PLAUDITS OF THAT UNLETTERED MOMENT (con't) -- #6
Pushing pass the
snug wetness of her cleft, he toggled her engorged clit. With a startled gasp,
she jumped. She was the fickle sweet
candy that dripped when made moist, demanding the attention
of his rigid peppermint stick.
"Oooow!"
slipped along with his fingers, it more the banana peel pratfall waiting, but
avoided by deft urgency. She moved with
a slight hesitancy not knowing how he wanted her to react.
“Trust me.” His
finger continued to play. "Let
go... let me...." Adventurous play
was always the champagne cocktail enjoyed when uninhibited.
Lust without
love was the ridiculous and vain and sad attempt of poverty to appear
rich. Love was candlelight that no
windstorm could extinguish. She felt
the dizziness of the freedom of love.
Could she give
herself over so completely? So many
times, she brought herself to this point, but someone else stroking her core
intimacy was the ultimate foray and the ultimate surrender. Bit by bit she allowed the barriers to
topple, opening herself both literally and figuratively to this longed for
invasion. She had always doubted anyone
could truly play her cords of reaction with such precision, but with James it
was as if he was in her mind, knowing the musical score before she even created
the arrangement. He made it easy to let
go. So, her answer came in a rush of
soft, pleading murmurings, "So
good... more... more... touch me more... please." Why
was it so easy? Love was the natural
lubrication.
Her words
drizzled around him, plinks of sound splattering against his ears like a soft
summer rain. The encouragement wasn't
needed, yet, he enjoyed knowing he could bring these feelings forth, that he
could make her pussy flow with the simplest touch. He wanted more, wanted to hear her beg
louder, scream with need, take her to mountain tops and push her off the edge
of pleasure into bliss. The afore were
the feathers of the broad wing of grand passion. None of this was actual perceived thought,
but more the subconscious, steering his every movement instinctively.
He moved two
fingers downward and into her cunt, dilettantes shoving hard, burying inside
her, not satisfied with entry alone, but discovery. He twisted fingers, wiggled them, learning
what pleased her more and then duplicating that movement. Compromise was always an effective umbrella
but a poor roof, so just her sate and enjoyment was an incomplete act. He sojourned for more, peering beyond wetness,
trekking for orgasmic rapture.
Granted, she was
so wet they slipped in easily and she pressed herself against him, hard,
helping all to achieve depth.
Chaos was oft
the music score upon which passion was written.
His fingers were independent spelunkers searching. “Can you feel that?"
“Yes... oh
yes... more!"
Discovery was
said to be an accidental meeting of a prepared mind. For months he had told her what he wanted of
her. His details were seductive and
succinct. She encouraged that dance as
if a poem and the movements were words.
These fingers were just the introduction to a greater want, one she
willingly shared.
One more finger
was granted the pleasure of her warm wetness.
Cyndy gyrated a raw acceptance of its entry. Her base reaction was the frolic of the
instinct of fuck. These three fit so
well, and campaigned to excite her further.
"More."
"Fuck!"
"More. I have to have more!"
"Fuck
harder to show me your deep crave."
"There. Can you feel my want?" Her movement was so primal, as she grinded on
his hand.
One additional
finger was added and he pumped her.
Using aggressive handholds and motion, James forced his will on the soft
lips of a willing cunt.
Pain was oft the
vinegar from the wine of hope. She knew
his hope, full penetration and the harmony was, that was also her hope. So the pain was inconsequential, yet, in some
inexplicable way skated the rim of dark pleasure as her hips bucked against
him, and her pussy spread wider and wider, making it easy to slip his entire
hand inside her. It was the playful dog
that frolicked in the sweet Spring meadow, romping, rolling, digging, and
fetching.
It took no time
before she went wild, beyond feral, fucking his hand with primitive
urgency. She the aboriginal vessel of
his pleasure, gifting uninhibited thrusts to prove her value as well as her
exaggerated need to please him. She was
almost oblivious that every actions she provided also pleased her, but her body
was not and the bliss was transcended in her fucking harder and harder. Had she ever been fisted? She had done herself, but his hand was far more
the challenge and brought more celebrated rewards.
Blood redirected
to his crotch, as his cock grew and throbbed and pushed, desperately wanting to
exchange his fist with his rigid, ravenous shaft. Fisting was a metaphor, but fucking was,
simply that. Good fucking was the only
investment that never failed lovers.
Found under the oppressive grip of an adolescent wanting to awkwardly
put his cock into a willing cunt, he moved as if he was dulled by the pain of
stupidity. A cleansing breath evacuated
some urge, and lathered a resolve to slow down.
Control it.
Fight it.
He wanted her to
get closer, and then cool her down and bring her back up and cool her
down. A roller coaster of sensations
that would ignite the savage slut she covered with her librarian facade. He wanted every shard of inhibition
dissolved, and he wanted her orgasm to be like none other. He could only do that by denying himself just
a bit more. He could tell she was on the
brink and he yanked his hand out.
"No! Fuck me...
Damn you! Fuck me. Now!"
Imagination was
intelligence with an erection. Power was
the grandest of all aphrodisiacs. James
drove his fist, lifting her onto her toes.
"I'll fuck when I fuck you.
Understand?"
"Yes."
He expressed a
bit more force. "Do you
understand?"
"Yes."
The hand was
corporally removed.
"More!"
In response, he
ground his cock against her sopping wet cunt but didn't enter her. Whimpers bled through her lips. Incomprehensible sounds followed. She fought against her captured wrists. Her hips wiggled and strained, inartistic
movements, demanding his cock find its place.
Cyndy was full of barbarous desire, roughhewn with a purpose, willingly
rejecting his authority, all for the want of his cock, deep in her pussy. This uncivilized crave made her akin to the
rutting beasts that howled, cutting night's darkness with shameless
shards.
He kissed her
neck giving her the very autograph of love.
A line was a dot that went for a walk as his kiss drifted from the
initial spot.
"That's
lovely."
"You are so
easy to be close with."
She was the
crazed woman that hoarded used tea-towels and polished sterling silver
spoons. She had freed herself to become
one with whatever he was about.
Her pussy lips
opened easily and this time he crooked his fingers inside her wet heat,
slightly lifting, stirring her further as he inhaled her musk. It made him ache with the near pain of want.
Withdrawing his fingers, he snapped the sticky tips against her clit. He knew the pain would jointly arouse her
more yet keep her orgasm at bay.
Imagination was,
of course, what a fertile mind did for a living. Cyndy did not latch onto the concept that he
was deliberately delaying her pleasure.
She had boarded the fancy teacup ride and was spinning freely.
James was a
naughty man who wore the halo of a schoolboy.
Each action was a seductive liar, polishing an elaborated Paul
Bunyanesque tale.
And then
abruptly, his entire fist pressed against her vaginal hole, pressed and pushed
and pushed and pressed until she was screaming and pushing back. "Yesssssss! Do it!"
Thoughts were the fertile seeds of action. Her words were the pop music of their lust,
and that rock and roll was the fast food that ate the world. Could skepticism be the chastity of their
minds? She hoped not, she wanted all he
could give; immediately.
And he did. He plunged his fist into her pussy. Her
flame-hot, creamy walls clamped around his hand and she fucked it as hard and
wildly as she could. It filled that
empty ache that had been part of her world for all too long, not just the
physical fist-fucking but all the emotions attached to it. (to be continued)
***
Angelica Hart and Zi ~ Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
www.champagnebooks.com - www.carnalpassions.com - angelicahartandzi.com
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