Frivolities and Pretense

Tonight, we had no use for such frivolities.

One move, and he was inside me, thick and filling. I screamed, a snarling sort of moan, and clawed my way further up the bed. He put a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place as he established a rhythm. I locked my ankles around his lower back, tilting my hips up, pulling him in deeper. We were a tangle of sweat and lascivious moans, and loud, sopping sounds as he pummeled in and out of me. His free hand was groping my breast now, almost aimlessly, twisting and pinching. I reached down and cupped his balls for a moment, running my fingers over them like a flirtatious kiss, and then swept up to rub that sensitive little spot between his balls and his ass. This was the only time I ever saw Luke entirely disheveled -- when we were fucking. I squeezed my pussy tighter around him in rhythmic pulses, and continued to rub my thumb in a small circle between his balls and ass. He kept dragging the top of his shaft against my clit as we fucked; I was going to come, soon, and I wanted him with me. As soon as I felt the first tell-tale waves of warmth spread across my thighs, I started talking.

"Oh, Luke, baby," I said in the quiet, girlish voice I reserved for when I really, truly wanted something. "Yes -- yes, fuck me just like that. Shove that big dick of yours in and out of my little pussy. Mmm -- do you hear that? That slopping wet sound of you fucking me? Oh, god, maybe later you can roll me over and ass-fuck me like a little whore..."

That was it.

Anxious, desperate groans poured out of his mouth to book-end either side of "I'm coming."

Then I left myself go, finally; I stopped clenching and withdrawing and just pushed it all forward. Wildfire shot up between my legs, to my clit, and then I was coming, all over his cock just as he was splashing hot come against my pussy walls. He kept fucking me while we both came, stuffing me full of dick until both our juices began to pour out of me and run down my slit to soak the bed underneath.

He didn't collapse on top of me. Instead, he held himself up with shaking arms, and stared down at me. My vision was a little hazy; my eyes were having trouble focusing, and then I felt a cool hand on my cheek. I looked up at him, then, locked warm hazel with soft blue. Everything made sense in that moment. He was smiling. I couldn't help but smile back.

Then he bent down and kissed the corner of my mouth, and then my temple, and then the tip of my nose -- the Luke Treatment.

Fifteen minutes later, I was sprawled on his chest, listening to the breath move in and out of his chest, and he was sitting up, reading Empire by Antonio Negri. We both had two degrees -- his, philosophy and French, and mine, English literature and women's studies. And somehow, we both found ourselves doing theater. That reminded me.

"So -- seriously -- about the handicapped stall in the ladies bathroom?"

He signed, not impatient, but contemplative, and set his book down. He wore glasses, at night, and removed them now to rub the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, call someone. I don't have the time. But guess what's slated for tomorrow afternoon?" he asked.

"What?" I said, sliding a hand playfully over his washboard stomach.

"Your box office shelving units."

I grinned up at him.

"Oh, Luke -- that's the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me."

He smiled back down, and cupped my cheek.

"I know," he said, with a wink.