Chapter 2 — Priya Exploring #4
The taste was my own, musky and sharp. The feeling in his body was one of triumph, of primal satisfaction. This is it. This is the prize. I licked a broad, flat stripe from her entrance to her clit.
She jolted, a full-body shudder. “Sam!”
I didn’t answer. I applied the technique I knew he used.
Firm, repetitive pressure on the clit with my tongue.
Steady, rhythmic laps. It was effective.
It was basic. In her body, she felt the direct stimulation, the unsubtle building of sensation.
It was a steep, straight climb, different from the winding paths she was used to navigating alone. It was… efficient.
But as I worked, with my face buried between my own thighs, I felt the disconnect.
In his mind, there was a single thought: Make her come.
In her body, her mind was a storm. This is what he does.
This is the exact pattern. A little to the left.
No, softer. Why won’t he just— God, just keep going, it’s working, it’s—
She came with a sharp, ragged cry, her back arching off the bed. It was a climax, real and shuddering. But as I lifted my head, my chin wet, I saw the look on her face—my face. It was relief, not transcendence. The release of tension, not the arrival of ecstasy.
She panted, staring at the ceiling. “Okay,” she breathed. “Okay.”
I stood up, my own arousal a demanding, painful presence. I shed my jeans and boxers, my cock springing free, hard and eager.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, her gaze dropping to it. Her eyes widened. From this side, it looked huge. Impersonal. A tool.
“How do you want me?” she asked, my voice husky.
The question, in my own tone, broke something in me. In him. “Turn over,” I heard myself growl.
She obeyed, rolling onto her stomach, then rising to her knees. She presented herself to me, my own back arched, my own ass in the air. The view was one I knew he loved. Simple. Accessible.
I moved behind her. I positioned myself. I didn’t guide myself with my hand. I just pressed the head of his cock against my entrance. I felt her body tense, then relax, opening.
I pushed inside.
The feeling was catastrophic.
In his body, it was a tight, wet, overwhelming sheath. A perfect, slick friction. A completion.
In her body, it was a filling, a stretching, a blunt invasion. It was full. It was… fine.
I began to move. His hips knew the rhythm. A steady, deep piston motion. In, out. In, out. My hands gripped her hips—my hips—holding her in place. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room. Her breath came in sharp gasps that matched my thrusts.
I looked down at the place where we were joined, where his cock disappeared into my body.
It was clinical and lewd. I was fucking myself.
From the inside, I felt the repetitive impact, the fullness, the building of a familiar, mediocre friction.
From the outside, I felt the driving pleasure, the straightforward climb.
“Is this…?” I panted, unable to finish.
“Yes!” she cried, the word torn from her throat. “Yes, that’s it! That’s exactly it!”
Her affirmation fueled me. I drove into her harder, faster. My own pleasure was coiling, a spring tightening in my balls. It was so close. So simple. Just a little more.
But inside her, she was counting. She was waiting. She was thinking, Four minutes. He’ll be done in four minutes. Just hold on. Make the sounds.
The realization hit me like a physical blow a second before the climax did. She was performing. Even now, swapped, feeling everything from the inside, she was performing for me. For him.
The orgasm ripped through me—through him—with a force that blinded me. I shouted, a raw, guttural sound, as I emptied myself into her. Into me. The pulses seemed to go on forever, a torrent of release that left me shaking, collapsed over her back.
We stayed like that, joined, both of us breathing raggedly. The sweat on his skin cooled. The sweat on her skin heated where our bodies met.
Slowly, I softened. I slipped out. I rolled onto my back beside her, staring at the ceiling, the same ceiling we’d stared at last night.
She rolled onto her side, facing away from me, curling into herself.
The silence was absolute.
I had just had the most physically intense orgasm of my life. And I had never felt more lonely.
I knew, with a certainty that was colder than the hotel room air, that she had not come. Not really. She had peaked from the oral, a physiological response. But during the penetration, the core of her—the landscape, the lonely rooms—had remained untouched. Unvisited.
She had felt my pleasure, simple and total.
And I had felt her performance, complex and complete.
After a long time, she spoke, her voice muffled by the pillow. “Now you know.”
I swallowed, my throat dry. “Now I know.”
We didn’t touch again. We lay there, side by side, in the wreckage of the afternoon, two ghosts haunting each other’s bodies, with another day and night still to endure before the clock would run out and return us to the people we could no longer be.