You don’t know how it started.
Well, yes, in fact, you do.
It was at the first hint of dawn, when your consciousness is as dim and indistinct as the objects in the room and hall and bath as they emerged from the dark of night. A disconnected time, with reality not quite established, not fully distinguishable from dreams.
You stood watching him for a time, feelings enjoying full sway over reason, with the urgent excitement between your legs driving those feelings. He was asleep. Only then, in the otherwise still room, he put out his hand. Just unfolded his elbow and offered a hand to you, his face not even visible, turned toward the brightening window. The hand, big and graceful and relaxed and hairy-wristed, and your first thought was how it was right at crotch level, and you needed only step silently to it and enclose it with your thighs.
Or maybe he just wanted you to take his hand? It seemed the safer response. The safest of several wildly unsafe possibilities, anyway.
Without turning his head he only gripped your hand gently and pulled — a gentle, confident, reassuring pull. What could you do other than raise a knee to the bed, rest a buttock there, sink to an elbow, to your side, slipping in under the sheet to his warmth and mass and comfortable, magnetic scent, let his arm encircle the back of your neck? So incredibly dangerous and wrong, yet so natural and exciting and irresistible. His other hand came to your cheek, covering the whole side of your face with its warm breadth, covering your ear, fingertips in your hair, littlest finger resting deliciously on the delicate skin of your neck.
Cuddling became spooning. Spooning got somehow reversed and became a shallow embrace, and then a deeper one with your bare thigh thrown over his lower body. The heat in your mound was frankly pressed against him. No way to take that back. *Does he even feel me,* you thought. The large hands were holding your head but did not caressing you — they did not betray that there could be any fully conscious mind driving them. He could have been still mostly asleep, dreaming that he was holding someone … anyone. Not necessarily you.
So it was you who had to make the move. You did. You couldn’t not. You mounted him and straddled him unapologetically. Insanely. But wordlessly. He was so big that you felt like a child surmounting a patient horse — no danger at all of crushing him. In fact it would have been easier for him to crush you, there atop him, using his hands alone. The thought made you need to rub yourself on him. You could. So wrong and forbidden but still so natural. A perfectly natural motion.
Just like that the big hands were on your hips, your panties, no explanation or instructions needed, suddenly holding you and guiding you as a man instructs a woman on how to make a pool shot or swing a golf club.
He placed you precisely so that his big, springy presence was nestled right in your cleft, through the cloth of his pajamas and your underpants, held you there firmly a moment, and then with his fingers began to urge you and move you, guiding and instructing you, very gently rocking your pelvis against him. You made a small moan at that. He shushed you, cupping the back of your head in a firm and cautionary way, now that his hands were no longer needed below. You had the motion. In fact you could not stop it. You strove to keep it subtle and slight, and that only made it more excruciatingly intense. Suddenly you had lost a measure of control and the thrusting of your pelvis became sharper, accelerating, mechanical, ridiculously obscene.
*It’s exactly what you came in here to do. And now it was happening.*
Your own small desperate noises excited you further, and his other hand came to your face and covered your mouth and nose so that it was a relative struggle to breathe. Which was okay, because who could blame him? Such a delicious stifling. You did not want to breathe. You wouldn’t have entirely cared if he had had to simply kill you to make you shut up. You wanted to come. And the sensation of your head clamped helpless between his hands made you do it, shamelessly dry-humping away like an idiot in the gray light and silence of dawn.
“Good girl, good girl,” he assured you quietly as you convulsed and attacked and writhed, way out of control, grinding as if to get his cock into you even through two layers of fabric, never having physically wanted anything so much.
“Shhhhh.” He stroked your hair, smoothed away your tremors, dragged his fingers roughly down your heaving ribcage, took your ass in those big hands, spread the cheeks inside your shorts, made you yearn for cock, cock, and more cock, front or rear, maybe both at once. One set of fingers crept swiftly around to enter the bottom of your shorts and dip deeply, effortlessly into your wet hole, and the sensation was like being touched with an electrical probe. Then the fingers were gone.
“Shhhhhhhhh.”
All you could hear was your own exhausted panting; all you felt was the layer of damp heat between your chest and his, and the beating of your heart almost audible in the gray room. All you were aware of was a raging war in your heart between joy and excitement and satisfied yearning on one side, fear and horrible embarrassment and raging guilt on the other.
Gently he removed you, disengaged from you, gave you more than one firm but friendly pat on your reckless, very ashamed ass. There was a sound like movement somewhere in the house, followed by one more swat on your right buttock, more firm than friendly now.
He spoke again, a casual murmur. “Get out of here.”
The tone made you hasty, almost convulsive in your flight. Only before you could leave his bed he caught your face in one hand again, ungently enough that your cheeks were squeezed nearly into your mouth. You realized suddenly that you were looking into his very awake, very conscious, very discerning sea-gray eyes for the first time, and you felt as tiny and helpless as a shrimp. Never had you seen them this close. Their penetrating gaze made your entire soul wet, slippery, open, inflamed, keenly sensitive, ready to be entered.
“Never speak of this fish-face, ever. Understand? *Ever.”*
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/97w5dv/aria_part_1_of_3_more_from_mr_leppard
I enjoyed this. Ready for the next installment!