The thought of it excites me. He wants me. Not Tatiana, not Amber and the rest. My libido has scoured away my troubles – at least momentarily. The stone table is raised about two feet from the craggy cave floor. He helps me climb onto it, and I position myself on my hands and knees. My buttocks are sticking into the air and my feet protrude outward from the surface.
“Open your legs, baby,” he says.
I broaden the base formed by my two knees so that he can enter the triangle between my calves. I picture him gazing at what he can see of my pussy between my legs – my private little cave mouth glistening with wet darkness. I am creaming at the thought of him scrutinizing me in detail. I am overflowing with the mental vision and texture of his cock – which I’m sure is extremely erect – impaling me roughly.
Ohhhhhh.
I steal a look behind. He is naked and as beautiful as a mountain god – one of those ancient ones who roam the hills and forests and comingle with dryads and wood nymphs. His cock is lovely and plump, and it already posits at my orifice, waiting to enter.
He enters before I can ready myself for it. He enters with a cry and a thrust. The sudden expansion of my walls sends a shuddery signal through my bones, and I clench my jaw as I hiss. I feel his hands on my hips, steadying me for what would be one of his rougher encounters.
He begins to move in and out of me, ensuring that my vaginal walls are rubbed with maximal friction. The streams of pleasure begin to swarm like electric currents all over my groin. As he thrusts and withdraws, thrusts and withdraws, his fingers creep to my front to finger my pussy. I moan in exquisite agony as his fingertips stroke my clit and the furrows beside it.
His penis is the instrument of my libidinous torture as he pumps and pumps into me. Sweat beads upon my brow despite the chilliness of our environment. He rocks his hips against mine to ensure an oscillatory output in addition to his back-forth pistoning ones. My G-spot is pummeled and bored against and stroked and teased to merciless ecstasy. And all this while his fingers are pinching my clit and squeezing it, so that I’m sobbing and moaning and throwing back my head like the wanton slut they say I am.
“Oh baby,” he groans, accelerating his rhythm.
I rock my hips back to meet his. After a few fumbled attempts, I manage to meet him head on each time he lunges forward. We are in beautiful concert, the two of us. His cock pierces and subdues me, renders my knees into chafed pads as I scrape them against the stone table in vigor. But I am oblivious to the discomfort. My clit and G-spot are of greater sensory concern.
I am climbing something, just as I have climbed and conquered the mountain. It builds and builds, this magical upscaling of all my senses. The rock wall of the cave is in front of me – bare – but I imagine ancient etchings of early man and woman coupling upon bearskin rugs. There might have even been a campfire in here. This stone table might have been an altar for virgins to be taken upon by ancient priests before being thrown to the gods.
These thoughts, although partially morbid, present a salacious picture to my already fevered mind. As his finger presses down forcefully on the tender nub of my clit, I let myself go. My brain flies to that haven of white light and red sound and blue sky, and the world outside flattens and compresses and whirls like all the colors of the earth and water have blended into one.
The waves of pleasure are so intense that they flood my belly and spine and pelvis and chest and everything else beyond and between. I can feel my muscle fibers quivering everywhere. I am wobbling on all fours, and I can hardly feel my kneecaps and palms as they perch – precariously – on the granite.
I must have cried out like those ancient virgins have cried out before me – an ululating wail into the roof of the cave which reverberates and bounces against the three walls. The tendrils of pleasure continue to worm their way into every crevice and fold, and I continue to shudder and shudder until I’m sure I would have shuddered off the stone table had not Alex held my waist.
As I regain fuller application of my senses, I feel Alex’s sperm gush into me. Its warmth and wetness spreads throughout my pussy, jettisoning into my cervix and the secret curvatures of my womb. Not for the first time, I wonder what it would be like to have Alex’s baby.
Oh, the scandal!
None of the royals will ever live it down!
As we both come down to earth and stone and fatigued and very sore muscles, we pause for a moment in our positions. We catch our collective breaths and Alex helps me off the table.
“You OK?” he says.
I rub my sore kneecaps. “Yes.”
“Sorry.” He’s grinning, which means he’s not sorry at all.