She gracefully dropped down to her knees where she’d stood and clasped her hands behind her. Her breasts jutted out proudly.
I undressed myself, feeling her eyes on me. If she balked now, I just might go insane, so I had to hope that my body was something she could live with, if not exactly drool over.
I stepped to her and palmed her breast. Then I guided my cock to her red lips, smearing the drop on the tip all over her mouth. Dirtying her. It felt wrong.
“Open,” I said.
She opened her mouth and my cock slipped inside. Holy fucking Christ, the heat. The wetness. I hit the back of her throat and managed to pull back. But then there it was again, and again. She gagged, but I was losing it. It was all I could do not to push harder.
She’d tell me to stop if I didn’t cool it. And then I’d have to stop completely and lose all this. I managed to slow my thrusts so that they were somewhat steady, somewhat shallower. It was still too much, still more than I had ever dared to push on another woman, but watching my cock slide into her swollen red lips shattered my control. Hell, I’d fucked some pussies with more finesse, more care than I fucked her mouth.
The top of her mouth was massaging the head of my cock, almost enough to bring me to my knees, but I locked them straight. As her tongue slithered along the underside, my thighs vibrated, threatening to give way despite myself.
“Your hands,” I gasped. “My balls.”
And she did. Christ, yes. Her hands cupped my balls, gently, lightly probing, and yes, even farther back. I spread my stance, inviting her deeper, and she took my invitation, rubbing her hand along the seam and back, back.
That she could take what was I giving her, the long, hard thrusts into her mouth was amazing. That she could participate, too – massaging my balls, swirling her tongue, moaning little vibrations up my cock – was a fucking miracle.
And suddenly her eyes were too much. Big and brown and so much woman, and why was I treating her this way? She’d been nothing but nice, nothing but accommodating. I’d treated some of the bitches I’d dated nicer than I was treating her. I didn’t want to think about it, but I also didn’t want to stop.
I pulled out of her mouth with a dirty pop.
“Are you okay?” I asked. I shouldn’t, I knew. This was her chance to stop and think about what I was doing to her and run like the fucking wind. But hell, my assholery hadn’t reached such epic proportions that I would push her into something she didn’t want. This had to be her choice.
She panted, clinging to the backs of my thighs as she caught her breath. “I’m fine.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Melissa – ”
“If you want to finish that way, you can.”
She blinked up at me in some sort of mouth-fucked daze, lips puffy with smeared red lipstick, and were those tears down her face? I was an ass.
An ass who wanted to do it again. Fuck.
What was the question? Did I want to finish in her mouth? Well, hell, who wouldn’t want to finish in that mouth? It was pretty much designed for coming in, all swollen and pouty. And I knew from experience, warm and deep and – damn!
I needed to at least try and give something to her. And that meant fucking her. Well, it could also mean eating her out, which would be more than fair considering how I’d just shoved my whole cock down her throat, but, well, I thought we’d already established I was an ass. Besides the fact that if I tasted her pussy, if I felt her come beneath my mouth, I’d probably spill into the sheets, and that wasn’t going to happen tonight.
“Get on your hands and knees,” I said.
Had there ever been a more beautiful sight than a woman on her hands and knees? All vulnerable and waiting. It made me want to protect her. It made me want to fuck her into the ground.
I ran my hands along her back, leaving ripples of goosebumps in their wake. Up across those dimples at the base of her back and over the plump, heart-shaped ass. And between the cheeks, pink pussy lips peeked out at me, as if shy, as if demure, but glistening wet.
I could die a happy man, looking at that ass. In fact, I wanted to. Whenever I did kick the bucket, I would think back on this image. No need to replay my life, the all-American childhood, the boring career, the broken marriage. No, I wanted to see this, but since I didn’t think she’d let me take a picture of her ass for such a morbid purpose – or for any purpose at all, really – I moved into position behind her.
And then realized I didn’t have a condom on. No matter, I always had one. I usually carried one in my wallet – you never knew – but always on a date. That was the endgame of the whole dating thing, after all, and so it would be stupid not to be prepared. But as I thumbed through my wallet, I realized it was gone.
I thought back – Suzie or Sammy or some other S-name. She’d only wanted it missionary and over with as quickly as possible. And I’d used my condom on her. Well, rationally I knew that there was no condom shortage in the world and that it was my own damn fault for not replacing the condom after my last date. But it felt good to blame Susan with her ridiculous Volvo and cats and lame sex that had nothing on this.
“Wyle?” she asked, glancing back. It made her look even sexier.
“Damn. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I have a – fuck.”
It was the least eloquent thing I could possibly say, crude too, but it was the best I could do. The disappointment was like getting an ice cream cone only to spill the scoops onto the sidewalk a minute later – only a million times worse.
This couldn’t be happening to me. I was a nice guy. I paid my taxes. I called my mother on Mother’s Day. I donated fifty bucks a month to some charity organization that had called me and setup auto-debit from my credit card. Surely the universe owed me a strip of fucking latex.