The Old-Fashioned Way

You scoffed, your fingertips pressing into me, just below the collar bones. The pressure wasn't tremendous, but I felt your power and understood you were in charge, holding me down with just the tips of your unpainted fingers. "And what about me! This is my first-time in my entire life having sex with a man, who also happens to be my best friend, and who also happens to be, eh, decent. Don't I get time to enjoy myself, too? Plus, we're not even in the right position. Shouldn't I be under you or something if I want a better chance of getting knocked up?" I ran my hand flat up your stomach, past the freckle orbiting your navel, along your waist, under and around your left breast, and finally behind you, holding your back, and pulled you down to me. As you collapsed into me, I threw my weight from the center of my body and rolled us both so that you were now on your back and I remained inside you, between your legs. I started working my way back down, in a swift, fluid motion, my fingers running along your body, from your shoulders, back past your tits -- that hidden freckle waiting for attention -- and along your waist, until I hooked my hands behind your thighs, and I lifted them up off the bed. I grabbed a pillow from next to your head and placed it under your ass and resumed rutting into to you.

"Decent?" I joked, thrusting as I pulled your legs up and to my chest. "All I get is decent?" Your hair was sprawled across the pillows, and your shoulders rested on the remaining, tossed decorative pillows behind you, so that your chest was slightly higher up then your stomach, as if on offer. Your abs were crunched in this position, with your legs above you and against me and your chest elevated, your toes curled in my periphery vision. The pressure of you against my own chest was heavy, and it turned me on, feeling your long legs against my skin, seeing myself between your thighs, your body under my own. I leaned down and pressed your legs to your own chest, so that your hips and ass were fully off the bed now and I was using the physics of fucking to keep us together. Your hands found your nipples and you played with yourself as I found my rhythm, thrusting, pumping, stroking into you. I growled in primal delight, and you moaned softly. I felt lost in the sensation, the way you feel when you step outside and the cold fills your lungs and numbs your body -- there was nothing but the sensation, and I loved the sensation of you. I tossed my head down, chin to my chest, my own hair hanging down to my eyes, and took a deep breath, regaining focus. "Is this a better position to knock you up?" I asked, getting back to the task at hand.

Your hands ran along your own body, in reverse of my path, so that you ran along your legs and waist, teasing the flesh along your ribs, and finally finding your breasts again. Your fingers had been here before, you knew yourself and your desires, and you squeezed your tits, splayed your fingers out, and then drew them across the curve of your breast to your small, perfect nipples. Playing with your own nipple, the pink flesh between your fingers, you moaned, "yes, Warren, breed me," and the vulgarity of the word, the taboo of the act, the visual stimulation of seeing you under me, pleasing yourself, was too much. I pulled your legs tight to my chest, wrapped one arm around them, and pressed the other hand down on your right shoulder, and I started fucking you with abandon. I didn't care that Kathryne might hear us, I didn't care that this was our first time -- there would be three more -- and I didn't care that I might need to impress you. I wasn't trying to marry you. I was trying to impregnate you and the word -- breed -- sent me over the edge. I leaned into you, never ceasing in my rhythm. Your legs bent back to your chest with the pressure from my weight, and your toes caught the headboard of your bed frame. You arched your feet, pressing yourself off your toes and deeper into the bed, bracing yourself between the headboard and the bed, such that I fell deeper into you, and you slipped a hand up over my shoulder and back to around my neck, holding me as I rutted into you, up on my haunches now, holding on to your waist in both hands, fucking.

I looked down across your body -- your scrunched stomach and your hands -- here your hands left from your chest to points south, by way of your stomach, and as you rocked underneath me, slipped your finger between my pelvis and your body and started to rub your clit. I had never seen you this way, heard you this way, known you this way. Kathryne knew you this way, your exes in college had known this of you. Most of us can count the number of people who have seen us contorted beneath or above another human being. We can name the people who have seen us masturbate ourselves or get fucked or know the look we get in our eyes and across our face when we experience carnal pleasure. In the years I had known you, I had never heard the sound you make as you rub your own pink clit or seen how you look as you expertly tease yourself to orgasm. And it occurred to me, no one had ever seen what you looked like as a man had you, let alone came inside you. Not even your fiancé would know this expression, would know if your eyes widened or closed tight, would know if you gripped the bed or ran your hands through your hair. Unless she was sitting in the hallway, ear to the door, she wouldn't know the sounds you would make as I pumped my cum inside you. She couldn't feel your body quiver after it was over, or smell the stench in the air. She wouldn't taste your mouth after, a kiss from and for a woman newly inseminated the old-fashioned way. This act, this carnal display, was between us. Every corresponding sense and sensation a shared and ineffable moment between old friends. Your body filled my eyes and I could no longer resist. I grabbed your ankles, held you tight in my hands, and made a final deep thrust into your pussy and came.

The way you looked and sounded and felt as I finished -- the look in your eyes as you watched me pressing and holding myself deep into you until the final pumps of cum left me, the sound of your pussy as I pulled out, the way you felt pressed against me as I collapsed next to you and you rolled into me are known only to us and to the whatever Almighty power saw fit to reward me that way.

# # #

You pressed your legs together, went through the motions just as the mommy-to-be blogs prescribed, and as I pulled my pants back up around my waist, you rolled over to prop yourself up on to your arm and smiled. I adjusted my belt, and picked my shirt up off the floor, unbuttoning the buttons I hadn't bothered with before.

"Breed?" I asked, curious enough to bring it up. "What are you, a chat-room post?" I teased. You shrugged. Your bare chest rose and fell with your shoulders, and I craved you again, terribly, this Eloise that fucks and moans and uses words like "breed" in bed.

"I have a breeding fetish, is all. You didn't think all cheapskate lesbians are fucking men when they want to get pregnant, did you?" I laughed, tucked my shirt into my pants, and grabbed the doorknob. Fair enough. You get to save ten thousand dollars and live out a few kinks of your own. You watched me at the precipice of the doorframe, and called over, with all the dripping casual sexuality of Mae West, "Same time and place this Tuesday?"

"Christ, Elle," I said, forgetting all about having to walk back out your living room, having to see Kathryne -- do you say a proper goodbye or is an Irish goodbye appropriate when you've just attempted to impregnate someone's bride-to-be -- forgetting about the long drive home, an opportunity to replay every moment of this. All I could think of was all the things I wanted to do with the next time you had me. "Eloise, I wouldn't miss it for the world."