The Storm Ch. 01 of 03

Delicately, he rolled her shirt upwards, exposing her lower back. Straddling her ass, his hot hands went to work kneading her tired muscles. She couldn't help but give the occasional moan and sigh of enjoyment. Up and down he went, sometimes gliding, sometimes rubbing. His hands and fingers were the scourge of knots and kinks she didn't even know she had. She could feel days, weeks, months maybe, of tension flowing out of her.

She also became aware of a very distinct bulge that occasionally made contact with her ass as he worked. She knew that he wasn't intentionally doing it. It was just that he would occasionally shift position, or she would, and she would notice. Kind of hard to miss. She meant that in the nicest, most complimentary way possible.

Sonya knew she should feel repelled, or repulsed by the feeling of another man this focused and involved on her body - but the truth -- the horrible truth -- was that it was a little arousing. It was nice to feel wanted. Important. Like a tangible compliment, of sorts. Rationally, some part of her knew that the smart move was to get up, thank Rick for his help (and a lovely evening) and then proceed to bed, where she would probably toss and turn for a period of time in aroused frustration before slipping to sleep - but there was a part of her, the chaotic, hedonistic part, that was a little curious and flattered at his attention. Plus, it did feel completely amazing. She had never had a massage this good before.

It's no worse then what happens at the clubs when I go dancing. Better, even. At least he's not intentionally grinding into me.

Yeah, sure.

His hands proceeded up her back, sometimes rolling up her shirt as he went, until he met the curve of her neck and shoulder, and he discovered a whole new area of stress and knots and kinks to work on.

As his hands played over her body, she became aware of some of his more, one would say, adventurous detours, as he came closer and closer to touching her breasts. Part of her was amused, the other painfully aroused at the teasing nature. His hands would tease along her sides, pushing the boundary a little further each time.

Finally, she decided to throw him a bone by taking her sweater off. Making a small sound, he backed off slightly while she rolled her sweater over her head and threw it to the side. Neither of them made eye contact.

His hands became bolder and less cautious. He made a sound - a soft sigh - of appreciation as he worked. He explored her, running his hands along and appreciating her body. At last, his hand came up under her bra, and he cupped her breast, encompassing it completely and kneading it softly - sending bolts of sensation running through her body. Despite herself, she gave a soft moan and arched her back a little, pushing back into his erection.

From that point, everything went to hell.

She couldn't tell you, exactly, when Rick deftly removed her bra and began gently caressing her breasts with his strong hands. Or when she really began pushing her hips back so that she could really feel the sizeable erection pressing against her ass, or when he began pushing back, or when they dropped all pretence of what they were and doing and enjoyed their heavy petting. She couldn't help but wonder what he would feel like - in her hand, in her mouth, inside of her - it didn't matter. She just knew that she wanted it - no, needed it - bad.

She wasn't sure either at what point she had raised herself up straddled him, gyrating; how or when his shirt had come off. She was more focused on running her hands over his hard body, aware only of the sensations that came from rubbing her body, her breasts, into him. Smelling his hair, his body - feeling the burning warmth of it. Pressing her mouth to his, running her tongue along his perfect teeth like the horny teenager she was - he tasted like beer.

Whatever. He made it work.

He was as skilled with his mouth as he was with his hands. Just the right pressure, the correct ratio of lip to tongue - the right touch in exactly the right places. At one point his fingers dug into her toned ass and pulled her into him, onto him, making a lusty rocking motion with his hips (and hers) and it was all she could do to clutch on for dear life, burrow her face into his neck and make whimpering sounds of ecstasy as everything else in the entire world became distant, muffled and muted. She distinctly remembered when his hand tangled into the mane of hair at the scruff of her neck, as he pulled her head back a little roughly so that he could nibble and savage those surprisingly sensitive areas around her neck and collarbone. How his mouth felt when he descended onto her achingly sensitive breasts.

She couldn't tell you exactly who first began fumbling with the pants. She vaguely remembered inelegantly struggling with his belt buckle, only for him to push her back to the carpet and deftly remove her sweatpants in one smooth motion instead, the way a magician would pull off a tablecloth without disturbing the dinnerware. She wasn't sure how much time passed, exactly, before his own were off and there was only two very thin pieces of material separating them. They continued like that for awhile -- rocking, gasping, kissing, grasping. Drunken classmates getting to know each other a little better.

At one point he pinned her hands over her head and gave her a very primal look as he gyrated against her. She could feel the pure desire of his need -- his lust for her -- as tangibly as she could feel his sizeable erection. The feeling washed and pounded over her -increasing with every moment. His desire increased her desire -- her desire increased his desire. Critical mass was building.

Their breathing intensified for a few minutes, as they pushed into each other harder and harder. Seemingly daring each other, almost, to take the next step. Their mouths met, again and again. Each meeting a little less dignified and more savage then the last. More tongue, less lip. More teeth, less tongue.

Their undergarments were both very damp (wet, even) when he released the hold on her wrists and took hold of the back of her panties and lowered them down her toned legs. Not a word was spoken, but the exchange was clear. She kept her knees demurely together and sat up a little after the flimsy piece of material was removed -- not wanting to expose herself to him, fully.

His followed hers, and then there was nothing separating them except a shrinking distance. He pushed her back and pushed himself between her legs, lowering himself over her. She gripped him in her hand - noting the hot, hard, slippery texture, and marvelled at his size - he groaned into her ear as he inserted one finger, and then another. She wasn't sure exactly what he was doing to her, but she was pretty sure the bolts of pleasure firing behind her eyeballs meant he was doing it right.

Finally, it was time. Long past time. They both knew it.

He raised himself up slightly as he placed himself at the edge and maintained eye contact as he rocked back and forth, teasingly. She was biting the skin on her arm, trying like crazy not to come before they even started, when he finally pushed forward and entered her - thrusting all the way inside in one long, slow, hard stroke. She remembered wincing a little and grunting; she might have sworn. What they were doing wasn't about speaking, or even thinking.

It was about savage, animal desire. It was about indulging that horny inner creature that wants to fuck and drink and eat all day, every day -- that isn't so good, or nice, or wholesome.

He was big, she could tell you that much. How big? Not so sure. Not freakishly so - but hefty enough. She felt stretched, full, stuffed -- pick your adjective. But the hint of pain merely served to enhance the pleasure, and she had been very wet even before the pant fumbling had begun. To put it another way, Sonya adjusted very quickly.

The sex itself would be even harder to describe. It wasn't so much that she had a numbered amount of orgasms. The best way she could think to describe it would be to say that from the moment he entered her, she just had a continuous one -with the only real punctuation coming from the contrast between the extremity of the pace they were setting. She wasn't exactly sure how long they carried on for either, or the sounds she made, or how they ended up in her bed, or the exact number of positions they tried out and entertained, or how the neighbours could possibly be unaware of what they were doing - but she was definitely aware of the end, of the finale, with her legs wrapped tightly around him, pulling him into her, encouraging him onwards and upwards, and her nails were digging into the muscles of his seemingly perfect ass, and he was dripping sweat onto her heaving breasts and some landed on her face and hair and she tasted him as the thunder crashed and rolled outside.

His pace quickened and intensified to the point where her toes began to involuntarily clench and then she was gripping the bed sheets, her body consisting of one big spasm, and her eyes began to roll back in her head as his pelvis mashed against hers again and again with a very particular, very male kind of ferocity, and she was just trying to hold on to consciousness when he roared and stiffened and buried himself to the hilt, coming deep inside of her, shuddering and gasping, clenching and unclenching.

She was gone.

Time passed. Minutes, maybe. Sonya became aware of reality again when she heard humming coming from the running shower. She was splayed inelegantly on the bed, sweaty and damp, her hair a mess, her breath still coming in gasps, her body flushed red with sensation, with a very distinctive feeling that toed the line between a dribble and a slosh coming from inside of her. She wanted to get up, take a shower, brush her teeth, clean up -- but she was spent. Completely and utterly spent.

It occurred to her, as she sleep steamrolled over her, that she had gone too far. Much, much too far. It was too late to do anything about it now, though. She would just have to weather the storm come morning.