You were puttering around in your closet when I decided to
surprise you there. You were on tip-tip toes, your arms spread
wide above your head, when my hands closed around your wrists,
pressing them down onto a shelf. I pressed myself against you,
scraping my shadow along the back of your neck.
How could you not? There is something about that burning scrape that is so pleasurable to you that your skin pebbles and you gasp. And moan. And you ground yourself back against me, arching your back, wriggling your hips and ass in a belly-dancer's figure-eight until I was hard enough for you to feel the heat from me. I released one of your wrists long enough to open my pants and free my dick, then I pressed it against the thin silk of your pajama bottoms, searing you with my heat.
You tried to turn around; you wanted to taste my lips. Wanted to run your fingers across my head and pull me toward you. But my hands held your wrists firmly in place. Words weren't necessary. The band of my fingers around your wrists communicated everything you needed to know. You drew your legs together and arched your back so your ass flared into me and you let your head drop between your arms. Staring at your toes, you sighed. A sigh of longing. A sigh of surrender. I knew what that sigh meant, of course, and with a squeeze, I released your wrists.
You held your position. Held it even as my hands slid down your arms and around to fondle your breasts. I teased your nipples until they were long, hard points of longing, until your breath was coming in tormented gasps, until you were dizzy and writhing.
You could feel that wetness as I pushed the silky pants down over your ass. Felt the hot smear of it on your thigh. I swilled my fingers in it, teasing your labia, pretending to have difficulty finding your clit. You started begging and bucking, trying to force that slippery electric contact. But my fingers eluded you, frustrated you. Slipped deep inside you and out again, arrhythmic. It was maddening. Ratcheting up your arousal level without building up orgasmic tension. You wanted to grab my hand and put my fingers on your clit and rub them there -- there -- There!
But you didn't. You held your position stretched out in the closet, fingers clinging to the top shelf, body arched and swaying, and let me do whatever I wanted. It felt too good to stop.
When you felt the head of my dick nudging between your lips you thought you would scream with relief. You were trembling with the tension, aching for that moment of penetration. And it was upon me.
I was upon you. Up in you. Pushing slowly, wedging myself into you, my hands gripping your hips.
You took me into you, into the warm and slippery heart of you, and when I could go no further, you clamped down on me, trying to enclose the length of me, to prevent the inevitable prelude to aching emptiness: my withdrawal.
We remained that way for a long moment, my chest pressed against your back, my breath stirring the hair near your ear. And we breathed together, and as we did the two of us became as one. Breathe in... Clench and hold... Release. Breathe in... Clench and hold... Release. A dozen times, perhaps more, and then we began rocking together, eventually breaking that rhythm to collide against each other, our bodies thudding, thudding, thudding. Faster and faster.
Breathing sexual fire, trembling on the verge of orgasm, you sank your teeth into your forearm and screamed your release. I hastened to meet you there, jabbing upwards into you, my fingers biting hard into your flesh. You felt that pulsing, heard that sound I make, that balls-deep groan that signifies an intense orgasm.
And then my scruff on your skin again. Making you hiss and twitch as you hung by your fingertips from the shelf, unwilling to trust your wobbly legs to bear your weight.
Love is a noun and a verb. Something we are, and something we do. It fills you even now, brimming between your thighs. And it smells wonderful. Yes, love has a scent. A potent, unmistakable fragrance.