While her parents slept [M/F]

It was hard to talk to one another. I couldn’t speak her language and she couldn’t speak mine, so we muddled through a mixture of things. It made the most mundane acts feel like little triumphs—passing the salt, telling the time, turning out the light. But it also meant so many dead ends and miscommunications. We just didn’t have the words. Our only recourse was to make up for it through touch, through the body. There was a lot to make up for.

She lived with her family in one of the those European cities where the children didn’t move out until they got married. I had my own place but she feared somehow disappointing her parents by staying over. She felt this need to be home at a decent hour; and her parents always wanted to feed me dinner, knowing I was without my own family in a foreign country. Not that there weren’t ways around all this. Other couples would drive out into the countryside, find a quiet corner somewhere, cover their windows with newspaper (or not, depending on their proclivities), and fuck like teenagers. Neither of us had a car.

So we always ended up coming back to her parents’ place, to her childhood bedroom, with so much pent up after a day full of only partly understanding one another. We’d watch something on her small TV, usually a dubbed American TV show, and wait for her parents to fall asleep. Our hands would wander—mine behind her under her shirt, to the small of her back, slightly moist from sweat, then up between her shoulder blades, over and back again. She was smaller than me, and softer—I could feel her melt into me. Meanwhile, her hand would be on my thigh, gripping me when something on the TV got tense, or otherwise almost absent-mindedly rubbing against me. It was as if she were spelling out unbidden and unspoken words on my body.

When the show was over we’d listen for a moment to the sounds of the house, to make sure no one else was awake. How do you start without talking? I think we always just felt that we were already in the middle of it, so that when my lips traced behind her ear or her hands gripped my torso it was as if we had finally found what we had been talking about all along. We didn’t even need to whisper. Our clothes came off so quickly, as if by well-practiced choreography. We knew well the language of belts and buttons and clasps. Her hand gripped my stiff cock as if answering its urgent plea while I felt her pussy’s wet response. There was no mistaking what we each meant to say. Soon she would be pinned underneath me, my cock resting on her labia, as I looked into her green eyes and listened to her excited breath. I watched with a certain calm the heaving of her breasts and her brown erect nipples. She would grind her hips up toward me, to tell me of how she longed for me to be inside her. And I would press her down again, because I wanted her to grind up against me again—I wanted to feel that pleasure of knowing she wanted it, knowing that I understood her longing.

Once I was inside her I guess it was in some ways like two bodies becoming one. Or better: our bodies were like a jumble of letters finally settling into a single word together. Not that I can tell you what word that was. But it felt like something finally made sense, my cock buried deep in her warmth, the hinge of our hips, the rhythm of our pleasure. Even in the wildness of it—her body sometimes grinding up to meet mine and sometimes falling limp to my thrusting, my teeth in her shoulder, her tongue on my earlobe, my hands sometimes seizing her hips or reaching around to her ass to press her closer, or otherwise grabbing her tits and squeezing a nipple to elicit a delicate and muffled moan—even in that chaos there was a discernible music to it.

And then the crescendo, accented by a single exchange of nods. I could barely breathe through the pleasure of it, but also knew that this is when I had to hold so much back so that no one would hear us. This was the most silent of exchanges, to be hidden inside her—I emptied myself deep into her while her walls spasmed around me. After I would let out a single sigh as I fell onto her and she pulled me closer.

She would then fold to one side while I spooned her. This too would sometimes turn feral—slowly from behind, half asleep for another secret exchange.

I would have to set an alarm before we inevitably feel asleep all tangled up. In the half dark at around three I’d gather my things, kiss her wordlessly, and then tip toe out of the house to make my way to my place. I’d hum to myself on the way home, a wordless tune of course, since I’d already emptied out all my words that evening.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/ugf6em/while_her_parents_slept_mf