by Dylan Heart
He curls his finger at me. “Come.”
I do as commanded, my bare feet taking careful strides over the rough gravel, until I close the distance to a mere few inches. He cuts the space between us in half again, and his breath dances along my skin. Warm when it’s exhaled, and visible in the air like a billowing cloud when it lands against me.
My heart races, and that’s before his lips are pressed against my neck. Short kisses first, and then a mouthful of skin, leaving a trail of wetness along my flesh. One strong arm circles my back and he pulls me close, molding our bodies together.
His cock pulses through black trunks. Through my panties, I can feel him against me, his hardness throbbing between the weight of our two wanting bodies. His hand glides to the small of my back, and I arch into his body harder, deeper while his tongue continues a line of assault against my neck, tracing a path to my ear, and ending with a gentle nibble that sends shockwaves through my body.
His other hand falls to my back, and he scoops me up in a quick feat of strength, spinning me around in one motion and planting my ass against the hood of the car. My head reels, chasing the blur of entropy like a scent long gone stale.
He parts my legs with his knees, and drops a hand to my panties. It’s been ions since sex has revolved around my own pleasure, and it’s been almost just as long since I’ve been with anyone other than my own hand.
Lips against my neck. Teeth against my ear. A strong, guiding hand against my pussy. I let out a stifled moan. Kemper pulls away from my body, still holding me tight with his arms, and grins. Oh, how he fucking grins.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he coos with bated breath, and for whatever reason, it reeks of real sentiment. “So fucking sexy,” he purrs as his fingers comb through my hair.
I’m not prone to agree with him, but I’m not about to say that out loud and damper the mood with self-doubt. Confidence is the key, and I’m about to take matters into my own hand. I raise one heel up to the top of his trunks, and then lower it, pulling down his trunks with my foot until his taut ass is bare against the September night air.
He pushes his body harder against me, the fabric being pulled down his ass and tightening its hold on his throbbing cock. It’s his turn to moan, and that he does as he cries against my neck. “I want to fuck you so bad.”
“Then what the hell are you waiting for?” I push against his chest. “Make me forget.”
He says nothing in return, but rushes into action, stepping away from me and pushing his trunks down. His erection springs free. Hard, long, and thick. I reach for his cock and stroke it with one hand as he steps free from the trunks. He throws his head back and moans softly as I caress my hand around the head, running a finger along the slit.
A few strokes more and I’m pulling him closer to me, using his impossibly hard cock as a leash of sorts. He’s too lost in the throes of ecstasy to speak properly, but inaudible words are thrown from his throat.
“W… Wait,” he stutters as he pulls away from my touch, showing signs of nervousness for the first time since we exited his car.
“People could see us,” I say, realizing perhaps for the first time that if someone would drive by, over the crest of the nearby hill, we’d be caught red handed for the world to see.
“The car?” He asks with a nod, but he doesn’t wait for a response before he rips the door open and swings to the side, holding his hand out to me. “Ladies first.”
I take his hand and he leads me to the car. I spin on my foot, turning to face him as I climb backwards into the seat. With a display of quick dexterity, he’s pulling my panties down my legs before I’ve even settled in.
My back lands hard against the shifter. A broken yelp hops from my throat. He shifts above me and reaches into the backseat to grab a pillow, and pushes it beneath my back for comfort.
“Why do you have a pillow?”
“Sometimes,” he says with ragged breaths, “I sleep in my car.”
Good enough answer for me. I throw my arms around his neck and pull him close to me. He moves to kiss me, but I crane my head so that his lips fall against my neck.
He kisses me softly at first, and then bites me gently. My fingers tangle in his short, tussled hair. I kick my heel around his naked back and pull him tighter against me, his cock pressing tight against my vulnerable cunt. He traces his lips along the lining of my neck, with short, wet puckers igniting me from within until he reaches my lips, and just when he’s about to kiss me, I shift away from him again.
“What’s wrong?”
“No kissing,” I beg, reminding him of my stance on the issue from before. “It’s a line—“
“That you can’t cross.” His chest heaves, his breath hot, rough, and steamy. “I get it.”
Knowing he can’t kiss my lips, he buries his face between my breasts and runs one palm underneath my tight bra, until he’s cupping me with one strong grip. My legs twist around his back and I pull him closer to me, close enough that the entire space between us is evaporated. Warm body against warm body. Parched lips against my skin.
His hand crawls from beneath my bra and travels south, caressing a path across my stomach and down my hips, and then maneuvering to the inside of my thigh. My legs widen to allow him access as he finds my opening and pushes his palm against my most vulnerable spot. I cry soft moans against his neck, reveling in the empowering serenity of wanting and being wanted.
He runs a circle around me, taunting me and teasing me. He wants to make me scream, to beg, and that’s just what I do.
“Fuck me,” I plead. “Stop teasing me and fuck me.”
One finger sinks into me until he’s knuckle deep, and then somehow, he pushes further in. Soon enough, another finger joins and he works me thoroughly, stretching me wide and preparing me for the fullness of his aching erection.
He swivels on his knees, the position he’s found himself in can’t be comfortable, but it beats exposing ourselves for anyone to see. He pushes my legs apart, and braces one hand beside my head, burying his fingers deep in the side of the seat to steady himself.
This is it. The moment of no return.
I glance down to see him pawing at his cock, and then ripping a foil condom wrapper in his mouth. I hadn’t even thought of protection in the midst of this dangerous seduction, but thankfully one of our heads is in working order. Though, maybe that’s because he has two. I’m hilarious, I’m aware.
He rolls the condom onto himself with precision and agility, pinching the tip. He’s a seasoned pro, and I’m an amateur, despite an inkling in my stomach that I am the older of us two.
His eyes shift to me, dark and heavy, ready and waiting. They speak to me just the same as if his lips were moving, questioning if I’m ready.
“I’m ready,” I whisper to him.
His eyelids flash over his eyes in a quick blink, and my hand caresses his sweaty cheek. He pulls me in with his glare, and I’m too lost in his innocent, but raw, beauty that when he presses himself against me, I’m not prepared.
I throw my head back and dig my nails into his back as he sinks into me. Slowly, his cock rocks into me, tearing me apart from the inside. He’s thick. Thicker than my husband. Almost too thick, but this pain is only temporary.
My pussy swallows him whole until his pelvis rocks against mine, and he holds himself still, his biceps quivering and his eyes engaged in a struggle to stay open, but for some reason he wants to watch me. But I can’t do the same.
Before I can protest, he’s pulling out. Slow and steady, like a bow being primed until the head of his cock meets the warm air. And then back in again, separating me as he rocks into me, faster and a little harder.
I close my eyes, trying to enjoy the ride for what it is. But I can’t keep them closed, no matter how hard I try. He’s making love to me, and I just want fucked until I don’t feel a thing.
He reads my mind, another display of his unmistakable ability to do so. He situates himself above me as he continues g
entle thrusts, picking up speed and power with every shattering maneuver.
Fucking me. Driving me insane. Freeing me from the weight of the world one caress of his cock inside me at a time. This is what freedom feels like, but it’s all too much.
“Not like this,” I force the words from my throat, spinning out of my mouth like flying gravel on a dirt road.
He stops, but he’s still inside of me. “What’s wrong?” His eyes barrel down straight at me.
“I can’t do this.” I attempt to shake my head, but there’s not enough room to do so. “Not like this.”
“Okay.” He nods and takes a quick shallow breath before pulling his cock out of me, and shifting into his seat in a sitting position.
“That’s not what I meant.” I roll over onto my stomach with one quick, but clumsy maneuver. My feet knock against his face, but he deflects the blow with agile reflexes. I crane my head over my shoulder, where his feral eyes are already settled on mine. “Like this.”
He takes no time shuffling to his knees, his head propped against the ceiling. He’s too tall and too big for this to work in any sort of intimate setting, but nothing about this is intimate.
He lines his cock up against my pussy and drives in. I throw out a yelp contaminated with a moaning cry.
Missionary is intimate, too intimate.
The dirtier this feels, the more innocent it becomes. It’s sex and nothing more when I’m on my hands and knees. When I’m on my back, and he’s on top of me, watching me as he fucks me, that’s when the guilt settles in. I don’t want to feel guilt. I want to feel release.
He rocks into me with long, gentle thrusts at first, but before I can count to five, he digs his fingers into my hips and takes hold. Everything changes. He’s pounding from behind with reckless abandon. We fuck like animals, with one primal desire—release.
My head is thrown against the window with each knee-buckling thrust, and I can feel his fingers digging deeper and deeper under my skin in the same way I can feel his cock filling me to the hilt.
It’s not long before the world begins to spin, and everything in sight becomes muddled in a dark blur. Turbulence of the soul, that’s the only way to describe it. A quaking that builds from within the heart, and rushes through the bloodstream, hemorrhaging in all the right places until I let out a scream that steals my breath.
“Fuck,” I cry out as I push myself all the way back against his cock, reveling in the fullness as I begin to ache a beautiful ache. This is the point of no return. This is freedom. This is where I break, tightening around his impossibly hard shaft as I ride out my first man-served orgasm in over a year.
When it’s all too much, and I’m left drowning in my own release that I so desperately craved, I collapse onto my stomach, with my sweaty, clammy skin smothering the pillow beneath me. But he’s not finished yet. Not even close. He continues to fuck me from behind, his balls slapping against my ass as he buries himself deep within me time and time again.
I tilt my head over my shoulder to watch him work, sweat rolling down red cheeks and then dropping onto my back, sizzling against my sinful skin. His lips tremble and quiver, as he builds to his own release. His eyes bore down at his cock as he fucks himself deep into my wet cunt.
His entire body convulses and then goes rigid as he pulls his cock from my pussy, grips his hand tight around his balls, and rips the condom off his throbbing cock. Like a loaded gun, once he releases his grip, warm cum is shot against my face and upper back. His body shivers and shakes, and guttural moans are thrown from his throat as each shot of cum hits with less momentum and less range, until the last few spurts land hot upon the cheeks of my ass.
He stares me down with ravenous eyes before he collapses onto my back, pushing me deeper against the leather seat. His weight above me holds me down just when I think it’s about time to run.
And then the unexpected…
A soft kiss against my neck.
My eyes flash open to the sounds of a rooster screaming at the morning light. Soft, hot rays of sunshine filter through the window. I’m hot and sweaty, with clammy skin and reeling with symptoms of a hangover though I haven’t drank.
I don’t remember when I fell asleep, only that it occurred not too long after I recovered my clothing from the dirty ground outside the car. I look over to see that he’s dressed too, though the last I remember all he had on were his underwear.
I look over to him, seeing him for the first time in the light, and I’m not disappointed. In the darkness, he was a beast fit for the monster I’ve become. Tall, dark, and handsome, that’s all that mattered last night. But now, there’s a striking innocence to him as he sleeps, with one hand cradled behind his head, and another shielding his sleeping eyes from the assault of the morning light. His face that was smooth is now rough with stubble.
His black cut off is tangled around his stomach, exposing the ridges and grooves of his abs, and spectacular chest. His shoulders aren’t as broad as I had remembered them, more fitting for a quarterback than a running back.
I look at him and more than all his finest features, I see my own guilt reflecting back at me. The freedom I had found last night is torn away from me as I’m thrown into a new kind of prison I haven’t experienced before, shackled by the weight of my choices, and unlike my husband, I don’t have the excuse that I was drunk.
I simply needed release, and that will never be enough to suffice in the court of public opinion. This can never happen again. It won’t happen again. It won’t so much as ever be talked about, because Kemper was right, what happened last night won’t have happened come morning.
Carefully, as to not awake him, I reach for the handle of the door and push it open.
7
The door is cracked open when I arrive. Instead of spinning the house key into the lock, I gently press my palm against the door and it creaks open. My best guess is someone got a little too tipsy and didn’t close the door all the way. In the grand scheme of things, it’s the smallest of crimes.
My body and mind are weighed down with the symptoms of a hangover, but I haven’t had a drink in weeks. It’s more of a hangover of the soul where my body has been poisoned by the toxins of lust. It was meant to be a freeing experience from the hell I’ve been living in, a brief respite in the cold from the burning fire of my marriage.
But now, as I step slowly through this old house, I feel shackled by guilt. The original hardwood floors beneath me, a major selling point for our purchase of this home not even two years ago, threaten to expose me with every step. After the first creak of the floor, I slow my pace. Each step toward the staircase is another step toward facing the man I chained myself to at a very young age, a man I’m still chained to with no key in sight.
I ascend the steps one excruciating step at a time, until I reach the top where the iron spindles curves into a carpeted landing. The floor beneath me is soft, molding around my feet as I inch toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. I pass the first door on the right, an empty room with an empty closet and a full sized bed. It was the room I dreamed would become a nursery one day, and then eventually a bedroom in which my child would mature to adulthood.
Those dreams were dashed away three hundred and fifty-seven days ago. In eight days, I’ll be forced to relive the anniversary of the day I lost everything; my reputation, my husband, and my unborn child.
My heart elopes from my chest as I draw closer to our bedroom. I try to force myself to breathe, to remain standing as I finally reach my destination.
When I push open the door, the old hinges scream and I freeze in place. I peek through a thin crack of the door to see Brock lying in bed, his naked body tangled in a thin white sheet. I eye him for a moment, dreaming of any other way this could end, and reflecting back on the years of bliss we shared together back before the chaos ravaged our lives and our love for one another.
Sunlight paints the bed in angelic light, flooding the shadows until they suffocate under the glow of the
morning light. In the past year of pain, sorrow, and heartbreak, I’d almost forgotten how beautiful he is. He’s older now from the stress we’ve endured, with gray hairs spiking sparsely through the brown stubble lining his face.
I’d forgotten the way he used to smile, brimming with life and happiness. A smile that’s now been ripped away from him, and replaced with a decaying sense of emptiness that is reflected in my eyes in the rare moments we’re face to face. I remember so much, and yet it all feels so far away, as if the memories I once cherished were lived in another life by somebody else. And then I imagine that somebody else out there is living the life I live now, and it’s comforting for the shortest of moments, that maybe none of this has ever mattered or will ever matter, because none of it’s real. That’s what numbness feels like. It’s the opposite of surreal, suffocating in a thick black hole where the only thing that aches is the missing piece where my heart used to be.
With the skill of a silent assassin, I lower myself onto the bed beside Brock. I wield no knives or guns, no weapons to mention, but I’ve already stuck the knife in his back. Fuck me if he did it first, two wrongs don’t make a right—another lesson my sister forgot somewhere between integrated mathematics and the stripper joint.
I lie in bed for what amounts to forever, staring at the ceiling fan above me, circling in a stale pattern like a poem that never ends and the words never changing. There’s no end in sight, and the seconds tick by, but they turn into minutes torturously slow.
I count the seconds in between Brock’s isolated snores, but like a watched pot that will never boil, the minutes will never turn into hours.
He usually sleeps on the couch, because he’s as distant from me as I am to him. I think he believes that if he gives me enough space, I’ll come around and we can be who we were again. That ship sailed long ago, but it only sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic a few short hours ago.