Last Hit(5)
With feline grace, she stretches provocatively against the sheets. Her nude frame is a decadent vision in the low light of our room and the black as sin sheets. “If it will make you feel better, I submit to your attentions.”
“If we were in Russia, you would call me Kolya,” I murmur against her breast. Her dusky nipple hardens under my breath even before I can wet her skin with my tongue and mouth. Anticipation of the pleasure I will bring to her is already igniting a fire deep within.
“Kolya,” she repeats huskily. “Make love to me.”
“I thought you would never ask.”
My tongue laps a lazy path from one peak to the other, working each taut bud of skin into a hard point. She arches beneath me, pushing the lush flesh deeper into my mouth. I oblige her unspoken command and suck harder, the sides of my cheeks hollowing out as I devour her sensitive skin.
She is as edible as any bakery treat. Her body trembles and her legs shift restlessly on the sheets as my mouth travels lower into her wispy curls and then between her legs.
Her nectar coats my tongue on the first pass, and each successive lap against her sex produces more and more honey. Against the smooth cotton, my cock pulses hot and hard but I ignore him for bringing her to ecstasy—aiding her in finding new plateaus of pleasure—is its own heady reward.
I part her lips with my fingers, exposing more of her cunt to my hungry tongue. The surface is swollen with desire and slick with my saliva and her wetness. I trace the folds with the tip of my blunt forefinger and then spread her open to thrust my tongue inside.
Her fingers dig into my head as she writhes under my ministrations.
“Right there, Nick, kiss me right there.”
I listen and obey.
I slide two fingers inside her wet, hot depths and latch onto her clitoris. Sucking on the aroused pink bundle of nerves, I fuck her relentlessly with my fingers until she’s crying out her desperate need for release.
With one hand firmly inside her cunt, I plant both feet on the floor and tug her to the end of the bed. In one swift motion, I trade my fingers for my aching cock. Her hands flutter toward me but I cannot bear to be touched.
I’m on the edge of insanity, and one single finger of hers on my body will set me off. I grab her wrists and shackle them together, pressing them into the mattress above her head.
“With my body I love you,” I hiss through clenched teeth. I grab her hip with my fingers, using it as leverage against my fearsome thrusts. “With my flesh, I worship you.”
“Take me, then,” she whimpers, as breathless as I am.
The hot channel of her sex is tight around my cock. The answers to all the questions in life are here in the plush, firm grip of her tissues. I shake with the need to release my seed inside her, over her, around her until everywhere we look she is marked by my come. I want to spill inside her until it drips down her legs and coats her thighs.
Dipping down, I take her mouth in mine and savagely drive into her giving body, savoring the tight heat of her as I withdraw to my tip, only to plunge until my balls smack against her skin.
In a fever, I beat my body against hers until I am blind with lust and delirious with pleasure. The pool of my sperm is ready to detonate, awaiting the signal from her body.
I continue to fuck her, mindlessly, incessantly, with the power of every muscle in my body. Beneath me the telltale tremors of her impending climax only spur me to thrust faster and harder. We are a blur of motion and feeling.
She breaks from my shackles and writhes her hips against me as she reaches and strains for her own orgasm. She meets my demands with wordless ones of her own as the earthquake we’ve been building shakes the foundations and leaves us a ruined, beautiful mess.
***
My art history class is housed in a decrepit old building that smells like stale cigarette smoke and mildewed paper. It is the smell of learning and discernment—light years away from the stink of gunpowder, blood, and fear. We are studying Picasso and his ambivalence toward women and his hate toward rigid societal structure. He never found his Daisy, I have concluded, and spent too much time seeking the answers to his happiness in the bottom of a brown bottle. But who can deny the genius? Perhaps there are those who are not meant to be happy so that the expression of their torment can inspire generations that follow.
I sit in the back, near the door. Not because I am avoiding attention, although that is part of it, but primarily because I cannot rid myself of instinct. Instinct will always have me sit near an exit, facing the door, or away from those that I perceive as threats.
There are no threats in art history, only students and a rather pudgy professor who dresses in turtlenecks and tweed. Like the stale smells, I find the clichéd attire of the professor comforting. Everything is as it should be.