27. The Birds And The Bees
THE BIRDS AND THE BEES
SUTTON
Igrab the camera—the one that’s surrounded by a mess of newly developed Polaroids—and take a picture before I lose my gall, restless fingers plucking the film as soon as it slips free.
I wedge it between my teeth and take another, documenting a series of whatever licks and laves Lake’s tongue delivers to my cock. Graceless, sloppy. Her appetite has grown fangs in the short interval we’ve spent talking, and I’m right there with her.
Grabbing her face in my hands, I claim her mouth with mine, bringing her up to my level so that I can comfortably deepen the kiss without having to break my neck.
Still pigeon-footed from the unforeseen onslaught of adrenaline, my voice branches off into a cross between a moan and a whimper, need roiling in my gut as I blindly sweep everything off the bed to make room for our bodies.
The Polaroids descend in a fluttering mess, and there’s a slightly concerning clang as the camera falls to the ground.
Lake shucks my hoodie off at a speed I don’t think I’ve even moved on the ice, then she’s ripping my undershirt off until there’s nothing between us.
She’s like some sexy, horny werewolf that has finally found relief after being in a rut.
I’m ashamed I even know what that term means.
Merit left one of her monster erotica romances on Crew’s table when I went over last time.
I thought it was an encyclopedia.
Kicking my pants the rest of the way off, I start to crawl on the bed, buck naked, caging her in until her back hits the headboard. Then, with a lot more patience, I unclasp her bra, flinging it onto the floor.
I don’t know what possesses me to slide her panties off with my teeth—call it clinical lycanthropy or some shit—but I move the fabric slowly down her long, flawless legs, immediately getting a whiff of her natural musk and drooling around the lacy hindrance in my mouth.
She’s arching her back against the duvet, tits pushed out to the ceiling, the flat plane of her stomach concaving and emphasizing the cradle of her hipbones.
Everything about her is feminine—the lithe form of her figure, that delicate neck pulsing with blood, the blonde hair that fans out beneath her, the purse of her glossy, naturally plump lips.
I’m thoroughly wrecked just from looking at her.
I dislodge her underwear from my mouth and lose track of it when it hits the carpet.
“I wanted this to be more of a celebratory thing after we win the semifinal game, but I can’t wait that long,” I confess breathlessly, hovering over her as my sticky cock drags over her belly.
Lake hikes one of her legs over my side. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll find another way to congratulate you.”
I lower my neck so that my lips graze her collarbone, the action bereft of any vestigial chivalry. “Music to my fucking ears.”
I like this version of myself—the one that operates without restraints, that obeys primal law. Our moans overlay in volume, circumambient, probably meeting the standards for a noise complaint.
“But for now, fuck me like you mean it,” she growls, shedding the shy innocence that guarded her the first time we had sex. She’s just as desperate as I am—eager to make up for lost time.
I want my back covered in claw marks; I want my blood underneath her fingernails.
“With pleasure.”
I don’t waste any time before yanking her down a few inches, and my hands find her waist with an automaticity that’s equal parts impressive and terrifying.
The bed shakes, and her breasts hitch from the movement.
My palms mold to her curves, smoothing over her silky skin with the same reverence a potter has for their clay.
There’s an ancient want housed in my ribs—one that’s transcended droughts and wars and waited, out of necessity, for this very moment.
I spread her legs apart, watching her sex glisten with slick. Like clockwork, a small, bleating noise rebounds off the paper-thin walls, and I exploit the angle of her body to deliver a slap to her clit.
“I want you to beg for it,” I rumble, my teeth aching to sink into something soft. The order tumesces in the already-charged air, and my stomach tightens with an amalgamation of anticipation and anxiety.
Lake is quiet for a second, but then I hear her acquiesce, the modulation of her voice turning shaky. “Please,” she implores, balling the sheets between her fists.
“Use your words, baby.”
I guide the blunt head of my dick over the seam of her sodden cunt, prodding only enough to narrowly breach her folds, taunting her with a friction that I know she craves whether her outward countenance reflects it or not.
Her legs are shaking; her skin is molten; sweat drips into the shallow valley of her chest. Knowing her combative nature, I don’t know how long it will take to break her, but I’ve got all the time in the world to watch her grovel at my feet.
“Please fuck me, Sutton. I need your big cock stuffing me full. I need you stretching me out. I need you to get me pregnant,” she cries, looking at me with glassy eyes and flushed cheeks and her mouth in the shape of a prayer.
That single word awakens something inside of me—usurps my whole plan to keep cool while I take charge and make her cry for mercy. She knows exactly what makes me tick—what to say to have me spurting an egregious amount of pre-cum.
It’s the first crack in my exterior of polished marble. Small, sure, but deep. So deep that there’s no telling the extent of the damage until it’s too late and the foundation has collapsed inward from the pressure.
My hard-on is an obstruction—sticking out with no possibility of a cool-down period—a meteor shower of pins and needles seeming to stab at my length in protest of the prolonged waiting.
“Yeah? You want to carry my baby? You want everyone to know that I fuck you raw whenever you want because you’re a spoiled princess?
You want everyone to know how wet I make you?
How you’re always dripping down your thighs because that greedy pussy has never waited a day in her life for gratification? ”
She nods eagerly. “God, I want it so badly. I need to feel every drop of your cum deep inside me.”
My heart buzzes like an agitated wasp, and my tongue knots without my permission.
She’s a goddamn sight when she begs—thighs quivering, eyes wide and hopeful like she hasn’t been beaten down by the world quite yet. It’s terrible that my mammal brain whirs when I watch her lower lip tremble. Ironically, she’s broken me without having to do much heavy lifting.
The only warning I give her is, “Hang on to the bed.”
There is no gradual descent, no buildup.
Her entrance is dripping from some kind of sadism kick by the time I bully my cock into her pussy, feeding off the slurred whimpers and babbled nonsense that severs the silence.
With each ridge I notch deeper inside her fist-tight cunt, I feel her walls pulse around me, welcoming me with little resistance.
Our natural lubricant makes it easy for me to seat myself to the root, a groan taking the place of the words I fail to string together. Tears of pleasure pinch off in the corners of my eyes, my muscles shifting reflexively.
“Fucking hell,” she gasps. “How are you bigger than the last time we did this?”
I make a disgruntled noise in the back of my throat. “Seems like you already forgot how to take this fat cock. Do I need to remind you?”
A broken “yes” flies out of her lips, any attempt to outlast my own resolve dissipating in the same breath.
Pulse drumming out a gnarly rhythm, I begin to thrust inside her, snapping my hips and slamming my heavy balls against the backs of her thighs.
She rocks, clinging onto the duvet like I told her, enveloping my length with a gush of wetness that tells me it won’t take long to make her orgasm.
I drag my dick against her insides—feel it butt up against her cervix, stretching out the swell of her stomach.
“Look at the way your needy cunt squeezes around me, Trouble. So hungry, so impatient, so abundant with cum that she’s making a mess all over the bedspread. So eager to milk my dick until there’s nothing left.”
I pull out halfway to ram right back into her, carving out a space for my crown each time, each stroke lacking in finesse the further I stray from my self-control.
“Admit it—you’re obsessed with me,” she quips.
“Unhealthily.”
The soundscape is nothing but offensive squelches and mindless curses, my caregiver hardware suffering a full-system failure as I impale her over and over again. There’s a fire in my thighs that wasn’t there before, but I speed up the pace anyways.
The headboard is my new handhold, and I’m half-certain that I’ll do some serious damage to it by the time things are over. A liability charge on top of a noise complaint? Coach would bench me for the rest of my collegiate hockey career.
“Open your mouth,” I order, feeling my saliva glands work overtime.
She does as I say with an earnestness that somehow makes me even harder.
I purse my lips, sucking in my cheeks before producing a string of spit that aims for the flat of her tongue.
It lands with a sickening splat, and she swallows instinctively, preening at the velvet noise I churn out under my breath.
“Atta girl. You take everything I give you so well,” I praise. “If I can’t feed you my cum, I’ll give you something else to swallow.”
Splotchy streaks of mascara run down Lake’s face, and that primal animal that lives behind my navel is pacing again, demanding to be heard.
I don’t know what comes over me next, but I tether my fist into her hair and yank her up to me, snaking my tongue over the still-fresh trail of tears that muddy her face. She tastes so fucking good, like the first hit of sugar after years of abiding by a restrictive diet.
“Since you love stargazing so much, tell me which stars you see when I split you open.”