My voice echoes through the stairwell, clanging off the metal and drifting up, up, up, until it fades, lost in the silence.
We are alone. Still, he keeps me quiet with one hand over my mouth, the other reaching down, tearing at my stockings, ripping them apart. His skin is rough and cold against my warm flesh. I feel his mouth on my neck, biting me. His teeth leave their mark, and his fingers find their way. I moan and lick the palm of his hand.
We are lost in the shadows of a small nook tucked under a stairwell. Above us, life continues. Each landing leads to a floor. Each floor leads to hundreds of lives. Families. Friends. They go about their routines completely unaware of us. We exist in our own world that we shape with lust and longing and the desire to connect.
He was a spontaneous lover. He did not need a bed or a door. When he wanted me, he took me. And I let him.
It was cold outside. We are covered in layers. Jackets. Stockings. Scarves. His hair is still damp from the snow. He had pulled me in, through the lobby, past the security guard, the steel door barely shutting before he had me against the wall, the concrete like a cool hand pressing into my back.
He kisses me, the scratch of his beard makes my heart race. I lick his face, biting his ear as his fingers slide inside of me, fucking me to the rhythm of my moans and grunts.
“Christ,” he growls, his tongue back in my mouth. His hands pulling up my sweater, finding my breasts. Flesh on flesh. He cups me roughly, pulling my nipples. I bite his lip and slide my hand down to rub his cock. He has on too many clothes. Too much restriction. Boundaries. I claw at them. Desperately.
His belt buckle finally clangs against the floor. Relief. I slip my hand under his shorts and he lifts me, wrapping my thighs around him, the soft leather of his jacket cool against my flesh.
One thrust and he is in. All the way. I welcome him. He fills me, impales me, grinds against my soft skin. His hands squeeze my ass, and he holds me up, the hard concrete wall provides support.
I moan. Loud. “Shhh,” he says, kissing me again. “Dirty girl.”
Quiet in the stairwell; no signs of life. The wind blows above, howling all around us. But no noise. No movement. Just us. Breathing. Panting. Our tongues lick, tasting. His hips thrust. His cock buried inside of me. I squeeze him tight, and we both almost die. My nails claw at him, with no results, his clothes too thick.
It doesn’t matter. We are animals, caged in our own silence.
He grunts, his pace quickening. He is so strong. His whole body lifting me. I drip down him, down his shaft, down his balls, down his thighs. I am a faucet. He does this to me.
“Fuck!”
“Shhh. Quiet. Dirty, filthy girl.”
So close. So close. He is. I am. We want this. Lost in the shadows, I close my eyes. The world goes numb. The silence of the stairwell envelops me. I cum against him. Grind my pussy hard against his cock, punishing him with how tightly I cling. I bite his neck. I taste the copper of blood.
He does not stop, does not scream. He fucks me through it.
His teeth clench. His body tightens. His cock sinks deep into me. I feel him shudder and grunt, like a man dying. I feel warm, his cum inside of me, his head buried into my shoulder. I soothe him as he cums, squeezing him tight into my arms. I feel his lust drip down my thighs and over my torn stockings.
We dress quickly, in silence but with smiles. The steel door slams shut behind us, and we walk briskly past the guard, laughing to ourselves. In the streets, the cold hits us. I feel him still in me, and I am warm inside.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/r7gxe2/fiction_stairwell_to_heaven