The second I walk in the door, he’s all over me. Soft lips and firm hands. Rummaging under my clothes and kissing me passionately, before I’ve even had the chance to take off my boots or unclip the panniers from my bike. It’s hurried, urgent, eager. Exactly as I’d seen it in my idle daydreams. I’ve been thinking on this for the last two days, ever since the possibility of it was first floated. A tentative ‘if you’re in the mood for sexy ideas…’ followed by a fantasy of such powerful dominance and laser-targeted kink accuracy it had me squirming in wet knickers at my desk. You bet I’m in the mood. How are you fixed for Sunday?
Since that message, not only have I been masturbating over his suggestion, I’ve been picturing all the other things we could do. Shame to go all that way for one single fuck, after all. Why not treat ourselves to a 24 hour marathon? I make a mental list of my own desires, from the filthy to the borderline romantic, then the second I walk in the door he’s instinctively ticking one off: soft lips, firm hands. Powerful, dominant kisses that make the back of my knees go weak with need.
While he gropes and grabs at me I snog him greedily, occasionally breaking off to nuzzle into his neck. Inhaling his scent, like an addict.
He’s got one hand on my bum, reaching round so he can press firm fingers into the crack of my arse through my jeans. Pulling me tight against him so the slit of my cunt, where my clit pulses in response to those dominant kisses, is now crushed against his rapidly-stiffening cock.
His other hand is inside my shirt, squeezing my tits through the flimsy black top that I only ever wear because it shows them off. Still breathing deeply, snorting him like cocaine, I use my one free hand to rummage under his t-shirt, gripping his flesh in satisfying, meaty handfuls. Trying not to get so distracted that my other hand lets go of the bike.
We’re still in the hallway. We’ve not made it a foot beyond the door. I’m shaking and sweaty from the ride over, limbs tingling and blood zipping with adrenaline. My hands start to tremble and I pull away briefly to see if I can safely stash my bike:
“Hang on, let me just…”
More kisses, because I really don’t want to let go just yet. More deep lungfuls of the glorious scent of his skin.
“Oh yeah,” he says, “you should…” but then kisses me again.
“Uh huh,” I moan into his mouth.
Eventually, a few seconds before I give up and just let it fall, we break apart. Breathing heavy. All ‘hello you’ and ‘I’m so glad you messaged.’ Grinning at each other in a way that feels precisely as good as that kiss.
We take exactly one minute to sort our shit out: he leans my bike against the wall, I remove my boots and socks and headphones, and even these mundane movements are deeply sexually charged. Each brings us closer to the moment when we can recombine, crushing our atoms together till we’re once again in balance. Then stripping down to nothing and tearing each other to bits.
In the bedroom I suck him hard, then kiss the taste of his dick back into his mouth. I pull his crotch against mine once more. Now that we’re naked, I can slick up the shaft of his cock – sliding it between the tops of my thighs, showing him how wet those kisses made me.
Our mutual impulsiveness leads to brief indecision, as each of us reaches into the ocean of possibility as to what we might do next. I’m a fool for thinking this could be my choice, though: I’d forgotten how dominant he can be when he’s firmly in the mood. Eventually he settles on tying me to the bed – wrists above my head, naked body stretched out for him – so he can savour every inch of it before finally claiming my cunt.
If we were patient, this particular activity could have lasted for hours… but we aren’t, so it’s minutes at most.
I pull against my bonds and angle my head to watch him, staring down into his eyes as he kisses the soft arches of my feet.
“God, it’s so good when you kiss my feet.”
“Really?! I didn’t know you liked that.”
“I fucking love it.”
Then, with hungry smiles and playful, tickling licks he works up my calves and thighs to my cunt.
“I wanna taste you.”
A flick of his tongue against my clit, then a little more as I squirm and moan beneath him. Lips wet and teasing, gently and far-too-briefly before he moves onwards and upwards. Across my belly and towards my nipples, which ache with a need to be sucked.
“Please.”
He obliges on that front, then again on the next: abandoning the tease as soon as I give in to my own impatience, begging him to get that cock inside me.
Dominance is all well and good, but this is the first shag of the weekend: we’re desperate. There is no chill whatsoever to what we do. He tied me up because he wanted to take his time, and I’d pictured us taking our time too but… ahhh. Sometimes you just really need it. Quick quick, right now, before you burn up with frustration.
I spread my legs, and he circles the entrance to my cunt with the head of his cock for no more than two seconds before I see it in his eyes: that look that says ‘fuck it, enough messing about.’
When he slides in, there’s resistance, and with my own thighs wrapped round his I can feel his muscles straining ever-so-slightly harder to push it in. I dig into his arse with my heels like I’m wearing spurs, drawing him deeper inside me, and when he gets there I cling tight with my legs, so every single stroke hits depths that make my eyes roll back in my head. Make my skin redder too, now I think of it. The flush of blood to my face and the expressions I pull are involuntary and intense. This isn’t pretty sex.
Good.
It’s not meant to look aesthetic, it’s meant to feel fucking great. And it does. It takes me less than a couple of minutes to come round his perfect dick. I’m not sorry for the lack of build up there, that’s just how it was. A vicious pounding, hard and fast and brutal, and within minutes I’m yanking on the rope that secures my wrists to the headboard, pulling it tight as I grit my teeth and ride out those first delicious waves.
“That’s it,” he tells me, emphasis on ‘that’ like I need to know exactly why he’s pleased.
“That’s it,” he repeats. “Fucking come for me.”
And I do. I will. I already was.
He only tells me to come once I’m already falling over the edge of that plateau, when the first ripple is hitting and the next ones are inevitable. Bucking my hips to get the angle just right, doing my best to look him in the eye even though my vision is starting to blur, I crush him inside me and let out a moan as I come. And come. And keep coming.
While I’m panting and murmuring ‘thank you’ over and over, he takes a brief second to readjust. Grabs my ankles and shoves my legs back to fold me in half before plunging back in. Deep and firm so the breath I’ve been trying to catch is immediately knocked straight back out of me.
The pace of it is intense, but he could still go slightly harder. I can tell. I think most of us can, can’t we? You get an instinct for when someone’s fucking for the pure joy of doing it, or fucking to make themselves come. I’m pretty sure other people know, when I’m riding them, if my angle and speed and depth is for pleasure or purpose.
For a brief while he fucks me for pleasure, but I know we’ve got a whole day to do this all over again, and I’m greedy right this minute so I nudge him towards purpose instead: whisper in his ear that I really want his cum.
He picks up the pace straight away, pounding with more vigour and simultaneously issuing one of my favourite commands:
“Say please.”
Outrageously filthy, and hot in the perfect way: he’s telling me he wants to come, and letting me know exactly how to trigger it. What’s more, the specific thing he desires is just what I’m desperate to give. He wants to hear me beg.
Fuck yes.
“Please,” I begin. “Please please.”
Just one or two to start with, then I open the floodgates:
“I really really want your fucking spunk. Please please please pour it out, dump your cum in me, fill me up fucking give it to me.”
I like to have a task. Not having to guess and wonder at what he might need, but knowing with total certainty. He wants me begging, so I fucking beg.
“Please please give me your spunk. You feel so fucking good, you’re so hard and you’re so deep that’s exactly where I want your fucking cum…”
And he comes. With deep grunts and aching moans and a frown that might read as angry if I didn’t have his dick clamped firmly inside, feeling each telltale twitch as he starts to pump it out. Shot after shot, injected so far up inside me that I half-imagine I can taste the fucking stuff.
I’m holding my breath to better focus all my energy on the sensation of what it truly means to be full. Stuffed. Crammed so tight with his dick that when he pours his load out I feels like it might overflow. Pour out in rivulets down the lips of my cunt and the crack of my arse because there’s just no fucking space left inside me.
Unngh.
He likes to stay in there after he’s done, so we lie like that for a bit – breathing heavily and sweating and whispering congratulations on a job well and truly well done. When he slides out and rolls over, I nestle into his shoulder and drink deeply at the scent of him once more. Licking the sweat from his shoulder and neck and head. He wraps big arms around me, pressing smiles and kisses into my hair. Murmuring compliments right into the depths of my eager soul.
“That was fucking amazing.”
“We are amazing.”
Eventually thirst overcomes me, and I run out to fetch us both some water.
First we rehydrate, then we plan round two.