneeze into the food. That would have been the secret ingredient.” This gives you the giggles, something in the way he said it, and finally you have to apologize.
“Only one thing better than being able to make a woman laugh,” he says after removing his ring and sinking his hands into the bowl. You want to ask what that thing is but he leans confidentially to you. “Plus I love it when a girl laughs at gross stuff.” He leans even closer and talks from one side of his mouth, lascivious but completely natural. “Means she’s good in the sack.”
Which makes sense.
That’s what drives you this morning to his room, again, tiptoeing in your footie socks, barely dressed in your panties and camisole, nerves humming, keen and sensitive with desire in your lower abdomen. Gross stuff. Amid it all hangs the dread that this time you will be faced with the necessity of waking him, or worse yet, the door will be closed in your face and the reality ground home that you have had your chance and fallen short, and that he has moved on into more reasonable, responsible and prudent places where you can’t follow.
Opening his door seems like a criminal act. The most reckless thing you have ever done. Greedy. Rapacious. Coming back for more. Again the room is gray, a warmer gray that shows him on his side facing the window, tousled dark head on the pillow and bare shoulders. Bare and enormous. It seems unreal when those shoulders shift and the body under the sheets and light blanket turns, not quite all the way toward you. When he murmurs your name, low but clear, you feel like a fugitive caught in a searchlight beam.
“Aria.”
“Yeah?” Your half-whisper sounds high, grating, harsh in the stillness. Now comes the admonishment. The shutting of the door on your foolishness.
But instead: “Strip naked. Everything.” It is not a request or a suggestion. It is lazy command, like he is ordering his breakfast from you. It is also a voice that has unquestionably been awake for some minutes. What has he been thinking about?
Having come this far it would make no sense to disobey, so you begin the unthinkable act, stripping off the camisole over your head and dropping it, feeling the points of your tits harden in the open air, feeling that same air kiss your ass and crotch when you peel down the panties, all the way to your ungainly feet, where you pause, teetering, to tug off each sock and add it to the guilty heap on the rug.
“Put it on the foot of the bed.”
This makes sense too and you do as instructed, feeling more totally, exquisitely naked than ever before in your life. Your exposed body is one tremendous nerve, with nothing to hide behind, and after laying out your clothing items there (in case you need them in a hurry of course) you find that you are holding one hand ineffectually in front of your chest while other hangs limp in front of the scruffy tuft at your crotch.
There is no extended hand this time. Instead the sheet and blanket are raised so that there is a small, temporary entryway created for you, a dark triangle like the lifting of a tent flap in a moonlit oasis. With a completely pointless sense of relief that you can hide your nakedness you dart into it, into his living heat, his hairy legs against yours so bare and skinny, his huge warm arm closing across your bare back, bare tits suddenly squashing against his very warm and very massive torso (will he even feel them?), his other large hand alighting on your hip, sliding around you to clutch your entire right butt cheek in very strong fingers as if you are completely and rightfully his property and he finally has you back in his proper possession once again, exactly where you should be.
It is like skinny dipping, all the new sensations on previously protected parts of your body. His hands suddenly are all along you and over you, making you jerk in your breath. Fingers go around the back of your neck, up into your hair, while the others leave your ass and slide up your ribcage as smoothly and inexorably as a construction grader, smoothing all in their path, stopping to gauge and examine each breast, assess its meager mass and volume. When the fingers pinch and pull each nipple there’s a tugging sensation deep up in your vagina and you feel you could orgasm from that alone.
Almost involuntarily you thrust your face — your whole head — into the hollow below his jaw and feel the wild sensation of unshaven male skin on your face, smell his clean, refined fatherly smell. The last time was naughty and crazy and unthinkable but this time it is criminal, what is happening now. You are playing with fire and gunpowder and gasoline, juggling with scimitars, robbing a bank with a firearm, fleeing in a car with bags of money and bills flying out of the window, bullets flying and alarms screaming and the cops in hot pursuit. When the big and wandering left hand finds your tuft, and your cunt, now unprotected by any semblance of clothing or underwear, you part your thighs, feeling wanton, thrust it toward him and even make slight fucking motions. He is bending your head at an angle that would be painful in any other circumstances, only now his lips and amplified breathing are invading your ear, your sensitive and delicate ear, that no one has really ever kissed before, and undoing even your capability of reason. His finger; it’s going into you. In. Hump it. Fuck it. Grab his flesh in your hands. His ribs, biceps, deltoids, pectorals, touch the soft faint pad of fat around his middle.
His cock … he has one no doubt … is this where you grab it and feel it? Is this what he expects? You grope and there it is bony and flexing inside silk boxer shorts, springy with its own weird life, making you think of grabbing a big dog’s tail, but you feel hopelessly ignorant about what to do with it. Damn self doubt, enervating everything you do, always there to wreck pleasure and sow fear. Immediately, almost thankfully he has you by the wrist, removing your hand from it.
“Get turned around. Head at my feet like this. Go.”
At first it seems he wants just to rearrange you and try all this again in reverse, but as you clamber around into this strange attitude he seizes your hips and makes sure they’re parked on him, on his chest. Now you are astride him in the exact reverse of how you rode on him three mornings ago. Only where do your knees go? One foot clunks the headboard loudly enough to be heard two rooms away. Then he takes control of things again and you blissfully find your pelvis lifted momentarily, your knees jerked forcibly forward one at a time so you are squatting/lying prone on him in reverse. In fact if you rose up you might be straddling his very face as if it were a bicycle saddle. It’s a mortifying thought. Your behind, right in his face? Really? How far does this go? And he has you pinned so you cannot escape this position, even when his fingers find your inner thighs and your cunt with alarming precision, spread you open for male examination even as a doctor might, so you feel the cool air of the room on your wetness.
Only then there is the most divine sensation — a warm, slippery squiggling that completely engages the most sensitive, secret part of you. It’s like warm syrup, but dips and stabs into you in constant, intense slippery motion, all the way from the point of your clit, tickling around your pee-hole, sliding down (up?) to your actual hole, poking in there, going even farther and invading the privacy of your anus as if it were just fair game and an extension of your sexual parts, which it now feels as if it might very dirtily be. Then all the sensations are repeated in rapid reverse, to be repeated again in succession, and you cannot focus on one point of contact without twitching with excitement at the expectation of the one that comes next. He begins mixing them up: five seconds here, ten seconds down there, barely touching for four seconds on that side, strongly concentrating on your clit while you wait in breathless suspense for whether he will stay there or again go elsewhere.
He makes you hump him. Once again it is happening. You feel greedy and overindulged, always the one being done favors and showered with gifts. Only now he is not leaving your clit; no he’s not; he is going to stay there and oh God oh God oh GOD OH GOD your orgasm is NOT under your control — it’s supposed to be your toy only now it’s fully out of control and in his hands and what was once your plaything is now being used against you, raping you, and he won’t stop and you’re stupidly fucking/humping his face like you’re trapped and plugged into some machine and it’s going out of style and there isn’t a goddamn thing you can do about it even if you embarrass yourself so badly you can no longer face him or anyone else in the world ever again. You don’t know whether you’re going to scream or explode or dislocate his jaw or pee all over him but something’s going to happen and then just like that you are gliding and drifting through heaven, reality flowing and swirling like sand, pushing and holding yourself desperately to that tireless tongue, powerful contractions pounding you like velvet fists, needing a cock so desperately that you find yourself holding his in both your hands, through the silk, pressing your face to it, telling it through the cloth how much you want it inside you.
His hand is there, gently pushing your face clear, fumbling, and then the big, big thing is free and lying hot and heavy against your cheek, and when you open your eyes there is the ugly, urgent, veiny reality of it, hairs afire in the light from the window. You want it so abjectly that you come out to the end of it, where there’s a soft, meaty, flared head just like in pictures, open wide and gorge as much of that thing into your mouth as you can. You had always pictured and read about tongue-swirling, skillful blowjobs on delicate cocks, but now it’s a struggle even to move your tongue around it or even know exactly where your tongue is, your mouth is so full.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/98atud/aria_part_2_of_3_more_from_mr_leppard
I’m intrigued.