No Words 22

“Oh.” His eyes, still half-lidded with sleep moved over her body, no reservation, just desire.

She straddled him quietly, opened his pants, and held his early erection in her hand. Then she licked the palm of her free hand and used that to stroke his shaft until he was fully hard. She scooted closer to him, wrapped an arm around his neck, and began rocking her vulva against him. She was slippery wet from the minutes of watching him, remembering him.

With her lips at his ear, she said, “Can you feel how I want you?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. Still his hands were at his sides.

“Do you want me?”

“Yes.” The strain in his voice shot through her.

“I wanna put you inside me and ride you right here on the sofa. Can I do that?”

“Okay, Frannie.” And this his hands were on her at last, on her thighs, her hips, her waist, her breasts, her shoulders, her back, roaming wildly over her skin as she lifted herself slightly and positioned him at her entrance.

“Want it?” She looked him in the eye and squeezed her muscles around the head of his cock.

He responded with a squeeze of his hands on her ass. “Yes.”

She inched lower, squeezed again, holding his gaze with her eyes. “Want more?”

“Yes.” He pushed down on her hips, but she resisted. “Frannie.”

She teased him, shifting minutely so that just the head of cock moved inside her, tiny, tantalizing movement that made him close his eyes. With swift fingers, she unbuttoned his shirt so she could run her hands over the taut muscles of his chest.

A dirty grin stretched across her face as she decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. She gave one hard thrust down, taking all of him into her, then back up, so that the head just clung to her entrance, and then she was still. And then another thrust, and still. And then a long minute of shallow, slow fucking, just the tiniest movement, and two hard, deep, fast thrusts, and then still. Now quick and shallow, now steady, deep, hard, intense.

But rather than surrender to her, as she had to him, he took control from her. In an instant, with an arm around her waist, he tossed her to belly on the couch, one leg dangling over the edge. With a palm pressed against the center of her back, he filled her completely with his cock. And he began to fuck her, both palms now flat on her shoulders, pounding into her without subtlety. He was still half dressed, the wool of his pants against her legs and ass.

Fran wanted to put a hand on her clit, but with the pressure on her back, she couldn’t lift herself enough to move. She could barely even rock her clit against the couch, so thoroughly had he pinned her. So her pleasure grew steadily but with torturing slowness, expanded from her pelvis to her thighs and belly, until it seemed to fill her up, too full, so she had to release it in little gusts of noise with each thrust. Still he fucked her, steady, fast, hard, and still her pleasure grew, beyond her will, pulling sounds from her she had never made before. When she came, she let out raucid, agonized groans. And he groaned with her. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He kept fucking her. He slapped her ass – hard, really slapped it. And then he brushed his palm over the spot, soothing away where it stung. And then he slapped again. Hard. And again. And then soothed again, soothed with light, warm strokes of his palm. Another slap, and then he scraped up her thigh with his fingernails – still fucking her, still pressing down on her shoulder with his other hand. Fran had a sense that her body was not her own, that the sensations that overwhelmed her were his as much a hers.

When she comes a second time, he leaned over her, fucking her slowly, and whispered into her ear.

“Is it quiet now?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

“We’re not done,” he said, and lifted himself off of her, out of her. “Go the bedroom and kneel on the bed with your hands on the wall.”


“Right now. Go.”

With a quick glance at him, feeling both satisfied and hungry for more, she trotted naked up the stairs, knelt on the bed, put her hands on the wall and waited for the sound of his feet on the stairs.

And waited.

And waited.

“Mick?” she said.

Then, louder, “Micky?” The sun was rising through the window, the first gold of dawn casting color across the room.

“Stay there,” he called.

At last he came, his steps tormentingly slow. When he appeared at the doorway, he had  an open bottle of olive oil in his hand. His face looked dark, not angry but… almost.

“Uh. What’s that for?” She turned to him and moved her arms over her torso, feeling suddenly exposed. Vulnerable.

“Keep your hands on the wall. It’s for making you come. To make it quiet.”

“Oh.” She moved her hands back to the wall, but kept her eyes on him. Her heart was beating faster now and she couldn’t quite tell how much that was due to arousal, and how much to the disconcerting lack of control, the not knowing what would happen next.

He put the bottle on the bedside table and began stripping off his clothes. His eyes never left her body, and her eyes never left his, but his gaze was predatory, possessive, thunderous, while hers was watchful, as a fencer tracks her opponent before a thrust.

When he was naked, he picked up the bottle and climbed on the bed and knelt behind her. His whole body conformed against hers, his calves outside her calves, his thighs outside her thighs, his hips aligned with hers, his chest pressed to her back. Suddenly she felt an odd cold sensation on her back and gasped – then realized he had just poured a quantity of olive oil between them and it was dripping down her back and his chest. He leaned back and massaged it into her skin, spreading it from her shoulders to her knees, from her spine to her sternum. His hands, slick and strong, covered every inch of her torso, slathering her breasts and belly and arms with the oil.

With his cheek on her shoulder, his teeth scraping her skin, and his arms wrapped around her, he entered her from behind. As he fucked her slowly, all she could do was receive his caresses and his thrusts. She pressed her palms against the wall, accepting the sensations of his body, slippery against hers, rocking her. His hands moved up her arms to her wrists, and his fingers tangled with hers, turning her hands inward, her palms facing each other. He pushed her forward so that their elbows were against the wall. Braced thus, he began a storm of fucking, hard and fast and so deep she felt him against her womb. Fran dropped her head between her shoulders.

When his hands moved to her waist, her hip, her back, her breasts, caressing her slick skin, she used the freedom to put a hand on her clit, granting herself the wide, tugging circles her body craved. But he grabbed her wrist – both her wrists – and pushed her downward, her elbows on the mattress, her ass rising into the air. The change in the angle let him even deeper inside her and she cried out with the agonizing pleasure of it.

“Is it quiet?” he asked from behind her, his voice coming through gritted teeth.

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