The hardest thing about editing today’s guest blog was stopping myself from holding my breath as I waited for each beat of it to drop. The pace, rhythm, atmosphere and intensity of this story is so good it genuinely fucked with my breathing. This gorgeous piece of erotica about a powerful and intense casual sex erotica is by Clara Dunn (@author_dunn on Twitter), who you might remember from her fabulous intro guest blog a few weeks ago, about why you shouldn’t fuck to the album Harry’s House. She sent this one over at the same time, and it is so hot it fucking melted me. I hope you enjoy being utterly ruined in the same way…
The Laundromat – ‘There’s only this.’
The laundromat is beautifully noir-gritty in its flickering light when she pushes through the door beyond ten o’clock, glancing back over her shoulder at the gentle beep. And it should be a bell. It’d be more romantic if it were a bell. Four machines are rumbling, but even the desk at the back is vacant.
She shivers and looks over at the fan jolting from side to side. It’s a hot night behind her, on the other side of the plate glass, and she’s come out in only running shorts, a cropped cami and an old boyfriend’s linen button-down. She brings her arms over her head and stretches, moans softly at the happy aches in her body – between her legs – and then crouches to push her things into a machine, to slot in quarters.
The gentle clink of the coins brings the boy out of the back.
She glances up at him. He looks down at her, at the sheets in the open machine. He takes in a breath. She swears she sees his nose twitch.
Her cheeks are already pink – from her long, lazy afternoon of play – but now they fill with new heat. She holds his brown eyes, looks for something in them: some flicker, some giveaway glint. Neither of them says anything, then a siren goes rushing by outside and the moment snaps.
She pushes at the bundled sheets again, rises and gently kicks the door closed, sets the machine tumbling and groaning. She drops into one of the plastic chairs, sits with one foot up on the edge of it, and tugs things out of her bag. A bottle of beer. A curling book. A nail file.
And if the scene were transposed into a college dorm, maybe it would feel safer, softer. But she’s still sore and swollen and wide with aftershocks and she didn’t wash before she came out.
He takes another deep breath. And she tells herself the electric shock zipping down to her hot cunt is just the rush of the AC, but –
She glances across, sticks in place.
He has night-time eyes, a hooded look. He scratches his stubble, eyes low: on her crossed ankles, her pillow thighs, the book in her slack hands.
She puts the book down.
And there is unbearable staging and pretence in the way she bends her head and turns her attention to her nails. Her bitten lip betrays her attempt at nonchalance. She’s jittery, hearing her long sunset cries in her head. She almost goes limp with new want when she thinks about the cum-tracks on her toys, the artful photo she wishes she could take of them.
She glances at him again. And his eyes are on her loose, unpretty lips. On the way her tongue slips out to wet them, on the way she bites down into her bottom lip. He curls a hand around his throat, urges his fingers up against his chin and presses them into his skin, rubs and squeezes. His jaw drops, just an inch.
And she thinks the spell might break if either of them talks.
Her breath is short and sharp. Something seizes her – some quick, ready idea – and she sets one hand over her chest, high above her breasts. She looks to him, feels his eyes still on her. Her breath sticks in her throat. She urges her fingers over her soft, blemished skin until they find the warm bud of her nipple, immodest under the tight cami.
Another look. He nods, panting too.
She takes her nipple between thumb and forefinger and pulls and pinches.
Her eyes flutter shut.
She tips her head back, arches in her seat, into her fingers. And he’s never been hungrier for a woman’s noise than he is now, watching her buckle with that smallest touch. He wants her to moan. He wants her to whimper. He wants her to feel something big enough that it makes her shout against the clank and groan and rumble of the machines.
Still, her fingers are mobile over her nipple. Still, her hips shift. She’s slick again, all syrup, and twitching inside her clothes. Oh, she could come like this.
She pulls a strip off her bottom lip, swallows but doesn’t quite stifle the moan.
Oh, she’s going to come. She’s going to come like this.
She pinches harder, twists the nipple a little way. She shudders. Her head drops forward. A few strands of hair fall out of the messy knot at the nape of her neck. She fumbles for the edge of the seat, takes it with white knuckles. She lets out a whimpering pant and holds her nipple tight between her fingers while she gives herself to the ache and flex of her cunt, the heady ripple, the hard shot of cum that pulses out.
Soft minutes pass – and the yellow light wraps around them like a bubble – before she finally lifts her head and meets his eyes again. He can see that she’s weak with readiness – but can’t possibly know how red and sore her little cunt already is – and he takes easy strides towards her.
He’s all hard lines in loose clothes; biceps around the summer-sweat-soiled vest; broad thighs in basketball shorts. Tattoos on a forearm, on his neck. She drinks him in, follows his sure movements, until he’s before her, thick over her.
He looks down at her, pushes his tongue against his cheek and smirks before he picks up her beer, easily twists off the cap and takes a swig. He does not offer her the bottle. There’s a tipsy, dizzy look on her already. The gentle thud of the bottle on the tiles.
She takes up his wrist before he can bend his knees, fall down onto them. The shorts are easy work; one tug and they spread around his ankles.
She moans. She presses her palm over his boxers, spreads her fingers around the hot, thick cock packed inside the boxer-briefs. She looks up at him, smiles to herself.
He cups her chin.
She licks her lips and leans in. She presses a kiss to his underwear, to a spot just beside his aching head. She presses another below that, follows the line of his shaft, goes on with this would-be-shy assault. She puts her mouth to his balls and gives them a sucking, biting kiss through the cotton. He groans.
His hand curls around her neck. His thumb strokes her earlobe. His fingers slip into her unruly hair. She kisses her way up his shaft like this, whimpers against him when he throbs and twitches.
She curls her fingers into the snappy waistband, uses both hands to tug it down. She leaves the boxers tight across his thighs, just high enough to rub his balls. She looks up, for a nod, for a bitten lip – anything – sees both and brings up one hand, presses her palm around his balls, cups and squeezes them. She urges her thumb across them, feels how tight and hot they are.
She stares at his cock. Her mouth is open and wet with saliva.
She shakes with the ripple in her cunt, the empty feeling, the phantom push of hard inches. She presses her mouth to his belly, feels his cock stir against her cheek. Finally, finally, she closes her lips around his first, thickest inch, and pulls softly.
They move in a giggling whirl; he drops onto the seat beside hers and tugs her over his lap. Her chin knocks on his head. She giggles, dips her cheek against his, lets her breath rush over his ear.
She pants, ‘I wasn’t done with you.’
He gives her urgent, rumbling words, ‘I’ll let you suck me clean.’
He cups her neck in his hands and pulls her down, takes a hungry, animal kiss from her. He moulds her, pushes the button-down into the crook of her elbows, sets a hand over her waist, takes a white-knuckle grasp of her ass.
And she’s so little and slender, but her ass, oh, ripe as a lightning-storm strawberry.
He bites her neck. He doesn’t suck, he really bites.
She arches into his hands, turns her head up to the ceiling – well, the sky she can’t see several floors above them – and lets out the howling need singing through her.
Her hands dive between them, take him, run up and down his fist-thick shaft.
She regrets the shorts, whimpers when she pushes up to step out of them. Doesn’t bother taking her thong down, just holds it to one side of her cunt.
She twitches, chin tilting to the door, to the windows. His hand on her waist, squeezing. She looks down at that instead, at his slender, musician’s fingers.
He grunts, ‘Forget it.’
She finds his eyes – warm like incense fog – and sinks back onto him.
The words come rushing against her neck, ‘There’s only this.’
His hands on her thighs, tugging them apart, pulling her down against his cock.
The same white-hot rush: ‘There’s only this.’
His fingers on her cunt, searching.
She says it now, bites into a kiss and pours her noise into his mouth, murmurs, ‘Only this. Only -‘
She gasps. She trembles. She could fall apart already. The press of his finger in her wide, sore cunt.
She rocks and winds down against his hand.
She bites at his ear, his neck, his shoulder. Her nose nudges the chain around his neck. She parts her mouth against his swimmer’s chest and doesn’t hear how loud she is. She just rocks and grinds and feels the flex and grab of her hungry, used cunt and –
Oh, the slick syrup rush.
She reels back, hazy, glances down at the cum-drops racing down his palm. She pulls up his hand, swipes her tongue over his palm, eyes intent on his. His lips twitch.
She rubs herself onto his shaft, feels it twitch and tumble under the swollen lips of her ready cunt. She hooks an arm around his neck. She closes a hand around him. She brings him up to her tender rim, sinks down onto that huge first inch.
He glances up at the pretty shape of her mouth. He hooks a thumb into the corner of it, rocks it forward. It’s porn, art, God, the way she suckles it.
He groans, urges himself up into her, knocks her hand off his shaft and lifts his hips to press deeper. He takes her waist in a bruising grip and pushes her down his length, right down until her body meets his with a wet, musical clap.
They groan, foreheads tipped together, lips trembling, not one inch apart. He holds still, barely able to catch a breath.
She drags her nails over his shoulders, fucks down onto him, buckles and shivers against his answering thrusts.
They don’t kiss.
She bites his neck. He pulls his nails across the bare skin of her shoulders. She stops really breathing; only moans and cries around sharp shots of air. It’s hypnotic, the push of his cock in her toy-abused cunt.
She’s only the ache between her legs and the rising bubble of the orgasm that will soothe it. She’s only her creature self, rubbing and rocking. And it’s as well he’s got brutal hands, can put force into his thrusts – more than enough to cut through the giddy, delirious rush.
The orgasm takes her before she knows it.
She groans and hollers.
He lifts his pleasure-heavy head from her breast to look up at her in happy disbelief.
‘Jesu,’ he grunts. ‘Make that noise again.’
He pushes up against her with emergent need, thrusts through the squeeze of her cunt. He watches the dick-drunk smile on her face, the blush unfurling all through her. He sweats and moulds her, settles her into a punishment rhythm. Steady and undeniable.
That gorgeous howl again.
He trembles inside of her. He drops his mouth to her breast with a hiss, tries to bite her nipple through her cami. He’s never shook this completely.
It’s agony, the cum spilling out of him. So copious. Boiling hot. Endless.
He zips with new shyness when he opens his eyes and looks up at her. She kisses him with some echo of teenage innocence.
And she’s tighter than she ought to be, with all the syrup keeping them stuck together.
Neither of them moves. Neither of them talks. Only the quiet little groans and red afterbursts.
Finally, she drops away from him, tender from the rub of his head against the blind, battered end of her, the bitter clench of her cunt.
She looks across at him. The laughter comes like the steady growing crackle of fireworks. She skims a hand down his vest, curls her fingers over his fevered cock then bends towards him, lifts his softening shaft to her lips and takes three, four inches of him into her velvet mouth.
He hums, tips his head back, absently presses his body up against her tongue.
She sucks, really sucks.
He hisses, groans, ‘Easy, easy.’
She giggles and hums, sucks carefully, peeking up at him. He’s no less wet when she backs off, humming at the taste of them. She drops her head against his chest and absently kisses his skin, her mouth over the gold chain. He pats her knee, presses his fingers into her skin.
They kiss again – like lovers parting under the shadow of boxcars – and she feels it sorely, a pulled string all through her, when he tugs up his clothes and moves to step away.
She catches his wrist again. Looks up into his kind eyes. She can’t bring herself to say the word. The silly, ridiculous, needy little word.
He drops back down beside her, lifts the book, thumbs through it. He flicks back to the first page and hums softly.
She pulls up her shorts, lifts the beer and sips while she watches the sheets leap and twist in the machine.