Chapter 16 #2
“I loved those,” she scolds, rising to her elbows to stare down at me.
“They were in my way.” Once the garment is torn away from her and discarded, I look again at her bare pussy. “Look at you … I haven’t touched you yet, but you’re already so wet you’re soaking the sheets.”
“Jesus Christ, Alexander … stop teasing and start eating,” she demands, lifting her hips toward my face.
I’ve always enjoyed taking my time, especially with her. I like the anticipation, the slow climb, the build-up, as much as I like the release itself. But there’s nothing slow in the way I dive in, covering her perfect little cunt with my lips and tongue.
At the first warm and wet flick, she breaks eye contact with a small cry and lets her head fall back on the bedding.
If I weren’t so fucking frenzied, I’d have missed the sweet spot, licked around it until she begged for mercy.
But I’m all out of patience and subtlety, so I lock right onto her clit and do what I know will work well and fast.
Since she hasn’t touched herself in over three months, Andrea is insanely reactive to the touch of my tongue. In seconds, she’s panting, breathing ragged, thighs trembling. Her hands come to my hair, clenched and guiding.
I only change strategies every few seconds to lick lower, where wetness gathers before trickling down her ass and onto the mattress. She’s so slick under my tongue, I could do this for hours.
But as much as I’d like to take my time, I’m in fucking agony here, my aching cock pressed into the mattress. So, I show no mercy as I lock my mouth onto her clit again. There will be time for teasing and savoring later.
“Aah, baby!” she cries out.
Making her come was always easy, and I’ve only gotten better with time.
But this … this is effortless. There’s no challenge to it, so when she shatters in less than a minute, crying out my name and arching off the mattress, I don’t stop.
If anything, I go faster and harder. For several seconds, her breathing halts, so do her jolting and the tugging at my hair.
Prone to an orgasm so powerful her brain glitches, she can’t do anything but endure it.
Then, in the trail of the first one, a second orgasm hits her.
Once more, she screams, hips buckling under me at the savagery of her pleasure.
I hold her there, preventing any retreat, feasting on her.
Under my tongue, her clit throbs with every wave, and knowing she’s clenching so fucking hard has me nearly busting my load.
Jesus fuck, if I hadn’t come fifteen minutes ago in the shower, I certainly would have come on the mattress like a fucking teenager.
Andrea’s screams resonate in the room, almost worrying in their intensity. She tries to pull away from me, twisting her upper body to haul herself higher on the bed. Fisting the sheets and clothes thrown on it, she struggles to drag herself away, only to realize it’s pointless.
Not only is my hold on her hips strong, but her own legs betray her, clenched around my skull to keep me there. When her hands return to my hair, they can’t choose what to do. Push me off or pull me in?
Just like she isn’t used to my cock anymore, she’ll need time to learn how to endure that much pleasure again. But not right now. There are more urgent matters to tend to.
The moment her second orgasm begins to fade, I let go to crawl my way up her spent body.
God, she’s so fucking beautiful, all pink in the face and satiated like she is, the thin hair around her face even curlier from the dampness of her skin.
Hopefully, my overzealousness didn’t completely satiate her. Not until I get my turn.
Andrea’s heavy limbs welcome me when I move on top of her, weak arms wrapping around my shoulders and her legs rising over my hips.
She’s pliant under my lips when I kiss her again, her tongue lazy against my frenetic one.
She’s still basking in the aftermath of her back-to-back orgasms, and I use that to align myself with her once more.
She’s regained enough of her senses to mumble, “I said one orgasm, Alexander.”
“Would you rather I edged you for five minutes?”
After a couple of seconds to think about it, she shakes her head.
This time, when I push in with a firm thrust, there’s no resistance.
She’s still tight enough to make me groan, but the loosened slickness of her allows me to get in until the base of my cock meets her damp curls.
There isn’t an ounce of pain in the soft cry she lets out.
It’s all pleasure. All bliss. I can’t hold back a moan at how fucking good she feels.
My mind wants to take a moment to rediscover this sensation, but my body has another thing in mind.
I back up and thrust again, hard. She’s so fucking perfect under me, so tight, and wet, and warm …
And those sounds she makes, hiccups of pleasure, breathy moans, soft cries …
I can’t control myself. But I need to. Fuck, I need to get a hold of myself, or I’ll come in seconds and leave her wanting more.
When I realize how dangerously close I am to coming, I plant myself into her and stop moving.
I have to think of something—a distraction, anything that isn’t her and her perfect face and tight pussy.
So one of the two doesn’t pose as much of an issue, I press my forehead onto her temple and close my eyes.
How long do we need to keep this up to make up for those three months apart? A week? Two weeks?
Under me, Andrea tries to writhe, to keep the momentum going, but I press harder onto her, preventing it.
“Lex,” she protests, frustrated.
We used to fuck at least twice a day. Often thrice.
It can last anywhere between five minutes and an hour, depending on how many orgasms I want to give her.
We were averaging two point eight orgasms for her per session, which should bring us to at least twenty-eight minutes per session, including foreplay.
I’ll go with an hour and ten minutes per day, where we fuck three times every other day, which would be a low average.
Over the hundred and five days I was away, that brings us to seven thousand, three hundred and fifty minutes—over a hundred and fifteen hours.
We’d need breaks in there, to eat and to rest. I’d say three hours every two hours is—
“Are you doing math in your head?” Andrea asks, making me realize I’m whispering the whole thing.
“Yes, I haven’t had to do this in fifteen years. It’s embarrassing.”
“Not for me, it isn’t.” Given the lightness of her voice, I can tell how much she enjoys this. “Especially since you came what, twenty minutes ago in the shower?”
“Stop talking, Andrea.”
I’m about to return to my calculations when she cunningly says, “I can’t wait to be full of your cum. I’ve missed it so much. The feeling of it seeping out of me and making its way down my legs …”
“Stop talking,” I mutter, sensing my balls draw up tight at her words.
“But it feels so good, baby. I love feeling like your little cum whore. So fucking full of you that I—”
My hand has flown to her mouth without my command, but I keep it there, pressing onto her lips so she’ll stop her teasing. But that’s not enough, as she soon squeezes her walls around me, reminding me I can’t catch a fucking break with her.
“You really are insufferable,” I mutter.
She wins. But if I have to come embarrassingly fast, I’m taking her with me.
The deep, powerful thrust I give her makes her cry behind my palm. Her arms and legs hold on to me tighter, her pussy still snug around me like a vise.
My thrusts are implacable, determined, and ruthless. The moment is almost animalistic, so are my grunts and her muffled screams. It feels more like anger than love, but I think we both need it.
I only let go of her mouth to lower my hand between us. I strum her clit with the tips of my index and middle fingers, admiring her pleasure-distorted face. Nothing will ever compare to this, to reality, to her.
“Aah, wait,” she whimpers between two screams. “I—I think I’ll—”
The first spasms have arrived, the hints that her orgasm is mere seconds away. I don’t wait. I keep doing exactly what I was doing, knowing this might be my only chance to make her come before I do.
“Lex, I need to—” she tries again.
When it happens, I understand what she was trying to say, why she was trying to stop me.
Her pleasure explodes, splashing between us, on my lower stomach, and my hand is still working her clit.
Pride swells in my chest as I look down to see it happen.
Her bunched-up dress is partially in the way, but I can still see what matters.
I’m so entranced by the clear liquid gushing out of her, I barely think of her tight walls spasming around my cock.
When I meet her eyes, we’re both equally surprised by the turn of events, unaware that she could also squirt like this—not just from finger fucking.
“What a good fucking girl,” I praise, still hammering into her.
As she shatters in my arms, I swallow her sobs and cries, supporting her in this moment of pure, unfathomable pleasure.
My hips show no signs of clemency as more splashes of her cum drench us, the slushy sound of it resonating in the room.
There’s so much of it, it’ll soak the sheets and her clothes beneath us.
Her nails claw at my back, and if there were any length to them, I know she’d draw blood. Her screams of utter pleasure, her beauty, her walls choking me with their pulses, the wet sounds between us … They all beckon my own release, and I don’t fight it. I can’t.
Shoving my forehead into the sweaty crook of her neck, I let my orgasm wreck me, balls tightening with each rope of cum that juts out, my whole body trembling at the intensity of the pleasure.
Fuck, this must be what women feel when they orgasm.
A full-body experience, from the swollen head of my cock to the prickling tips of my fingers and toes.
Months of repressed need spills into her, so much of it I sense it sip out from around me before I’m even done coming. Fucking hell, how could I ever think I could contain my desire for her by handling it myself? I could do it ten times a day, and it still wouldn’t be enough compared to this.
Nothing could ever be enough.
I don’t know how long I stay hunched on top of her, coming what feels like endless surges of cum, but by the time I’m done, we’re both sweaty and panting. I feel empty physically, but overflowing emotionally.
My arms are weak as I force myself up to look down at her, but the effort is worth it given the way she waits for me, her soft, brown gaze seeking mine. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes glistening with satisfaction. Prettiest woman I’ve ever seen …
With one last grunt, I pull myself up and out, then I roll to her side, spent. My cock has barely softened, but the cold air of the room on its wet surface will take care of that soon. Unless she wants to go at it again right now, which I’d probably be up for.
A fucking witch, she is.
We’re still struggling with our uneven breathing when she asks, “So … was this breakup sex or make-up sex?”
Fuck, I don’t even know. I need to break up with her, but I can’t bring myself to.
Post-nut clarity is a term she’s used before, and I think that’s what I’m experiencing.
I see both arguments so clearly, but neither outcome is good enough.
What if I endanger her by staying with her?
But what if there’s no such risks waiting for us, and I’ll lose her over nothing? There’s no good answer, is there?
“I guess it was breakup sex, then,” she mumbles after a while without an answer from me.
I don’t correct her because again, I’m not sure what the right answer is. But when my heart makes a decision my brain hasn’t processed yet, I don’t hold it back.
I’m over her, back into the cradle of her thighs before either of us can see it coming.
“What are you doing?” she questions with a frown.
“Make-up sex this time.”
Her eyes go wide when she turns to look at me, like a deer caught in the headlights. For a moment, she stares at me, wondering if I’m being genuine—as if I would make that kind of joke in such a moment. Her disbelief is amusing enough for a grin to bloom on my face.
It’s still stretching my lips when I lay a kiss on her cheek, then on her temple. I explore her whole face like that, dropping butterfly kisses on every flushed inch of it.
“Do you mean it?” she whispers when I look into her hopeful gaze again.
Instead of answering, I rub my cock onto her, still hard and ready for round two. That’s when she realizes how much I mean it. Or she must have, because she pulls me down for a hungry kiss.
We still have to talk about what she did, and I’m still angry at her to some extent. But this teachable moment has shown me I need to stop pretending I can have control over what happens between us. I have none, and the more I try to fight it, the harder it gets.
“So, do we proceed differently for that kind of sex?” she asks into the kiss, clumsily moving us around to straddle me.
“We proceed however you want, freckles.”
Her luminous smile seems to come from nowhere until I realize what I said. The nickname rolled off my tongue so easily that I didn’t notice it. But she did, and given the way her kiss intensifies, it’s as though it lit a fire within her.
I’ll never let her go, will I? And if that makes me a selfish prick, then I’ll make sure it’s the only flaw left in me.