Water droplets fall from my nose onto the bathroom mat. I dry my hair. Opening the door releases a front of warm air that collides with the bedroom’s air-conditioning. The cool is invigorating on my skin after the muscular relaxation of hot water.
The bedroom is not large. My work desk, a bookcase full of clothes (towers of Penguin classics spill out from the room’s corners), a standing mirror and my bed are the sparse furnishings. It is only a King single. Your form fills the crevasses of the bedsheet.
I hesitate at the edge of the carpet. I cannot see your face. I can see the slight muscles of your back and left shoulder, and your delicate neck, and the mass of brown hair flowing over the pillow, framing your restful self.
Our skin is smooth. I wreath myself in your mane and breath in your scent. My lips find your neck and the topography of your little pink ear. You’re sighing happily, sleepily pushing yourself up against me. Your warmth is ecstasy after the bite of the air and my heart pumps its desire in firm thudding beats that flush my face and short my breath.
You guide me gently in and onto you. The moment is pure sense; love made rhythmically physical, it builds in slow-soft, heating progression, to a resonance that’s horizon is the crimson sun of pain.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/r7mpvn/filthy_pornographic_pulp_fiction_mf