“High”
10 MIN READ
Today was hot. It reached over 100 degrees. In the short time we spent outdoors we browned two shades darker and wore summer in our skin. Today was hot. You showed your favorite piece in your first DC art show. Maybe you were on a high. The people took your picture, widened their eyes and smiled at you. You presented yourself to the city and they loved you for it. You float like champagne bubbles in matching flutes, clinking in celebration, from the backseat of a helicopter, up where the air is thin. You are that high.
I, on the other hand was mildly defeated. The heat and crowds consumed me. With nothing left to offer you or the day, I let it go. A still moment on the sofa turned into hours of unconsciousness. When I awoke and returned to life, the sun was down and you were there. I was sure the day and night had run their course, but it was a hot and you were on a high.
Still wrapped in sleep, eyes barely open, I make my way into the kitchen for some water. Slow, shuffling steps are more audible than usual. Where is the music you play as you paint? Where is the sound of rustling book pages as you read, or the tapping of your laptop keys? You’ve shut the bedroom door. That’s unusual, I think. The potential for sleep is expected, but a closed door is not. I take my time in the kitchen, drink slowly and let the water bring me back to life. Every bit of sound travels as I place the empty glass on the kitchen counter and make my way to the closed door. Actually, it’s ajar. It doesn’t take more than a light touch to open. There you are on the other side, standing upright, bending and straightening your knees, tugging and pulling at the leather harness, adjusting your strap. As you tighten the loop around your left leg, you grip eight inches of butterscotch colored silicone. It is perfection beyond most living things, positioned perfectly between your legs like you grew it in your mother’s womb.
Oh, it’s straight. It’s the one we picked out together. You dampen it thoroughly. Every stroke of your palm reminds me that you are deep and wide. Every twist of your wrist reminds me of the pending jolt of your first penetrating stroke. My body remembers you and is instantly ready. You catch my gaze, we lock eyes. We exchange a familiar look. With indisputable confidence, you lift my dress and check for yourself. Wet, instantly.
You are five inches shorter than I but you were on a high. You put each hand at the place my ass and thighs meet and begin to lift. You are strong and I trust you. I am on your high so I wrap my legs around your waist and arms around your neck, submitting fully to your care and direction. Each step leads us out of the bedroom and into the living room. In one fluid motion you place me on the couch and spread my knees further apart.
I know this position well. My legs spread wide before you means your face is about to disappear from the nose down. It means you are going tongue-deep into me. But, this high is something else and you already know the slippery warmth awaiting. You lift me up by the hips and turn me over. I brace myself. Hands and elbows on the back of the couch, knees apart on the cushion beneath. You place me in a position of willful submission. Tonight you make yourself a fire and my body a pile of matches. I am a conflagration, every sense aflame. The only sound I can make, as you roll your hips into the perfect thrust, is a single gasp. A gasp like all the air in my body has dedicated itself to spreading this fire.
“Gasp.”
Without pause or warning, you dive into familiar waters and oscillate like a thick southern woman who knows how to twerk. The day itself was foreplay and my body begs for this grand finale. Your dick hits the place where words are lost, the place before words. Your dick hits the place where pleasure is made known with grunting and growling. These screams are loud and unashamed. Nails digging into flesh as I grip your thighs and pull you in deeper are passion’s painful reward and tomorrow’s reminder. The spot on your chest where a passion and bite mark overlap is a moment and a metaphor for the way we walk the line between fucking and making love. We are the sting of pulled hair and the taste of twisting tongues that meet when you make me find your mouth from behind. We are the steady slapping of thighs against ass. We are soft neck kisses and the firm, desperate grip you hold around my neck as your pace starts to slow. Rhythmic girations become deep, measured strokes. Each time you press my pussy tightens, begging you not to move. Right there. Sweat gathers between your breasts and they tussle beneath your sports bra with every thrust. Please, don’t stop. The only movements left are involuntary. Trembling, pulsing, contracting, convulsing, contorted, drenched bodies are all that remain.
We lay helpless, bathed in shared sweat and cum. You slowly begin to pull yourself out, gradually revealing dripping, pearlescent velvet. My body has made something I don’t recognize? Is that me? Cum for us to share. She made it for you so we can see what yours looks like and we can watch it drip from the tip of your dick onto my skin.
You take this sight as your soaking wet invitation to begin again. Stroking, climaxing, shaking, dying and being reborn. I beg you to nut inside me so we can watch it drip again. I beg you,
“Please, zaddy.”
Face to face, we climax.
Collapsing onto me, fire turns to water. Wet skin on my skin, wet pussy pulsing in tempo around your resting dick. You whisper in my ear,
“Do you want more?”
My body says, yes. Hips thrust forward, lower back curves itself into a yes. Eyes close themselves into a yes, please. All senses stop but the ones your touch permit.
I grab the back of your neck and grip tightly. I say aloud and in your ear, as your weight bears down on my body and the living room couch,
“I can feel the soft stubble of your faded temple against my cheek. I feel your panting breath on my collarbone, warm and rhythmic. I feel your bottom lip separate into an open mouth as I glide my hand down the back of your neck.”
My palm dampens with your sweat and I say,
“Your body is glazed.”
I lick the rim of your ear and say,
“You taste like mine.”
I wrap my legs around you and pull you in, body to body. I scrape my nails down your spine and stop on my way back up, between the shoulder blades and pull you in. I whisper,
“I can feel your heart beating. Mine.”
Your body knows and responds with a slow thrust. I match your rhythm with sound. A moan, raspy and deep pulls itself from the back of my throat. I say,
“That sound comes from the place your dick hits when I choke on it. My mouth remembers how thick you are and how deep you go when I swallow you whole.”
A threshold has been crossed. We are no longer earthly beings. We are sex itself, floating between past lives, neither man nor woman, made only of molecules and pleasure. High above reality. The room is steam and fog. The air is a sound. Nothing is solid. Everything is color and light.
You kiss me, hard and sure. With one hand on the armrest behind my head and another on my hip you brace deep, slow thrusts. You fill me up, fully, and I scream,
“It’s you. Your dick is so big and so hard and so smooth. Your dick makes my pussy so slippery. I can feel you throbbing. I can feel the head of your dick swelling inside me. You’re ready to burst. Can you feel how soft and wet my pussy is? Can you feel my pussy tightening around you, sucking, begging for your cum? Please cum. Please let me feel the warmth of your cum. I need to see it drip. Mix your nut with mine and make my pussy overflow. Please. Please, daddy. Please cum inside me.”
We erupt into an open-mouthed, closed-eyed, leg-shaking orgasm. We climax again and all time is lost.
After an eternity of stillness, you carefully draw away to inspect your work. I say into the air and to the universe,
“You are the best.”
You pull out slowly, an inch at a time. Partially removed, you reach for my face, grip my chin and mouth, guide my eyes towards yours and say,“ Who does you better than me?”
“Nobody. No one.”
“Who makes you feel like this?”
“You. You.”
The final inch is a floodgate, a marvelous white, sticky mess. As I lay helpless, you are energized by the sight of dripping cum. Desperate for another fix, you lay me onto the couch. The palms of your hands bear down on the back of my thighs presenting your drug of choice. You dive into me, treating yourself to the fruits of your labor.
“Your nut is so sweet.”
You drink me up. You guide your fingers toward familiar places and draw out whipped cream for me to see. Your face is equally covered in wonder, pride, and desire. You greedily lick me from your hand and wrist. In one fluid motion you extend your arm toward my mouth, an invitation to taste. You drag your fingers along my tongue. My mouth open wide, an invitation to enter. I am sweet. Excited by my wanton lust, you drown your fingers once again. You instantly trigger release. You know my body well. You command and my body obeys,
“Cum.”
As I shake recklessly, you pick me up, turn me over and thrust your dick deep inside. You fuck me hard. A hand around my throat guides my ear to your lips. What sounds will you request beyond these moans and staccato breaths?
“Tell me I’m that nigga.”
“You’re that nigga. You’re that nigga. Baby, you’re that nigga.”
“Then cum.”
Our bodies, melted and tangled, levitate. Like smoke, you float these words into the air above,
“Do you want more?”