Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Romance

Summary

Finding passion on a Sunday morning...

Summary

Finding passion on a Sunday morning...

Content

Submitted: August 06, 2017

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Content

Submitted: August 06, 2017

A A A

A A A


They lay in Sunday-morning lackadaisicalness, watching dust sift down from the rafters in the sunbeams, little universes swirling up in the eddies of the convective currents from the warmth of the room. Their thoughts turned, each in turn, to childhood loves. They lay, fumbling for meaning from memories half-glimpsed through the haze of the years. They dreamt of loves that could have been—of children they’d known who were now adults, lovers, workers, dreamers, poets, writers, songstresses. “I haven’t known you that long,” she said. He shook his head. “Seems like we’ve known each other well enough. Caught sight of one another in dreams. You saw me in a poem. I saw you in a song…” The traffic on the road outside their house dwindled as the church-rush subsided. She remembered being a child in the midst of a congregation, the floral smell of starched slacks and men’s collars perfuming the air. The old church. My old church. “I cannot…” she began, then she said, “Make me forget…”

The hauntings of heretofore unremembered pains faded away as he began to kiss her neck. “There,” she said, as his lips found her earlobe and nipped at the soft flesh there. “There…” she expired, as he moved along her hair line, his fingertips firm against the nape of her neck. His appetite for her could not be contained. She is something fine, rare, delicate, he thought, but more than that. She is a spirit. I’ve looked for her for so long. He strained against the sudden impulse to climb atop her. He reigned in that sexual thirst.

He’s having to hedge his passions, she thought, and I love that. But I want him to be on top of me. Climb on me already, dammit! Be my liquor. God, I can feel him pressing up against me with that swelling. Her hands ran over the ridge of his collarbone. Swept over the wings of his shoulder blades. Found the tender flesh of his lower back. Her hands crawled across his spine, over his buttocks, around his waist to where the Wild One throbbed and the head grew hard with each gentle tug. His breath came quicker and quicker towards a build-up that she fully intended on delaying. No coming. Not yet. That’s for later. She felt the ridge just behind the head, the vein running through the center, the little ripple of skin below that. His foreskin was taunt—what had been soft was now turgid, erect. Just the right shape to slide inside.

She’s got me, now. If she’d only squeeze me down there a little harder…words can’t tell her. I can’t verbalize. And then, he was lost in a wash of passion, half-drowned in his emotion, thoughts sent scattered by the tidal sexuality that she was making rise up within him with her gravitas. Something electrical and alive spread throughout his chest, down to his pelvis, settling in the coils that seemed to be humming in his groin. His body became a mouth that wanted to sample all of her. He allowed his kisses to become more—to become nips at the flesh. He suckled at her neck. Ran down over the curve of her shoulder where there was warmth. Then, to the breasts, tracing the curve of each one in turn, pausing to take especial pleasure in a light dusting of freckles which lay like ginger-spice spangles near her cleavage. These little imperfections excited him—gave him something to visualize, to look at, while also giving him view of those double-D breasts of hers. We’re not young roes, here. But what we don’t have in youth, we make up for in passion.

I don’t care that we’re north of 19 and south of 39. Look at how his body has held up. But she couldn’t think. Reason left her. That same attractive force which bound them also made them thoughtless. The blather of false love she’d heard from so many other men…that was soon forgotten. “I love your chest,” she said, her words no more than a sigh. He flung the covers back from her naked body, bearing her to the sunlight, to the sounds of dying traffic outside their window. The dust which floated overhead in the lofty beams of sunlight swirled in the perturbation. An echo of the building of torrid passion between the two lovers. “More than that…I love this…” She ran her hands over his face, his eyes, his lips, his nose. He smiled. “I love that…” Her hands went back down to his cock, lingered for a while on the hard tip that beat in time to his racing heart. “And this…” She lay her hands on his ass, pressed with urgency against his buttocks so that his penis slid along her inner thigh. She took his hand, placed it on her lips—those lips down below, that soft fold of warmth and wetness—and let him sample her arousal. There was a surge in his strength. A redoubling of his kisses. An eagerness to his suckling as his lips roved over her breasts, her nipples, his teeth raking each nipple to full erection. He teased her into a heightened sense of arousal, worked his mouth along her stomach. The scar of a C-section as he passed over it did nothing to deter him. Her body was his, and her body was fine in his eyes.

All these little impressions from the years of her life. She’s showing me, now. I wouldn’t take the flawlessness of a younger woman’s skin no matter what. And those hands…those hands have experience. They know what they want. They don’t tease. The arousal is strong. It’s a current of endless strength. Not the little jets of passion from younger women. Not the spurts of sexual appetite of second-semester university freshmen, that I knew so well when I was 19. Once she starts, she does not stop until she gets what she wants. And she knows what she wants. He whispered her name against her belly, seeing the outline of each abdominal muscle in the sunlit sanctity of their bedroom. It was like a mantra, a spell cast. She undulated beneath him and he eased her legs apart with his knees while pulling off his boxers. His cock was there, hanging rigid and ready to penetrate. Her breasts were still firm. Her stomach flat. Her thighs pleasantly rounded. There was a weightiness to her arms—she was strong, no doubt. She had been a mother once, but her children were grown and none of that mattered. Her lips were just as supple, her hands just as expertly attuned to the nerves of his body, to the nodes of arousal, to pleasure, of feeling. But there was the promise of sudden strength. And now, she showed it.

She could not wait any longer. She heaved upward against him, pushing him off with enough force to surprise him. She let out a little grunt, an animal growl. Now she had him on his back and he relented to her hunger. His cock bobbed up and down, tapping against her ass as she kissed him, her tongue intertwining with his, their lips pressed together. Now it’s time. Now. Now. She lifted her hips, grabbed hold of his cock and slid the head just inside her labia. “Easy…” she told him, and slid herself inch by inch onto his penis. The head was the biggest part, of course—parting her lips, plunging into her where the real warmth, the real wetness was. But the length was what turned her on. She knew whenever he fucked her from behind, it was like someone was taking a meat-hammer to her cervix. But she wanted it this way. He let out a sigh, a groan, as she slid all the way down onto him, letting herself be fully penetrated now that she was on top of him.

Her breasts bounced as she leaned forward and back. He watched her, his hands crawling across her chest, pinching the nipples, clawing against her stomach. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders—he could smell the oils of her body, yesterday’s perfume, the scent of soap. Her hips began to rotate, the movement bringing pressure against the base of his penis as she began to roll her body. His mind went wild with pleasure, with arousal. Nothing was more tantalizing than seeing her body move on top of him—and him, with nowhere to go.

I’ve got you pinned, now. “You’re gonna get me off,” she told him between her clenched teeth, “I’m gonna gush on you and then you’re gonna blow in me…” He’s got to hold it in, though. If he blows before I’m done, I’m gonna make him eat me out, lick my clit till I cum on his face. They’d done it before. Never exactly a simultaneous orgasm, but the orchestration for something like that killed the pleasure of Sunday morning sex. If she came, then he’d blow. But right now, he was filling her up with his shaft, his head turning inside of her, rolling as she rotated her hips. To lift off of him now would take such sheer will that she could never do it. She was locked onto him. She wasn’t letting go. She tightened her muscles, gripped his shaft a little harder—he let out a whimper—and then, she began to work. Back and forth, side to side. Just so his hard cock could caress whatever it was that sent off those alarm bells in her head, that signaled the outpouring of wetness. Not many women she knew could gush—orgasm? Sure. But gush? Not really. It was nothing special—sex was sex. But for her, it was physical proof of her arousal. Of her climax. And so she moved.

He grabbed her hips as she gyrated, and with each gyration he felt himself about to let go—that sensation in the base of his shaft, that ejaculatory precursor of pressure almost akin to the tension before a sneeze. But they had practiced, had fallen in rhythm like dancers who knew their routine. He’d hold it till she came at least once, then he could blow all inside of her. It was this anticipation that made him feel as though he needed to let go now. But he couldn’t. Not that she’d be mad—but there was a deeper connection, it seemed, whenever they both managed to come. And now, he watched with his eyes wide and his buttocks rising up so that she could plunge him deeper inside of her, her right hand running down along over her pubis down to her clitoris. She began to massage vigorously.

She felt it rise up and she managed to squeal, then groan as the sensation rolled like a peal of white-thunder from her clit, down to her toes and settling in her stomach. She came, gushing all over his cock and his pelvis. And he, at last…

He let go all at once, like a trigger pulled. The holding back of the orgasm had only built it up, increased its strength. He felt himself squirt, the ejaculation strong. Semen dripped out from between her lips—he felt it all over him, their fluids mixing, coming together. She smiled as she felt of it.

The two lovers lay in bed, taking turns stroking one another, petting one another, talking about the future and plans and what to do about the upcoming Labor Day celebration. It was Sunday morning and the traffic of the churchgoers let out, the roadways filled once again with life that would soon bleed off into the side streets and leave the roads desolate and empty for a while. At least, until Monday morning when the wheel of industry would start back up and folks went to their jobs or to school. And the sunlight fell in dusty ribbons, capping the bed of the two lovers like a canopy of white light.


© Copyright 2017 Aurora M. Soleado. All rights reserved.

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