The Weight of Him by Nora #4
It tore through my belly and down my legs. I cried out into his shoulder, pussy seizing around him in hard, helpless pulls, wet running down his balls. My arms shook on the wall. He fucked me through it in short, deep punches and I felt him swell, felt the exact second his control ran out of road.
He yanked out.
A raw sound ripped out of him. He fisted his cock once, twice, and came across my stomach in thick, hot ropes that striped me from navel to the underside of my tits.
Pulse after pulse. The smell of it hit, sharp and clean-salt.
It slid, slow, catching in my belly button, dripping toward the thatch of hair above my pussy.
He leaned into me, forehead on the logs beside my head, still holding me up, still shaking.
Cum cooled on my skin in the stove draft.
I looked down at the mess he’d made, then at his face. I dragged two fingers through it, shiny and white, and brought them up between us so he had to see.
I put them in my mouth.
Tasted him. Swallowed.
Then I painted what was left back across my lower belly, slower, and met his eyes.
“Next time you don’t get to miss,” I said. “Next time this cum goes in my pussy where you said you wanted it. You hear me, Cal?”
The radio on the wall stayed dead.
His cock was still half-hard against my thigh, smearing what had run down. Outside, the storm beat the porch like it hadn’t decided whether to keep us or give us up.
He let me down slow.
My feet hit the planks and my thighs announced every hour we’d already used them.
Cum was cooling in a sticky sheet on my belly.
I could feel it pull when I breathed. Cal looked at that mess like he regretted the wall and wanted the next one corrected, then he grabbed the extra blanket off the bunk and threw it in front of the stove.
“Down,” he said. “Hands and knees. Face the heat.”
I went.
The blanket was thin. The floor still found my bones. Stove-glow painted my left side gold and left the right in shadow. Smoke sat low in the room now, sweet-bitter pine, mixed with sweat and the sharp leftover smell of his cum on my skin. I felt filthy in a way that had nothing left to hide.
He stripped the rest of the way behind me. Boots finally off. Jeans. The flannel hit a chair. When he knelt, bare, the hair on his thighs brushed the backs of mine and I shivered hard.
His palm traveled my spine.
Not soothing. Mapping. Over the scrape the logs had left, down to the rise of my ass, both hands spreading me open so the stove air touched places that made me twitch.
“You still choosing,” he asked.
“Yes.”
He put two fingers into my pussy from behind.
I was swollen, slick, used, and they went in easy. The wet sound was obscene in the small room, a thick kiss every time he pumped them. His thumb found my clit and stayed there, not rubbing frantic, just pressing in dirty circles while his fingers hooked forward and dragged.
I dropped to my forearms. My tits hung. Hair stuck to my mouth. The heat from the stove made sweat bead along my hairline and slide into my eye.
Then his other thumb, slick from me, pressed against my asshole.
I froze, then pushed back instead of away.
“That’s it,” I said, voice gone hoarse. “Don’t you stop. I asked for ruined. I didn’t ask for careful in the places that scare me.”
He didn’t shove. He circled, patient, letting the muscle learn him, adding more of my own wet until the rim softened and the pad of his thumb sank in to the first knuckle.
The feeling was strange and specific. Full in a different language than his cock.
A burn that wasn’t pain so much as attention.
I gasped into the blanket. He worked my pussy and my clit and that tight ring at the same time until my arms shook and a noise started coming out of me I couldn’t shape into words.
“Listen to you,” Cal muttered. He sounded wrecked again, hungry in a lower register. “Dripping on my floor with my thumb in your ass and your fiancé’s ring scraping wool. This is what you wanted them to smell when the door opens.”
“Then make it worse.”
He pulled his fingers out of my pussy and replaced them with his mouth.
From behind.
His face between my thighs, nose pressed to my ass, tongue shoving into my cunt where his fingers had been.
The wet noise doubled — his mouth, my body, the filthy little sounds of him drinking what was already running out of me.
Stubble scraped my cheeks. His thumb stayed in my ass and moved in shallow pulses that made my spine try to crawl out of my skin.
I came apart messy.
No clean peak. It rolled and broke and rolled again, clit throbbing against his tongue, asshole clenching on his thumb, my voice cracking into the blanket.
My knees slid wider on the wool. I shook until my elbows gave and my cheek hit the floor, stove-heat baking one ear, his mouth still working like he hadn’t gotten enough the first time on the table.
He eased back only when I twitched too hard and reached blindly behind me.
I didn’t push him away.
I reached back with both hands, grabbed my own ass, and spread myself open for him in the firelight. Pussy shining. The small dark clench of my asshole still slick from his thumb. I held there, breathing like I’d run, and looked at him over my shoulder.
His mouth was wet to the chin. His cock was full again, heavy, the head dark. He looked at what I was offering like the storm had just changed its terms.
“Before it breaks,” I said. “If you’ve got lube in that kit, I want you there too. I want that stretch. I want to know I asked for every way you can put yourself in me.”
Thunder walked across the ridge, closer than before.
He stared at my hands and at what they framed, and the muscle in his thigh jumped like he’d already said yes with his body and his mouth hadn’t caught up.
He didn’t move on me right away.
He stood, crossed to the crate by the door, and came back with the first-aid tin. The lid stuck. Inside: gauze, iodine, a small tube of lubricant that had no business looking that ordinary in a room that already smelled like sex and pine smoke.
He knelt in front of me again.
“Turn over,” he said. “I need your face. I’m not taking your ass while you’re buried in a blanket.”
I rolled onto my back on the wool. The stove painted my left side. My belly still shone faintly where he’d spent against the wall. I pulled my knees up because I knew what he needed to see, and because I wanted him to see I wasn’t hiding.
Cal coated his fingers, then the head of his cock. The lube smelled faintly medicinal, clean under the musk of us. He rubbed it around my asshole with a patience that made my throat tight, circling, pressing, waiting for the muscle to stop fighting the idea.
“Say it plain,” he said. His eyes were on mine, not on his hand. “I put my cock in your ass. You can stop me on the first inch. You can stop me halfway. You can stop me after I’m in. I need the word, Nora.”
“Yes.” I held his wrist so he felt the ring against his pulse. “I want you in my ass. Slow. Don’t you vanish into it and forget I’m under you. If it gets too much I’ll say stop. Until then, don’t treat me like I’ll break.”
He nodded once.
Then he lined up.
The head was broader than his thumb had been. Blunt. Slick. He pressed and my body said no on instinct, a tight hot refusal, and he stopped with just that first stretch burning at the rim.
“Breathe out,” he said. “Look at me. Don’t go away in your head.”
I breathed out.
The burn widened. A slow, specific ache that lived right at the edge of too much. He watched my face like it was a gauge, giving me a fraction, waiting, giving again. Sweat pricked along my hairline. The sounds were small and wet and obscene — lube, skin, my own shaken inhale.
“Still yes?”
“Yes. Keep going.”
The head popped through.
I gasped. My hand flew to his forearm and dug in. The fullness was different from my pussy, tighter, more electric, a pressure that made my clit throb like it had been left out of a conversation. He held there, shaking, buried only that first thick inch, and let me get used to being opened that way.
“That’s the worst of the stretch,” he murmured. “You’re doing it. You’re taking my cock in your ass in a line cabin while the road’s still a river. You wanted every way. This is one.”
He fed me more.
Inch by inch. Checking my eyes after each. The burn eased into a deep, occupied heat. I felt split in a precise, chosen way. When his hips finally met the backs of my thighs I was shaking, full, stuffed so completely that a laugh almost broke out of me from the shock of it.
“Fuck. Cal. That’s — I can feel you everywhere.”
“I know.” His voice had gone threadbare. “You squeeze and I am going to lose my mind. Give me a minute. You feel like a fist.”
He didn’t slam.
He rocked.
Short, careful strokes that taught my ass the shape of him.
The slick sound changed, thicker. Stove heat licked my calf.
I smelled lube and smoke and the salt of his skin when he leaned down and put his forehead to mine.
His fingers found my clit — two of them, wet from my pussy — and rubbed in tight, mean circles while he worked in and out of that tighter hole.
The combination wrecked me.
Clit and ass and his eyes. No place to put the feeling except through my mouth. I came with my knees bracketing his ribs, a sharp, shaking orgasm that made my asshole clamp down on his cock so hard he cursed and froze, buried, riding out the milking pull without chasing his own end.
I clawed his shoulder. I said his name like it was the only word left.
He lasted through it.
Then he started moving again, a little deeper in the stroke, still watching me, still asking with his face more than his mouth. I nodded. I hooked my heels at his back. The discomfort had tipped into a dark, crowded pleasure that made my pussy leak onto the blanket untouched.
When he came it was with a broken sound against my mouth.
I felt every pulse.
Hot. Distinct. A flood that had nowhere to go except deeper into me.
His cock jerked in my ass again and again, pumping cum into that tight clutch while his whole body went rigid over mine.