Sunday, March 27, 2011
Wanderlust Part 12 "Please."
Morning, all! I'm off to the store soon to get stuff for tomorrow night's big dinner. Then home to bake a cake. I swear, Tuesday I'm going to sleep allllllll day. It's been a busy week, but then again it's been nothing but good stuff, so I really can't complain now can I?
Happy Sunday. Why not have a cuppa, put your feet up and read installment 12?
by Sommer Marsden
Normally, I’d have let him fuck me. If he had it in his mind to fuck me, that is. It seemed he did. But there was something else. Something that might squash the worry that had risen up my chest this morning. I lurked on the periphery of my mind until I decided to pay attention to it.
I’m not one for blow jobs. Not normally. I see them as a means to an end. An appetizer to a good meal or an amuse bouche before the feast. I never really got the whole blow job thing or women who had sudden urges to do that for their men. Until Johnny.
I dropped to my knees in his shower—noting in that odd OCD way of mine that it was extremely clean for a bachelor—and he twisted a finger into my bangs.
“Hey, there. Why don’t you—“
I hushed him once again and his mouth shut and he cocked head watching me. He was hard already. Cocks have a way of assessing the situation and rising to the occasion despite the gut feelings of their owners, I think.
“I want to,” I said. And I did. The knowledge was startling, but I would examine it later. I could wait to probe my own psyche until I had done what I intended to do.
I licked the shower water from his skin. Tasting heat and salt and warm male skin. Tasting—still—the dark and spicy scent of myself on him— our coupling. I licked up the back of his cock and he pressed one big hand to the black and white tile to steady himself. The water rushed down over me—a lukewarm baptism. I sucked harder, cupping his balls in my hand, squeezing just enough that I felt him grow tenser. His breath caught in his throat.
Pulling back, I kissed his hipbones, tracing my tongue along the hard ridges of bone under flesh. I kissed above his pelvis where the dark hair curled the thickest and his palms settled on my hair. He kept his hands on my head, neither pushing nor pulling, simply touching my wet locks. It was a priestly gesture and I wondered if in some odd way, Johnny Rose was blessing me. Giving me a new beginning—a fresh start. Absolving me of my sins.
He didn’t try to argue with me but he did try to tug me up again and I felt a smile split my face. It was almost like I was fighting him to allow me the pleasure of sucking his cock.
He caught the smile. “What?” he growled.
“Nothing. Let me, though,” I whispered, barely audible above the hiss and pop of the water falling all around us. “Please.”
I got it. He wanted to fuck me. He thought I was fragile or broken or…something. He figured the blow jobs could hold off until I was less so. But he was wrong.
“Please,” I said and he heard it in my voice then. Because I did, too. The naked plea to just fucking let me. Let me do it.
He nodded and pushed both hands to the wall this time. When I sucked him in, he propelled his hips forward just a touch so that he drove down into my throat. I made a noise in my chest. There was no pretense or let’s pretend. I was not trying to sound sexy or turn him on. I was simply doing something I had an overwhelming urge to do for him, for me. And that was the sound that came out of me. It was a blatantly honest sound—almost embarrassing.
Johnny started to thrust with a little more force, so that he filled me and cut off all my worry and most of my air. I held his thighs in my hands, the water turning cooler and raising goose bumps on my back. I sucked him hard and then soft and then hard again and he fucked my throat, breathing like a man on the edge.
When my hands found his balls again and I stroked him, cupped him, simply touched the warm skin under my fingers, he came with a grunt. His fingers flexing on the tile, grasping nothing but water and whiteness.
I surprised myself when I sat back on my haunches, water streaming all around my eyes so I had to keep blinking. I surprised myself big time when I looked at him and licked my lips and said “Thank you.”
He cooked me eggs and sausage while I toasted English muffins.
“I think you killed them,” he laughed. He looked manly and safe in his faded Levi’s and work boots. A black tee advertising some bar in St. Louis and a fresh plaid flannel, this time a green plaid.
“I like them crispy,” I said.
He grabbed a half and banged it on the counter where it tap-tap-tapped loud enough to make me grin. “Crisp?”
“Seriously. Try it. Put a shit ton of butter on there and eat it and tell me it is not the best way to eat it,” I argued. I did just that and when I bit into the English muffin I groaned. It was almost as good as an orgasm.
“Shit ton? Just a surprising phrase from someone like you.”
The bread got wedged in my throat and I tried mightily to swallow it. “Someone like me? What am I like?”
He shook his head, his blue eyes darting away from me. He realized his mistake. He realized the wound he had just inflicted and I almost felt sorry for him.
“I mean someone who has come from your background. I know that your daddy and his money and all that is not you, Really. I know you are you. Don’t pick a fight because I didn’t say the right word.”
Well, that shut me up. Usually, I was capable of picking apart a man’s words and nailing him to the wall with them. It was one of my many talents and something I found a sick amount of comfort in—being able to call someone on a verbal technicality.
But he’d shut me down. Which oddly made me want him that much more. His ability to extinguish my fiery rages before they even started. Talented man.
He pulled me toward him by the front of his own flannel—that I had, okay, let’s tell the truth here—stolen. He kissed me, licking a small bit of butter off my lip. “Don’t do what you do so well to me, Snowflake. Be real with me.”
I shook my head, looked away. “Right. Shit ton. Something I heard from college peers. Something that I like to say. Something that means a lot, indicating a large amount,” I said, trying to laugh.
I wanted to ask him about the pictures. I wanted to ask him about the little sneakers and the little box of treasured things that he’d hidden from me. But I’d just gotten here, hadn’t I? I was new and an intruder and probably just a good lay for a few days.
I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t…