Accommodating April

Standing in front of the mirror, Jason opened his robe. His recent weight gain had rounded his stomach, just enough to sag a little on his hip bones. He ran one of his hands through his chest hair, and across his stomach, patting it lightly. Shrugging off the robe, he turned in profile and flexed his buttocks. He admired their shape and strong dimples. Lightly caressing them, his hands rounded his thighs and reached the front, stopping just short of touching his thick penis that was already turning hard.

He looked down at his dangling member, grateful for its fullness and length. Even soft he was impressively sized. Even more impressive was April and how easily and readily she accommodated him. He let one hand graze his balls, squeezing lightly while the other wrapped around his cock (April's husky voice in his head, she says it better) and tugged lightly, his fingers lingering over the head, one digit stroking that sweet spot over and over, the pleasure of it making him flex forward, almost erect now, longer and thicker and heavier and so very hard, starting to throb and ache in that too-wonderful for words way.

He stopped. Dropping his hands to his sides, he watched his cock spasm on its own, rising, pointing at is twin in the mirror, pointing back at him. The words 'suck' and 'milk' kept rolling through his brain, obsessively. April with her soft little hands, caressing him, over and over, drawing him out, inside her, deeper, in that special way of hers; the only way she ever does, the only thing she wants from him.

Calm down. Not yet. She isn't home yet. Calm down.

Picking up his robe, he covers himself again, giving himself a good shake all over, snapping out of it, and reminding himself to be patient.

Downstairs he puts on her music. Not the cool jazz he prefers, but the low trance pulses, the faint, rhythmic moans of a man and woman. A single, male voice on top of theirs, deep, monotone, guiding them, come on, come on, come on, teasing and droning.

He falls into the cozy chair, the high back cradling his neck, his arms spilling over the high rests. He stretches and spreads his legs wide. He can hear her walking up the steps and her hand on the door. She won't say anything when she comes in. She'll take off her coat, put down her purse and turn down the lights. April is always the same.

She never explains herself to him. From the moment they met, he knew this is how it would be. Part of him aches for more, but he is never sure what more is: an open relationship, a life together, something other than playing the object, the toy: her favorite plaything? She tells him not to think about it too much. Thinking makes him want and the wanting makes him something close to angry. She gives, she takes; it's all the same to her.

His eyes are closed, tense when he feels her hand caress his shoulders. She reaches over him, her hands disappearing into the robe, running over his chest, scratching lightly through the soft hairs. He feels himself sink a little. He can feel her warm sweet breath on his neck, over his ear. This is as close to conversation as they ever get. She leans over him further, her hands going lower, around his belly, just barely touching the tops of his thighs. She caresses him so delicately, like touching water. His skin ripples under her fingers. She could do anything to him. She strokes his lower belly. She is watching closely, how his body reacts to her, knowing how it wants her. He is nothing but a body, just a plate of skin for her to feed off of. He tenses again, agitated, and she stops, her hands over his chest, just over his heart. She does this to calm him. When she feels his heart rate slow, she knows. The only throb now is between his legs. She pulls away from him and walks around the chair. He opens his eyes to watch her, watching him.

She is so small, barely five feet. When he stands next to her, the top of her head barely reaches his chest. He enjoys those moments, when he can take her head in his hands and hold it to his belly, feeling her hot breath there, waiting for her to go lower still, hotter still.

She is standing between his long, parted legs. The robe is just long enough to cover half his muscular thighs. The belt ties hang loosely in front. She bends a little and reaches for it, her eyes never leaving his. He feels drowsy when she does this, drowsy and lazy and too patient for the pleasure she is going to give him. The music is throbbing in his eyes and over his skin. The moans are so faraway but so close, like putting your ear to a wall. She tugs on the belt and pulls the knot free. She places both hands on his knees. She kneels.

He watches her with eyes growing heavy as she draws his robe apart, revealing his thick, hairy frame; revealing his heavy, waiting cock. She relaxes back on her ankles a little, her hands caressing over his thighs, inside and out, around his hips and his flexing buttocks. She squeezes them, hard and his hips slip forward a little. He wants to thrust, but he knows better. Not yet. She is looking at him now, at his cock. This is why she is here, why she always comes. Her hands stroke his inner thighs, moving up, inward, almost touching him, but no, she's caressing the hair on his belly and her face is so close now, he can feel her breath on him.

Her tongue. Long, wide, wet, the perfect size. She touches the underside of his head, just holds it there, on her warm, slippery tongue, then begins lathing it in slow circles, over and over and over. His jaw has gone slack, watching her. He tenses briefly, trying not to thrust, not to take over. Her lips close over the head, but her tongue never stops. She starts to suck, lightly and the moan escapes him, makes him grip the sides of the chair, it is always such a surprise, no matter how often she does it. She is so good, so good, so good; he can't stop thinking. The music is demanding now. The voices are all over him.

Come on baby give me baby do it baby come on baby do it baby

And she does. Her hot, wet mouth sucking him, sucking him down, pulling him further in then out again, in and out, till he can barely stand it. His head tosses from side to side and his hips are thrusting of their own accord, over and over and over.

"Suck it baby. Oh God suck it."

His words are pointless but he can't help it. He wants to fuck her mouth. He wants to stand up and grab her skull and force his cock straight down her throat. He wants to grip both sides of her head while he thrusts hard in her face, in and out and in and out. He wants to grind his hips at her, grind in a slow thrusting circle until he explodes in her throat. He wants to feel her throat stroking him as she tries desperately to swallow him whole.

But that is not the way. He cannot move. His hands remain slack over the arms of the chair. Hers join in. She strokes him hard and slow as her mouth lowers to his balls, licking at them like thick scoops of ice cream. He is melting. Her tongue darts up his shaft and he hears her breathless groan. Her hands barely reach around his length. They cannot cover him. He is full now, as hard as he'll ever be. She examines him, still stroking, still pulling him closer to the edge and he cannot stop his small, constant thrusts. He wants more of her, he wants to throw her to the ground and fall on her, grind all over her, force his cock everywhere, in her tight cunt, her ass (she promised, one day), or farther up, straddling her chest, thrusting wildly between her breasts, squeezing them tightly until he his ready, then higher, straddling her shoulders, his fat cock rocking down her throat in wild spasms of pleasure.

He gives in. His entire body goes slack as her mouth surrounds him, her head bobbing up and down, her lips stroking him perfectly, in time with her tongue, flat against his throbbing head, milking him, so deliciously, so exquisitely he feels it down to his toes, the pleasure rising, steady, endlessly approaching. A repeating sound is coming from his mouth. Not a moan, but not a grunt, either. Sometimes short and low, sometimes high and jagged. He is outside reality now. Nothing else exists. He looks down between his legs and sees nothing but the top of her head, her long, dark locks cascading over his thighs, brushing back and forth, teasing him.

Close, so close, he needs it now, needs to gain a little control. His arms come forward and his hands rest in her hair, keeping her tortuous mouth fucking steady. He can tell her mouth is full of him, stretched as wide as it will go, and he tilts her chin upward so he can see it, his thick cock disappearing obscenely down her throat and her eyes turn to him, almost begging and --

Come on baby come on baby do it baby do it baby

He is there, it comes, sudden, twisting, his back arching, flexing as he comes, thick streams of hot milky liquid spurting over and over and he can't stop himself, he is crying out from the pleasure of it, the so fucking good of it, and holding her face to him, keeping her mouth tight on him, her throat opening and closing around his sensitive length, stroking the head so perfectly and the music is there too, the moans of the man and the woman adding another layer to his senses, to his pleasure and his thrusts grow smaller and smaller, and his voice is full of the thrust too.

Oh fuck baby fuck... so fucking good baby....good baby girl. You little cocksucker. You dirty little cocksucker. Making me cum. Oh fuck.

He slides back in his chair, his arms have fallen again. Her mouth, still hot on him, keeps pumping, her tongue lapping softly as if he never came, as if the moment will come again, at any moment. Her mouth is full of him, swallowing, hungry, and endlessly hungry and she won't stop, not yet, she's not done with him yet, he's still so hard, she knows how to keep him hard, keep him on the edge forever.

He will wake, hours from now, softer, but still warm, her mouth suckling sleepily at his head, eyes closed. He waits for it, the moment he can touch her while she sleeps. He will watch her, her head cradled in his lap, the soft, low noise of her lips, the down of her hair covering his thighs and he will reach for her, her flushed cheek, and caress it so carefully, so careful not to wake her.

She will take him again before she goes. He will wake again to his own cries of pleasure and her eyes, those devouring eyes all over him and for a moment that will seem almost a nightmare he will imagine she has become part of him, attached at his root. His hands will hold the back of her head; hold her to him, the only way she will be held and all his churning discontent will spillover, again and again in a furious spasm of pure and simple joy.