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He pulled me to him. Really pulled me. I slid across the crisp white sheets on my belly, randomly grabbing at folds of cloth as Stan pounded into me.
‘Stay with me, Tuesday,’ he said.
I knew he didn’t mean keep up, or come with him, or fuck with the same enthusiasm. He meant don’t go and don’t go wasn’t something I could consider.
‘Shut up, Stan.’
I felt it curling like a flame in my belly, my pussy, my thighs. The flashing, pulsing heat that always means I’m going to come. When Stan got behind me and manhandled me, fucked me hard but said sweet words, it always worked me up. When his fingers dug into the meat of my hips and he moved like a man possessed, my entire being seemed to thrum with the pulse in my neck and my belly.
‘Don’t tell me to shut up,’ Stan said, laying a hard blow on the flushed skin of my ass. But it only made it worse. It only made me worse.
I shoved my hand under my body, finding my clit with slippery fingers. I rubbed hard, way harder than I normally would if anyone were watching me. I thrust my body hard against my hand even as I tried to toss myself back against him. Impaling myself on Stan’s big cock. Throwing myself back into his strong hands. The sexual version of the Nestea plunge, just giving up and hurling myself back into empty space. The unknown.
My pussy started to seize up around him and he grunted, ‘Not yet, girl,’ and pulled free of me.
I made a noise like something feral, but the world turned suddenly and he had me on my back. The bulk of him, six foot three-ish of huge man, hovering over me and prying my legs wide. Stan settled himself between my thighs, finding my slippery slit with his fingers and then his cock.
His mouth came down hard and sweet and needy. ‘Don’t leave, Tuesday,’ he said again. ‘Or take me with you.’
‘Shut up, Stan,’ I said again. And to help him shut up, I wrapped my legs around his thick waist, opened my body to him, tightened my cunt muscles and as an afterthought, I turned my head, sucked his big finger into my mouth and licked it like I always licked his cock.
Stan, good old Stan, hissed like a scalded cat and whispered, ‘Christ.’
‘Fuck me, Stan,’ I said this time and he buried his handsome face in my neck and set about doing just that. His stubble scraped my flesh raw, his fingers bruised my skin, his bulk crushed the air out of me and it was perfect.
It was what I needed. To forget and to get lost. To open my body and close my mind and feel Stan’s broad slippery cock ramming into me like he was punishing me, but in the most delicious way, for leaving him.
When he pinned my wrists down by my sides and damn near smashed me flat with his 200 plus pounds. When he sucked the whimpers and the moans off my lips and swallowed them down. When he ground his hips in that way he has and rocked from side to side. That’s when I came.
‘You’re leaving me, Tuesday, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Honey, we were never really together,’ I told him.
He sighed, his finger running over my dusky nipple making it stand up like some well trained thing.
‘I know.’
‘I know you do.’ I brushed my fingers through his reddish brown hair and he flared his hand over my belly so the muscles twitched.
‘Why, Tues?’
‘I’m too fucking damaged, Stan.’
He didn’t argue. Stan had been fucking me for months. And we’d been having this post coital back and forth for almost as long. He didn’t argue because for the most part, Stan knew I was right.
When he left he threw his final say over his shoulder on his way out the door. ‘You’re not damaged, Tuesday. You’re restless.’
