One for the Road...

It’s about the time that you should be leaving, but you don’t. You give me that look that makes my stomach seize and grief catch in my throat, a coal-like lump of regret. I remember being able to love you easily, I remember how swiftly a look like that might have won me over and in that split-second I’m wrong, maybe you’re not such a loser. We’ve broken up, I don’t see things between us as quite so dark and gloomy anymore. The weeks have passed, the long cloud of indecision and lost opportunities that hung over us has all gone. We’ve boiled down to an occasional home visit and the sweet nostalgia that makes my throat ache when you look at me like you’re doing now. I can remember good things; what it feels like to be in your arms, or sweating above you, or lost in your eyes as I orgasm.

It’s not so hard to sweep me into a kiss, a sticky-soft embrace that is loaded with the smell of your breath, and your jacket. Your brown, well-loved leather jacket that drove me to dig you so much in the first place. You smell like hope and promises (as much as a particular cheap cologne, rolling tobacco and leather can smell like those things), you smell like the happiest times of my early twenties. You smell like my Jack Kerouac novel, the dog eared-copy with the inscription I wrote to you about love and our lives and coming into romance like a car crash.

I feel heavy and wet and all confused.

I push your jacket over your shoulders, past your biceps and over your forearms. We both allow it to fall to the floor. I’m only wearing an old t-shirt and jeans, I’m barefoot with my hair unkempt and I’ve never felt sexier. I don’t want us to be together again but I know I want this. I take your hand and put it on my chest. I show you my heart thrashing out its erratic tempo through the fabric. You drop your fingertips until they fondle my nipple through the worn fabric. While we're still kissing your inquisitive digits travel on still further and support the weight of my breast, on and on your hot fingers go, tracing the outline of underwire in my cheap lace bra, giving me goosebumps. I can feel my breath getting lighter.

It feels right, this sloppy I-don’t-want-to-stop-because-I don’t-know-where-this-is-going meeting of our mouths; tongues are old friends, you know exactly how to play in my wet mouth and tease the tiny, breathy moans that sing a siren-call to the juices in my pussy. Your sexy fat lips and magical tongue start an ache that makes me want to climb inside you. I want you lay me down on the floorboards and fuck me like the apocalypse is due in under an hour.

Logic drains from my consciousness and I’m starting to pant. I fumble with your jeans buttons (you used to have zip-fly ones) fingers anxious to clasp what’s beneath. I’m pushing my breasts into your searching hands and appreciatively against the wall of your chest. I can’t hear what you’re attempting to whisper for the roar of blood and desire in my ears. Your mouth is so very close to my face, that’s all that matters. One eager hand hurriedly undoes the top button and pushes it’s way down the front of my jeans. They stretch to accommodate your big fingers and I almost burst when you plunge a deliberate finger into my slickness. With a stroke of that deft finger and a nibble on my lip I’m mewing at you, my knees trembling. I want you inside me. I can’t think how to make it happen more quickly and when I pull away from the meeting of our mouths it’s to wrench your denim down to your ankles. I cast my eager fingers past your boxer shorts and savour the heat of your cock in my hand. It twitches. I hold you firmly in the stillness.

We’re stopped, no longer frenzied but disheveled and eager in my hallway, three-quarters of our way through your exit and so very far from it now. We’re both shaking with need and I have your cherished penis in the palm of one hand. Your blue eyes, framed by dark, full eyelashes, (that I always envied) can see beyond what misty, desirous expression I must be wearing. You look at me as though you can see something I have long forgotten, I don’t know what it is and I don’t want to take the time to examine further. I want the familiar, beautiful cock I can feel in my hand. I want you to take me with our special brand of ferocity, re-kindled here in this limbo-land - sex without consequences, idealistic and temporary (like a lounge-room pillow fort). I don’t like the serious expression you’re wearing. I don’t like the questions in your eyes.

I bring your hand out of my jeans-front and suck on your forefinger with deliberate slowness. You taste like girl-flower and sexy hand-salt. You make a noise like a teenager having his cock sucked for the first time (breathy, unbelieving). I take off your t-shirt. I continue but without looking at your face anymore, I want you to be unreadable but at last glance your expression is confused, dark with lust but not yet lost in the moment. I run an eager finger up your snail-trail, away from your cock past your belly button. Your nipples stand at attention. I lick one, kiss your collarbone and take the heat of my lips up the side of your neck, back to the waiting warmth of your mouth. Home.

With a half-smile you chase my body out of it’s clothing, the t-shirt I had on comes easily up over my head, my bra unhooks hastily, clumsily (you were never very good at this, it’s endearing). You lick my breastbone, lather one nipple, and kiss my mouth in a searing seduction that hints at tenderness. I pull away and you take to my other breast with your tongue. I’m ecstatic, aching, we’re moving too fast and too slowly all at once.

In the bedroom my phone starts to ring. It spurs something in you, a sense of urgency that at last overtakes your actions. You glide my knickers down my legs and I step out of them, with my back to the wall we’re kissing like newly-mets at a house party. I’m murmuring and half-smiling into your mouth as our teeth click awkwardly in our haste. I wrap one leg up around your thigh, stretching my pussy into an inviting smile for you. You hitch up my hips with the help of the wall, sliding inside me in an inevitable stroke that has us both reeling.

No time to stop now, its sad, beautiful and fast. I’m tight from lack of practice and our position is precarious but it feels like heaven the way your cock enters me, diving in and out of my pussy at just the right angle. Sweet, almost-unbearable pressure mounts quickly. Friction from our coupling drives at my g-spot and I’m star-bound; my arms wrapped around your neck, my legs locked around you.

My cunt is an inferno; my mind is as blank as the erotic darkness that surrounds us. I want you to explode, when I do. I lick your lips and pant and I make strange noises I wouldn’t even know how to muster were I sane and in control of my desire, my choices. I feel like I’m lit from within. In this rapid fucking I have forgotten the people we have become and all I can hear past the silence of the house is the moisture between my thighs welcoming you back.

You pick up the pace, slapping your thighs against mine as you drive us both to the brink. I get strands of my long hair caught in my mouth when you pull out completely before jamming your bloated, rigid penis back into my peach. There’s lots of eye contact and I can’t look away, the total honesty in your actions reflected in the impossible blue-ness of your eyes. They glow.

Finally I cum screaming, tortured into a gut-wrenching, mind-blowing orgasm that starts in my little toes and towers over me, washing me in lust and freedom and a beautiful, shameless sense of wonder that is only temporary.

Too soon it’s over. Too soon you’re pulling your flaccid cock out from between us and wiping away mine and your cum on my shirt that you’ve retrieved from the floor. You’re smiling but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You hold me steady and help me to stand. The muscles in my hips are starting to ache. You’re pulling up your jeans and adjusting your hair and finding your far-flung jacket.

In minutes you're standing in the open doorway where the daylight flooding in turns you into a silhouette.

“Bye…” you say. I can’t tell if you’re still smiling; your expression and your body language entirely unreadable.

I’m watching you in the doorway wearing only my jeans and my purple bra. I wipe my hand over my cheek and listen to the strange sound of me breathing.

Alone.