Thursday, October 8, 2015

WRITERS WRITE... WRITING PARTNER FEUD ~ IT MAY BE LOVE EXCERPT 6 (erotic)

EXCERPT CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS WEEK


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)


***
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Angelica Hart and Zi ~ Vixen Bright and Zachary Zane
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