23. Orion #3
Jordan’s hands start moving slowly, following the lines of my traps.
His touch alternates between firm and light.
Firm and light. It sinks into me deeply when it’s firm, penetrating muscle and bone and turning it into mush.
When it’s light, nerve endings fire gently, almost sweetly.
Soft sensations dance down my spine and begin living a life that’s separate from me.
My mind becomes a vortex. A black hole struggling to come to grips with reality. A blank space that can’t quite believe any of this is really happening. A dark pit that knows one thing and one thing only: want.
Want
Want
Jordan’s hands move lower. They map out each knob of my vertebrae in turn, and at some point, he stops merely seeking touch and adds taste to the equation. His lips land on my shoulders, left one and then right. A soft brush of dusky flesh that comes with a decadent graze of stubble.
His kisses are intoxicating. Sweet and chaste at first, but quickly morphing into open-mouth caresses that aren’t sweet at all. Hot kisses that have a pull and a drag and a life of their own.
A scrape of teeth and a blazing trail of tongue.
Want grows inside me, bubbling and boiling until it’s almost overflowing. I force myself to keep my eyes open, so I don’t descend any further into it than I can help, and I clamp my lips together to stop the mournful whimper that’s threatening.
As if he can sense it, as if he’s in my head, inside the hazy bubble of want with me, Jordan places both hands on my ass. He squeezes my cheeks, testing the weight of them, shaking them gently until the last lick of sense has been shaken from me.
Then he spreads them.
The moan that escapes is awful. Guttural and loud and hardly muffled by the bed sheets at all. I scramble to contain it, clamping a hand to my mouth and catching as much of it as I can.
Fortunately, Jordan doesn’t seem to notice.
I don’t look back to see what he’s doing because there’s no telling what will happen to me if I’m exposed to one more hot thing, but he’s gone still, and he isn’t talking.
He isn’t even murmuring to himself. All he’s doing is holding my ass cheeks open in a way that’s so invasive, so arousing, so intrusive of things I’ve tried to keep hidden that my eyes sting and threaten to water.
He lets go of one cheek, keeping the other spread and licks a finger.
He must because when he trails his finger down my crack, it’s wet.
My mind goes into shock as it moves downward.
Anticipation builds and builds and builds, bubbling over and morphing into a groan that shakes the foundations of the building when Jordan’s fingertip glances over my pucker.
I’ve touched myself enough to know exactly what it should feel like to be touched there.
It doesn’t feel anything like that though.
There’s a disconnect between my mind, my hand, and the sensation I’m feeling.
Instead of coming from all of those things at once like it does when I touch myself, this feeling comes without warning.
Without knowing where and when it’s going to land.
I don’t feel it anywhere except where Jordan is touching me, and that amplifies the pleasure in a way I wasn’t expecting.
My hips jerk in response and Jordan hums softly.
He liked what his touch did to me. I know that because he touches me the same way again immediately. Slow, careful caresses that tease. Quiet, whispered promises of hard, drenching pleasure.
It doesn’t take long before I’m mindless with need.
I don’t know my name. My address. Or where I’m from.
The only thing I know is that whoever I am, wherever I’m from, I’ve been tasked with biting back the rampant plea building in me.
It’s a relief when I hear the flick of the lube cap. A couple of seconds of respite from being wracked by desire. The opportunity to take a breath that isn’t tainted with lust. I gasp, dragging sober air into my lungs as greedily as I can, only for the respite to be snuffed out at once.
Jordan has been liberal with his use of lube.
He’s slicked his fingers and uses several of them to slather my hole.
He touches me like before, gentle, teasing touches, and when I’m completely defenseless, past the point of anything I’ve experienced, he sinks a single finger into me.
A wave of pleasure erupts, flowing through me with fearsome power and speed.
Every time I think I’ve acclimatized to the feeling, Jordan moves his finger. Deeper. Harder. Softer. I don’t know what to expect next. I can’t see his next touch coming, but when it happens, darts of drugging desire shoot up my ass, fusing my spine and frying my brain.
I hardly notice when he adds a second finger, but I definitely notice when he adds a third. The teasing, hinting pleasure is gone, replaced by pleasure that’s so dense, so thick and pervasive, I can’t see a thing.
I can’t move.
I can’t breathe.
All I can do is receive what Jordan sees fit to give me. Three thick fingers glide in and out of me, moving slowly and surely, shallow at first, stretching my hole in gradual, deliberate increments, and then deeper. Deeper. Deeper, until they’re so deep I don’t think I’ll ever recover.
“One more, okay, O?”
One more?
Impossible. But if he wants to try, he can have at it. Any no I ever had when it comes to Jordan left the building a while back. Any part of myself I thought I’d be able to hold back is laid out in the open.
I shift my hips robotically, spreading my legs a little more and arching my back to offer him better access. The fingers inside me plunge in deep and knock against something so sensitive that I don’t even realize I’m crying out until the sound flits around the room.
Jordan, never one to ignore a strong reaction, hammers my gland in response, thrusting so many fingers into me I can’t count them all.
All I know is that I’m open. Wide open. My seal is broken.
My defenses are in tatters. Pure ecstasy is being drummed into me.
More ecstasy than I can handle. More than I can contain.
“Please, Jordy,” I hear myself gurgle after an eternity. “Please.”
A condom wrapper rips. I hear the lube cap flick again, and the mattress dips as Jordan moves into position behind me.
If there were any part of me that still had the ability to feel anything other than lust, I’d probably feel a twinge of nerves.
Things being what they are, the only thing I feel is a blunt, colossal rush.
An urgency. A desperate need to have the want in me quelled.
“You ready, O?”
I was ready three, maybe four lifetimes ago. And that’s a conservative estimate.
“Yeah.” My speech is sluggish, tongue heavy in my mouth, but I’m proud of myself for forming the word.
Big hands grip my hips, lifting them just enough to ensure a hard arch of my back and a slight scramble to steady myself on my hands and knees.
He keeps me like that for a beat or two.
Just enough time for me to know without a doubt what’s going to happen next.
Enough time to expect it. To accept it. To welcome it with all that I am.
The hands on my hips ease in pressure, and Jordan strokes his thumbs over my ass cheeks gently. At first I think it’s to spread them a little more, but then I realize it’s to soothe me. To comfort me. To set me at ease.
“Take a breath,” he says as the thick, swollen head of his dick notches against me.
My ring tenses instinctively, bracing for pain, but there’s none. Don’t get me wrong, what’s happening to my hole is intense. The stretch of muscle is surreal and the sensation shooting up my ass is almost more than I can handle, but it’s not painful.
I flinch the first couple of times he thrusts, carefully gaining ground and retreating. Only his head is inside, but I already feel full. I feel full everywhere. In my ass. In my face. In my throat.
My hole tenses again when he pushes deeper. My entire body is open. Stretched out and fucked. It hurts, but not in the way I thought it would. It hurts because of how much I want it. It hurts because of how good it feels. It’s the most tender, intimate thing I’ve ever experienced.