“You don’t shave at all,” he remarked and I flushed.
“No, I’m sorry,” I apologized. I’d seen women, girls, in changing rooms, at the gym, and even in a few of the movies my husband had started watching-“Girlie movies” my father used to call them-and had noticed that it was a trend now, to be shaved down there. How clipped or trimmed their pubic hair was, or even shaved to what my husband liked to call a “landing strip”-a line of hair like a runway just above their vulva. Some even completely shaven, smooth as my eight-year-old. He’d asked me to, once, and I had, but my skin and erupted in angry, red bumps and had itched terribly, and I’d never done it again.
“No, I love it… so tired of little girl pussies.” I could hear his smile, and his genuine admiration. The sound of that word in his mouth left me momentarily breathless. Then I was in his mouth, his tongue like sweet quicksilver sneaking through the folds, tunneling his way inward, first down, dipping into me and tasting me, then up again, finding that small, hard, sheathed button of flesh. His fingers opened my lips, and he made a game of gently tugging at my pubic hair to keep them open for his mouth. I couldn’t help the tiny little cries coming from the back of my throat, even though I knew his soon-to-be-ex-wife was sleeping somewhere upstairs, and my own children were tucked in downstairs with the only bathroom off this very room. I’d lost all rational thought, although I had enough sense to whisper and muffle my moans.
“You taste like heaven,” he stopped to tell me and as much of a line as it was, it still effected me. I shivered and moaned, cupping my breasts in my own hands, tugging gently at my nipples. He made deep, soft noises as he urged me on with his tongue, lapping faster and still faster at my clit, no more teasing.
“Sam,” I whispered, my hand finding his hair, close-cropped military cut, nothing to grab onto, I dug into the back of his neck with my nails, pulling him in and in. His hands were on my inner thighs, large and warm, keeping them spread wide. “Sam, don’t stop!” I gasped, feeling that first tightening, an almost folding in of all the muscles in my lower belly, and then the release, a complete and fluid letting go of it all centered right under the tip of his tongue. He held me tight, grabbing underneath me to steady me as a pushed up toward his mouth, gasping for air, scraping hard at his neck and shoulders as I came.
“Good, good, good girl,” he murmured, damp kisses spreading to my thighs, then my quivering belly. He was finally moving onto me, and I had a flash moment of fear. In the aftermath of my orgasm, I was suddenly more clear and sure that this really shouldn’t be happening. Yet he wasn’t stopping. He pushed my legs back, hooking my knees with his arms, propping himself above me, exposing me to him. “Take it in your hand,” he told me. I did. The tip was wet, and he was truly enormous, I’d never held a cock so big, so incredibly engorged. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised me, sensing my hesitation. He thrust into my hand, letting the wetness at the tip lubricate my grip. He moaned softly when I squeezed him. “Feel how hard I am?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered, sliding my hand downward from the tip, amazed at the length I traveled to the base.
“You did that,” he told me, finding my eyes in the dimness. “Do you want that?” I nodded. And it was true, beyond true, beyond thought or sanity, it was simply wanting and being wanted, and I was lost in it. He smiled and he slid himself out of my hand and then moved toward me again, rubbing the length of his cock through my wet openness, driving me slowly to distraction. “Sam, please…” I begged.
“Not yet.” He kept up an easy, gentle rhythm, the tip teasing my clit with every movement. I ran my hands over his shoulders, reveling in the smoothness of his skin.
The hard ridges of his belly, already wet with sweat, made me dizzy with longing. I was losing myself in the sensation, feeling a familiar tingling beginning again in my clit, and when he finally entered me, I gasped out loud at the aim and size and feel of him, swift and hard.
He let out a pent up, shuddering breath in my ear, and when he began to move in me I couldn’t keep from whimpering. He found a rhythm easily, and I gasped against his neck, clawing futilely at his back. He filled so much of me that it was a strange cross between pain and pleasure, but his movements were so precise that pleasure soon won out. He asked, “There, do you like that?” as he shifted a little and I moaned and whispered a hoarse, “Yes-don’t stop!” He laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent a thrill through me, but he did stop, for a moment, taking a deep, measured breath, and then starting. He did this again, and again, taking me ever closer to an edge that I was begging to fall into.
Finally, I was really begging, whispering, “Please, Sam, please, please,” against his shoulder with every thrust, feeling it building inside of me and he reached down to touch my clit, sending me finally, deliciously, over that edge. I shivered against him, every muscle in my body taut as I came, riding wave after wave beneath him.
“Ohh, yes, that’s my good girl.” He leaned in to kiss me, beginning to move inside me again. For a moment the pleasure was still too intense and I squirmed. He chuckled.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, pressing his hand against my lower belly to still me. The feel of him in me was too much, now, and I was incredibly wet, from his mouth, my own juices, his pre-cum, the slick sound of it as he slid in and out suddenly overwhelmingly embarrassing to me.
“I’m sorry, I know I’m really wet…” I started and he kissed me quiet.
“Yes, wet and soft and open, it’s like sliding through butter, Maggie, you… are…
incredible,” he punctuated each with a soft kiss. I didn’t know if he really meant it, but it was simply what I needed to hear and somehow he knew it. He shifted, letting me wrap my legs around his waist and gathering me into him at my shoulders, his breath matching mine, beginning again with me as we rocked. His mouth near my ear, his breath warm on my neck, he leaned into me and buried his face and his hands in my long red hair, inhaling me, pulling gently, then not so gently, my head going back, exposing my throat and my breasts to his mouth and he moved deeper into me. I couldn’t take nearly the whole length of him, but I was trying, lifting my hips to meet him.
I let myself go completely, abandoned myself to the feel of him, the ache in my belly, to something bigger than both of us as we moved together, slick and hot and panting as the sensation began to build upward again. I reached down to feel him going into me, and moaned when I realized I could wrap my whole fist around him at the base and still feel him buried into me as deeply as he could go. He was almost growling now, low and animal and I could feel his mouth sucking at my shoulder, sometimes his teeth, a sharp jolt along my collarbone.
“Ahhhh fuck, Maggie,” he whispered, the buck and thrust of him jerkier now, less coordinated and sure, more wild and without any restraint. I ached when I looked at his face, strained and intense in the moonlight.
“Fuck me, Sam!” I gulped at the words in my own mouth, I’d never said anything like it before. He gasped in my ear at the sound of it and I felt him twitch inside of me. I was encouraged. “Yes Sam, fuck me ‘til you come,” I urged, and he gave into it with a deep groan, his movements sped up quickly, earnestly, and I watched his face, feeling it build in me but knowing I wouldn’t quite get there again.
“Help me,” he whispered, as he pulled out and I took him, thrusting, into my hand. He groaned, low and throaty, and just the sound of it, so different, was enough to fill me with feeling as he came in hot waves into my hand and onto my stomach and breasts. Shuddering, he collapsed onto me, nuzzling his face in my neck, and I stroked the back of his head where it was shaved very close, so incredibly soft.