Cherry Blossoms

by KT Morrison

  He made her. Forced himself deeper into her mouth with his hand on the back of her neck. His thick cock spread her jaws, dragged on her teeth, filled her mouth from edge to edge. She snorted out her nose. He got harder, his cock swelling and straining in her mouth. Her lips stretched and peeled on him.

  “You’re so fuckin beautiful,” he said, his eyes like lasers on her as he shoved his cock into her, fucked her face with his huge weapon. She struggled with it, struggled to breathe, struggled not to gag. Her spit ran out of her mouth, down his shaft. She took him in both her hands now. Her two fists clenched on it, mashed together above his big fist squeezing himself tight where this thing emerged from his body. She stroked him with the fingertips of her higher hand and she sucked him the way she wanted to. He calmed, moaned and let himself sink into the pillows as she gave him pleasure. He leaked in her mouth, fresh warm and buttery semen, encouraging her. He let his hand off, gave her the whole thing for herself and she took charge. She sucked and stroked, both hands pumping, head twisting, looking good doing it, putting on a show because she knew she was being watched. She flattened him against his belly, laid that wide tool up against him and she swathed her tongue up the bulging cable that ran along its underside. Up and down. Her other hand cradled his balls. They were hot and sticky from their fucking. Hairy and heavy and so fucking large. Even larger than Dino’s big balls. He had thick wiry hair growing along his shaft and it scratched at her delicate pink tongue. Up and down she went, her fingers peeled his foreskin back, when she got to his tip she let him watch her glide the end of her tongue along the frenulum, held his eyes while she did it, brought out a wide mean smile from him.

  “You can fuckin su—”

  She shut him up, plunging his bare glans into her mouth and bobbing on him, her two hands stroking him fast and hard up near his end, twisting and squeezing. He thrust his head back and groaned. She was going to make him come. She was going to show him how its done. She locked her eyes on him, plunged and rolled her mouth on his bursting flared glans, stroking and twisting and jerking. She breathed quickly, encouraging a sympathetic response from him—her excitement was his excitement, and the faster she breathed, the quicker her breaths snorted through her nostrils, the quicker his came. He trembled and strained, the come being sucked right out of his balls like she was pulling it with her mouth. He started a low animal groan and his face turned to a snarl. She could feel him streaming into her mouth and she pulled back, kissed his tip, tongued his hole, ran the pointed tip of her tongue over the burled creases and edges of the bulging head of his cock while she stroked him. He roared as he came, bright white splashes up over her face, their hot wet sting across a cheek, along her nose and in a nostril, she encouraged him, high breathy yeahs as she stroked and then plunged him back in her mouth and felt his hot surges against her cheek and along her soft palate.

  He gripped her suddenly, two enormous hands against her head on either side grabbing handfuls of her hair and pulling her down his massive manhood. She sucked and drank him, her tongue flattened forcefully by his sizeable intrusion. He thrust himself into her mouth and held it. She could feel the tremble of his orgasm in his grip, in his thighs under her elbows. He strained and flexed in her mouth and she held it til his seed only dribbled and leaked. He let her go and slumped, huffing, heaving, his massive chest rising and falling, his hair matted and wet, his skin shining. His cock pulsed in her mouth. His rapid fiery heartbeat pulsing through his throbbing meat. She held it in her mouth until she felt its raging hardness ease, then she let him slide from her.

  Her hand smoothed the underside of him. Examined that secret part of him. As secret as his jeans would allow. He was as wide as her palm, his skin dark and red-brown—she watched as his leathery foreskin slowly curled and wrinkled on its own, climbed up over his end and swallowed up that impressive knot. His balls were big and they hung down and rested on the mattress. She could see his pulse beat in a narrow vein that wriggled along his shaft just above his scrotum. He was frightening between his legs, too big, too gnarly. Just the sight of him like this put a libertine scribble through her belly and she felt her stomach jump. She wasn't done. Her deep itch had been tickled but not relieved. She kissed his scrotum, licked at the folds of skin. Her hand lifted a ball and cradled it on the outstretched underside of her fingers. She kissed it, plumped it with her pouted lips, pushed it past them and into her mouth.

  He groaned up on the pillows, his eyes lowered to watch her, his heaving breaths slowed but still racked his big frame. He had a forearm draped across his forehead throwing a shadow across his handsome face. His cock jumped with his heartbeat. It lay sideways up his belly but it had life, she could see it swell with her attention.

  He sat himself up enough that he could reach her. He gripped her upper arms and pulled her like she weighed nothing, right up his body, her legs bent, her feet bobbing behind her. He laid her out next to him, on her back, rolling over so he was on his knees over top of her. He grabbed the bottom of her shirt, pulled it roughly over her and she stretched her arms out as he yanked it from her. He threw it aside as her hands went behind her and she unclasped her bra. He was impatient, grabbing it and yanking it from her, making her flesh shake. She covered herself with her hands.

  She brought her legs together, her knees up, suddenly demure. She watched him as he looked her over, this weak delicate thing below him. Her ankles crossed over, shielding his eyes from her secret swollen flower.

  “Open your legs,” he said and he put his hands on her small stocking knees. She looked at his gnarly fingers against her smooth flawless flesh.

  “Again?” she asked, tilting her legs to see his hardness rising.

  “You don’t know how fucking hot you are?”

  “I know.”

  “Fuckin lift those knees up. Open it up for me.”

  She lifted her knees higher, her feet bobbing loosely now.

  “Open them,” he said.

  She parted her legs, examined his face when he first saw that thing that was most intimate to her. He got himself between her thighs, on his knees and her feet rested flat on his damp hairy thighs. He took up his freakish wrinkled cock in a fist and he stroked that tip through her crumpling wet folds. They both watched their mucousy connection, his gruesome puckered end running through her shimmering folds, squashing her pink lips, spreading and folding, his shining tip winking out from its dark cloak. He tapped it now against her, each sticky slap sending a thrill up the back of her brain, electrifying her central nervous system in shocking blips. “Ah,” she gasped and she pulled her bottom lip in past her teeth.

  His other hand came in, his thumb curling and mashing against her clit, making her jaw drop. He held her slippery flesh steady as he transfixed her swollen folds with his grotesque medieval weapon.

  “Ahh…awww,” she wailed as he filled her right up again.

  He closed a hand around her throat, made her eyes bulge and quiver, he crushed her with his weight and growled in her ear, “I’ve been wanting to fuck you forever…”

  “Ah, oh…” she gasped as he ran it through her.

  “Since that…day you came…for the interview—”

  “Yeah, ah…”

  “I knew I was gonna fuck you,” he said and he got so deep she could feel his sticky dangling sack in the seam of her ass, felt the weight of a testicle pressing on her sensitive anus.

  “You did?”

  “I could see it on you…”

  “I wanted it…”

  “I know you did,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “You feel so fucking good…so fucking, ah, huge…”

  “Before that…”

  “I know,” she whispered, knowing what he was going to say.

  “You fuckin made out with me…”

  “Dino was, ah…f-fucking me…” she gasped, clenching her eyes and picturing it all over again.

  “He fucked you from behind…and you started kissing me…”

  “Ah�
�I did…” her back arched as he speared her deeply. She clutched his arms with her nails.

  “Fuckin whore…”

  “No!”

  “Yeah, you fuckin whore…”

  “Oh, ah, shit…” she writhed against him, wriggled her hips as he penetrated her, in and out, helped him deliver his passion deep. His cock felt so good inside her when they were wet.

  She didn’t tell him to go slow she didn’t tell him to be careful. She let him decide. She would succumb. Whatever he would do she would survive. And he wasn’t gentle.

  Fucking her raw, coming inside her, coming in her mouth and over her face, none of it had soothed that animal in him. He was as fierce as he was when he’d grabbed her by the hair and threw her on the bed. She made him insatiable. She brought out the man in him, brought out something he craved, something she craved.

  “Fuck me harder,” she whispered in his ear.

  He stood, raised himself up off the bed with her clinging to him, one hand in the small of her back. He got up off the bed, feet on the maple floor—her legs wrapped themselves around his hips, her feet locked, one hooked over the other, his cock still deep inside her. He pressed her to him and he kissed her. The first time she tasted his lips. Their union was not romance, it was fucking. Hard, dirty, cock in pussy, fuck til it hurts, raw dog passion. His lips weren’t welcome. She resisted, pulled her lips away, let his mouth bite and suck at her neck.

  “Just fuck me,” she hissed.

  He laughed, lunged three steps and slammed her back against the stone wall, made her grunt, made his blunt club stab into her guts painfully.

  “Yes!” she cried.

  His hand gripped her roughly at the knee and he forced her leg out and to the side, opened her up for him, exposed her where he’d already spread her wide. His other hand clasped her throat, squeezed her and pinned her to the wall. Then he fucked her. That big cock tearing in and out of her, deeper than it should ever go, bumping her cervix and making her jump, making her feel like her stomach pressed out against her skin, pushing her organs aside. She squinted it away, clenched her face and snarled through gritted teeth, took his pounding, took it and loved it, loved the discomfort, loved his brutal intrusion—encouraged him, fuck me, fuck me, she hissed into his ear, and he never let up, he pounded her, his hips like a driving machine. He plunged and she felt him spread her, he pulled and she felt him drag her thinnest pink parts. Again and again til she thought she might scream. Her eyes stung with sweat, her hair clung to her face and she never had it better, ever. “Fuck me, you fuckin asshole,” she said, and she beat a fist against his neck. She spit on his chin and his neck, a hot passionate hateful spray.

  His skin was hot and wet, his breaths ragged, he wasn’t going to come easy and she wanted to take this pummelling forever. Her head thrashed as she felt an orgasm building. She caught them in her periphery, their reflection, their dirty disgusting licentious reflections in the dresser at the foot of the bed. His massive muscled body slamming her little frame into a stone wall, her leg thrust to the side, her foot dangling, jumping with his thrusts, her other heel dug into his rump, her toes curled. She could see the thick black silhouetted trunk between his legs, impossibly thick, flashing as it thrust in and out of her, saw the ragged swing of his hanging balls. She watched this man fuck her, this ancient Roman gladiator, blood lines snaking back to when men took what they wanted by force, fought and fucked and murdered…she smelled him, felt his sweat, tasted him, bit at his collar. She watched herself bite him, watched his glistening arms as he held one leg and clutched her throat, muscles bulging and flexing, black drawn dragons snaking and writhing under his movements. She watched that big powerful rump drive his cock into her and out of her, her head fell back against the wall, sweat ran in ticklish lines along her neck, out of her hair, down the tendons, pooling in her clavicle, spilling over her breasts.

  She came and she screamed. Screamed in his ear, let it all out, let everything in her that was getting what it wanted celebrate…all that darkness fulfilled, all the evil in her that tickled her fantasies being fed, being stuffed with the nourishment it craved…her late nights touching herself, dreaming of getting it like this…all being fulfilled. Her scream turned to a cry and Rocco covered her mouth, his leathery palm clamped roughly across her chin and her mouth and her nose. She bit at him weakly, but her mouth was committed to pleasure, to chanting oh my god oh my god as she came over and over, a long trembling wave that wouldn’t subside and she thought she might drown in it, get washed away and lost at sea.

  He tossed her limp body onto the bed and she bounced lifelessly on it, dazed and ear-ringing. Vaguely aware of him getting over her, aware of him straddling her with that big cock wagging before he gripped it and stroked it. Her hands went to it, one to his balls to hold them for him, the other mindlessly fumbling at his tip. It winked at her, its interior eye peeking with each stroke, light rimming the swollen lip of his urethra then gone, folded up under his dark ruffled skin. She touched him, clumsily, getting in the way and then it didn’t matter. He was coming again, thick white drops and dashes flopping onto her skin, short streams spurting as his drained testicles struggled to produce something for her. She felt it drop on her chest, over her gently swaying breasts; she put her fingers through it, ran them through his slippery wet evidence.

  She stared at the ceiling, her neck sore and swollen, her shoulders hunched, her heart pounding against her ribs, her ears still rang and her vision jumped with her heartbeat.

  Rocco collapsed somewhere next to her and she bounced with his weight, her hands still idly working through his semen on her skin, her lungs scoring breath, heaving desperately to keep herself conscious.

  The first thing Nia thought of when her eyes came open was that her plane ticket was open ended. Eight flights to Toronto today and she could be on any one of them. She wanted to be home.

  She woke laying sideways across Rocco’s bed. She was naked except for a garter and gold buckled straps holding her torn stockings up her legs. She ached between her thighs. She felt her pulse down there, a steady bulp, bulp through the right side of her beaten vulva.

  She winced as she sat up, her hands gently clasped over her sex. Rocco was asleep in bed next to her, naked, unconscious where he dropped after he’d come on her breasts. She touched her chest—dry now, flaked evidence. Her stomach flipped. She was horrible—what had they done?

  She leaned to help press herself up with one hand, saw cherry red blossoms on the white sheets. She winced, checked her hand, saw no blood. She was okay. She’d bitten him—it could be his. They’d both been very rough.

  It was dark out. Red digital readout on the night side table told her it was four-forty-five in the morning. There was a flight at six. She could be home for breakfast. Her back sobbed suddenly but she held it together. She wanted to be home. She wanted to have breakfast with her family. She wanted to be with the man she loved.

  Then she was up and quietly moving. Left her clothes and lingerie in his room, slipped into her own room and put on yesterday’s outfit. Black top and skirt. Clean bra. Threw out her stockings, went bare-legged, grabbed her toiletries, and she was wheeling her suitcase down the hall behind her ten minutes after her eyes opened.

  She looked sideways at the woman reflected in the gold-veined mirrored wall of the old elevator. This thirty-three year old woman peeking around a thick mane of black hair and looking at her sheepishly.

  She knew Rocco could fuck. She knew it. Didn’t know it would be like that. She looked away before their eyes met and she thought too much on some of the other things that were said. Skeletons in the closet. Deadly skeletons that still had some life left in them, could tear your life apart with their bony claws.

  16

  French Toast

  Monday, July 17th

  GEOFF

  “You okay in there?”

  “Yeah,” she said softly, her draggy voice curling up at the end, contradicting her assurance that she was okay. N
ia had been closed in their bathroom for a while now. Quiet.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Silence.

  “I can’t pee,” she said, muffled, like her head was hanging down between her knees.

  “Why?”

  A long pause… “It hurts.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “No. Don’t hang around the door.”

  “Okay. I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  “Okay,” her voice a hollow echo on the other side of the door.

  He went downstairs to get breakfast ready. It was almost six in the morning now and he guessed that she wasn’t going in to work today. She should be on the road by now if she was.

  He’d fallen asleep in her arms last night. Woken at three in the morning sitting up with her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her gently snoring mouth puffing breaths into the crook of his neck. She had a leg behind him, his were shot straight out, his pants down his thighs and his deflated cock hanging. He got out of bed, carefully, so he wouldn’t wake her. Gave her a pillow to cling to in his stead, covered her with the duvet and went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. Then, on a whim, he got out a deep glass baking tray, made a French toast batter, lined the tray with bread and layers of butter and cinnamon and brown sugar, filled the tray with the egg mix, put it in the fridge to let it soak until breakfast. A sweet treat for the woman he loved before she had to go to work, out to spend the day with the man she’d fucked. Who’d given her the greatest night of sex she’d ever had apparently. He believed her, she wasn’t saying it for his benefit. Whatever had transpired, she was coming to grips with it herself.