Chapter Two #3
I slide the thong down and toss it to the side once I get it untangled from my ankles. She still holds the skirt up as I line the toy up at my entrance. Slowly, I descend upon her silicone dick—wincing only slightly at the initial burn of its intrusion before the sting gives way to pleasure.
“That’s a good boy,” she coos, and I puff out a sigh of contentment.
I try not to bear her my full weight, but lean back slightly into her. I feel her arm curl around my waist as she takes my half-hard dick with her palm. Still slick with the residual lube from before, she slowly starts to jack me until I begin to stiffen more.
“Oh, yes,” I hum, letting the sounds on the television filter into my consciousness.
Hovering above her like I am allows her enough room for movement as she starts to thrust into me, incrementally going deeper and deeper.
“Mmm yeah, so good,” I add when she ratches up her pace.
“Keep going, Lo. Fuck yeah. Right there.”
With every flick of her hips, the dildo spears my prostate, sending pulses of searing pleasure straight to my core.
I’m fully hard now, her soft palm squeezing my cock with more force as she smears beads of pre-cum down over my length.
My knees start to quiver as I struggle to maintain position over her.
Between losing myself in the masculine grunts and groans in the porno and the slapping of the tops of her thighs against the bottom of mine, I almost miss her asking, “You want me to keep fucking you, or do you want to take over and ride me?”
“Can you handle my weight?”
She pinches the back of my arm; the sting feels like a lance on the sensitive skin. “Stop shitting on yourself, and also quit equating my femininity to being weak, Marcus,” she hisses. “You know that shit pisses me off…”
“Hold still, then,” I huff, and her hips settle.
I lift up enough to get my knees underneath me on the couch and start riding her in earnest. She keeps her hand still, just holding it there to give me something to fuck up into on every up-thrust. She moans and whimpers behind my back—the toy must be hitting all her pleasure areas too.
All the while, my eyes never leave the TV.
I try to match the pace being set by the guy bottoming in this scene.
He’s riding the other one reverse cowboy style, so it’s not difficult to envision myself in his place.
Before long—with my rapid, brutal pace rendering me too breathless to speak—I feel a zing of heat shoot down my spine before settling in my balls. They draw up tight in response.
I lift my skirt up, pinning the fabric in place between my chin and chest, and cover Lo’s hand, jerking my cock in tandem with her.
“Fuck yeah, baby. I’m gonna—” My stomach hollows, and I cry out a string of garbled nonsense before I start shooting off.
Cum spurts out in waves, coating my hand, seeping through my fingers, dripping down my wrist.
“Don’t stop,” Lo pleads. “Marcus, keep going. Oh god, yes!”
I keep bouncing up on the toy after my own dick is spent, hoping her orgasm hits her soon because I’m starting to feel a little overstimulated at this point. “Mmhm! Right there! Oh god, oh shit… yes, Marcus, yes!”
I feel her nails rake down my back as she writhes beneath me, crying out her pleasure. “Ungh! Oh yes, baby. So close!”
A couple more brutal thrusts back and I’ve managed to reduce her to a series of gasps and shuttering breaths. When I peer back over my shoulder, her mouth is agape, her eyes buttoned shut, head arched back on the sofa, and her ample chest heaving up and down violently. She looks beautiful.
After that, she goes boneless beneath me, and I know I’ve made her come too.
I know she must think that I always completely extrapolate myself mentally whenever we have sex, but I don’t.
I can’t. Not completely anyway, because there’s always this bone-deep level of accomplishment I feel whenever I—as a gay man—am able to satisfy her sexually, despite our arrangement.
She was used and hurt before, and that left scars she still deals with to this day.
Outwardly, Lauren portrays herself as a feminist with a “don’t fuck with me” attitude, but I’ve loved her long enough to know that’s all a facade.
Inside is a woman who was still young when she was taken advantage of, and who needs persistent reminders of how lovable she is.
She deserves all the care in the world.
I gently urge her to stay put and scurry off to grab a warm, wet cloth to clean her up with.
Of course, when I get back, Miss I-Don't-Need-No-Man is already up and at the kitchen sink, cleaning off her toy. “Why don’t you ever let me take care of you afterwards?” I finally deign to ask, my brows pinched in confusion.
She turns around and regards me as if I’ve sprouted a horn on my nose and turned into a rhinoceros. “Um, because I figure you’re already out of your element by having sex with me. I don’t need your aftercare. I’m good.”
I draw up to a stand behind her, resting my hands on her hips and my chin on her shoulder. “Sex with you is not a chore, Lo. It never has been. If I’ve made you feel that way, I apologize. We make it work, just like we make everything work.”
She sighs, leaning back into me, allowing me a rare glimpse of the vulnerability she keeps under lock and key—buried, like treasure. “We make everything work…” she echoes.
“We do. I like to think that our intimacy isn’t just about sex and body parts.
It goes beyond fulfilling some primal urge to screw, my dear.
Our intimacy looks like safety. The kind where you can be fully seen, fully known, and fully loved.
Now, can you let me clean the rest of everything up, and then allow me to take you to bed? ”
She nods, and the tousled ringlets of her messy bun bob like peacock feathers. I lightly kiss her cute little nose. And fuck, she’d jam one of her elbows into my ribs if she knew I just referred to any part of her as “cute” or “little.” Lauren is still every bit of that dark rose I liken her to.
“Alright, good girl,” I hum, mocking her for calling me a good boy earlier.
I do a final sweep of the house—turning all the lights off, locking the door and shit—while she brushes her teeth.
When she steps out of the bathroom, I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into our bedroom.
Laying her down gently, I change into just a pair of sweatpants and scooch in behind her, snapping off the light on my nightstand.
“Love you, Polo.” I whisper, kissing her cheek.
She sighs, curling into me and nuzzling my neck. “Love you too, Marco.” Then, she sniffs a couple of times. “Did you seriously steal my underwear and use my bodywash all in the same night?”
I chuckle.
“You did, didn’t you? We’re fighting.”
“Nah. We’re not,” I hum.
“We so are.”
“Goodnight, Lauren.”
“Fuck you, Marcus.”
“You did that already.”
“I hate it when you’re right.”
“Go to sleep.”