Against The Black Night

He sighed a little and brought her close to him, stroking her silky back. "We'll get going, then." He knew the routines well by now. Tipping her gently over, he went back to her breasts—sucking, stimulating, bringing her pleasure, bringing her wetness. She lost her arousal so easily. He wondered if she had been like that before.

Sometimes their sex was as torturous as it was today; sometimes, it was swift and fleeting; and sometimes, on rare wondrous occasions, were those times when everything just went right, when their souls and minds were one, when their bodies gave way to something even more elemental, and there was nothing that mattered outside of the other. But regardless, they loved.

He pressed her breasts with his hand, applying solid, gentle pressure to the entirety of her firm swelling breasts; she shuddered against him. The light was back in her eyes, so empty just a few moments ago... Perhaps a forced light, but enough. He hated to see her eyes dead. They were dead so often...

"Are you ready?" he asked.

There was life in her voice, this time; finally, life: "Yes."

She did not like 'missionary mode.' She had been stifled and flattened too many times. More often than not she rode him; they both enjoyed it. He had to admit that he liked being prone, liked not having to move as much; he was lazy. And she preferred the control, the depth. The control was terribly important to her. Adept as he was, he could not make her come if he mounted her; and today, she wanted to cum with him inside her. Nothing beat that; nothing.

He rolled onto his back, and she rolled to meet him, diving atop him. She kissed him gently, her eyes dancing with laughter, and then pulled away. Suspending her body in midair above his, she reached down for his member, standing at beating attention, pointing straight at the secrets between her legs.

They both watched; he reached up to keep her hair out of the way, stroked her face.

She took the head of his cock and rubbed it across her feminine flower a few times, so that it was wet and ready. Then she placed it at the entrance to her canal, let it slip gently inside; and slowly sank.

Her folds, her depths, were as wonderful as he remembered.

It seemed to take an eternity for her to take him entirely, her pussy lips slowly consuming his shaft; but all too soon, he felt her legs against his, and their messes of pubic hair intertwined. And they were together, and there was nowhere further to go.

He looked up at her eyes—so beautiful, so tender—and reached up, pulling her gently down to lie atop him, holding him, he holding her-together, as close to one being as they could be.

"I love you," he said, and for once she made no response; no assurances of her returned love, no assurances that he should continue loving her and that she would be worth loving. For once, she simply tightened her arms around him—accepting.

She began to move, then, the walls of her pussy stroking him, pulling at him. Slowly, ever increasing in tempo—hers was a movement from far beyond time. She pushed herself up on her arms for easier flexibility; even better, his hands found her breasts again. The feeling of his warm cock pushing up within her, pressuring her from the inside, was beyond words. If she could have his mouth, then, at the same time—but wishes and fantasies were for another day. His cock had its drawbacks, but when it was inside her she would've gladly paid its weight in gold for it.

His hand found her clit—massaging, stroking, gentle. She moved up and down on him, back and forth, far enough on each slow, outdrawn stroke that she could feel his head between her lips, and then back down. Their sluggish speed made it exquisite; he knew that he wouldn't last long. If she was to come, they would have to do their work quickly. He wanted her to come. Release was a good thing, and God knew she forbid herself enough releases in her life...

She knew it was coming. She knew. Abandoning her clit, she began to move up and down his shaft—faster, faster, humping him. Their breathy murmurs filled the air-hers, high-pitched and almost squeaky; his, heavy and strained. His hips came up to meet her downward thrusts; he felt her wondrous throbbing passage caressing him like hands of molten pleasure. She felt the thick, solid head of his cock within her, moving up and down, in and out, stroking her, caressing her body as his fingers could somehow never, ever do—it was like fire, moving within her, growing.

They never moved very quickly. That was how he knew not to really yank her nipples off, that doing so would hurt her—when she had her own control, she didn't yank her nipples off. She fingered them, teased them, feathered them as she was doing now. He let his hands drift to the axis between her legs, the petal-soft folds and creases, and found her clit again, his fingers massaging, stroking, moving. He could tell she was close; he knew the signs well enough. And so he wasn't surprised when the storm broke inside her.

She stiffened, arching her back, and he felt her passage contracting around him. The sudden pressure got him in exactly the right places, threatening to bowl him over the edge, but he persevered. Her breasts were right there in front of him, and he took them in his hands, adding that extra bit to her pleasure, and she gasped and whimpered as liquid pleasure cascaded through her body, crashing like waves, and eventually trickled down to a gentle, voiceless flow that leaked out from between the petals of her flower and down into his pubic hair, proof of their love for each other.

As the tremors stopped, she collapsed bonelessly, flopping down on him, and he was there to catch her. His arms draped around her body, gentle and reassuring. She felt as though they had left the earth behind, were floating in a void where there was nothing, nothing but his cock inside her, the solid warmth of his chest, his heartbeat, his arms around her, his gentle whispers in her ear.

After a time, she asked, "What about you?"

"Close," he said.

When she raised her head from his chest and looked him straight in the eye, he knew what she was going to do. It was her secret weapon: she could contract her vaginal muscles at will, and she knew she was stroking him in exactly the right spots. He had made the mistake of telling her once and now she never let it go.

The first one made him moan.

The second one made him sqirm and brought sweat to his brow.

The third one tossed him overboard.

She felt the base of his penis swelling inside her, and then the first burst of his seed against her cervix. She gave him one last squeeze for good measure and then settled back to enjoy the sensations. They had never managed those fabled simultaneous orgasms before, and she didn't mind one bit; she loved the feeling of him emptying himself in her. She loved the feeling of his cum inside her. Never mind that it was sticky and icky and sometimes leaked out and made a mess; never mind how it turned her off it it showed up anywhere else on her body. When he was inside her, coming, his eyes wide and staring into hers, his cock convulsing within her, she loved it.

When he stopped, she kissed him.

Finally he got his breath back. "Do you feel better?"

She thought about it, and was surprised to discover that she did. "Yeah."

"I'm glad," he said, his hold tightening around her.

I know why I hate him sometimes, she thought. I hate him because he loves me, and I'm not perfect. But then I think about it, and I love him, because he loves me and I'm not perfect. What does it mean?

...I guess it just means I'm not perfect.

"I love you," she said.

He smiled up into her eyes.

Night drew its velvet cloak over them, and they slept.