His Shower

bydiamonds4pearls©

He thought about her as the shower head poured over his scalp, rinsing away with its heat, a little bit of the exhaustion that had been weighing him down all week. All week? All month, maybe all year-- or at least since she left and he began to take on an extra hour, after extra hour at work. Their conversation of minutes ago, washed over him.

Foreplay. Breasts. Cunt. Slut. Lips.

His breathing stammered as he thought about her lips uttering those words.

Pink. Nipples. Dick. Cock. Clit. Lick. Suck.

His stomach twisted around the visual of her on her knees before him, licking his dick, his clit. He remembered the way her mouth and tongue formed around him, and the vibrations of (I)Fuck Me, echoing up from his groin, a shock, into his brain.

He thought about the smooth weight of her breasts in his hands, as he pushed her up against the shower wall, sliding her legs apart to grind his pelvis into the warm wetness of her cunt, as his fingers mashed into her breasts, twisting roughly at each nipple, causing her to moan and arch against him. His hands followed the curve of her collarbone, smoothing down the length of her torso, catching palms on her nipples, causing her to bite her lower lip and groan so deeply, arching into him. Finally, his hands reached her pelvic mound and sliding down, and under, over her lips, holding them together as she bucked up against his palm, desperate for his fingers to slip past her outer lips, to just... to just touch her clit and maybe she would come.

If only he would touch her.

But right now, no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't touch her. It made his clit--his hard cock-- ache with longing. Longing for her to fuck him, as he wanted to fuck her. Senseless, and so hard both their arms gave out and they collapsed against the bottom of the shower. Since he couldn't fuck her, right now, he would have to fuck himself, bury their purple toy inside his body, dreaming of her holding him against the wall and fucking it deep inside him.

She would first slide the middle finger of her right hand against his lips, then fuck her index finger into his mouth, as her left hand twisted her way between his lower lips, then with gentle force coaxing her finders into him, coating her fingers in his wetness, before sliding in the bulge of the purple toy.

In. Out. In. Out.

Out clear to the tip, then fucked back in, as her wet fingers slowly popped into his ass, filling him completely. He rocked against her fucking, grinding, pushing, pulling, against this building need circling wet paths across his sensitive head, then deeply,deeply, driven into him.

As her knees hit the ground and her mouth found his clit, the small circles, flicks, licks, circles, bore down on his resolve and all his attention focused on the womyn hooked so deeply inside of him. His ass being pumped by her two twisting, pulling-pushing fingers, while his hole filled and emptied on the purple silicone, in the clashing rhythm of being filled, of being hammered from below with her tongue twisting around, around, over, around, over, and over his dick, pushed him over the edge. As her mouth closed over his dick and her fingers pumped once more into him, he came, bursting and fucking and humping into her mouth, her fingers, her palm.

He slumped against the shower wall, slowly sliding down it's wet surface, before pulling his fingers and toy out of his body.

God I miss her. I wonder if she's thinking about me.

She was.

It wasn't just that she was thinking about him. She was planning for him. As he read her latest text message:

I'm in the art room- thinking of ways to draw you nude.

She was sitting on the low, grey-blue from the years of charcoal dust, tattered couch, analyzing how the light hit the platform, the easels and where the shadows would cast themselves over his body. Her mind wandered over his curves, placing his hips here, his wrists there, much in the same way she'd analyzed the green bedroom, before restraining him with velvet ties and shutting out the sun, to fuck him. If she could be sure they wouldn't be interrupted, the things she would try in here.

Against the back wall three rows of shelves climbed to the ceiling. The waiting supplies drew her attention, made her contemplate using him as a living canvas. Without telling him what she wanted, she would coax him to this room, the only light coming in dim streams from the closed indoor window, as he gave her a long suffering, hesitant look and removed his clothes in the darkness. With her body, she pressed him up against the easel, soft hands caressing up his chest, and nails dragging gently across his back, sighing under her fingertips as he felt the rasp of paper trapped between his shoulders and the easel. With one long finger, she trailed a path down his left shoulder, bicep, turning with her touch his inner forearm, the lines at his wrist and into his palm. At his hand, her mouth found the inner dip of his wrist, her tongue tracing a moist, circling journey to the center of his palm then out, tasting his thumb, before encasing it in the soft confines of her mouth. His thumb, like his dick, throbbed, and he pumped it deeper, closer to the back of her throat, rough against the velvet warm wetness of her mouth. She captured his hand after the third thrust- retreat, and treated his index finger to slow entrapment. Just the tip, her tongue tracing slow around the first bend of his knuckle, then sliding down to moisten the knuckle, before following her tongue and drawing him deeper onto her tongue, until his whole finger buried itself against her tongue and teeth and she looked up.

Up she came, pushing his hand out of her mouth and above his head onto the scuffed and painted wood of the easel. From the floor, she retrieved a blue roll of artists tape, that she wound around, and around his wrist, binding one hand to the easel, before grasping his other hand, taping it also above his head, leaving him splayed out before her, exposed and a little more nervous. His token struggle, after she stepped back to watch, became more serious as the tape, wound around and around, didn't tear. His hips thrust up and forward, and his neck twisted back to look at his hands--I love it when you struggle, I can feel it clear into my cunt-- before slumping down, thighs apart, annoyed and excited.

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