Tempeste Johns first published her erotic short fiction in Mind Caviar. She is pleased to be able to share more of her work with Mind Caviar readers. Ms. Johns invites you to email her at email@example.com.
Fucking Like Breathing
Melissa goes through her day not noticing her leg exposed just so, or her breasts reflection on the monitor screen when she bends over my chair to point something out on my computer. She is home when I get there. I close the door silently behind me. Melissa is in the kitchen.
She smells of sex. Not a metaphor, I actually smell the dripping fluid between her legs – the sweet, thick scent of a woman who’s secret lips are swollen from the desire to have me inside her. I hear the slipperiness when she walks, her thighs – lubricated from her juices – sliding near-silently against each other.
I press the length of my body against the back of hers. I reach into Melissa’s shirt. The nipple is hard, almond-shaped beneath my fingers. I run both of my hands along the sides of her thighs and beneath her skirt to her bare ass. She’s not wearing panties. Turning Melissa around, I trace the wet, creamy lips of her cunt as she looks intensely at me. She slips easily over my fingers, as if she’s opening for the first time. My palm presses into her clit; she quivers, oozing over her skin, over my hand.
I can smell the want between her legs and she knows I can smell it.
One by one she takes my fingers into her mouth, tasting her own dusky flavor, smelling her rawness. A shudder runs through Melissa as she pulls on my zipper, “fuck me, Charles”, she breathes. Turning her around, I bend her over the counter. Melissa shakes, Melissa trembles as my engorged cock pushes between her legs, past her waiting thighs, into her aching cunt. Splitting her open with the force of my hunger, I impale her.
Back and forth she moves over my organ. Back and forth, swallowing my cock with her pussy, sucking me deeper and deeper into the caverns between her thighs. She’s fucking crazy, crazy fucking, and she smells like my life crashing out of control. She writhes and grunts as I slam into her, balls slapping into her, slicing her in two. She grabs a handful of her hair and twists it between her fingers.
Melissa – surrendering. Watching Melissa – fucking. Fucking
+ + +
Fucking like breathing. We’re fucking like breathing.
Charles plunges in and out of my wet folds. Like my next breath, he pushes in. Like my next breath, he pulls out. Like my next breath, my pussy gasps for air, for him.
I feel myself cream over his hardness, the heat in my stomach, his hands on my waist, the twisting torque of his cock as it inflames every nerve ending of my canal, the white hot heat of my clit, combustible and ready to ignite on the rock-hard tip of his rod pumping in and out of me.
Slamming, ramming, jamming, bamming through any protestations of propriety, striking me mute with my own desire.
The room goes dark, and my skin, my body is electrocuted. I spasm, spasm, spasm all over Charles, unable to separate my cunt from his cock. Unable to separate him from the pleasure running over my skin, through my body, unable to separate him from me.
I sink to the floor, bringing Charles with me, heaped in a ball, limbs tangled upon each other. I feel his breath against my breast. I stroke his hair. I bury my nose in the dark and silver strands and breathe. I kiss his eyelids. I wrap him around me and let myself sink into the warmth of his skin.
My body used to scare me-- the way my nipples, the tiny hairs on my arm, pressed to attention in his magnetic field; every synapse alive, popping and quivering when he stood near me. I’m no longer afraid of the responses Charles elicits in me any more than I’m afraid of each breath I take.
2004 Tempeste Johns. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy or post.
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