Page 51 of Goode Vibrations
“Don’t wanna come yet. Want to fuck you forever.” He lost his voice as I caressed his balls on his next pounding thrust. “Fuck, when you do that, Poppy? Makes me insane. Feels so fucking good. Too fucking good. Can’t last much longer, you make me feel too fucking good…”
I had to grip the pillow and writhe against the mattress and scream into the bedspread as he drilled into me, thrust after thrust, and each one I caught at his balls and squeezed and kneaded. Until his thrusts faltered, and I heard his breathing go hoarse and heard him whimper, a low masculine sound of desperation, of abandonment.
“I can’t—” he whispered, voice breaking. “Can’t…can’t stop it.”
Pushed into me, and now his thrusts were deeper without pulling out, and I had his balls in both my hands, cupping and squeezing, and his groan became one of agonized disbelief as I clenched around his balls and kept him from coming as he let go. He was pulsing against me, gripping my ass and spreading me apart and pushing deeper, and now he was shouting as I clenched hard, holding on to him a beat longer.
And then released him, my grip now soft and caressing, squeezing his delicate pulsating sac in time with the rhythm of the vein I felt behind his balls.
He shouted, a loud hoarse broken male scream of release. “POPPY!” A wordless, guttural roar as another quaking wave wrenched him, and he jerked out of my grip and pulled back to fuck me, twice, three times, fucking me hard through his release, and then another wave crushed him in its grip and I had his balls in my palms again, kneading now, swift and gently as he feathered small helpless thrusts deeper and deeper and deeper.
His face was slack against my spine, his breath hot and damp, and he was limp.
He let me go, and I fell forward, and he went with me, covering me, lying on top of me.
“Holy shit,” he murmured.
“No kidding,” I breathed.
I was aching.
Crushed by him, but not minding.
“Poppy.” A question in the form of a flat statement. “You didn’t come again.”
“No, but I came three times before you did, so—”
I never got the rest out, and he was sliding down my body, gathering himself slowly as if summoning the strength to even move, lips stuttering over my spine, and now his lips kissed the swell of my right ass cheek and then he was pushing me over onto my back and curling down between my thighs.
He kissed me.
He kissed my sex, lips slathering over my clit, worshipping slow and soft.
This was not just to make me come so we were “even,” oh no, this was something else.
Thanks for the way I’d made him come, as if he owed me thanks for the fuck of a lifetime.
I could die right now and die happy, knowing I’d been well and truly fucked.
But yet, he wasn’t satisfied.
He used his fingers to pry open my slit and bare my clit for his mouth, and this was all about making me come, but…the speed, the gentility, the silky slither of his tongue and the soft press of his lips, it was about giving me…something.
What, I couldn’t name.
But something.
“Errol?” A gasp, as I flew out of my depth.
“Just take it,” he whispered, the words huffing against my taut nether lip and swollen clit. “Take it, and say my name when you come.”
I took it from him, and I didn’t just say his name when I finally came again, for the fourth time in I had no clue how much time—I screamed it.
I screamed his name until my voice broke and the sound of his name on my tongue lost meaning—semantic satiation, a professor had called that phenomenon.
I think I actually passed out.
When I returned to awareness, I was on my belly still, and my sex was aching and pulsing and tingling, and I was awash with post-orgasmic blissed-out glow. I heard a faucet running, managed to pivot my head until I could see into the bathroom. Errol was standing naked in front of the toilet, in the act of peeling the condom off, careful not to spill, wrapped it in a folded wad of toilet paper, which he then used to wipe himself with, and then discarded the whole in the trash. Washed his hands. Dried them. Returned to me, dick swinging long and limp.