*I’m fucking. No, he’s fucking me. He’s FUCKING me. No, we’re fucking. WE are fucking. Right now this instant. I am getting fucked. This is what it feels like to fuck.*
Strangely, you were not even thinking these words when you started, on top of him, riding on him like he was some great animal at a long-ago farm visit, or dome of sun-warmed metal at a playground, or unfamiliar-yet exciting vehicle at an amusement park, where foam-wrapped bars clamped all around your body to hold you pinned and trapped so the ride could do whatever it was designed to do to you.
At that time you could concentrate only on stretching and opening, holding your breath lest it take some of the precious space you needed to accommodate him, feeling your delicate skin stretch to membrane-thinness around him, the muscles stretch to and beyond their furthest extent, feel the strange pop and dark huge invasion of yourself, going up and up and up into uncharted regions, in an inch, withdrawing … in again and an inch deeper … receding again … back farther than ever … back out … deepest yet so that you gasped and cringed and he inquired close and softly in your ear if you were going to be okay …
It did not feel like fucking, at first, he was so gentle and skillful and relentless and independent of your help. It was like watching him cook, watching fingers and hands guided by so many years of experience, working with flesh, knowing how to interact with natural entities. Like you. You felt like his filet, his young chicken breast, his ball of dough, his pepper or tomato or avocado or mango being laid out, positioned, spread open along your natural seams and growth lines, parted and dissected and finally stuffed according to your design and in ways you could not possibly anticipate nor resist. There was no effort, no doubt, no figuring out of anything to be done on your part. He was just quickly, efficiently, deeply inside you in a way that made you feel created for the part. Oh, a big hard curving penis. Oh, that’s how it fits. I didn’t expect that. Oh. Oh God you’ve taken me. I’m all yours now. You took it all. No, I took it all. One of us took the other. I just don’t know.
It had not even felt strange when he opened the condom packet for you, made you take out the slippery thing and unroll it over his big, bouncy dick in a completely logical and practical way, congratulated you for your skill and success in a calm and genuine way.
Ripples began coursing through his body, before any sounds came. They were like shivers, but more powerful and almost crazy, like he was repeatedly getting the urge to just crush you and tear you limb from limb, and repeatedly fighting it off. He kept seizing your head in his hands just as if it were a small cantaloupe or jicama, fingers digging in your hair and gray eyes keenly, possessively studying your face, forcing you to look him in the eye while his cock did the same thing to some hard, unyielding thing deep up in your abdomen. Look at me. Look at me. TAKE me. Feel THIS and THIS and THIS. And each time your eyes locked for several seconds, until your heart swelled with adrenaline and felt like it might burst with tension and anticipation, another of the great rippling surges would course through him, making him grip your shoulders, your upper arms that felt as fragile as sticks, your ribcage, your waist, and, divinely, your hips and pelvis, which he held and tilted and adjusted to make his sliding to and fro inside you even more smooth and deep and regular.
But then the real fucking began.
He pushed downward on your right thigh until your leg straightened along his, then atop his, and he felt more likely to slip out of you. Then the whole world tilted and rolled over and inverted, like a sailboat capsizing under you or being inexorably pulled under a great machine. Only now did his full size become evident, crushing you but not painfully, completely imprisoning you but making you feel strangely safer from all the world.
His cock never left your body. Your legs wrapped themselves around his body of their own accord, which made actually made him pause and smile blissfully for a moment, staring right into your soul in the dimness.
Now he is working, seeming big as a bull or even an elephant, a huge and excited animal, excited by you, enthralled by you beyond a shadow of a doubt, for he cannot stop squeezing your pinned shoulders, kissing your cheeks and your ears and your neck, impulsively rooting in your hair with nose and chin. He is inhaling your scent in great lungfuls, rubbing his cheek against yours so that you feel the faint, fine stubble on your own smooth skin. He roots below your chin and for a moment his teeth close on the bundle of cartilage at your throat — skin, esophagus, veins, tendons and all — as if he is weighing what it would take just to tear it all out. Then another bodily quiver overcomes him and he cannot stifle a long and low growl at your ear that makes you splay your thighs even wider, glue yourself even more totally to him.
After each uncontrollable quiver he pauses, stops to readjust you, as if you’re still not in quite the optimum attitude of surrender. Each time he pins you a little flatter, turns you a little more inside out, limits your range of motion a little further. Then he fucks you for a little while in this new state, making a new range of sounds as if he has now come that much closer to what he really desires from you. He thrusts a dozen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty times before the ripple and squeeze comes again and he has to stop, groaning restrainedly right into your ear (there are other people in the house after all) while frozen in his trembling muscle spasm. It’s like he is doing CPR: thirty thrusts, pause, check for breathing, administer rescue breaths, get set for another thirty thrusts. Only he has done this at least five times, so you stupidly do the math and find that he has already thrust into your body at least one hundred and fifty times, and wonder if this is some kind of norm.
When you cannot get any flatter or more open, and he seems content at last with your positioning and the implied consent in your entire body and being, he grips your skull one final time in those great strong hands and forces you to look at him directly while he fucks you more hard and deep and strong than ever before, strongly enough that you can hear the wet cracking and other squishy sounds from down below. That’s you.
“Look at me,” he demands softly, your unquestionable superior, through his teeth. “Look at me. Don’t shut your eyes Aria. Don’t. Look. Say fuck me. Say it.”
You hear yourself say it. His pace nearly doubles. The shaking is back more strongly than ever.
“Say it again. Keep saying it. Say it Aria. No do not shut your eyes.”
“Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me,” you obey. You can hear your own voice get more ragged, less controlled, like you are succumbing to emotion and about to cry. The same thing is happening in your lower body. It feels about to burst out crying. “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! Oh please fuck me!”
It’s the oh please that seems to get him — his mouth opens and his eyes fly open even wider in surprise at what you have done to him, and the great body goes utterly rigid, rigid as a rock, and he tries to stifle his gasps as he jerks mechanically into you, into your softness and your welcoming frailty, and you have the intoxicating sensation of owning him completely right now, holding him by a thread like an elephant on a spiderweb — never have you felt such awesome power, and you stroke the sides of his hair like he is a little boy or a baby, and urge him to do whatever he needs to do.
“Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes ohhhhhh, take it, you can have it, ohhhhhh I love you.”
The words are out of your mouth before you can even think, and you are horrified, but he only convulses doubly hard and crushes you in his grip as if to make you part of him, jerking powerfully, almost painfully, melding your flesh into his …
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/98cp54/aria_part_3_of_3_more_from_mr_leppard