Tess and the Brute

She let her hair tickle her toes and took her time manoeuvring her knickers off each foot. Another roll of thunder from the Brute made her want to leap on him, but instead she stood coolly and turned to face him. The tops of her thighs, the secret parts she had not shown anyone in quite some time, chilled.

The Brute grabbed his hard-on, and squeezed until his bulb became a throbbing heart. He regarded her up and down, nodding at her mound like king cock. The asshole. She made 'come-here' fingers.

And he hit her like a juggernaut.

He knocked her off her feet and swept her up into a grappling hug, her scream muffled by his cleavage, her belly yanked to his thick pole by limbs like tree trunks. He shoved his muzzle into her hair, huffing and kissing the centre of every whorl. After an initial panic, Tess melted, laughing, biting back the urge to pat him and say, "Who's-a-good-boy! Who's-a-good-boy!" She hugged him back, nuzzling her lips at his neck. Or tried to, he tossed her around like a doll, running kisses frantically over her shoulders, over her breasts. She wedged a knee between them, and smacked his arms like horse flanks.

"Put me down," she whispered and he shivered once, and lowered her. His body twitched before her, above her, tensed and sprung. His cock nudged at her ribs. She reached up to his cheeks, and pulled his face down to plant a kiss on his lips and let her tongue tell him, with its uniquely intimate tenderness, that all was good, that he just needed to be gentle.

He let out a tectonic sigh, stopped grasping and slid leathery palms over her skin instead, knotting her nipples with the pads of his thumbs and sliding behind her to run warm tickles over her bottom. Meanwhile, her fingers wandered the maze of skin between his stripes from chest down the bunched muscles of his belly. She cupped his pendulous balls -- satisfyingly smooth in the epicentre of his vortices of hair -- and wanted to squeak in delight as they tightened, and at the sensation of his throbbing power in the palm of her hand. He shuddered and groaned. She clenched him firmer at the base of his shaft, and stroked along his length, her gaze dancing between his almost comical expression of stoic longing and his hardcore, flushed club in her pale hands.

Frustratingly, he didn't get that she was leading him, by example, to what she wanted; his fingers between her legs. Instead he sighed again, and still cupping her buttocks, dropped to his knee before her.

Tess swallowed the urge to cheer.

She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd blessed himself, he approached her with such reverential, almost irritating, gentleness. He pressed his mouth under her mound, up at her swollen hood, and she pushed her hips hungrily back at him. A fizzing heat pulsed from her clit. Her arousal strung between them as he pulled away briefly, but licking her from his lips seemed to empower him, and he dropped his head to her again, running his tongue along her groove.

Tess whimpered and clawed her bottom. The Brute lapped at her slot with bovine patience, holding her legs together when all she wanted was to spread them for him, but the enforced constriction soon seemed to double her pleasure. His steady licking, increasingly liquid, had her knees loosening until he held nearly all her weight, a weight that seemed inconsequential to him. She could have cum in a heartbeat, any beat she liked, but took long calming breaths to eke the bliss out, giving over to him completely. Her head span at how foolish she'd been to think this man, treating her with such tender devotion, could mean any harm.

In fact, it seemed strange that -- given that her sense of danger hadn't just passed, it'd inverted into extreme fucking pleasure -- her senses still seemed all hyped up. Maybe because she'd stepped out of her routine and everything was new, but she liked to think that it was something deeper, magical even. Something to do with their odd similarities. Whatever, the world was hyper-real this morning. Hyper detailed. She could make out every shaven follicle on the Brute's head, and blushed at the sticky slurping sounds his tongue made at her slobbery flesh. Within the clamp he had on her thighs she could feel nicks and scars on his fingers, and then that scent. Fuck, his gorgeous smell made her want to shove every inch of him deep into her cunt.

She swung a leg over his shoulder and presented her rude lips more explicitly for attention. The Brute did not miss a beat. He licked up into her, his enormous tongue probing so deep it seemed to touch places only a cock or fingers normally got to. For a second, she lost the slippery hold she had on the tiger-tail of her orgasm. She gasped.

"No!" She planted her foot on his shoulder and pushed him back.

He was like a boulder under her foot. He sucked his lips and wiped the back of his hand across his shining chin. In her delirium, she decided that when it came to sex, and therefore everything, deep down, all men were hard and all women fluid. Land and sea. Stone and the blood of angels.

Then she'd had enough of that bollocks. She kicked the Brute onto his back and stood astride his head. He gazed up at her with ravenous, hooded eyes and she waited, wriggling her hips, enjoying his growing frustration; how his pupils gawped like hungry mouths and ate at her the best they could. She reached down and opened her lips wide to torture him more. Presenting her wetness to his hardness. And she supposed he was simply hypnotised into mimicry when he opened his lips too, but then -- with a shameful thrill -- she realised it was to collect a long, glistening drip from her salivating hole. He received it like a holy sacrament.

In this morning of naughty nakedness and brand-new senses, Tess felt a pang of jealousy that the Brute was getting to experience her so fully; the sight, sound, touch, aroma and now the taste of her. She'd been numbed for too long, insulated from life by phones and clothes and cars and houses. Now she wanted all a human being could offer, and vowed to experience every bit of the Brute, too, before they were done. Then she followed her body's trickling suggestion and crouched, slow as syrup, onto his mouth. Then she stopped thinking.

The Brute snuffled at her, his deep, adoring hums vibrating her insides. She clawed the bristle of his scalp, twisting every now and then to watch his cock shove at the air, its tip running over as if she'd filled him to overflowing with her juices. All definition between her legs was reduced to pull and push as he sucked her into him and dug his fingers into her. She simply rode him, squatting on a rising surge of pleasure.

When her controlling breaths started to have the opposite effect, fanning her fire, she grasped his head to brace herself and to insist he absolutely did not move, then she took a long breath and held it. She quaked. She screwed her eyes shut. A long moan seemed to come straight from her trembling belly. Towering above them a mighty wave of lava poised to crash. The Brute gripped her hips, kept his rhythm, and paddled her relentlessly up the wave.

Tess arched, cried out, and exploded. After months of no fireworks her clit whizzed and sparkled like a Catherine wheel. She hunkered on his face, gushed into the gulps of his feeding frenzy and ground at him for more, and more, as if it was her that fed from him. Then it was too much, and in a hypersensitised head-rush she burst into squeals, locked her hands between her legs and toppled off him, flopping back onto his chest like a beached mermaid.

She hissed with laughter, so helpless for a good minute, that she didn't realise she'd lost the prickle of his chest hair on her bum because the Brute had picked her up to manoeuvre her over his cock. Her clit still fizzled from her orgasm while he poised her hole over his tip and rocked gently, insistently up into her. His care was heart-melting but she was so open and wet even the Brute's hefty beast slipped straight in. He filled her deliciously, profoundly, squashing air from her lungs in a long, "Oh..."

After a few settling writhes in which he let her control the depth of her impaling, the Brute seemed to want to lead the charge and effortlessly stood up, supporting her by her bottom in both hands. There was a vertiginous exhilaration to being held like this in the air, in the burly arms of someone that would never drop her, and was utterly focussed on her. He worked with such respect, his head bowed as he fucked, hoisting her up and down on his slippery piston -- never too deep and always deep enough -- taking the spark of her oral orgasm and pumping hard to flare it into full flame. Tess clawed his shoulders, his back and arms. She kissed and bit his chest. Each plunge spread ecstatic ripples through her, ripples that collided with the inside of her skin, left tingles, and then doubled back, swelling with the next to be pumped back again twice the size. Until Tess felt she could hold no more. Then another pump coursed another wave through her. Then another. And it was too much and she wanted it to stop but she wanted it to never stop. Her limbs juddered to a halt. She shook uncontrollably. Too much. Too... full.

She burst like an exploding dam. She felt like she'd been thrown off a cliff, into the air, surging and screaming and tumbling. The Brute slid hard, his plundering both steady and overwhelming. And as she howled, he pressed his mouth to hers and absorbed it. Her plastic life -- all its stress and pointless self-imposed rituals -- flowed out of her, into him, like a poison demon, sucked out. Tears popped and spilled down her cheeks, and she tumbled still, no breath left in her lungs.

And she crashed into his arms, clung to his body, empty. Her only movement, her hole fluttering on his shaft, sucking at the flickering little aftershocks that made her actually bleat and then collapse into titters like a drunk.

The Brute, muscles quivering, nuzzled her cheeks. He kissed her tears into him while she calmed, and only then moaned himself, so bassy she only felt it in her bones. His cock stiffened harder-than-hard inside her with the unmistakable clench of being on the brink of erupting. She made a jerky, half-hearted attempt to move her hips for him, but he lifted her gently off and settled her on the bed.

She wasn't having that. Before he could let her go, Tess quickly took the Brute's slippery meat in two hands and tugged his cock briskly over her belly. With him braced over her, she wanked his orgasm back to life, bringing the mighty man to shudders, then a series of quiet gasps. His hands balled into fists. Then every muscle on his arms and torso popped. He blinked down at her, almost for mercy.

When the Brute came it was in utter silence, frozen but for the jerk of his hips, jetting hot, thick ropes over her from breasts to mound. She watched him spurt and plunge in her fist, and ground his cum-slicked end at her clit, at the warm remnants of her orgasm. She rocked her hips up at his pulses as if absorbing his pleasure back into her.

With a final, wrenched jolt, he laid his hand on hers to stop her and with consummate effort, heaved onto his feet.

He was just so fucking magnificent stood over her; muscles rippling, hairily tattooed and swaying like a half-felled tree, that she couldn't help herself. She sat up and ran a fat, adoring lick along his tremoring shaft, and then cat-lapped under his glazed end, rolling a mischievous gaze up at him. He frowned and growled, but she wasn't done. Encouraged by another drop of warm sap spilling idly over her tongue, she dropped her mouth over him to draw the rest direct from his still-pulsing member.

The Brute staggered as if under a sudden unbearable weight. Lost in exquisite filthiness, Tess sucked demandingly, surprised at how much he had left in him given the mess he'd made of her. She only quit when he spasmed violently and flumped at her feet, head bowed to her omnipotent giggling. She sat back and regarded the empty, collapsed man while she rolled their combined silken saltiness about her mouth. Now that she and the Brute, odd faery-creatures they were, had fully experienced each other, she half expected some fancy magical special effect.

Then she swallowed and fell instantly asleep.

#

One year on, and Tess sweeps her scythe across the nettles and rampant weeds of her own front garden in her new house by the sea. She can't wipe the grin off her face. Even though she knows this bastard of a job would be way easier with power-tools, it just feels so good to use her body. Soon she will dig up the roots, compost the lot, and then re-plant. With the constant footfall of commuters walking by on their way to the station, this garden will be the perfect shop-window for her new gardening business.

She takes a breather, resting on the handle of her scythe, and sniffs the cold morning air. Rain is coming, and lots of it. And behind that, dust. The weather is really planning to fuck with them over the next few weeks. The plastic people will be fucked too; not in a good way and not right away, but soon. Their phones will die, their engines will run cold and their houses will become dark, unsanitary hell-holes.

She shrugs, then shakes her shoulders and grips her scythe. She contemplates how gardening is considered such a whimsical occupation, yet next year good gardeners will be the new bosses. Fuck that. The new gods. She lifts her scythe, poises it ready to slash, then catches another scent and even her grin, grins.

Back at the hotel, Tess had roused in the afternoon, alone and to the sound of birds and a strong breeze from windows the Brute must have left open. Her phone moaned vibrations in her handbag. She wasn't surprised her wild fling had vanished, and though it might have been nice to be woken up by him she knew that in another way he had awakened her already. And properly. She lived in a different world, now.

She had a sense that would never see him again, born of an instinct that they needed to find and wakeup all of their kind; the oddly-haired ridiculous freaks that could never quite fit into the fake world. The Brute had left to continue with his mission, and so must she.

And right now, as Tess drops her scythe and heads to her gate, there's a fragrant beauty turning the corner onto her street. She is certain that this woman, this Angel, is her kind by the pull in her belly and the heat her gusset. Nothing magical, just that.

The Angel pulls at her clothing and frowns at her screen. Her braids are vibrant red. She crosses the road to avoid Tess's house. For days, Tess has been working on this woman. A woman who smells like a real and actual angel. Of clouds and sea mist and hazel root. And yesterday she told her so. Which is no doubt why this Angel has moved to the opposite pavement.

Bless her, she's pretending not to notice she's being watched, but she's slowed down. In fact, she stops, as if annoyed by something on her screen. But her foot coyly twists at the ankle, and she bites her lip. The Angel takes a deep breath. Her nostrils flare.

"I know what you need, my love!" Tess shouts. The woman all but leaps off the ground. Then she all but runs away. Tess takes a long sniff and turns the Angel's naked body this way and that in her imagination. She squeezes it, kisses it, opens it up. Tastes it.

She combs fingers through loose tresses that curl about her face with a life of their own. It seems that over the days their scents have tangled together there, to form a strange subliminal link underneath the ordinary world. A vein of lightning through grey cloud.

"I see," Tess whispers, closing her eyes and finding she can peep into the woman's fantasies as if into a crimson lined jewellery box. "So... what kind of dream would you like, my love?"