Mary Cyn
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Smutfic
🕑 Added 2021-05-16 16:43:29 +0000 UTCMy Criminal Minds obsession has progressed to fanfic.
I've been reading it on AO3 for a while and, tbh, it's been nice spending time in a low-stakes literary environment. Everyone's just writing for fun. Plots and story structure are optional. Mistakes don't matter. Some of it is really good, and when it's bad you don't have any investment in it so you can just stop reading.
I think one of the things that's stalled my writing recently is over thinking. "Is this structured the right way? Does it fit continuity? Is it IMPORTANT? What are the THEMES?" And, frankly, reading very good books wasn't helping.
There are times when reading something great can inspire by example but there are also times when you read a great sentence or plot twist and think "I'm never going to be that good, why even try?"
So I wrote some smutfic just for myself. And I finally posted it on AO3 so I'm posting it here, too. I don't know if it's going anywhere but I like the characters and think there's potential for more interesting stuff in the future.
It's petty tame so far, just hetero vanilla sex. I want to bring in some kink if I keep working on it. But it's pretty simple for now. If you like it, please let me know! I could really use some encouragement in my writing life these days.
“Meet him at Carmine’s,” David told me. “He’ll be wearing a dark suit and a scowl.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“He always does,” David said, a little ruefully. “There, I hope, is where you come in.”
“I’m on it, Chief,” I said with a wink.
I pressed for more details, of course. A suit hardly stands out in DC. Neither does a scowl, come to think of it. So he gave me more to go on; Six foot two, dark hair, pale skin, late forties.
“I’m told he’s good looking,” David added, “By people who ought to know.”
Now that would set him apart in DC.
The restaurant is on the casual side of nice (by DC standards) so I dress on the casual side of discrete, a wine colored dress that falls just above my knees, and soft pink blazer. I look feminine, professional, but definitely not a fed. I could be a decorator, maybe an event planner. I scan the room for a black head of hair, then stop dead when I see him.
“Jiminy Cricket!” I whisper under my breath. I swear a lot, so I like to get creative. David has left me woefully unprepared and I’ve half a mind to turn right around and give him a very stern phone call. Because “good looking” does not cover it. This dude looks like Prince Fucking Charming (plus 20 years, but still.) I walked into this restaurant all confidence in kitten heels and now I’m stopped dead in my tracks trying not to gawp.
Here’s a fun fact about sex workers: hot dudes are our kryptonite. For those of us that are into dudes, anyway, We get so used to faking attraction to mediocre dudes, we sometimes forget that really super hot ones actually exist. Send a hot dude into a brothel and the back room will be atwitter like we’re a bunch of debutants greeting their first gentleman caller. But god forbid David Rossi say another man is hot, so now I’m standing here staring like a jackass.
My guy’s looking at his phone, thank god, so I have a second to compose myself as I walk the last few feet to his table.
“Aaron?” I ask and he looks up at me. Motherfuck, this guy is gorgeous. He scrambles to stand up and greet me.
“Y/n,” he reaches a hand out to shake mine. “It’s good to, um... Thank you for coming.”
I smile and shake his hand, my eyebrow raising a touch at his phrasing.
“I didn’t,” he stammers,” I mean…”
He looks down and clears his throat.
“You must be very busy,” he says. “Thank you for taking the time.”
I’m glad he has the decency to be nervous. Anyone watching us would think this was just a first date.
“That’s sweet of you to say,” I say. He sits down only after I do. “I’m happy to meet you. David speaks very highly of you.”
“I could say the same of you,” he says, eyes trained on the tablecloth. He’s quiet for a minute but I sense he still has something to say. I unfold my napkin and place it on my lap, hoping to make the pause feel natural. I scan my menu till it becomes clear that he’s not ready to say whatever it is yet.
“Do you prefer to be called Aaron or Hotch?” I ask warmly. “David uses them interchangeably.”
“Aaron, please,” he’s still not really looking at me. “Hotch is more of a work name.”
“Of course,” I hum. That pregnant pause remains. After a moment I lean forward on the table a little and gently ask “What’s on your mind, Aaron?’
"I'm not sure this is right for me," he blurts out, his thick black brows drawn together. “Don’t be offended, please. You’re... very attractive. Like I said, I’m sure you’re very busy. Which is why I don’t want to waste your time.”
Oh. Damn. And also, owch a little.
“I appreciate the respect,” I say, drawing back a little. “If I’m not your type I could probably refer you to---”
“It’s not that,” he breaks in, a little embarrassed. “Please don’t think this is anything to do with you. You’re beautiful and I’m sure some part of me will regret refusing this but...”
He trails off, his bright brown eyes avoiding mine. He has a reason, and I’m perfectly willing to wait until he says it. Finally, he does.
"I don't like to think of myself as that kind of man."
Oh. That. I can work with that.
"Well," I venture gently, "maybe there's more than one kind of man. Even among the men that see me."
"I can live without sex," he says flatly.
"Of course you can," I reason. "But why would you?"
Not used to being out reasoned, he stares at the white table cloth. If he had a thought balloon it would only show a dark squiggle.
I reach across the table to rest my hand lightly on his. He looks up at me, gauging my motives. I keep my gaze soft and caring. He's not ready for me to be sexy yet.
“And we're not just talking about sex," I remind him. "You hire someone to take care of your son, why not hire someone to take care of you?"
His eyes flash up to mine, but just for a second.
"I can't pay you to love me," he says, his deep voice flat with finality.
"You can't," I agree. "But you can pay me for affection. You can pay me to listen to you. You can pay me to care, or to at least pretend to."
His eyes flash up to me again, a hint of rage behind them. Honesty is always a risky gambit, but I think it's the only one that will work on him.
"You're a perceptive man, Aaron," I try to say it like a fact rather than a compliment. "And I'm a bad liar. If I’m faking my interest, you’ll know. And our arrangement will end.”
I give the hint of a shrug so he knows that it would be no big deal for either of us.
“But I will say this,” I continue and I make sure his eyes are on mine. “David is a friend of mine, not a client. He’s not a kind judge of character. So if he speaks this highly of you, I know that at the very least you’re a good man and probably an interesting one. You’re obviously very attractive. I can’t promise that I won’t fall in love with you. At least a little.”
There’s a little war happening on his face, a skirmish between embarrassment and pride. I don’t think he’s used to getting compliments. I don’t think he’s used to this much honesty either. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, opening his mouth to respond but never following through. That’s good. I’m not done talking.
"The way I see it is this," I explain. "Every relationship has give and take, ideally in equal measure. In most relationships you exchange emotional energy. But, between raising your son and working a demanding job, you don't have any extra energy to give. So you give me money instead. More than anything, Aaron, you’re paying me to not need you. You’re paying me not to take. So many people need you. Right now, you need someone who only gives."
He’s still silent, but there’s less struggle on his face. His gaze is internal, slowly considering my words, then what his response should be.
“You make a compelling argument,” he admits. He leans back, opening his body up to mine. His scowl stands down and the hint of a smile teases at his lips. “Why aren’t you a lawyer? Or a therapist?”
“Please,” I let out a little shutter. “I’d rather fuck for money than ever go to college again.” My joke is rewarded with a chuckle and I think I may have got him.
“Call tonight a trial run,” I urge him. “Think of this as any other date. We’ll eat together, get to know each other, see if we fit. If we want things to go forward, they will. If not, all it cost you was dinner.”
He considers for one moment more.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Let’s try it.”
“Wonderful,” I smile and catch the attention of the waiter, who comes to take our drink order.
“White wine,” I say.
“Which type?” He asks. I smile and say
“I trust you.”
“Very well,” he blushes a bit at my flirtation then turns to Aaron. “And for you sir?”
“I shouldn’t,” Aaron shakes his head. “I’m driving.”
“Aaron,” I sigh a bit more forcefully than I should. I lay my hand kindly on his and give him a bit of a flirtatious smile. “Do both of us a favor and take a car home.”
And what do you know, I actually got a smile out of him.
A few sips of scotch later he says
“I assume you know what I do for a living.”
“I do,” I said. “But you only need to talk about it if you want to.”
“What else did Dave tell you about me?” I see a touch of that scowl coming back. This could get touchy.
“Not too much,” I say lightly. “A few anecdotes from work, mostly. I know that he likes working for you, which is high praise coming from him. He mostly says you need to relax and that you’d never do it on your own. Hence our introduction.”
He lets out a half laugh, looking into his scotch for a while. I think he wants to say something but he doesn’t. So I let the silence ride for a while.
“Did he tell you about my wife?” He asks. There’s the landmine. I choose my words carefully, but without too much gravity.
“He told me she died,” I let it land gently. I let him see my soft sympathy. “But the circumstances surrounding her death are yours to tell me when, or if, you choose to. Again, Aaron, I’m here for you. You can tell me, or not tell me, anything you want. I’m not a therapist. I’m not here to make you face your trauma or whatever. You just need a release.”
“Rossi has the same job. He doesn’t use you for release?”
“David is Italian, capital I, he’s nothing but release. He eats, he drinks, he smokes, he fucks. He loves recklessly and shouts often. You, on the other hand, are like a dammed river with nowhere to flow. You feel strongly and deeply, and you express none of it.”
He scowls silently for a moment, but doesn’t disagree.
“Did Rossi tell you that?” He asks, taking a curt sip of his drink.
“No. Everything about you told me that; The tension in your body, the perfect knot of your tie, your disciplined poker face and terribly persistent scowl,” I steer my demeanor towards a light teasing, leaning forward and slightly raising an eyebrow. “Though maybe right now it’s more of a glower?”
He snickers a little and looks away.
“Maybe you should be a profiler,” he admits.
“Maybe I kinda am,” I say with a wink. It’s cheesy enough to bring back that touch of a smile to his face.
“Why do you do this?” His eyes lock on mine. I think he’s genuinely curious, though the question holds a rankling shade of captain-save-a-hoe. “You’re very beautiful. You’re obviously intelligent---”
“Oh flattery will get you everywhere,” I break in, fluttering my eyelashes. I’ve heard this speech a thousand times and I’m disappointed he would pull out such an old cliche.
“But seriously,” I sigh. “Very Beautiful and Obviously Intelligent doesn’t look as good on a resume as you men all seem to think it does. The truth is, I’m very good at a lot of things that no one wants to pay me for. But I’m also a very good girlfriend and it’s proven to be my most marketable skill.”
I pause for a moment, daring him to judge me. Instead, he seems impressed.
“Besides,” I let my lips curl into an easy smile. “It’s fun. Remember fun, Aaron?”
He chuckles a little and looks away.
“Dimly,” he jokes and takes another sip of his drink. “What are these other things you’re very good at?”
“You mean, aside from being Very Beautiful and Obviously Intelligent?” I mock preen. “I paint, I dance, I act, I sing.”
“All things that people make a living doing,” he points out.
“And maybe I’ll be one of them someday,” I quip. “But for now I’ll have to content myself with being a sugar baby to DC’s handsomest, broodingest, FBI agents. Sound like anyone you know?”
He makes a small sound, abashed by my brazenness. A small smile plays at the corner of his lips, somewhere between amused and incredulous. I’ve embarrassed him again, and it’s pretty adorable. When he manages to speak again he says.
“I think I like you, Y/N.”
I flash him a big smile, just to remind him what they look like.
“I think you do, too.”
He doesn’t take me home that night. He says he needs some time to think about it. I can tell he wants me but I don’t push it. The man may face death on a regular basis, but if I make a sudden move I think I’ll scare him away. Instead I make sure he has my number and I linger a little when we say goodbye.
“I had a wonderful time Aaron,” I take both his hands and look into his eyes. I know he’s reading my face, my body language. I hope he can tell how truthful I’m being. The battle of the micro-expressions is back on his face but I can’t quite read all the factions. Lust, sure. Loneliness, maybe. But also a stubborn hesitancy and a kind of fear that I can’t quite place.
“I hope you’ll call me,” I prompt.
“I…” I swear, he doesn’t breathe for a full thirty seconds. Finally he says “We’ll see.”
Then he slowly walks away.
When he does call me, he asks me to come to his house. He took his sweet time in calling but now it seems he wants to get straight to the point. He invites me inside and shows me to the bedroom. But he doesn’t seem excited, or horny, or even nervous. He seems...resigned maybe? He’s in full brood mode, so distracted by the storm in his head he barely seems to remember why I’m here.
“Can I get you anything?” He asks, automatically, eyes trained on the floor. “Some water or...something.”
“I’m fine,” I say. I sit on the bed and I wait for him to tell me what’s wrong. It’s a bit of a wait. After a few moments he sits next to me on the bed. Apart from his jacket he’s still in his work suit, tie cinched to the gods. Like he’s almost forgotten he’s wearing it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” He says, voice flat.
“No apologies necessary,” I shrug. “I’m here now.”
Another pause.
“It’s been a year, now,” he says. “Since my wife died. Ex wife, I mean. Sorry.”
The plot thickens. I file that question away for later.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder.
“I couldn’t be around Jack today. I just couldn’t. He’s too young to remember anniversaries.”
I make a sympathetic sound and move closer to him.
“I didn’t want to be alone tonight though,” He keeps the same monotone but I can hear the emotional crack he’s keeping at bay.
“But I didn’t…” He takes a deep breath “I couldn’t be around anyone who...knew.”
Knew what? He couldn’t just be talking about her death. Otherwise he wouldn’t have brought it up in the first place but… What else could it be? This was not the time to ask but it seemed like very pertinent information.This dude didn’t kill his wife, did he? I’m quite sure David would have mentioned that. And spotting murderers is, like, his whole deal. I surreptitiously scan the room for weapons, just in case.
“I get it,” I say soothingly. I put my arm around him in a comforting half-hug. I let my hand slide down to his hip, pressing my body against his opposite side. He softens a little at the gesture, but doesn’t hug me back. I slide my hand to stroke the small of his back. No hip holster. Good sign.
He doesn’t seem like a psycho, and lord knows I’ve fucked a few. I’d never claim to be psychic but I can feel something in people when I touch them. Just a sense of their mood, I guess. Probably some extension of the idea of reading body language and micro-expressions. He doesn’t feel dangerous. He just feels… sad, hurt, ashamed. Pretty standard grieving stuff.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Stand up.”
“What? Why?” He frowns a little, in confusion, but he stands up with me.
“So I can hug you, dummy,” I whisper sweetly and wrap my arms around him. He’s stiff for a moment, almost surprised at the close contact. He returns the hug with a perfunctory squeeze around me, like he almost forgot how this works.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice husky and low. He starts to pull aways but I hold him tighter.
“Shhhh,” I soothe, pressing his chest against my face. “Real hugs take at least 30 seconds, so settle in.”
He laughs a little, a breathy little chuckle. But then he realizes that I’m serious and he lets his arms settle back around me. His body relaxes, second by second. Not, you know, a LOT but it’s progress for him. The weight of his arms finally settles onto my body and I hold him just a little tighter because I know it’s starting to work. There’s a hitch in his breathing, a tremor of hesitation in his arms. Then his breath comes out in a full, deep, sob, and he clutches my whole body to him. I feel his tears dampen my hair. His body shakes with sobbs.
“There we go,” I breathe. “That’s what you needed. Let it all go. If my hair isn’t soaked by the time you’re done, you’re getting a stern talking to.”
He laughs a little, through his tears, which is honestly one of the best feelings there is. After a while I guide him to the bed so he can go properly fetal, but I keep as much of my body against his as I can. He cries a long time, thank god. He needed this so much, it was making me tense.
“I can’t believe I just did that,” he says once his tears have all run out and his breathing is back to normal.” He starts to sit up and I can just feel him wanting to apologize.
“If I had a nickel for every man who told me that,” I joke and he chuckles.
“I’m sure this happens to you all the time,” he says sarcastically.
“More than you’d expect,” I told him. I reach for a kleenex box and offer him tissues.
“Yeah, real sexy, I’m sure,” he blew his nose, no small amount of embarrassment showing in his stance.
“Aaron,” I giggle. “You of all people should know that sometimes tears are hot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks, genuinely confused. I laugh a moment, then realize he’s not joking.
“You can’t expect me to believe that a man like you isn’t kinky.”
“What?” He frowns in confusion. “What do you mean, a man like me?”
“You?” I ask, incredulously. “You. The man whose every look and gesture just screams ‘Daddy.’ Along with a number of your girlfriends, I’d wager.”
“I don’t have any girlfriends,” he sternly corrects me. “And I don’t think I like what you’re implying. I hunt people like that.”
“Oh, jesus, Aaron, I’m not saying you’re a pedophile. I’m saying you’re an archetype; stern but loving, passionate but withholding, deeply protective, but always ready to give you the spanking you truly deserve, DADDY. For god’s sake, Aaron, you’re still wearing your tie!”
Embarrassed, his hand drifts up to the knot at his neck.
“Trust me, it’s not a complaint,” I say suggestively.
“And that’s… kinky somehow?” He stumbles over the words.
“It very often can be, yes.” I still can’t believe he’s never heard of this. “Not a single girl you’ve been with has ever called you Daddy? Or asked for a spanking at least?”
“I’ve only been with one women,” he admits, grudgingly. “And when she called me Daddy, she definitely didn’t mean that.”
“Oh,” the surprise leaves me a little breathless. It didn’t occur to me that he could be that kind of guy. My worldview shifts a little as I try to imagine looking like that and only having sex with one person his whole life. Just the fact that he’d gone without sex for a whole year was a little stunning. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…”
“It’s not something I advertise,” he says, poker face creeping back onto him. “Rossi may not have known. I’d like it to stay that way, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course,” I assure him. I’m quiet for a while as the crushing reality he’s been living under. To love one person like that. Just one person, in your whole life. And then to lose them completely. How did he get out of bed every day?
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to be flip. I didn’t realize how much sex with a new person would mean for you.”
I suddenly feel wildly out of place. I’m about to ask if he wants me to leave but I look at him and see that he wants me to stay. There’s a… questioning behind his eyes. A fear almost? He looks like he’s worried that I might disappear suddenly. It takes me far too long to realize that the look he’s trying to cover is insecurity.
“I guess that means you don’t…” He hesitated. “You don’t want to be that person?”
“Oh, Aaron,” I breathe. “I would be honored.”
“Are you sure?” He looks at the floor. His perma-furrowed brow has flattened a bit, raised into uncertainty. It looks almost boyish on him. “You’re quite a bit younger than me. And you’re so, forgive me, Experienced…”
“I’m sure you know where everything goes,” I tease softly. He laughs a little, then runs his hands over his face.
“Right, because you’re a…”He stops himself, looking a little ashamed. “I’m sorry. For a moment I forgot about our...arrangement.”
“Aaron, I didn’t even mention prices before I came over---”
“Yes. Well,” he runs his hands awkwardly over his knees. “What does an hour of crying go for these days?”
“What I mean is,” I touch his jaw, guiding his face to look at me. “I’m not a hooker, Aaron. Well, I am sometimes. But I’m not here in a hooking capacity right now. That wasn’t the arrangement we talked about. I’m here to be your Sugarbaby, a financially compensated part-time girlfriend. It’s not something I do for just anyone. Too often Sugarbaby is a euphemism for a hooker who’s bad at math. The time and energy involved is much more than the pay-by-the-hour model and the price jump is usually not commensurate. But, the way that David talked about you, I was interested. Our dinner together was just as much me testing you as you testing me.”
“You seemed so...eager,” he says.
“Well, yeah,” I tell him. “Have you seen yourself?”
He chuckles and looks away.
“Hey,” I gently protest. “Look at me when I make you laugh. I don’t want to miss it.” He looks back at me, still a little bashful from the compliment. There’s still a skepticism behind his eyes. So here we go, cards on the table.
“Look if you were just some guy I met at a bar, we’d still have ended up right here,” I tell him. “You’re very hot and I find you intriguing. I’m even the type of weirdo who’d want to hear all your fucked up work stories. I would date you in a heartbeat, and the question of money would never pass my lips. But I would expect you to be my boyfriend. And you would expect me to be your girlfriend. We would have a painful, nasty, messy, break up because I would hate you for always putting your job and your son before me, and you would hate me for always fucking other people. The money keeps things clean between us. It reminds us where the boundaries are.”
“You really think I’m that attractive?” He asks, a bit of that confidence coming back to him. I reach out my hand and curl his tie around my fist.
“Why don’t you kiss me and find out?” I whisper. He smirks a little at the challenge. At first he moves so slowly, I’m not sure it’s happening. His hand comes up to hover a hair’s breadth from my cheek. To feel his body heat, but not his touch is an impossible tease. Feather light, his fingers brush down my jaw, to lead my chin up to him. He lets his fingernail trace the sensitive outline of my lower lip. I fear that if I breathe too hard I’ll break this spell and never feel the full force of his touch. Then he cups his other hand against the nape of my neck and pulls me into him. His kiss is slow and gentle, tentative and deliberate as a miniaturist who paints brush strokes between heartbeats. He touches me like I’m made of finest porcelain, thin as an eggshell.
I press my body against his, a reminder that I am flesh and blood, not so breakable as he seems to fear. His fingers curl into the roots of my hair and finally I feel his animal need. His kiss becomes harder, his breathing faster. He pulls my body against him as though he can consume me. Still, I feel the passion he’s repressing. His brittle resolve is a dam holding back a deluge. His arms wrap around me, gripping my sides like he wants to rip me in half. I almost think he could do it. And a tiny part of me wants him to try.
I pull his tie to lead him down onto the bed. I love it when men come with a handle. Slowly his layers fall away; the tie, the shirt, the undershirt, belt, pants, and boxers. Each time his touch becomes warmer, his body more pliant. Moment by moment, there’s a little less desperation in his hands as they explore my skin. Each new part of my body he touches first as light as a feather, gently rousing my nerve endings. Then his pressure increases incrementally. Though we never stop kissing I can feel him reading my body, gauging my reactions, learning where to touch me and how. Gaining confidence, his hands glide gently over my breasts. His fingertips meet at my nipples, slowly squeezing, letting the pressure mount deliciously. Straddling him, my back arches toward his chest. He slowly pulls my nipples forward eliciting a hungry moan from me. Pleased by my reaction, he releases my nipples and slides his hand down to my ass. My hips buck towards him the harder he grips and he can’t help but smile, even as we kiss. His grip pulls my ass cheeks apart, sending a shiver of desire through me. My pussy presses up against his erection and a pleased little hum moves through his lips.
“So wet already,” he rumbles. Then he flips me onto my back, laying by my side and brushing one hand slowly up between my thighs. “Don’t you know that I’ve barely even started with you?”
Speechless, I can only let out a small moan as my body eagerly strains towards him. He lays a finger on either side of my clit, trapping it between them as he moves his fingers in slow, deliberate, circles. It creates just enough friction that I start to squirm, my body begging for more. He moves a slick finger along my clit, making me gasp, then moves it back to the side. He repeats these movements over and over, watching the tension build in my body. I make a frustrated little moan and glint in his eyes shows that he’s enjoying my impatience. His fingers slide over and alongside my clit, a little faster now but still tantalizing. He’s only giving me a hint of how good he can make me feel.
“Tell me what you want,” he says it like a parent reminding their kid to use the magic word.
“Fuck me,” I whisper, pushing up against his hand.
“So soon?” He teases, a cocky smile playing across his lips.
“Fuck me,” I huff, grabbing at his arm.
“Aww,” he chuckles a little, pulling his hand away as I whimper. Then a kind of cruelty hardens his face and he roughly pushes two fingers into me.
“I’m not here to take orders,” he growls against my ear. “I’ll fuck you when I’m good and ready. And you will thank me for it.”
His thick cock against my thigh feels pretty damn ready to me. But I can tell that he wants to make sure I’m as desperate for this as he is. His thumb presses against my clit as his fingers curl up against my g-spot. He leans down to kiss me as his thick knuckles work in and out of me. I moan against his mouth and he picks up speed. Pleasure courses through me, my breaths becoming fast and shallow. My fingers scrabble against his skin, searching for purchase as the world spins out of control around me. My whole body bucks against him as I come on those calloused fingers. He holds me up, his other arm wrapped around my back, and pulls me closer to him.
“Now. Tell me what you want,” he commands. Gasping for breath, my head spinning, I can barely remember what words are. I make a few pitiful, pleading, sounds. I finally manage to mumble the word “please.”
“Mmmm,” I feel his voice rumble against me. “Now you sound like you need it.”
He turns away for a moment to slip on a condom, then he traces his fingertips along my sensitive skin as he moves into place. His body slides between my legs and I feel his cock press against my entrance. He waits just long enough to draw a whimper out of me. His lips curl into a delicious smirk then he slides his cock into me, savoring every second. His eyes close and his jaw goes slack. He stops for a moment, suspended in the bliss of entering me. Then he starts to move.
I let out a long, deep, moan. His thrusts are languid but thorough somehow. That’s the best way I can describe it. His every muscle ripples with each stroke in and out. He doesn’t just move up into me. His arms hook up and over my shoulders, pulling me down onto him, so I am thoroughly impaled by each stroke. He starts to pick up speed, his thrusts become harder, faster, but stay every bit as deliberate and deep. The faster he moves, the harder he grips me. His fingers dig into my skin.
He reaches one hand up to sink deep into my hair. He pulls my head back, further and further. My neck cranes back and he sinks his teeth into my exposed throat. The pleasure and pain chases starkly through my tense muscles. My back arches up, pressing my tits into his chest and angling my clit against his body. My voice feels far away but I hear it edging into screams. My senses dissolve around me, my nerves working overtime just to relay sensation from where my body touches his; His hand gripping my hair, his muscled arm pulling me into him, his chest hair brushing my nipples, his hips spreading my legs wide apart, his pelvis grinding against my clit, and his thick, hard, cock driving into me, deep as our bodies will allow.
His breathing gets harder, more vocal, till he pounds into me with a few wordless shouts. His whole body arches into me as he comes. The force of his every muscle holds our bodies together as his cock pumps out thick, warm, pulses of jizz. He stays there a moment, once again suspended in that pleasure. Then finally his muscles start to relax and he slowly collapses against me.
After a moment, the bliss subsides and I’m forced to say
“Um, can I move my head now?” He’s still gripping a fist in my hair and I finally feel the discomfort of the contortion he’s twisted me into.
“Hm?” He lifts his head, coming back to reality.
“Oh!” He releases me, almost shocked by what his body did, seemingly without his permission. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No complaints here,” I chuckle, getting comfortable beneath him. He lays his head between my breasts, still panting against me.
“God, you feel so good,” he breathes, finger tracing abstract patterns along my skin.
“Mmm,” I purr contentedly, still too rapturous to be eloquent “So do you.”
He lifts his head and starts placing soft, warm, kisses along my sternum, my solar plexus, down the curve of my ribs, along the softness of my belly.
“Seriously,” I breathe, “I don’t even have words. That was…” I look for the right word. Something like amazing, or mind blowing or---
“A damn good start,” he finishes my sentence for me, gently biting into the flesh of my thigh.”
“What?” I ask. I’m genuinely confused in the split second before he scoops my knees up over his shoulders and dives into my pussy.
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A damn good start, indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me...
