“Hey!” she cried, as he raised himself to kneel between her legs – but his face told her he knew exactly what was doing to her. He reached out his hands and held her two ankles, stretching her legs wide, wide, wide. And held himself still inside her. And looked at her. She was panting still, her belly and her hips still searching for orgasm. He seemed determined to delay her, waiting until her tension diminished, waiting until she was no longer close.
She felt stroked by his gaze as his eyes wandered from her face to her breasts to the junction where their bodies met. The tendons in her inner thighs stretched against the pressure of his hands. She felt not the least self-conscious, not the least unsure. She knew her power. She knew her beauty in that moment.
He took a few warm up strokes and then, oh he fucked her, as hard and fast as she had wanted. All the force she had longed for came at her, and she softened her body into it, allowing her hands to curl, soft, near her shoulders. Her breasts and belly bounced with the rhythm of his thrusts, and she let them. She watched him watching her, watched as his eyes traveled the length of her body, up her legs, and then, without warning, he pulled one foot to his mouth and sucked her big toe, swirling his tongue around it, even a he continued to fuck her fast and hard.
In a decade and a half or more of fairly exuberant sex, Fran had never had her toes sucked – certainly not while she was being fucked. The sensation astonished her. He moved with incongruous slowness and diligence from one toe to the next, giving equal, focused attention to each. And with each toe, his warm grip on her ankle shifted, which changed the angle of her leg, which changed the angle of his steady, fast, hard fucking. And then he licked along the arch of her foot – and Fran didn’t know which did more to her: the sensation of his tongue along the sensitive underside of her foot, or the sight of it. He kissed and nibbled her arch, eyes closed, as though he were savoring some rare treat.
He did it all again to her other foot, and Fran watched him, her hands finding their way of their own accord to her breast and her clit. When he had done and he opened his eyes, he saw her busy hands and made a noise of heady approval.
Then everything changed again. He brought her legs together, her toes in the air, wrapped his arms around them, and pressed them together against his chest. And his fucking changed utterly. Now, his eyes fixed on her face, he gave one hard thrust and was still. And then another thrust, and still. And then a long minute of shallow, slow fucking, just the tiniest movement inside her, and two hard, deep, fast thrusts, and then still.
He kept on fucking her, surprising her, and she surrendered to it, anticipating each change, unable to anticipate anything, and utterly focused on him. Now quick and shallow, now steady, deep, hard, intense – and now the barest movement, his cock almost – not quite – almost still, deep deep inside her. His hands were moving on her thighs, still pressed against him, and he turned his head to kiss and bite her feet. Fran couldn’t tell if she felt more worshipped or more subjugated to his will. Whichever it was, she handed herself over to it, bit by bit. She saw sweat on his forehead, on his chest. His jaw was tight and his brow was furrowed in concentration, in effort. She closed her eyes, giving herself him without any reservation.
And that’s when it came. He planted both her feet flat against his chest, his hands folded over her insteps, and he leaned over her to press her knees into her chest. She was folded up, aware of her own body pressing against itself, aware of his cock waiting at her entrance, waiting. Then he fucked her fast and deep, the angle of his penetration unlike anything she had known, the warmth of his chest against the bottoms of her feet a beguiling adjunct to the vulnerable depth of his cock inside her. She tucked both hands between her thighs and rubbed at her clit, so near the edge she could scream – she did scream, and she could hardly tell when she crossed from building tension to exploding tension. With each wave of release came another of build-up, so that she hovered endlessly at a peak, moaning and breathless and mouthing words she couldn’t find. And in the middle of it, he changed again, releasing one of her feet to his side and hooking the other over his shoulder, so that she was split open to him, still coming. Her hands reached for him and he leaned in to kiss her, her leg stretching and pressing between their bodies. She struggled for air, kissing and coming, as he fucked and fucked into her. His own breath came in grunting spasms, the tension pulsing through his body matching her vibrating, spinning awareness. She was swimming, lost in her drugging, suspended orgasm. Her fingers tangled in his hair, her teeth in his neck, urging him to join her, knowing that only his release could bring her final satisfaction.
“Come. Micky. Come in me.”