tagErotic CouplingsOpening the Floodgates

Opening the Floodgates


"Hold me."

She sighed and leaned back against him, feeling his arms slip round her chest and encircle her torso under the breasts. She shut her eyes and allowed herself purely to feel. His breath at the base of her neck tickled the little hairs, his chest pushed against her shoulder blades, and she told herself she could feel the pulse in his wrists through the fabric of his T shirt.

He murmured something in her ear, but she was too involved I the sensations to listen to what it was. She pushed her buttocks backwards and was rewarded by the sensation of the hardness of his thigh pressing into her.

Her world was a sigh, a pressure, a movement, the sunlight red on her close eyelids. She felt behind her with her open hands and found his legs with her spread fingers.

"I want you," she thought, and hardly realised that she had spoken the words out loud.

His hands responded, reaching up to cradle her breasts, gently twisting her nipples through the cloth of her T shirt. She felt them harden, instantly, spring up like little turrets, the exquisite sensation spreading through her body. She felt the first rush of lubrication fluid between her legs. She turned then, twisted round in his arms, threw her own arms round his neck and crushed her mouth to his. It was more than a gesture of passion – it was the only way she could retain self-control till they could be assured of privacy to make love. There was nobody around, but it was still public, and they could not have sex here.

On the short drive back to her apartment she kept running her hand up and down his thigh and arm as he changed gears. Her legs were pressed together, the pressure of her labia setting up a tension in her that was all but unendurable.

As soon as the door closed behind them she threw herself on him, pressing herself as hard as she could to him, lips to lips, breasts to chest, her pelvis thrusting against his. He was taken almost by surprise at her passion, perhaps drawing back a little, but her need was too urgent for her to let him have any second thoughts. She pulled off his shirt over his head. He wore nothing underneath, no chain round his neck, none of the ghastly jewellery she so hated. She fumbled at his waist a moment before his jeans hit the floor around his ankles. She pulled down his underpants, not even noticing what sort or colour they were. They were just an obstacle to be got out of the way.

For a moment, he bent to remove his shoes and socks so he could work his trousers and underpants off. She saw the curve of his back, the knobs of his spine visible even through the orange loom of sunlight through the curtained windows, and she reached out to trace the line of his back with a finger that felt numb.

And then he was naked and she was looking at him, his head and his face – flushed now, his lips parted, pupils dilated – his neck, flushed too – and then his broad shoulders with the deep dimples at the collarbones, his chest with the triangular patch of hair, the small brown nipples and his flat abdomen with a hint of the underlying square slabs of muscle; she was looking at his arms, ridged and curiously vulnerable looking – his navel, set in the middle of his body, and below the other short puff of hair, and his penis erect and thrusting at her almost aggressively. She looked at him all over and realised he was naked and ready and she was still completely clothed.

She never knew if it was his hands or her own that stripped her T shirt off her head and threw it down. She was dimly aware of kicking off her sandals and the sudden cool of the floor under her bare feet. Her shorts were gone, too – where and when, she did not know and did not care. She was wearing no bra, and when she crushed herself again to him her breasts pressed against his chest, the warmth of his body and hers merging, enveloping.

His hands on her back, rubbing the curve, the hollow of the small of her back, and slipping her panties down behind, the panties still up in front because they were trapped between their two bodies and because her lubrication was sticking the fabric to her vaginal tissues. She stepped back slightly so he could strip them off her, helping with her own hands to let them drop around her ankles. She kicked them off.

She lay down on the wide couch under her windows, he kneeling on the carpet, her legs wide apart, her hands at her breasts, feeling him blow softly on her engorged, wet vulva. The pleasure shivered all through her body, and she thrust her hips upwards, opening to him, inviting him. She felt his hands on her lips, spreading her apart, vulnerable, open, female. His tongue, just the tip, running up and down her tissues, and touching – just touching – her clitoris. Involuntarily, her hips bucked. She moaned softly.

He took his tongue and traced up and down the line of her vagina, thrusting in a little only to draw back again, running it up to her clitoris, which was eager for the touch. Again and again the tongue made the journey, never staying long at the clit, just long enough to make her tingle with delight before drawing back again.

Her hands at her breasts all the while, cupping and rubbing her nipples, feeling the pleasure surge in tides through her body, rising and falling, flooding and ebbing. Her breath coming in gasps, her voice long since gone to soft, inarticulate moans, hearing his own heavy breathing, wanting him more than ever, waiting for what would surely come.

And then she was on her back, her legs far apart, and he was on her, his chest against hers, his belly rotating on hers, his hips against hers, and she could feel the parting of her vagina as he thrust slowly into her. He thrust, and she opened, slowly, slowly, his heat radiating inside her, and he was rocking back and forth and her vagina was constricting around his penis, clutching it inside her, the delicious friction of him rocking through her with every thrust that brought his pubic hair up against her clit.

She moaned, she grabbed his back with her hands and, her feet flat on the carpet, thrust her hips at him every time he pushed against her. She felt his breath, hot and gasping, on her face, on her closed eyes, and she raised her head to plant a brief kiss on his lips.

She could feel the peak coming, the orgasm approaching like a wave that built and built, racing in off the sea and rising in a tide that came swifter and swifter, cracked open, and crashed upon her with such force that she went blank minded with pleasure. It came, and came, and she could feel him then, thrusting too, the thrusts short and urgent and then he was spurting inside her, the spurts hot and striking her inner walls deep, deep. He shuddered above her and she shuddered under him, and their orgasms merged into a thunderclap of emotion and pleasure.

Aeons later, they lay still entwined, their sweat slick bodies electric with each other's touch, their thudding hearts slowing and settling. He raised his head and kissed her briefly. She threw an arm over his head and pulled it to her breasts. His lips parted and enveloped one of her nipples, his tongue tracing the areola, and she felt her vagina beginning to lubricate again.

"Go slow," she told him. "We've got all day and the night to come."

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