by Hurt
She was ready. He didn't want to make her cum first. He wanted her itchy, squirming with need when she took his cock for the first time. And he was ready, hard and aching, even though she hadn't touched him. At all.
She'd returned his kiss, sucking his lips, licking his tongue. But that was it. Maybe the way he'd stopped her before, when she was going to suck him, had put her off 39
initiating anything. By way of encouragement, and because anything resembling the missionary position was out, with his knee chewed up and screaming, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back, pulling her astride him.
She went on kissing him, but he sensed that some of the excitement had faded for her with that move. He sat up, palmed her ass, one cheek in each hand, and pulled her against him. Thrilled where it counts by the feeling of her crotch pressed against the underside of his hard-on, he pulled two buttons from their holes and bared her uncut breast, sucking her hard nipple hungrily between his lips, licking the pressure-stretched tip of her tit eagerly until she groaned.
He took his mouth from her breast with a wet suck sound, kissed her lips, stroked her cheek. Her wet cheek.
"Vanka?" he whispered.
She didn't answer. She just sat there, straddling him, panting and silently letting tears roll down her cheeks. He pulled her to him, holding her, stroking her hair.
"Sssshhhh. It's okay. We'll stop."
"I can't. I'm sorry. I can't . . . "
He held her and rocked her, not knowing what to say.
Her voice hung up on a sob, she said, "This isn't what I want."
"I know. We'll stop. I'm just holding you now."
"I don't want you to pretend to make love to me."
Okay. Now he was confused.
"Pretend?"
"It's not how you were before. Out there. On the balcony. Before you knew."
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"Vanka. Vanka. I just. . . . You were upset. I was just trying to be gentle. To give you what you wanted, what you needed tonight."
"Well, I don't need your fucking pity. Your charity."
Oh, she was asking for it now. He grabbed her wrist and forced her hand down, between them, and with his free hand, he molded her palm and fingers over his raging erection.
"Darling, does this feel like charity to you?"
Her face. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was . . . hope.
What was it this girl was after? He forced her hand up and down the length of his erection while he considered.
Single frames from the hours of action through the evening flashed in chaotic meaningful order. Her hesitation, her acceptance of his invitation inside. Her confession, later, that she'd been afraid, and that her fear had been the reason. She'd admitted, as he bit and kissed her neck, that she was afraid of him, and sighed as he blatantly threatened to fuck her ass, that she didn't want to leave. She didn't want to be made love to like a delicate virgin. She wanted to be fucked. Like she'd said. Her word.
Fucked by him, whom she'd feared.
Done. With pleasure.
"Have it your way, Vanka. I'll gladly show you just how uncharitable I can be."
Pivoting around, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, lifting her up with him, then dropped her to her feet. He yanked open the nightstand drawer and grabbed a few condoms and held them up to her with a grin.
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"We'll definitely be needing these. We'll need more than one, depending on what order we do things in." He wondered if she knew what he meant by that. "Come on."
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her along with him, into the living room, releasing her as they stopped by the end of the long red leather couch and tossing the fistful of condoms onto the coffee table. Stunned, not caught up yet with the three-sixty that had taken place since their last sweet kiss in the bedroom, she gaped down at the little pile of blue foil squares.
"Take off the shirt, Vanka."
Her head snapped forward, her shocked eyes locked on his. It was pretty obvious she didn't want to, but probably she was afraid if she said no to him now, he'd stop trying to guess what the fuck it was she wanted, throw his arms up in exasperation, and leave her to sleep alone, unfucked, in his bed while his crashed in the guest room.
Which was pretty close to what he was thinking.
Her eyes still red, her lashes still wet from crying, she kept her gaze locked on his as her unsteady hands found the top button and pushed it through its hole, then moved on to the next one. When all the buttons were undone and nothing but the shadow cast by the shirt covered the pale strip of torso between, she put her shoulders back and the garment slid down her arms, onto the floor.
Damn, she had a fit body. Tall, lean, muscular. Strong.
But she didn't seem so strong, just this moment. Standing there, she looked as if she'd never been naked in front of a man before. Like she wanted to run off somewhere and hide. Her hands flexed and unflexed into fists as if she was itching to cross her arms over her chest, hide her breasts. Or at least that square of gauze on the right one.
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He stood there, blatantly assessing her body. If she cared to, she could look down, see his prick was hard as ever, take that as a sign of his admiration. What really had him hard, though, was the way he felt about what he was doing to her. And the anticipation of all that was to come.
"How old are you, Vanka?"
Something else she hadn't expected. He could hear her panting through her nose, see her tits rising and falling, her abdomen swelling and caving with each breath.
"Twenty-seven," she finally answered.
"Had many lovers?"
"What?"
"How many lovers have you had?"
"Lovers? I…"
"How many men have you fucked?"
After a long silence she whispered, "Four."
"And, let me guess. You were in a relationship with every one of those four men, weren't you?"
"Yes."
"Never fucked a guy you'd only known for a few hours. Have you?"
"No."
In three long strides he closed the distance between them, pressed his body against hers, making sure she felt his erection against her belly, and whispered, "I think you're going to like it."
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He just stood there a moment, letting her feel him, letting her wonder what he'd do next. Then he whispered at her ear,
"Pull down your panties, Vanka."
After a brief hesitation, she moved slightly and his eyes flicked down to catch her thumbs sliding under the baby blue nylon. She'd have to bend forward to get them down, but he didn't back up to give her room, just let her twist a bit awkwardly and press against his bare chest as she struggled to do as he'd asked.
"That's fine," he said when she'd gotten them down to midthigh.
She stood up, looked up at him with her sad, wanting gray-green eyes from beneath those wet, tear-clumped lashes. With a single fingertip, he traced a lazy pattern over her smooth mound.
"Your cunt," he purred, deliberately choosing a word that might make her squirm,
"is so smooth. Tell me. Why do you wax it?"
"Why?"
"Yes, Vanka. Why?"
Obviously she had to have an answer for that question, but she just stood there, mute, gazing up at him while he went on teasingly caressing her sex.
"What's number four's name?"
"Number four?"
"Your most recent lover."
"David."
"This his idea?"
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He curved the whole of his rather large hand over her sex, his fingers extending back, between her thighs, finding her moisture.
"No," she gasped, either startled or defensive. "It's . . . I . . ."
"You?"
"I like it. How it feels. When I masturbate."
That made him smile. Not just the pleasing image of her pretty hands moving over the smooth soft skin down there, but that it was her thing. Not for some guy.
"I li
ke it too. How you feel. To my fingers." He slid one fingertip into her wet slit and stroked forward, over her clit, provoking a visible shudder. "To my lips. My tongue. I like the way you smell." He brought his hand up, by his face, and sniffed at the wettest of his fingertips, the scent sending a swelling surge of blood to his already painfully hard cock. "The way you taste." The dipped the finger into his mouth, closed his lips around it, and sucked it clean as a pink tint suffused her face.
"I didn't let you, before. But now I want you to suck me."
He smiled as her eyes flicked down to his erection and back to his eyes with the speed of an involuntary glance. With a grin and a move calculated to deprive her of any sense of her own power in this, he put his hand on her shoulders and pushed down, savoring a moment of resistance before she sank to her knees.
He couldn't be sure if she was angry, afraid, or aroused, or if some ratio of all three feelings were working on her, but looking down, he watched her chest heaving with some emotion. But she made no protest. And, after a moment of her kneeling there, staring at the stiff ridge of his cock bulging under the snug cotton of his briefs, she lifted her hand to touch him.
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"No," he said quietly, catching her hand before she'd put it to him. "I want your mouth to be the first thing I feel."
He answered her look of consternation with a warm grin, slid the waistband of his briefs down onto his thighs, letting his cock—hard, thick, heavy—buoy free before he circled his thumb and forefinger around the very base, holding it steady for her.
Then he waited, in hot anticipation, to see how she'd react and, if he was lucky, how she'd use her mouth on his cock. How her lips and tongue would feel.
Whether it was an act of defiance or of acquiescence or supplication, he couldn't have said, but the first thing she touched with her lips was the index finger wrapped around the base of his cock. Her soft lips pressed tenderly to the center segment of the digit, between two knuckles, she turned her eyes up to him, and he was taken by surprise by the thought that she'd just done the sexiest thing possible.
Still gazing up at him then from under those canopies of thick, dark lashes, she opened her mouth and let just the tip of her tongue, deep pink and glistening, touch the head of his prick. In a movement so slow he could hardly perceive it with his eyes, though his cock was well aware of what was going on, she slid her wet tongue in a languorous circle over the lavender dome. She did that for a long time, giving him nothing but the softest brush of her tongue in slow circles winding for a while in one direction, then the other, until a liquid pearl had formed at the tip, at the center of her swirling licks, and when enough had gathered that it threatened to drop, and run in a little whitish rivulet through her tongue's path, she ran the pointed tip of her tongue over the little slit at the tip of his cock, taking the pearl of fluid with it and making him shudder.
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Next she curved her hands over his ass, taking a firm, hungry hold, and enveloped the sensitive head of his cock with her soft, wet lips. Over and over she sucked him in, just deep enough that her lips closed just behind the ridge of the dome, let him out, letting him feel the thrill of the cool air hitting the spit coating him, then sucking him in again, and again, keeping her lips soft, the thrill subtle.
He resisted his urge to take hold of her head, to pull her against him, driving his cock into that hot mouth of hers. He liked the way she was denying him, even as she sucked him, making him wait. Now her mouth had only taken him in another half inch or so, and the slightly rough surface of her tongue was vibrating deliciously at the underside of his dick, just behind the ridge, driving rippling, tickling waves through his gut. It would really be something, he thought, as he caught himself groaning, if, after the way he'd eaten her earlier, she made him cum without ever really taking him into her mouth.
But just as he thought it, he felt the length of his cock sliding through the tight little “O” of her lips, her tongue, caressing the underside in firm strokes. God damn, this woman liked giving head. And she was fucking good at it. It felt so good, and he was so strung out on the cruel anticipation only another's caress can elicit, that he almost forgot that he hadn't meant to cum in her mouth. She was just starting to really suck his cock, taking inch after inch of rigid shaft between her lips, but he gathered the will to deprive himself the pleasure of climaxing, his cock stuffed deep in her mouth.
"That's enough, Vanka."
She stopped immediately, but it was a few seconds before she backed off, sliding her hot, wet mouth off of his cock. She looked up at him, surprised. Confused.
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"I haven't forgotten that you wanted me to fuck you."
Now she just looked embarrassed, kneeling there by his vivid cock, shiny with her saliva, being reminded of her . . . invitation.
"Pick up one of those condoms."
He tugged his briefs up with a snap of elastic against his skin and waited until, after a few seconds' hesitation, she did as he'd asked. Then he extended his hand to her and helped her up, and led her over to the dining table, a few feet away. With a grin he tugged his shorts down, this time letting them drop to his feet and stepping out of them altogether. With a directing glance at the item in her hand he said,
"Open it."
Again she paused before carrying out the instruction, tearing through the foil and pulling the little rolled up sheath of latex, slightly gooey with spermicidal lube, from the wrapper.
"Now put it on me."
As if she'd been about to say something, but had changed her mind, she opened and closed her mouth, then, bending her head, she seemed to be studying the thing with . . . unexpected interest. Somewhere, under the canopy of her hair, where he couldn't see, she was fidgeting with it. Then, finally, he saw her face tilt up from under her hair, watched as she lifted the condom, which quivered delicately in her unsteady hand, touched the cool, moist membrane to the tip of his dick, and curving her fingers around him in a soft, open fist, unrolled the rubber down the length of his shaft.
It was very possible she'd never put a condom on a man before.
"Panties off, now."
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As she slid them off, he noted with a degree of pleasure that she was good and limber, at least through the backs of the thighs. The moment she stood, completely naked, he moved slowly, deliberately forward, driving his body through the space separating them, against the warm, yielding flesh of her naked body, forcing her back until she was pinned between him and the edge of his dining table. Resting his hands lightly on her hips, with one foot, then the other, he forced her into a wider stance.
He looked down. Took in the discreet view from above of her naked sex—god, women looked so naked when they had no pubic hair—at the summit of the wide triangle of empty space between her open legs. Open. To him. Her first stranger. Her first fuck. Her first sex without the precondition of love, or at least some promise of its potential.
He moved his hips subtly forward, with the unsubtle result that the underside of his erect, condom-sheathed cock pressed against her sex—the base insinuating itself between the plump lips of her cunt, the head nestling against the faint outcurve of her belly.
As if he was about to kiss her he leaned forward, bringing his mouth so near hers he could feel tiny, rapid gusts of her breath on his lips. But before their mouths would have touched he took hold of her wrists, forcing them back, back, behind her, all the while making her lean farther and farther back, until he planted her hands for her on the smooth surface of the table, so that her torso was suspended at an alluring angle beneath him. Then, with a grin, he straightened up, squatted a bit, grasped her legs behind the knees, and rose, tilting her hips to an advantageous angle. He had her 49
perched wantonly at the very edge of the table, legs bent and spread, ready for the taking.
Fuck, it was a pretty picture—one that was made irresistible, unforgettable, by the expression on her face. Desperate, fearful anticipation. The look of someone who kn
ows that in taking what she wants, she will be leaving something of herself behind.
Slowly, watching her face the entire time, he slid the thick length of his needful cock into the close, wet grip of her.
Inside her, he waited. Savored. Let linger the visceral awareness of what he was doing to her. What she—all this—was doing to him.
Then he began to move. To fuck her. Because their bodies were barely touching except where her cunt gripped his cock, every tiny bit of friction between their flesh was loud. Vivid. He speculated that her body might be as unused to this kind of fucking—the way their bodies were fitting into each other in this moment, with no kiss, no embrace—
as she was unused to this kind of fucking—being with a man who didn't know her, didn't love her. It made him feel wicked. And feeling wicked made him hot and hard and hungry.
To him, his body felt like water, a tide flowing into her. Slow. Each time he rolled in she had time to feel how he pushed her body open, and every time he receded back, he knew, she felt his body pulling at her. Slow as he was going, she was already all quivery, already making the sweetest little noise with each change of direction as the wave of him rolled in, then out.
Hot and hard and hungry. He wanted. Needed. More.
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He fell over her, planted his hands beside hers, let their bellies press together, warm and moist. Brought his face close to hers, made her see how he was watching her. Hearing her. Taking in the little furrow at the center of her forehead, the way her top lip was quivering, the way her eyes would hold his gaze for a while, then flicker down along his body, blatantly taking stock of him, until they would settle on the sight of his cock slowly drilling in and out and into her cunt.