The Chickadee Connection

She felt disembodied, floating, looking down on the fuck rut couple on the bed, the heat of their fuck bouncing her big breasts with each fuck long stroke, each piston thrust. She saw the woman's eyes close, saw her hands grasp the sheet, and heard in her head the thunk chunk of the axe and the sweet little chickadee's song, dee dee, dee dee, and when she came her throat gave a wail and the colours in her head flickered black and the deepest blue, like the bird's wing.

Deborah soared, and when she came back down, he was panting, his head on her shoulder, his weight heavy upon her. Her sex was drenched, the scent in the room metallic with the thick rich smell of blood and semen.

"Oh god," she whispered, "I'm bleeding. My period comes so suddenly, sometimes."

"Doesn't matter," he said, cradling her cheek, stroking her very soft skin. "Blood and sex, means you're alive, doesn't it?"

"But your sheets. I'll wash them, so they don't stain."

"No, you won't. I know you can't stay, but tomorrow? I can wash them tomorrow."

"I don't want to go yet. Can I stay a bit longer?" She ran a finger across his jaw, up over his lips, pulling his mouth to hers. "I think I might come again, if you let me."

"If I let you?"

She blushed, a sudden innocence veiling her lush, thick sexuality, slightly ashamed at the way her body overwhelmed all sensibility but glorying too, in her hunger.

"I sometimes come and come, with the right stimulation." She didn't say with the right man, but that's what she meant. "Over and over, in waves. Soaking in bliss. I can get... quite greedy."

She curled strands of hair around her fingers, caught herself doing it, and stopped. Her nervousness transferred itself to her bottom lip, bitten by her teeth, and she stopped that too. She saw him gazing at her, watching her antics, seeing five contradictions when she knew she had twelve. "What...?" She knew the answer, but really, all she wanted was that gaze, his smiling eyes, looking at her. She wanted him to indulge her.

"Are you always this adorable? he asked. "After you come?"

Deborah suspected he might be teasing, but before she could remonstrate...

"By, 'If I let you,' is this what you mean?" He ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her throat so he could kiss a pulse beating there.

"Or this?" as he kissed her long eye lashes and the tip of her nose.

"Or maybe, these?" as he descended to her breasts and suckled a nipple into his mouth, while teasing up the other one between his finger and thumb.

"Or this?" He kissed the lovely curve of her belly.

With each question and kiss, Deborah felt herself falling into another cocoon of warmth and bliss, her whole body glowing, radiating out from where his lips touched her skin. He mapped her, finding her geography, her cartography, finding all her exquisite, sensitive places. He explored her curving body for timeless long minutes, tracing maps on her skin with his fingers.

His cock, softened now, had fallen from her carnal caress and lay on her thigh, pink with her blood and her cream. She felt the heat of him, and his hunger, and touched him, curling her hand around his soft hot coil like a bird kept warm in a nest.

"There's comfort in this bed, this cabin," she said, as she cradled his sex just as he cradled her in his arms. "Can you imagine winter, this fire, the snow?"

"The wind outside, roaming and howling like a wolf." He joined her in her imagination, and their minds melded together, just as their hands and mouths joined their bodies together.

"Are you staying over, for the duration?" she asked, wanting to know, but aching, because she wouldn't be there.

"I am," he said, "hence all the wood."

"Of course," she replied, "I'm forgetting." She wasn't forgetting at all, imprinting him on her body, not wanting to forget. "When are you going?"

"Not yet." He rolled over, turning her onto her back to lie on her, his weight wonderful, his cock again, long and hard on her belly. He placed both his arms under hers and held her head to his mouth for a kiss.

Deborah moaned, and her body thrummed, and her hips jerked up. She saw his smile as she did that, and even though she looked away for a moment, her hand went down to guide him in again, up into her, and she sighed. "God, I want you in me."

"Will you let me?" he asked, and loved her bright shining eyes saying yes.

Their love making this time started differently, each urging the other slowly upwards in a shared climb to the high mountain top. He found a place, half way in, half way up, where Deborah came for the first time, his cock head nudging at the place and all she could do was moan and whimper, begging him, "More, oh God, pleeease, more. There, there, ohhhh fuckkkk," and her hands gripped the sheets.

Her cunt gripped him, and he went deeper. Their pubic hair tangled, and she ground her clitoris up against him, her body shuddering. He arched his back to penetrate her with his whole long length, and when his pace quickened and his breath came faster, Deborah knew that she had him at that place where his orgasm couldn't be stopped, it was coming.

I don't know him, I don't care; I don't know him, I don't care. The mantra took over her head and Deborah began to fuck him right back, her body fighting to get to her peak first, then she'd have him.

"Fuck me, baby, fuck fuck, ooooo... yes!" She urged him on. "Faster, fuck me faster. Jesus, Jesus, fuck, yeeesss!"

She heard a long wailing moan from deep in her throat and couldn't believe it was hers, but fuck, she was so close... "Yes, yes, mmmm, ohhhh....

"On my belly," she suddenly said. "Pull out, spill your come onto my belly. I want your come on my belly. Use your fingers."

She was frantic. So close to coming again, Deborah rammed her fingers down between her legs, fast on the shaft of her clitoris. She felt him move, felt a wet searing heat on her belly where his shaft was. She felt his fingers fuck her, thick inside her fuck drunk sex

so close, s o close.

"Mmmm, baby, fuck come me." She'd lost all coherence, couldn't make sentences, only words.

Fuck me, fuck me, her voice was inside her head now. Then suddenly, there it was, an orgasm hit her, and it must have been the grip on his fingers because...

"Ohhhh, fuuu...ck, I'm going to..."

"Come on me, baby," she finished, and felt the fast, hot pulses of semen hit her skin, all up her belly and spurts of him over a breast. "That's right, give it to me, your fuck loving seed. Fuck, I feel filthy, mmmm, fucking love it."

She scooped her fingers through the creamy mess, rubbing it all up over her breasts, over her belly. "I want to smell of you, when I walk home," she said. "Know you've had me. Your come, over my skin."

"Will you wash somewhere, before you get home? I wouldn't want..."

"There's a lake, it's very sheltered. I feel brave enough to have a swim, nobody is ever there to see. I'll wash myself there." Deborah had thought about it already.

"Very sensible. Discreet."

She laughed. "I try to be. I usually am, both. But not with you." She looked at him, suddenly shy.

He saved her. "Tomorrow then? If it's fine."

"God, yes. I hope it's fine."

Deborah went home braless, her breasts swaying as she walked. Their weight reminded her of their sex, their nakedness, her glory, her momentary freedom. After swimming in the lake, she tidied herself, dressed properly, and made herself respectable. She felt wanton, liberated, scared and fretful, all rolled into one complicated mess. She didn't know what to do, so for the next week, except when it rained, she did it again and again.

She never asked for his name, and she was always his beauty.

* * * *

Deborah went into town on the last day of her holiday to collect the final mail, and to see Emma.

"Back to the city, pet?" Emma asked.

"Yes, back to the city." Deborah paused, then she rushed in without fully thinking. "The writer up the Nolan's Place."

Emma looked at her, calmly. Perhaps she knew already what Deborah was going to say.

"Will you go to him? I couldn't bear to think of him in the cold of winter without warmth in his bed." She looked at Emma, and her eyes shone. "If it can't be me, she should be lovely. Like you."

"I might. If he stays, and there's an invitation." Emma didn't reveal any invitation, but Deborah remembered Emma's comment about storm in his eyes, sometimes, and thought there might have been one already.

"He's staying," Deborah said. "He's cut wood for the duration."

"Has he now?" mused Emma."You've helped him stack it?"

Deborah blushed. "I did. He..." She couldn't say any more.

Emma nodded. "Would you want to know, pet? If I did go to him."

"Oh god. I don't know. I don't know what I want. I don't even know his name." Deborah gripped her hands tightly, pinching her skin till it hurt. "He made me feel so alive."

"That's good then," said Emma. And somehow, that was enough for Deborah, and they said no more about him.

Deborah never forgot him, and years later, quite deliberately but as if by accident, she discovered his name. She went looking for his work, to see if he'd written about her. She found a story, The Chickadee Connection, and knew that he had. She bought it, in a slim volume; and perhaps one day, she'll read it.

© electricblue66 2022