Regular readers will remember the incredible Clara Dunn (@author_dunn on Twitter) – she’s shared a couple of stunning pieces before. One about a deliciously tense and beautiful casual fuck in a laundromat, plus a gorgeous non-fiction piece about why you shouldn’t have sex to the album ‘Harry’s House’. Her erotica style is so languid and measured in its pacing that I haven’t cut this too much for length – it’s a long read though, one to luxuriate in. A story about a student (who is over 18) sneaking over to her lecturer’s house for the next chapter in their lust-drenched affair. Give yourself some time to enjoy this one, team…
“You’re doing great, girl”
She whistles as she swings herself over the gate, mumbles, ‘Nice place,’ as she skips up the front steps. She runs a palm over the closest porch pillar and breezes up to the door. She taps the knocker three times, but only lightly.
Her heart kicks. Her cunt throbs. Briefly, her head feels too full, but she doesn’t have a coherent overwhelming thought. The door opens.
And he seems tall in class – big and broad behind the lecture hall desk – but now, well, he seems to take up the entire doorway.
She looks at him with warm, hungry eyes. Neat, middle-aged muscle. Fair hair matted around his belly-button. Flat nipples. Sleepy, unfocused eyes. Bedhead. She gets stuck staring at the crotch of his checked pyjama pants. Doesn’t seem to notice how her tongue swipes across her lips.
She glances up into his face. And he smirks.
‘Are you going to stand and gawk all day?’
She jolts a shoulder in a kind of shrug, then bites her bottom lip. He steps back and she enters. She gasps, apparently at nothing, before briefly rubbing her thighs together. He narrows his eyes and studies the lines of her shorts, then closes the door behind her.
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah!’
She’s answered too quick, and higher in pitch than usual.
‘You’re already wet,’ he says. His sleep-thick voice is disarmingly gravelly.
She just lets out a soft moan and walks back against the wall, hands at the small of her back. She leans back and looks up into his face, smiling a sweet, wanting smile.
‘So…’
He’s coy. Repeats: ‘So…’
He steps closer, fills out her line of vision.
Her breath stops up her throat. She stifles a moan with another bite of her lip, gives him another hungry, sweeping look. She reaches out and takes hold of the drawstring on his pants.
He looks down at her eager fingers. A tender smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.
She walks her fingers up towards his belly-button and hooks them into his elasticated waistband, then snaps it against his skin. He groans. She knows that it’s on purpose, that the little action alone won’t have been enough to get a real, hot, bursting groan out of him, much as she’s glad for the pretence, the little noise. She wraps a hand around his side and tries to pull him closer.
She murmurs, ‘It’s really rude how you haven’t kissed me yet.’
‘Oh, is it?’
Her tongue dances across her teeth when she smiles. She sucks her lips in and hums and nods. She knows he doesn’t like to rush, and she expected time to pass before he kissed her, before he laid hands on her – he always does like to spin things out – but she’s throbbing with desire already, and her lips are tingling with the kiss that’s not yet upon them.
He puts his hands on her shoulders. He skims his palms down her arms, briefly squeezes her elbows, then goes on lower and takes her hands in his. He pushes his thumbs over the back of her hands, presses them down over her knuckles.
The look in her eyes is cloudy and warm. She’s pink-cheeked. But it’s more than youth and bashfulness; there’s knowledge, deft practice given away by her eyes, real heat and danger, like that orange-purple sky of a blazing thunderstorm afternoon.
He lifts one of her hands and puts his mouth to her knuckles.
She moans and stutters, ‘Please. Ohh –’
He lifts both her arms and drops them over his shoulders, slips his arms around her middle and tugs her against the firm lines of his body and the soft flannel of his pants. She curls a hand around the back of his neck and pushes her fingers through an out-of-place tuft of hair. She spreads her other hand along the column of his throat and urges her thumb into the hollow between his collarbones. He presses a kiss to her cheek, then two along her jaw. Her head tips back, so he puts three little kisses under her chin. And then he takes her earlobe between his teeth and pulls.
She gives out a loud cry and trembles inside his arms.
He growls, with her earlobe still between his teeth, and she shakes like a tree in high wind, like she might just topple over. He bites back a laugh and does it again, and again, and her ear is red when he takes his lips off it.
She trembles, murmurs, ‘Colder, after your mouth.’
He pushes her hair back, takes it in a loose fist. He kisses her neck, then urges his nose up to that sensitive spot behind her earlobe.
He speaks slowly, quietly, and enunciates every syllable: ‘I know you’re not wearing panties under those shorts.’
She nods, tugging on his hair. Rasps out, ‘Do something about it then.’
He chuckles and finally, finally, he takes her mouth. It’s not a fast kiss or a rough kiss or a bite, but a shivering shared breath of a kiss, capped off with the gentle nudge of his tongue against hers.
Her knees buckle.
She’s heavy with all the want pounding through her; limp against the clit-throb and cunt-ache.
She pictured him dropping to his knees and tugging down her clothes, burying his tongue inside her labia, inside her cunt. She pictured him pulling one of her legs over his shoulder. Easing her down onto her back and taking her on the closest rug.
But he doesn’t do any of that.
He just presses her back against the wall and drags slow, punishing kisses down her neck.
She knows she’ll have hickeys. He likes that people will try to guess who gave them; that they’d never guess it’s him; that they have them all so fooled.
Her legs part. She presses a hand onto his hip and urges one of his thighs between hers. She urges her cunt against his thigh and rubs at the wet ache. She moans and whimpers and pulls his head up to kiss him again. Pours her noise into his mouth, mumbles, ‘Please.’
She feels his smile; how broad it is, how real it is, then presses a slew of chaste kisses onto his mouth and lifts one foot, curls it around the back of his knee.
He chuckles, murmurs, ‘Alright, needy, come with me.’
She moans, worried that he’ll let her go. He gathers her up into his arms with ease. She squeals into his mouth, then gasps and giggles when her back meets the soft cushions of the sofa.
He tugs her to the edge of the seat, spreads her knees, then looks up into her face as he takes her shorts down. He drops a kiss to her knee. Looks up at her.
‘Girl, I want you to use your words. Tell me what you want.’
‘Suck my clit.’
He kisses her knee again, pulls at the skin, like he wants her to bruise there too. He talks without really lifting his mouth: ‘Go on.’
She drops back against the cushions, lifts her hips and presses herself into his hands.
He squeezes her thighs, then bites the doughy flesh.
He growls, ‘Go on.’
She lets out a long breath. She’s already said the three most pertinent words. And she can hardly think for the way his fingers are rubbing and squeezing her thighs, for the way he drags his short nails a couple of inches towards the mole behind her right knee.
Finally, she gasps, ‘What you’re doing, keep doing it. Kiss my thighs, give me hick –’
He gives her the words in a pleased, rumbling groan: ‘Good girl.’
She cries out again, though he’s still barely touching her. Unbidden, she pulls her top over her head, lies back and watches her nipples rise and fall through half-open eyes.
He rubs his stubble across her thigh, then pulls the soft flesh into his mouth. He bites, listens for the cry, the premature shout, then starts to suck. He moves up her thigh, a kiss every inch, more or less, and mumbles, ‘And after you come in my mouth?’
She talks through a quavering moan: ‘You fuck me.’
Another drag of his neat, short nails. She takes it to mean give me detail, how?
‘However you want.’
Another drag.
She cries out, throws one hand out to clutch the cushions and fists his short hair with the other. She gasps, ‘Here. I wanna feel you on me, all over me.’
He thinks, the velvet is a bitch to launder, but it’d be worth it.
Still he hasn’t gone anywhere near her cunt. But when he peeks up at her he can see just how wet she is: smell it, even.
Okay, he thinks. Now.
He kisses the crease of her thigh, where the too-tight underwear he’s seen her in before usually bites, then urges his stubble across the sweet little swell of her belly. He puts his teeth to the edge of her navel and bites. She makes a fine whimpering noise he hasn’t heard before.
He plants a hand on her ribs and pushes her back, then pulls her legs further forward until her cunt is on the very very edge of the seat. Her knees are high either side of his head. He skims his hands up her thighs and takes her ass in both hands, scratches her cheeks and eases his thumb into the pillowy skin, almost kneads at her.
He grunts, ‘How many fingers?’
He knows the answer, he just likes to hear her say it.
She moans, impatient, and rushes, ‘Two. But I still want you to suck my clit.’
He was never not going to. He eases his fingers between her labia, feels her cunt yawn at the rim and his fingertip easily slides into her.
She pants. Her head rolls on her neck. She presses her cheek to her shoulder. He grins. He barely has to touch her. He’s never known a girl so ready and potent as she is.
He thrusts, really thrusts, two of his fingers into her cunt. She almost sobs in relief when he plants his mouth around her clit and pulls in a breath the next second. Her nails drag through his hair. He flicks his tongue against her clit in quick and even fluttering beats.
Fuck; she’s already so wet and lush in his mouth.
He groans and pulls back one inch – she swears and groans for him to keep going – and pulls her swollen labia into his mouth.
And no-one’s ever done that before, not even him, and she feels the pink sunrise rush everywhere and shudders like she didn’t know she could. She bursts and the cum hits his tongue. He laps it up, then goes back to those urgent flutters until the feeling pushes up through her again, and the orgasm rolls into another.
She tastes like berries. He’d thought she was joking, when she said she’d taste like something sweet.
He groans into her skin, holds her steady as she buckles and arches. He murmurs, ‘More?’
She nods and moans. She takes her hand from his hair and throws it behind her head, grabs the rolled edge of the Chesterfield and bites at her upper arm until she leaves a bruise.
He growls, rumbles, ‘Ohh, that’s hot, babygirl.’
He applies himself again with the flutter of his tongue. She comes inside a minute, rocking against his face, urging her cunt up against the soft point of his nose.
She clears her throat, then moans, ‘Ohh, can you fuck me now?’
He kisses her thigh, then presses his palms over her knees as he rises up. She watches, heavy-lidded, a little dizzy, as he pushes down his pants. As his cock springs up and stands curved towards his belly, as he takes it in his hand to fist and squeeze it. He lurches over her, smooth and easy, well co-ordinated limbs, and plants his hands on her waist as he kisses her.
‘Here, you said?’
She hums.
He says, ‘Sit up and wrap your legs around me.’
And she is always nervous, retreating into her head, when they try new things, when there’s a sniff of her having a chance to cock up. She sits up with a shake and loops her arms around his neck. And there is the welcome nudge of his cock through her labia.
She presses her face to his neck and groans.
‘You’re so close,’ she pants.
He nods and kisses her hair.
‘Fuck me, please.’
He puts his lips back to her ear, whispers, ‘Gladly.’
And with one easy movement, he’s plunging deep.
Her head tips right back, then she gives that fine whimper again. He teases her with whispering kisses on her throat. And honestly, it’s better that she dipped back. He skims his hands over her hips, wraps them over the small of her back, the slope of her ass, and holds her steady as he gives her hard, lifting thrusts.
He can already feel the hungry clench and flex of her cunt. She comes so quickly, after hardly five thrusts, dragging her nails over his shoulders and biceps.
He grunts, ‘You know I don’t like that.’
She reddens and bolts up against his chest, calls out, ‘Sorry!’
He kisses her cheek.
‘Don’t worry. Just grab my hair and fuck down against me.’
She grips that tuft on the back of his neck again, wraps her other arm around the bottom of his back, spreads her hand over his spine. She does her best to press her hips down, but she’s a little unsure, unsteady and losing that dizzy warm feeling every second.
He glances up to see her eyes a little glassy, threatening frustrated tears.
He cups her cheek in one hand, and softly instructs, ‘Look at me.’
She forces her eyes open, forces herself to look down into his blue blue eyes.
He grunts, ‘You’re doing great, girl. You’re taking me so well.’
She nods, bites her lip, and just wants to bury her face in his shoulder and howl out the blue-black-bloom in her chest.
He kisses her, then growls, ‘Let me do the work.’
She gasps, rushes out, ‘Sorry, is that okay?’
‘More than okay. You’re heaven like always.’
She laughs and moans and buckles and it does all make her grind down on him. He bites his lip and growls and huffs and drops his cheek against hers.
‘Fuck, just like that.’
The words are catnip – that’s what she calls it – easy, filthy encouragement.
And she grinds and he bucks and tilts her and holds her, pulls her down onto his cock. She comes again and again and a-fucking-gain.
She drops her head against his shoulder and pants into his warm skin. She puts both her hands in his hair and tells herself that she’ll pull her head up for a kiss in a moment.
She’s acutely, achingly aware that he hasn’t come yet.
She urges herself down against his hot inches, turns her head just enough to fumble at his ear, to giggle and say, ‘Don’t you think you should come for me?’
‘I could not.’
That gets her to lift her head. She searches his face.
He chuckles, ‘Of course I want to, girl. I’m just saying –’ He urges his hips up, tugs her down against his thrust, does this a couple times over until she flutters and shudders and threatens to burst around him again. ‘I could use your pretty cunt to edge myself.’
She whines and plays at a pout.
‘But I want your cum.’
He tugs her chin close to his and gives her a biting kiss. He sucks on her tongue until she cries into his mouth, until he feels her cunt grow slicker and wider around his aching cock.
‘Please,’ she begs, the word strangled and muffled against his mouth.
He chuckles and kisses her forehead.
‘Since you asked so nicely.’ He spreads a hand across her ribs and tilts her back, goes on, ‘Put your hands on my thighs.’
She shoots him a look. He reads it as I’m not that steady.
He kisses her breasts – her neglected breasts – and she moans.
‘Do it,’ he growls, lips brushing across a nipple.
She does.
He takes her nipple really into his mouth and lets his tongue drag and flick across it.
She buckles, fucks down without really thinking.
He cradles the small of her back, drags his nails across the dimples there, and at the same time gently bites her nipple, pulls it between his teeth. She clenches around him, lifts up, grinds down, anchors herself in the rhythm, one hand on the back of his neck.
‘Just like that.’
They move together in near silence – hot breath and murmurs – and her thighs are wet around his waist and his jaw drops with the shot that rushes through him when he hits that blind end of her cunt.
He cups her ass, pulls his nails across it and he thinks she comes again, from the push-up of her noise and the moment she goes limp.
There have been times that they’ve been together when he’s seemed to get frustrated with the slow stuff like this, that he drops her onto her back or flips her and rides out his orgasm in short minutes. She even likes that. But she doesn’t want that today, and it seems he doesn’t either.
She looks into his eyes. The rare brown specks in the blue are warmer in all the light pouring through the big window next to them.
And the curtains are wide open. Anyone could see. She lurches forward and kisses him, bites and pulls at his bottom lip.
She murmurs into his mouth, ‘Smear it on me when you come, oh, please.’
‘Anything,’ he grunts. ‘Anything you ask.’
They moan together. He kisses his way along her jaw, tips her back again.
‘Let me fuck you harder, make you sore. That okay?’
‘Yeah,’ she says, just in a weak pant.
She puts her hands back on his hairy thighs and digs her nails in, careful not to drag them. She doesn’t know how many times she’s come, so she doesn’t really care that the harder, more insistent push of his cock isn’t so good for her as it is for him. She forces herself to keep her eyes open, so she can see his jaw drop and his chest rise and fall. So she can glance down at the way he pulls her down his thick cock, the way he pounds up into her. She moans through the thud-throb of his thrusts, makes sure to lock on his eyes when she lets out the noise.
His breath works up into a shallow frenzy.
She knows she has him when his breath cuts out for a second, when he trembles, when his body buckles closer to her. He gathers her against his chest, cradles her in his arms.
She kisses his cheek. He hums.
He eases her up, then withdraws. He presses his wet cock to her belly, drops a hand between them and uses his thumb to spread the cum over her skin. Then he lays back and stretches out his legs. She lies between his body and the cushions, with her head on his chest and her legs parted over one of his thighs.
There’s not a wet patch, so much as most of the Chesterfield is soaked.
He laughs to himself, murmurs, ‘Did I mention this is a bitch to launder?’
‘Fuck off,’ she murmurs, kicking gently at his shin.