Bonemeal

I widen my stance.

"Come." And once more he obeys. He wants to obey.

He buries his face in my thighs. The eager charge almost knocks me over, but his grip sinks into my skin and keeps me upright. I gasp and sigh and writhe as he kisses my skin. So hungry and eager, such a monumental lust forming from his lips.

He is clumsy with the tongue and the lips, but the hands and the raw strength behind each and every one of the movements more than make up for the lack of experience. I take my hands to the top of his head and grip the shaggy blonde hair. Another rule, that must always stay so I can rein him and help him find what I like. My hands move with my hips, moving with his own palm and tongue grinding into me. Another groan, deep and ugly from my chest bounces back from the ceiling and rumbles through the floor. His hands dig deeper into my ass, fondling and squeezing and kneading, tingling the skin like a lightning bolt. Needle fingers shoot up my spine and I realize he is moaning into me as well.

The deep bass of his voice, the one that rattles windows and shakes mountains, resonates in my core further helps the probing tongue worm its way inside. The energy, the energy for frantic thrashing and hair trigger sensitivity, that is what I dive into. Long stretches of time collide from my past, the days, weeks, months, years without touch combine and slam into me. Heorot could honestly just lick my thighs like a dog and I would find release in some form. The hum and the tongue and the spreading fingers kneading me and breaking the knots of muscle down sap whatever strength I can find. My legs are shaking in no time at all. No strength, no will, every ounce of structure taken from me by flailing tongue.

My breath turns hot and shaky and pleading with the need for more, the need for more pleasure and sensation of lighting tendrils in my body. I moan again. The cry reaches the heavens and the stars as the release, the jetting release of tension so long, so ancient and forgotten, takes everything in my mind and turns it barren and cold.

I've had my climaxes before, taken from me by my hand and by my will. But the heat of another body, another energy bringing it from me, robbing it from the tense core to show the world at large the pull and bestial desire, that has been long overdue. My chest hitches and freezes and stays completely still as the tremors and quakes of my body take over and the only thing keeping me from falling to the ground are Heorot's hands digging into me. The stark cold gives way to radiating warmth and Heorot has not stopped his worship of me.

He plants lips to thighs, the shins, to knees, adulating my legs with love of form and power. He is still humming and growling, making primal noises that don't quite form true meaning other than awe.

"Good boy," I purr, and he looks up, eyes wide and happy and still so incredibly eager to continue our union. I can't even imagine what he might see in mine. For a moment though, he almost looks afraid.

---

Of the many noises that Heorot can make, I believe I like the whines the most. Still deep, still rumbling, but the jump in pitch and deep pleading he can make in his throat, that twinges some deep spark in my belly. And it's so easy to prompt from him. A touch to the stomach, a stroke on his thigh, a trail of light kisses on his chest, all the while ignoring the evident hardness poking into my stomach. It's hot, so hot, and I can feel it transferring some deep pulse into me. Sizable, delightfully so, and it's harder than I care to admit to ignore it as much as I am. But then the whine might go away and be replaced with some deep rumble, just as pleasurable. I have not had my fill of the whine yet.

I can taste myself on his lips, the forest and the trees and the chilled autumn wind mixed with heat and hearth and fresh baked bread still cooling. So good, so good the taste and the wandering tongue exploring my mouth. I bite it, gentle touch of teeth to soft muscle and he spasms and writhes like a trapped animal. I let him go and he kisses my neck. I tease his ear and he whines again.

"You're being very good," I whisper into his ear, "You're being so good for me. Make more noise."

He obeys and his chest rumbles, not in the delightful whine but in the calming moan, reverberating into my own chest once more and I melt into him. Moaning in a primal duet of joyful touches and carnal noise. His hips buck and wiggle and writhe, desperately seeking some amount of grip and entrance, and all he finds is my hard stomach to rub against. I do not like that. He needs to be still now and give me beautiful songs to fill my mind. He can fill the other things later, but now he has to give me sound.

"Stay still," I order. He doesn't want to comply. He doesn't want to stop and stay still and let me continue my grand exploration of his body, the ridges, and lines of muscle, the soft down, the nooks and crannies of flexible joints. But he does, with pleading eyes against the grand cruelty I have brought down upon him. The face makes me melt and sigh with absolute joy. The reluctant obedience that comes so naturally to him, something in the eyes and the pout on his lips. He gets another kiss, another touch of my lips to his, and that seems to placate him for a while.

I work myself lower, touching his stomach with my hands roaming his chest and arms, before one hand finds his and clasps tightly. All that strength he has, and he does not break free. He does not try to buck and flip me over and take me. His length runs along my sternum, nestled between my breasts and he starts twitching once more. The hips start moving and bucking and rocking. He's trying to control, trying to be still and silent and calm. And he is failing.

The elbows shift my breast closer together and he further disobeys my will. Heorot thrusts and bucks between the soft flesh. I can feel his heartbeat against mine through his length, through the long expanse of vein and hardness. His breath hitches as he grows faster and more desperate for the inevitable release. I allow it. I allow him to disobey. He's been good so far and stepping out of line at this point is inevitable. He is still new to the game and it might take some time for him to grasp the full extent of the play. And it is always fun bringing him back in line for his transgressions.

His release comes with a short grunt, clipped with the final realization of what he is doing. He looks down at me as I lie him, faced white and frozen as he climaxes. I feel the salt bitter heat explode from him and hit underneath my chin. Pulse after pulse covers my chest with his seed, spilling onto his stomach, stray shots hitting my chin. I do not break eye contact with him through the duration.

There is a part of me that rages at Heorot. There is always that primal urge to mate, to have the seed inside of me and inside only. But the searing shots coating my chest have their own delightful pleasure as well. The heat and the scent, his heat and his scent fill my mind as I leave him squirming and breathless.

"You made a mess," I say, a simple statement of fact. He tries to squirm away, grasp some amount of freedom from my weight. He dies not find.

"Clean it up," I order. Enthusiasm this time, pure raw enthusiasm as that strength finally comes through. He tackles me, throwing me off and pinning me to the floor. His tongue, his clumsy fumbling tongue, reaches forth to lavish my chest with long worshipping licks and kisses. Here, the raw hunger is welcome, the adoration of my breasts, my skin, tanned and beaten by the sun. My hands find his hair again, gentler this time. Simple teases and strokes and scratches. He presses the crown of his hand into my palm as he completes the grand task. I move to cup his chin and pull him to my mouth.

I taste everything, the last remnants of me, the overwhelming taste of his seed, the bitter salt filling my mouth, my mind, my spirit. Everything is burning and boiling inside of me.

"Did I do good, Tark," Heorot asks of me. Pleading, every ounce of him is pleading and eager and needing to please. The eyes devour me, wide enough to fall forever. He gets a kiss on the forehead for his trouble. I lower my head into his and stare into his eyes.

"Good boy." He reaches his mouth to mine and we find a moment of stillness. As strong as he is, there still needs to be a moment of rest, of valley before we climb for the peak together. He sits back and I lay on him, soft kisses and lingering touches, everything once again devoted to the simple act of gentle exploration of one another.

I love his shoulders. Their breadth, their definition, the dip as it reaches for his neck, the subtle shift of muscle on bone as he holds me and massages me. His hands find my back and creep lower, and I believe I now know his favorite thing about my body. I grin into his neck as I rock my hips into him, enjoying the playful respite we share.

It's a wonderful thing to feel him grow hard once more. A long series of minutes, but it comes again, just as eager, just as dutiful, just as proud, and long and wide against my stomach. The inside twitches at the preview of the path he will take. Promises that his flesh is making and he better deliver.

My own arousal has not faded, not really. Long time coming, and I plan to ride him to the point where he breaks and then keep going. My thighs are still slick and open as I slide down him, pulling myself upright to straddle him. His hands move to my hips and I sigh under his touch.

I make him enter me, slowly. Spreading and piercing me, making the changing of seasons seem a jackrabbit pace. But he enjoys it, the delightful torture of sluggish pleasure. The whole of it could be his if he only bucked and twitched and rode into me. But a simple hand to his chest keeps him still, keeps his hardness from moving too fast, allowing me to slide myself over him.

Our hips meet and he twitches and bucks. I feel the whole of his warmth fill me and I sigh. Not quite what I wanted from the whole affair, but this is its own joy, the twitch and heat in my core. Not enough to get me over, to get me to the end of the road, but it works in its own way.

"I'm sorry Tark," he says. He stammers and stutters and he tries to apologize. I lean forward, linking my arms around his neck and pulling him closer. My lips silence him.

"It's okay Heorot," I say as I kiss him again, "It's okay. You're still hard. Even if you weren't, you still have a tongue. And do you really think this is the only time we'll lie together?"

That seems to placate him a bit. And the trapped warmth definitely helps him thrust. We spend a long moment together like this, the closest we could possibly be. He needs to rest and recuperate. We'll have more time to build him up. I imagine there will be things I learn as well, but for now, I feel his heartbeat echo through me. A twitch and a pulse and it was like nothing had ever happened. I let him help set the pace, finding thrusts and bucks like a wild horse.

Any essence of control I have is gone with the realization that he is inside of me and I throw myself into the wild chaos. Happy, it is happy the swirling lightning storm brought on by his movements. Joyful exhalation of life and its creation inside of me. I bring my own strength into his movements, thrusting and bucking with him.

Heorot rewards me with his own noises, the deep groans that send rockslides down my spine, the rumbling breathes that carry my name into the sky, the whines of pleading pleasure that come with the act of seeking pleasure. Such a mindless thing he's become, although I am in no place to judge. The edges of my mind dull and fade, leaving me with only the primal core of union. My own voices joins him, growling and moaning and grunting his name into his chest. The structure of my body fades and I collapse into him.

We writhe and clash against one another, strength on strength, the vast expanse of his chest and shoulders against the corded muscle of my own frame. The clumsiness gives way to power and desolation within me. Every spot, every fold, every inch he touches is obliterated with the white heat of ecstasy. Deep, so deep, shoving and slipping inside of me, deeper than my fingers could go, deeper than I thought that I held within me. Full and strong and hot, so much inside of me, muscle and seed and pulsing vein, heartbeat and strength and youthful virility. Two rounds of seed spilled and still so hard, so hot, so energetic, and willing to penetrate and sow whatever he wants inside of me.

Such a vicious thing, Heorot was, in the act. That tenderness and gentle eye gone, replaced with bestial lust. Wild, he is wild and feral. The veneer of soft civility vanished and gone, forgotten with my core. I respond in kind, biting his collar bone and leaving deep red marks. He is mine, wild but mine, untamed but taken. He bucks harder with the pain mixed in with the gentle envelopment of my entrance.

The deep noise of his rumbling chest hitch and hold and he twitches. Still, he goes so still I feel he has gone to stone. I do not stop. I refuse to stop. I will take everything from him. His climax starts, bucking and twitching and I continue to crash down on his hips, milking the thick seed from him. Third time, and still so much, still so much warmth filling me. Endless deluge of seed takes me over the edge of my own climax, and I collapse into his frame. Empty. My body will make his body empty and hollow while I take my fill.

I lose count of the many pulses he puts inside of me. And the flow stops, the well dry and spent. Fair, that's fair. He's given me more than enough. And I've taken more than he could give. This is enough for now, for both of us. Tired, I'm tired now, not quite satisfied, but done for now. Heorot's spent and I don't blame him. Time, we still have time to get up his strength, and temper my stamina to match my appetite. But right now, he is warm, and the day is sunny, and I feel like a nap is in order.

---

Another winter storm has rolled in. It will get worse. The bones say that it will get worse. Not right now. The sky is just sending wet, heavy snow to settle over the earth. I am fine with it. The larder is full of deer meat, dried things, and pickling vegetables, more than enough to carry me through the winter and well into the spring. I've had help this time, and novel things to stock and sort. Flour and sugar and eggs that won't keep quite as long, but they will be put to good use. I assure myself that it will be a good winter. There is plentiful food and thick hides to drape myself in and enough fired wood keep a fire burning throughout the year.

It takes more than I care to admit not to go down to the cellar and pull the greatest gift of them all. But I made a promise not to touch it and I will keep my word. A powder that Heorot got from some trading caravan that is supposed to stirred into hot milk. I promised to wait for him, but that is getting harder and harder to fulfill. I have a kettle and hot water would suffice. Probably. It would be better than nothing.

The dominos rattle and shift in their pouch. I smile. I smile and I let it happen. It's not worth hiding anymore and it feels so good to be free. They resonate and bounce and that means one thing and one thing only. It's difficult, but I extract myself from the hovel of hides and blankets. It's cold, so cold, the gaps still letting in much too much howling wind, but that's now a project for the spring. I have ideas again, things to change and morph around my hut. But later. Not now. The dominos rattle and shake again just as a knock comes at my door.

Before the echo fades, I throw it open and usher in the cloaked figure, holding an ice-cold glass jug between mittened hands. I can't open Heorot fast enough, throwing layer after layer into a messy heap so I can throw myself into his chest. He sets down the milk and envelops. My home is so warm now.