Work Out Left Behind

I almost rip out of my jeans with the long awaited first act of the night. She kisses me and there is a gap in our bodies. My jeans prove strong enough to hold me at bay. I hate that, but I will allow it. And there is a sense of chaste sinful glee at something so simple. Saoirse still tastes like beer and I imagine I do as well. Even without it, I would be drunk on her lips.

Soft, she is soft and warm and flushed as she pulls away, almost fearful of the urge inside of her that pulled her so close. The freckles almost disappear in the red. They should not do that. They need to come back. I like them and I wish to distort them in pleasure. The smooth red mask will be fine enough, but I had plans tonight. No matter. I pull her close and kiss her again, cheek, neck, collar and every part of her turns red and eager.

She is again the first one to move on undressing. And I am the subject of the urge. My shirt is pulled over my head and I am blinded for a moment before finally breathing free. Hard, I glance down at the hard length and watch the pulse travel down and up, up and down as fast as thunderbolts. She does not notice. She is on my chest, pulling my breasts free again. The wired on the underside was cutting into them. There has to be a mark.

But she does not care. Transfixed with me and the settling movement, the blend of muscle and flesh, the skin bursting and rippling. I take a deep breath, just to watch her watch me. That same cautious hunger flashes through her, almost scared of the things rocketing through her. I shift my chest and pull back a little bit. The bait has been set.

Saoirse takes it in such a short while. There is no greater thought on her mind other than the continuation of the dance. Her hands are warm, so warm as the pull and twist and grope.

Something twitches down my leg and she finally notices that all the bits of my body may not add up to the picture she had of me.

"Remember when you said that I'd be your first woman," I hum, "That's not quite right."

There is shock. Not disgust or recoil, but a surprise that deals with the world as not what she experiences.

"Oh," she says, so quiet, so serene, a simple acknowledgement of her own wrong interpretation.

She does not slip into my embrace. She does not take her hands to my chest and continue the grope and paw. But she is still there and still watching me as I move to stand and begin the grand reveal.

I draw out everything as slow as I can. It's been a while since I've put on a show, and my audience is rapt and silent. And it takes a long, long, long moment to start the exposure. Every motion I take lets her realize that her adventurous spirit might have led her astray.

I am free and it hits my stomach with the tension, already spitting and dripping and marking. Her eyes find more width to take in. There is length and there is immense weight to the hardness that refuses to end. Her mouth is parted in a small 'o' looking at me in sheer incredulous belief. And I immerse myself in it. She looks to me and does not understand.

"That's neat," she says, and it all pulls a laugh from me. That is new. Not inaccurate, but a little lacking in grandiose splendor. I like to think I am a bit more than neat.

"It is," I say, "I like it. Do you like it?"

She nods and starts that squirm of a body that does not know what to do. The body wants me and does not know how to get it. The math does not work out in any favor for her. I simply am and she has to work with something that spreads her mind just as much as it would spread her body. I want to spread her body, certainly.

"Do you want take off your shirt, or do you want me to," I ask. And she does not hear me for a moment, still reaching against the length and width and terrible throb. I move to sit next to her again and put my hands on her. She does not pull away. She does not look away.

"If you want to stop," I whisper, with all the heat and want from my voice banished, "we can stop."

She does not respond immediately. That nagging bit in my stomach clenches and twists at the idea of rejection. None of me likes it, but it's an important step to take. The descent must be monitored with a guideline to above.

All of it is washed away when that terribly stretched shirt is tossed away and forgotten. Her bra follows suit and I tackle her. She does not protest, instead pulling some hidden smirk from her core to play across her lips as I play across her breasts. Filling my hands, rolling over my palms, soft and jostling for position, capped with raw excitement.

She giggles again and now I do not pay attention as my lips latch and pull. It is just as good as I imagined. Every chain has been unlocked, cages unbarred and there is the act that does not require any more thought.

Saoirse's hand finds the back of my head and pulls me to her cleavage with an unexpected strength. The muscles in her arms are tight to bone, same with her chest, her stomach, her legs. Close to the vest, her eager hunger, the push and pull of her desires. Just to try, I fight it and the difference brings some tension to her work. I belong in her cleavage and nowhere else. I will be in her cleavage forevermore and the fact that I might not want that simply isn't a factor. I don't mind. It's where I want to be anyway. And it proves that tonight might offer more resistance than I thought it would. Just some current to swim against.

I watch the gooseflesh rise on her skin as my saliva cools. She shivers and I can't have that. She is back in the den and the den is always warm. So, I work to make her warm. There is tongue and lip and teeth on her, drawing blood to swim under the surface in rose red blush as I press our bodies together. Resistance, there is resistance from the knotted core hidden in her, but she does not rebuke any of it. A test, this is all a test of one another. New things similar to the old, but different enough to warrant exploration. Our lips meet and she still tastes of cheap beer. I like cheap beer. I wish I had more of it, honestly. I am thinking a bit too clear for the night I had in mind.

But her chest does a wonderful job of making me forget I am human. The envelop me and suffocate me in the tender embrace of a mountain range earthquake, rumbling with her heartbeat. My lips and my tongue and my teeth find all of her hidden and cooling in my grasp. For a moment, I forget the sputtering deluge in my core that wishes for release. There are large tits in my face and that's all that really matters.

I fight with her to pull myself away and draw in the night air from the open windows. The hands immediately try and pull me back in. I relish the fight. I cherish the hidden strength that she kept from me. But it is not enough. It is not enough to draw from the stars and let me be free. I move my hips, gliding up her stomach and the tone taught skin. And she figures out what I want to do. She giggles again with the realization. Once again, there is similarity in fixation with her past. Always the same thing, always the end wish that remains static and immovable.

Her hands stop fighting and go to my stomach, my abs, riding the lines of muscle with dexterity and care. River and valley and mound, dancing ever so close to my base, just to pull away and feed the rage in my core. Saoirse says nothing as lay the meat between her breasts, just pulling another soft laugh and a shift to align everything properly. The tip pokes through, but the vast weight is held in the cave. I am sheathed and safe in her bosom, the remnants of my oral care heating with my body once again.

I start to move and she moves with me, forearms squeezing together to give me a tighter hug. And it is sublime. I have no desire to hide my vocalizations from the world. I have found something to decree in royal pomp and circumstance. The moan, the moan rattles open windows and shimmers the stars at how fucking amazing fucking tits can be.

I come back down and the eyes look to me with challenge. I start to move faster and faster, kissing her chin with spits and spurts. Saoirse doesn't mind. She does not mind at all. The discharge just helps me move faster, just helps the slick glide take on blinding pace. I am mauling her breasts as well, all attention paid to her chest and her face slowly growing more and more stained with each motion.

The sea of her breasts turns to a storm under my power. Cresting waves crashing at the shore, skin to sin, covering her freckles in that glorious paint. I moan again and the floor rattles with me.

Her and my movements start the process as I shift position to brace against the detonation within me. She feels it too, the rumbles and quakes in my body descending into her own. She finds more speed to pour into the motions, everything slick and wet and riding together. The caution is gone in every way. There is just the challenge, the read of what to do to bring me down faster. My hands grip at the couch, finding every bit of support I can. She starts that soft manic laugh again, watching more and more of the length disappear and reappear on her chest as I keep thrusting with her.

My core twitches and clenches as it tries to tear itself apart. It is beginning in earnest, full straddle against the night, and the waves start growing high and higher. I do not stop. I do not want to stop. I am careening through the chip and the storm and she will receive the full fury. The green eyes look to me and there is no fear anymore, not a speck, not a drop. There is just a welcome end to the first act so that bigger and better things can come through the chaos.

The first pulse is long, agonizingly slow through every molecule of my being. Reverberations of a false abstinence, a lack of warm skin and soft embrace to defile, and now there is something else to paint and stain with me. It is long, so long that my muscles grow sore with the endless pump and squeeze of seed out. I do not stop my hips or my hands, coaxing higher and higher waves to dominate and defile.

I am right. She looks beautiful with the freckles peeking through the seed that I give her in entirety.

There is a second shot to pool in an open mouth and fill it to overflowing. There is a third that does the same to the hollow in her neck. Most arc over her to the poor fabric, slipping under my hands and prying my grip loose. I drop. I want to drop on her and let me stain us both, unite us in my destruction. There is more in me as the pulses and the waves travel on through. The streams become rivers. Rivers become lakes. Lakes become boiling oceans of heavy intoxication in the basest nature. I do not relent and neither does she, even when the mouth has been filled, she empties it again. Cycle and repetition of the act, again and again, until everything gives out and I can think of nothing at all.

The glow is gone so swiftly this time. No need for respite or rest. I am off of her in a moment's time, stretching and bending, feeling her eyes on me in raw need. My mind is clear, my goal is set and I did not even falter in my hardness. It takes a moment more for Saoirse to recover, to intake and process the end of the first bit.

And she asks the most beautiful question.

"Can you do that again?" she says.

I take a long moment to respond, looking outside to the stars of the city and the full moon hanging so carefree at the top of the world. I turn slightly and show her that I am ready and willing in every single sense of the word.

---

I am inside of her and I am hard, so incredibly painfully hard against the wet and writhe. And she is tight, so incredibly painfully tight inside. Vice drumheads of a marching snare, bouncing back with sharp salutes against the beat. The rhythm and the play of her body, the heartbeat staccato the gasping for air that simply does not do enough to fill her lungs, she is a song of my adulation. I do not know the pace I am setting. I do not care. I do not listen to her body and the ministrations she gives to me. I do not care. This is for me and the maddening clouds that swirl and churn like catastrophe within.

Animal beast rut between two pigs in human clothing. She is nude and the hair is natural, it seems. That's really the only detail I can parse before I notice anything else at all. I am inside of her and I am hard, so incredibly destructively hard.

I do not pay any mind to the way she moans and writhes. I do not care about the noise she makes, the moans, the screams, the yells for more and more and more. I am in the huff and beat of my hips, the in and out. The simple motions, the simple beats of music that do not offer any sort of ascension. I am on the couch, laying into a stacked redhead and I do not care about the dark skin and the wild hair at the moment. I have pale and red.

There is deluge stormfronts within my core, pouring out into the womb of the screaming woman. There are nails on my back leaving deep red marks. And she is taking it well. Legs locked around me, arms tight, certainly vocal, but her eyes, those deep greens almost never leave my dark gray. Any greater thing she can be is gone to the challenge and pull that I give her. She is adamant to take all of me. It will happen. It will happen before she leaves back to her town home, back to the stacks of boxes piled to the ceiling. She is here to accomplish and conquer, just the same as me. I am a good challenge. I know I am. The gritted teeth and my echoing name attest to as much.

She clenches tighter and settles into low whine that I have learned marks her climax. With no small amount of pride, I realize that I have lost count of that particular repetition. It will happen again. I know I will, because she has been chosen by me. I slow down and give her a moment to recover her bearings. I am still inside of her and I am still perfectly hard.

The remnants of my last releases pool and drip and flow down the ruined sofa, pour into the almost ruined carpet. I am a disaster manifested in carnality. I will give her more, the endless spit and pulse of the buildup does not exhaust. It is abyssal in depth. She takes a deep, deep breath, filling herself with some amount of clarity. The fog our lust parts for a moment under the chilled autumn night.

"Why'd you stop," she sighs, "I'm not done."

"I love everything you say." I groan. She gets a few more long deep strokes before I lay down and press my chest to hers. Her hands flex and I can almost feel the sinew stretch and snap. Her body is starting to break. It has to be.

"Are you sure you're up for it," I whisper in her ear with a nip of teeth. She gasps again and shudders.

"I don't ever remember telling you to take it easy," she moans, "And I kind of feel like that's what you've given me."

The simple audacity brings a grin from me. It's amazing, simply amazing the words that come through. And she still has yet to say anything that I don't love. I am eager to see what comes next. So many wonderful things half formed in my mind and I do not have the concentration to break through.

It is slow. I make it slow. I have had enough abstinence to savor this for a reason. I want this to last for an eternity. She will not leave. She cannot leave. I am not done with her yet. I don't think I ever will, now that it comes to mind.

I shove a bit farther than my last session had me. And she does not have any more words for the moment. She is too busy reeling and careening in her mind at the fact that she finally might have done something stupid with her new courage. And I am still not completely done. There is still a hand's length of me in the night air growing cold and chilled. The leak has spring and I savor the intertwined chill and heat. It's wonderful, the swirl of temperature. Storm and tempest, storm and tempest and dark clouds matted with exertion. Her nails dig in again and I think they finally break skin. That is something I wasn't expecting at all.

And I like it.

I pull away and smile as she finally realizes what she has done. There is no fear. There is no trepidation. Challenge, raw challenge to actually do what I have been teasing all night. The extra bit of length I've given her has not been enough. The bit of more spread and open has not been enough. There is a vast world of me she still has yet to experience and I have gated and locked it away.

She gets another touch of my lips to hers and she sings her lust through primal vocals. I keep pushing, even as the lizard parts of her mind break down in panic terror. I keep pushing myself into. I am an invader. I am a conqueror. There is ripe fruit and pleasure unending and she cannot handle it. There is blood and tears and she still wants more. There is terrible ruin and it is not enough for me or for her.

Our hips finally meet, skin to skin and it is wonderful. Full, she is full and I feel my outline through her stomach. Her spray shoots up my chest, leaving us both dripping for another moment, she is still. Almost calm with the new territory decimated. The storm is in its eye and she has a moment to collect herself from the world. She takes as deep a breath as she can manage. I believe that there might be some difficulty with how deep I am, but I still feel the serenity flow through her and keep the mind more or less easy.

And once more, I find that challenge to be there, something daring and eager and simply insurmountable. I am a threat, but a threat that can be slipped through. She takes away the leg lock and savors the full bulge inside of her for one last glorious moment before breathing and closing her eyes. I am letting her adjust. It is a lot, and despite her correct assertions that I have been going easy on her, I am going to keep doing so, at least for a little while longer. I know she has different plants, and I want to see where they lead.

She sighs and tenses one last time. With a burst of strength, she rolls over and takes us both to the messy floor. And I am pinned. I am beneath her looking up at the steely eyed mission of mischief. I smile. I am no longer in control and I couldn't be happier.

Her movements are frantic, hungry, erratic. There is a need for more motion and she will take. The slow agonizing world collapse has dragged on for long enough, so she needs to bring about the end in her own way. She pulls her body upright and everything is set in sway. Motion and wave the crashing sea of soft skin hitting ramparts made strong. She is open, hands using hips to ride and rise and fall. I am in her and she is taking me and everything I am. I match the motion, rise and fall, like the tide, Rise and fall, pulling out just a bit more than she wants, giving her not quite enough, but it is hers to take and use as she sees fit.

I close my eyes and let the wash of the stormy sea take me away to deep, deep waters. The storm stills as another climax comes through her and the spray is added to the pool in my chest. She is still not stopping. Even before the last of the quakes flow into the ether is rising and falling again, bone pressed on me. I sing for her and she sings for me.

The storm halts and I open my eyes to someone just as lost in the action as me. Her hair is wild and unkempt, feral almost. And it takes a moment to fit together the series of actions she takes. With that same shut away strength, she moves her legs and mine, everything still inside and bulging. And she moves me back, curling my spine up and up and up until I rest on my shoulders and neck. The lake runs to my collar bone and I look to the firebrand unleashed.

There is no consideration of me, just as I had no consideration of her. My ankles hang in her grip, spread just wide enough to feel the burn in my muscles. Saoirse sets the pace. She moves and grinds, stepping through and placing a sole near my head. She does not pay attention to the body attached to the length. A source for her pleasure pulled from me, a toy, an object that had dared to defy its stated purpose for so long. So, she took it upon herself to bring more climaxes, more summits, more crashing typhoon waves through her that I apparently lacked. Shame on me for being considerate. I think being around Louise has made me soft. And in my defense, I do not think there is enough physical space within her to actually take all of me. Saoirse is closer to my height and thus there is more of her to envelope and crush me.