10
Twyla
Oh, god, god, god, god, god, god.
I’m flat against the wall, my arms spread for balance, my legs as wide as my skirt will allow, with a man between my legs.
A man who’s absolutely devouring me, his lips and teeth and tongue, his rough, animalistic growls, too low and incoherent to get a bead on, but somehow just what I need to fly me up, up, up.
This stranger’s relentless, coarse, scary—god,soscary—and hungrier than anyone I’ve ever been with. The men I’ve known don’t dive in and consume. Even… what was his name? Even he sort of skirted his way around my parts.
This man—whoever he is—is melding with my body, using me so totally that it feels, I don’t know, symbiotic. Is that the right word?
I grunt when his teeth take my lip between them and tug.
I want it. Oh, god, do I want it. I want his tongue…right…there. Where it’s lashing back and forth. And, just when the empty ache inside’s getting too harsh to bear, I want something else, anything, whatever he’ll give me—and he does.
One thick finger slides inside me, parting me, making me feel full and taken and—
I gasp when he crams another in beside the first, twists them both around—his tongue now working fast, its rhythm relentless—one hand pressed flat to my belly, while he uses those other fingers inside me in a come-hither motion and presses…presses…
“Oh, no,” I have time to whisper before the pressure shoots me up and out of my skin, turns my eyes back in my head, tightens my hands into fists. And I’m pounding, pounding the wall, my hips thrusting at his face, one hand reaches for his head, my fingers spear into his hair, grip hard and twist, pulling him tight into me—so tight. The gruff, involuntary grunt he makes ricochets through me.
And this man, this faceless stranger, just keeps going, keeps pressing for more, biting and twisting at me like he’s trying to get the last bit of juice from a fruit, and likethat—holy shit—he urges just that extra drop of pleasure from me. And it’s pleasure I’ve never felt before. It’s pleasure I didn’t know I had. Pleasure torn from way, way down, a place I’ve never dared examine, a place so primeval and deep and unexplored that I know it’s bound to scar.
In absolute silence, muscles taut, mind numb, I experience the kind of climax I’ve never truly believed existed.
I’m shaking when he gives me a last, luxuriant lick, rubs the entire side of his face through my wetness, as if to mark himself, and backs away, catching my pussy lip between his teeth and pulling for a few beats before finally letting go.
I can’t move, can barely think in this place where nothing’s real, life’s suspended, and a dark stranger brings me to orgasm almost without trying.
Or, no. No, that’s wrong, because as he pushes up to standing, I hear the way he’s breathing and it’s not an easy in and out. It’s a labored thing, an effort. This was work for him. But he liked it, I think. Liked my taste and my smell, liked the feel of my soft flesh against him. He’s slow as he rises, takes his time, strokes his face against every bit of me he can reach and then—oh, those rough hands are back. One’s on my breast, kneading and then tugging so hard at my nipples that it should hurt.
Itdoes. It hurts. But it’s like a taut thread, attached directly to my core and every time he drags at that hard bead, he’s pulling straight at my clit and, no. There’s no way I’ll come again. I can’t. I’ve never done that, not this soon.
I get a flash of Zion shoving his fingers into that woman’s mouth. It’s a hot and cold thing running through me—attraction and repulsion, jealousy, shame, want, want, want. I wanted tobeher when I saw the video. I wanted him to do those things to me.
It’s different here, though, shame. It’s a feature, not a bug. It’s still bad, but it’s a pleasurable bad. The bad is the point. It’s the kind of bad that makes me fight that rough hand tightening around my neck. The sort of bad that makes me think I like that nipple pain more than I like the tentative kitten licks my past partners gave me. How maybe I’d like something rougher, too.
He’s breathing hard. The sound’s choppy. It makes me weirdly proud of myself. I’m the one who’s done this. Who’s made this big, hulking, shadow of a stranger breathe like an excited teenager.
I did that.
When he nudges my thighs wider with his knee, I’m in no way prepared for the quick slap of his palm against my sex.
The sound I make is high and strange and unlike any sound I’ve ever made.
Almost before it’s left my mouth, I’m whimpering for more.
“Again,” I whisper and, oh, yes, he complies, although it’s not me calling the shots. He makes sure I understand this by tightening his hold on my throat. Just a little. But enough.
“Oh. Oh,” I whisper.
He’s slapping me again. Again. Every time, it’s an electric shock to my clit, to my conscience. To that horny little part of me that’s been clawing itself out all day, week…whatever.
I’m not the sedate, sometimes-sexual person I thought I was. I’m not. I’m a big, swirling mass of want and filth and need and and and…
My mouth drops open on a silent scream as his assault on my pussy picks up its pace and now he’s spanking me the way he licked me—without respite, without mercy. Using my own body against me.
