How many times have I watched her come to me? How many times have I peeked at her breasts and the furry mound of her cunt as she crawls to me over the foot of the bed? How many times have I enjoyed her flickering self-conscious grin as her impudent eyes betray her and stray to my cock? 

She stops by my waist, beside my hairy sprawling balls and cock, and settles herself, sitting on tiny feet, manicured hands resting lightly on the arches of thighs that nearly hide her tidy pubic hair. Her breasts are elevated slightly by the curve of her dancer's back, and move slowly as she breathes.

Her short hair hugs the back of her neck and I am tempted to grasp her there, to pull her head down to my groin. But it would be offensive even to me to do that. She redefines usual cliches: style, class, poise -- yet none of these words fit her. All are beneath her.

There is so much that separates us. I smell of beer and motor oil; she smells of class and money. I am hairy and bearded; she is cultivated and clean. I am plastic; she is porcelain.

I am her cock.

She is my cunt.

It is hard to imagine sweat pooling between her breasts as I rut over her, but I have seen it. It is hard to imagine the slippery sheen on her body as I hammer into her, but I have seen it. It is hard to imagine the eager way her mouth swallows my cock, the swarming of her tongue as she humps her head over my pelvis, the delight with which she gulps my come as it flushes against the back of her throat. It is hard to imagine her fists knotted into my hair as my tongue probes and laps her cunt. It is hard to imagine the sounds of her sopping cunt receiving my plunging cock. It is hard to imagine seeing her juices mingled with mine, coating her inner thighs as she sprawls, sated, gaping and oozing, hair wild and sweat-tangled, panting, whispering, "oh fuck oh fuck..."

For a tiny interval in the history of the cosmos she sits quietly, poised, eyes downcast, looking at her hands. There I can see the matching rings. She has never worn them when we have been together, but this time they are there, foretelling, haunting me with an expectation of unwelcome truth.

I wait.

She lifts the hand carrying her rings and traces a fingerpath on my slowly swelling cock. Reaching the foreskin she takes a pinch of flesh and lifts, enclosing me with warm fingers. I stiffen quickly in her gentle embrace, and her nipples harden in empathy.

She turns her head to me and I see tears. "I'm letting him come back," she says.

"I saw the rings." It's all I can say.

"It's not fair to the children," she says, as if I have not spoken. Her hand begins to move on me, up and down. "We can't do this any more."

"He won't fuck you properly. He won't make you come. He won't eat your pussy."

"He thinks I'm clean and pure. He wants me to be that way."

I hear a catch in her voice but ignore it. "Make me come," I say, unable to manage my anger. "Suck me. Just make me come."

"Don't," she whispers. A tear oozes along her nose. She begins moving her hand faster. "Besides, I could ask him to -- to try harder..." she offers, hesitancy wrapping her throat.

"He wouldn't. He doesn't know how. Make me come."

"You won't fuck me?"

"No," I say, watching her breasts move.

Her hand slows, stops. "Maybe I should go," she says, her voice tiny.

My mind betrays me, flooding me with memories. "Just do it," I mutter, moving my hips, sliding my cock through her slack fist. "Make me come."

She lets go of me, hiding tears with her hands.

I am remembering. I remember her prim reserve the first time we fucked, her slut-lust after that. I remember the first time I came in her mouth, how I surprised her, how readily she was angry at me for it, and how soon she wanted to suck my cock again. I remember when she asked me to fuck her ass.

She gets off the bed and goes to stand in the doorway with her back to me, leaning against the jamb. Her shoulders move with soft sobs she tries to hide. Her perfect wealthy ass is canted, twisted in a way that would get any man's eye, the same way it got mine the first time I saw her. "Whose cock are you going to suck?" I call out. "Who will fuck you in the ass? Who will eat your pussy and fuck you so hard you scream? Who will come in your mouth? He won't. You know that."

"Stop," she says, her voice muffled by distance and tears. She turns to face me. "I have to do this."

Even her pubic hair is perfectly trimmed, a narrow stripe that can hide behind designer beachwear. "Make me come," I counter, pumping my still-rigid cock.

She returns to the bed, crawling again. Seating herself astride my thigh she takes my cock in her hand and begins, up and down. In rhythm she moves her hips, sliding her slippery pussy on my leg.

I stack my fists behind my head and watch. Her right hand works my cock this time and her left hand is behind her, hiding the rings. I twist a little and reach and get my fingers into her wetness, making her gasp. I hook a finger into her and she rocks her hips harder, jerking at my cock as she does. Tears streak her face.

I am about to come and give in, grabbing her hips and lifting, guiding her over my cock. She brings her ring hand around and parts her cunt lips and lets me inside. Slippery wet and warm, she settles on me slowly, getting that dull, eyes-half-closed look she always gets when she is full of cock, when she is being properly fucked. It's a look that makes her seem animal-mindless, a look he would never tolerate -- and the only thing I can give her.

"He doesn't want you to come," I say. "It wouldn't be ladylike."

She pulls me, rolling to her back, taking me with her, and spreads her raised knees wide so that I am buried deep inside her. "Fuck me," she says.

I push hard and she grinds herself against me, locking her legs behind me, grunting, mouth agape, eyes still lidded, muttering, "fuck me..."

"I can smell your cunt," I say. "Can you smell it? You won't smell it again. You're his princess. He won't want your cunt to make that smell. He won't fuck you. He'll stick his cock in you and he'll come and he'll call it fucking, but he won't fuck you. He won't care if you come, and he won't want to smell your pussy."

I fuck, slamming hard the way she wants me to, and I know when she is ready and pull out and straddle her, grabbing her wrist, forcing her to take my slippery cock in her hand. "Make me come!" I shout.

She opens her eyes and glares at me and starts jerking my cock. Her other hand, the one with the rings, slips under me, working in her cunt.

She throws back her head and lets go a long, breathless, shuddering moan that rises into a hoarse scream. My semen falls, thick gobs on her breasts and stomach.

And it almost works; for a few minutes I don't care.

Copyright © 2001 Sidney Durham. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.

You may sample his ebooks available for purchase and immediate download at Renaissance E books titles: Butterflies on a Mirror, Loveseat Stories and his latest, Toy Party.

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