It’s better if we don’t talk.

I sit in a perfumed cloud of semen and spicy sports deodorant; my hands are mine again.

After a brutal week at work our meeting was spur of the moment, motivated by watching him in a porno gangbang with two women who didn’t look unlike me.

He picked me up in the hallway and carried me into my room.  His skin was damp from the rain.

“You just need someone to fuck you, don’t you?” he growled in my ear.  “To make no decisions, to just be taken.”  It was almost a hiss.

I only barely nodded as his mouth crushed mine and his hands gripped my breasts.

I had on boots and a blazer over my sundress; when he got up to kick the dog out I peeled off the coat and sat nervously on the edge of the bed.  He turned to me and wrapped his hand in my hair and tilted my head back.  “You don’t have to say anything,” he said and bent down and kissed me again.

David is a punishing lover, a Romanian coach of sorts.  Brutal, demanding, and then filled with pride and kindness when I comply.  I find myself wanting to comply.  A lot.

His lips were soft, his five o’clock shadow gruff, his hands hot and seeking.  He stroked and pet my pussy and bit my flesh; his clothes melted away and I reveled in the cloth that covered mine, but not his.

He jammed his fat cock down my throat and crooned to me as he went balls deep, his hand hooked into me and began to slap at me.  I suckled on a ripe testicle, arched my back, moaned, breathed in his soapy skin and filled his cupped hand with ejaculate.

He moaned and quivered above me and kept at me.  Cock swollen and banging against my cheek, my pussy throbbing, my chest heaving.

Clothes had to come off now, boots unzipped.  I must be unfettered.

He climbed up onto the bed and slid his cock between my breasts and squeezed them together, his balls on my chin and perineum soft against my nose and lips.   I felt exposed, humiliated, then empowered as he gently turned my face towards his sweet, puckered ass.

“Lick it, you dirty girl,” he panted as he stroked his cock between the mounds of my breasts.

I flicked my tongue, afraid, yet curious.  The giant man straddling my face tensed and froze as I fluttered my wet tongue around his anus.

His fingers hooked back into me and began to jerk me up to orgasm.  The pressure built and I bit his cheek as I came again and created a puddle between us.  He laughed almost maniacally and climbed off of me and rolled me over to my side and helped me up to my knees.

He told me to put my head down on the bed and to spread my cheeks for him.  I felt shame and a thrill, a duality I am not familiar with.  He grunted approval and slipped a finger into my cunt, then another, and maybe another.

My shoulders went numb and a hand dropped away as his arm pistoned into me.

He slipped a finger into my ass and my other hand dropped away as I gripped the bedding for purchase and leaned back against him.

“Please,” I panted, my face pressed into the mattress.  “Please, please fuck me.”  It was a whimper now.

There was a pause while he rolled on a condom and I felt his hands back on my hips as he gently pushed me onto my back, spread my knees and pushed into me as his mouth met mine.

I don’t know how long it’d been since we’d coupled, but as the rain pattered on the window feet from my head I thought about what a gift my body was, his body, everyone’s body.  That we are capable of such existential bliss through a physical act is nothing short of magic, a breach across divides.

He slammed into me and held my wrists.  He pinned my arms, he bit my nipples, he spanked my flanks with bruising blows.  He went wild on me and I met his crashing waves with my sea wall, unbroken, yet drowned in his needs to push me under the surface of my sanity.

When he pushed my legs together and held my wrists behind my back I began to sob as the orgasm seeped into me.  I imagined the other blonde, buxom women he’d pounded in the video and how they had become flushed and breathless.  How their hips and bellies and breasts had rippled with each passionate thrust of his hips.  How they had loved his cock — marveled over it — and here it was in me.  It was mine.

I came harder then and cried out that I was cumming and with my cries I heard him lose it.  He roared his climax, pulled out and ripped off the condom; I began to sob with release as hot ropes of his cum crisscrossed my back and landed in my hair.

I lay prostrate and jerked with sobs and laughter.  He stroked my temple and asked if I was ok.  I nodded that I was and he kissed my head.

“I hate to leave, but I was supposed to head out to the campground when you texted me an hour and a half ago, but I couldn’t miss out on this.”  I understood.  David and I aren’t so great at talking anyway.  His “no guts, no glory” approach to life is too harsh for someone as sensitive as me and I am often left scratching my head and feeling oddly defensive and misunderstood.  We do much better when all we do is fuck.

He got a towel and gently wiped my back clean and sat beside me.  I hooked an arm over his thigh and hiccupped receding sobs.  “See,” he said, “I knew this is just what you needed.  You seem much calmer now.”  He chuckled.

“You’re right.  This is just what I needed,” I agreed.

I got up and had to steady myself, my head was light, my limbs heavy, my hands numb.  I pulled on a sundress and we kissed by the front door.  I wished him a good time camping and thanked him for the good time.

“Bye,” I said as I was closing the door.

The last thing I heard him say was to chuckle and make fun of how I’d said it.

It really is better if all we do is fuck.

 

 

7 thoughts on “It’s better if we don’t talk.

  1. Jesus Christ, woman! That was phenomenal, though I can see how he is far too primitive for a woman like you. Still, it is beautiful when you are able to lose yourself in a spell of primal sex.

    • Haha I wasn’t at all left in the lurch regarding aftercare. We spent enough time just laying and touching that I was ok.

      Regarding the mockery, yeah, he’s a butthead. He reminds me of a steam roller and I’m still figuring him out. I’ll address it when the time is right; I am trying to avoid an argument because currently my irritation with it is low enough to justify the fantastic sex and once we argue, I very likely won’t want to fuck anymore.

  2. Pingback: I'm dating too many men. - A Dissolute Life Means...

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