Ex-Plaining Jane

When he backed away slightly, I moaned dreading the separation, but then his hands were below my hips, sliding down to my thighs and lifting me until my legs were wrapped around his waist. His hands slid back under hips and he carried me without releasing my mouth. Somewhere. I was only aware of where and how our bodies were touching. I wanted to be horrified that my wet panties were hard up against his suit pants, but all I could bring myself to care was that the fact might give him enough cause to remove them.

He raised a knee between my legs and I gasped as every muscle in my body contracted with a shivery delight. He quickly ran a hand up my back to my neck, catching me in a controlled fall onto his bed and his mouth was on mine again, before I'd even realized I'd broken that contact. He was pressing me into the mattress with the weight of his kiss. One knee remained between my legs, pushed up against my hungry pussy as his fingers clutched at the hem of my dress and drew it inexorably upward, the clingy knit material obediently stretching to oblige his will until he had it over my head and was pulling it up over my willing arms.

The hand returned to the back of my neck, lifted me gently up toward his waiting lips, then slid slowly down my back, unfastening my bra along the way. He teased me with soft, featherlight kisses for just a moment, before he knelt back. I reached for him, missing contact already, but he was sliding his hands around my waist, then very, very slowly up toward my breasts, hooking his thumps under the loose edge of my bra and lifting it free of my breasts, sliding it off over my reaching arms.

I heard a sound, and realized it was me, moaning, whining. He made his cat-ate-the-canary smile and his hands curled underneath my breasts, lifting them, presenting my nipples for inspection by his mouth and tongue. When he lowered his head and sucked hard, my back arched impossibly, thrusting my tender nipples at him for more torture, even when he nipped. I was so close to coming and I squirmed, trying to press my wet pussy against his knee that still rested between my legs, but his large hands, wrapped around my ribs just under my breasts, held me tight and refused me that relief. After a few minutes to make sure my nipples were painfully hard, he knelt back again and studied my face as his hands toyed with my breasts and teased my hard nipples. I tried squirming again, but he made sure his knee rested just out of range.

When I finally had to pause to catch my breath, I looked in his eyes, normally dark brown, in the dim light of the bedroom, they looked almost black, like deep pools and I was becoming lost in them when his hands finally began to slide down toward my panties. Now I was holding my breath. I couldn't believe how badly I needed him to finish what he had started. I'd never felt so empty inside and in need of filling. I actually trembled as his fingers grazed my skin at the top edge of my panties, but when he seemed bent on following that edge, rather than delving deeper, I groaned and begged. "Please," I whispered.

"Please?" He queried with that faint smile. "What is it you are asking for?"

"I need you," I moaned, gripping the bedding and pulling myself down toward him. He grasped my waist and effortlessly hefted me back up toward the headboard.

"You need me to what?" He asked, leaning over me but making no contact.

"I need you to make love to me."

"Wrong answer," he stated sternly, sitting even further back. "If that's what you want, get a vibrator."

"What?" I said with a soft sob.

"Say what you want. Tell me exactly what you want. No euphemisms. This isn't a goddamn romance novel." I stared at him. He sounded angry.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. "I want you to take my panties off," I said softly.

"And then?" He asked, his tone more moderate.

"I want you to..." I paused. 'Eat my pussy' had to be a euphemism. "Suck and lick my clit."

"And then?"

"I want you to come inside me, to fill me..."

"I told you I'm not a patient man," he said warningly.

"I want you to fuck me," I finally spat out, cringing. I hadn't used language like that, out loud, with my ex, let alone a stranger. Yet even as I said it, I could feel a fresh gush of liquid as the muscles of my vagina grasped in vain for what I so desperately needed.

"That's more like it," he praised, and when I dared open my eyes, the cat smile was back. He waited until he had my complete attention, then he snatched at my panties and tore them apart, dropping the cloth fragments on my belly. He dove between my legs, his tongue finding my entrance unerringly, lapping at the free-flowing moisture as if it were a life-saving elixir. Then his tongue slid upward, and I jumped as it made contact with my clit and his lips surrounded that nexus of desire, and slowly, teasingly, all-too-gently sucked.

"Harder," I breathed, not believing I had dared to speak my forbidden desires yet again to this stranger. I was sure I could feel him smile against him, but he obliged, sucking and teasing with his tongue until I was screaming and writhing and wondering if I could endure anymore, though he refused to stop. I had never had multiple orgasms, wasn't even sure they were real, but I'd had three before he relented. When he finally pulled away, I curled into a tiny ball of quivering incoherence. Until he stood up off the bed and began undressing.

I stared at that chest I'd only imagined as it came into view. It wasn't a chest that had never seen anything but the inside of a gym. There was a hardness, but not the perfect muscle shaping of exercise machines. It had been shaped and sculpted by hard work, scarred by accidents. It was a chest that brooked no argument, especially not from the likes of me. I felt absolutely puny being in the same room with that chest. And that was before his belt slid free of his pants and his fingers began the process of freeing that presence within that wanted nothing more than to bury itself inside me, surround itself with me and electrify my insides in ways it had only hinted at, so far.

I had to keep reminding myself to breath as he kicked off his shoes, then dropped his pants. His boxers could barely contain the life within. He crooked his finger at me and with no more incentive, I slid off the bed and onto my knees in front of him. I slowly, gently pulled his boxers down, helped him step free of them and his socks before I took stock of what was yearning toward me and, well, my mouth. Let me be perfectly clear here. It wasn't that he was endowed like some talentless porn star who can't be trusted with more than three lines of dialogue. And it sure as hell wasn't that I was so experienced I could judge some ephemeral quality of erections. It was far simpler than that. It was that right now, in this time and in this place, this cock wanted me. And it wanted me badly. When I reached up and tentatively wrapped a hand around it, it throbbed. My ex never throbbed like that at my touch. I looked up at Gary, meeting his eyes, and he patiently nodded at me. For this, he was patient, apparently. It was a good thing, because, for the first time ever, I wanted to savor sucking a cock. As much as I wanted him inside me, I wanted to experience all of the permutations of the excitement this man felt at the thought of being inside me.

There was a trace of precum remaining on the head, and I stretched my tongue out to taste it, running the tip up and down the slit, squeezing gently with my fingers so more leaked out. The taste was faint, pungent. I licked my lips and looked up again to meet his eyes, trying to gauge if I was pleasing him as I stretched out my tongue and ran it along the underside of his cock. When he closed his eyes and sucked in a breath, I took that as a positive sign and traced the heavy, bluish veins before returning to the underside, pausing to pay special attention to the nexus where the notch of the glans began, before taking his tip in my mouth. Again, I was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath and his eyes darkened even more as his eyelids became heavy. I felt incredibly powerful. This man, who had controlled my entire evening, was now at my mercy. I smiled as I drew more of him into my mouth with soft sucking. It occurred to me to wonder if he could feel me smile around his cock as I had felt him smile – I think – as he sucked my clit.

I was fascinated that he held perfectly still, save for a tremor or throb, letting me take him in at my own pace. He had totally controlled my body earlier, dictating when and how many orgasms I was allowed to have. Perhaps he was still in control, but at least I had the illusion that his pleasure was at my will. His fingers played loosely in my hair as my lips and tongue played along his length. My ex would have been face-fucking me by pulling my hair painfully, and blaming his semi-hard dick on my inadequacies. My hands would have been hard against his thighs, pushing back against the choking. Now, my hands were at Gary's back, just above his hips, gently encouraging him deeper in my mouth. He was actually resisting the urging of my hands, trusting my mouth, my tongue, my lips and my throat to decide what they were ready for.

When he suddenly twisted his hands in my hair and pulled me back off of him, I was devastated. I wanted; actually for the first time ever, wanted a man to come in my mouth. Wanted him to see me swallow his come. Wanted to pleasure him the way he had pleasured me. "Get on the bed," he commanded. "Hands and knees." I took some small satisfaction from the fact that he was rasping the words. I wanted to believe that was my fault, my successful intrusion on his control. Still, I cringed inwardly at the aspect of doing it 'doggie style.' That had been my ex's way of demeaning me. When he was mad at me, he said he didn't want to have to look at my face. Was that what Gary was trying to tell me? Had I deluded myself into thinking it was me, in my entirety, that made him so hard. When it was really just my vagina? I was almost crying as I climbed back onto the bed. But I did climb back onto the bed, because I still needed him inside me, needed to be filled. Orgasms were good – okay, great – but that existential emptiness that couldn't be satisfied by toys or fingers or porn; filling that emptiness was what I had hoped for. I just wasn't convinced, penetration or no, that an anonymous fuck from behind was going to accomplish that.

I felt the bed shift behind me, saw a foil condom wrapper drift to the ground from the corner of my eye. I was keeping my eyes on the headboard, though. Trying to figure out how to convince myself this was different. Not my ex trying to pretend I was someone else that he couldn't have at the moment. Why didn't I just say 'fuck it' and walk away? I mean, it wasn't even like there was a divorce settlement at stake. There was nothing. Nothing except yet another night of disappointment. 'Fuck it!' I screamed silently, more at myself than any external person or experience. I reached for the headboard, ready to climb off the bed when an arm looped under my belly and pulled me back into position.

"I'm not done with you," he growled.

I throbbed with need in response to that tone. 'Fine,' I thought. 'Use my vagina to get your thrills. Just don't you dare finish before I do.' I adopted my well-ingrained pose, muscles taut, back hunched, breath coming out in rehearsed sighs that said 'let's just get this over with.' That lasted all of thirty seconds. He whacked my right ass cheek. Hard. I did a combo of a yelp and a gasp. Different muscles tensed, back arched and sighs were long forgotten.

"That's more like it," he muttered, and all the sudden he was inside me. Apparently, my rebellious vagina had issued a welcome mat. And frankly, I was grateful for the initiative it had taken, because I was filled with precisely the sensation I was hoping for. My breathing was now accomplished in short puffs. Incongruously, it seemed that the additional mass buried deep in my belly was affecting the capacity of my lungs, situated much higher in my torso. Something the physiologists ought to look into.

He leaned over me, his mouth near my ear. "Like that, Baby?"

I swear I don't know what came over me, but I wiggled my ass against him and answered, "Need more action, Jackson."

He was leaning against my back and I could feel the laughter rumbling up through his chest. "You got it, Baby. Let me know how this grabs you." Then he began a slow in and out thrust, the length of his cock, so deep, but hardly overwhelming in a physical sense.

Again, so not me, but I said, "Faster, Gary."

Against my ear, he whispered, "That doesn't rhyme."

"Faster, Master," I whispered, and I held my breath, knowing well how that could be taken, but having no idea how I meant it. He made no comment, but sped up until I was gasping, just short of the pinnacle I needed to reach.

"Talk to me, Baby," he prompted, and I could tell he was beginning to get short of breath, too. He was invested, he needed me to get there, before he could get there. He spread my knees wider, then he stretched an arm beneath me, between my breasts, gently cradling my throat, lifting me, pulling me upright against that beautiful chest. His arms wrapped around me, clutching me to him. My hands found my own breasts. One of his hands covered one of mine, guiding me to knead and pinch and pull. His other hand trailed down until his fingers found my clit. I threw my head back against his shoulder and his teeth bit softly but firmly into the juncture between my neck and shoulder.

"Harder. Please, harder." I'd meant, I'd hoped for it to sound like a request. I knew it came out sounding more like begging. Either way, he obliged.

He released my neck. "Run out of rhymes?" he asked with a chuckle. I could only moan in response. With each thrust, he hit that spot inside me. The one my ex could never find, insisted was a cynical construct by Masters and Johnson to sell books. I couldn't control anything inside; I had been reduced to the most basic level of stimulus and response. Some deep, central part of me liquefied then convulsed, like a tsunami, ripping apart everything in its path.

"Gary!" I screamed, not sure if I wanted him to stop or never stop. I'd never screamed, or even whispered a person's name in the act of love making – or fucking. It had been a point of contention with my ex. 'If I loved him I would scream his name when I came.' Never mind how often I faked orgasm. I suppose I could have faked name screaming, too, but that seemed like insult to injury. The one thing I knew for sure is I'd never experienced 'too much' pleasure at the ex's hands; or penis, or any other appendage.

His arms dropped away to encircle my waist and I fell forward onto to my elbows, gasping. He was slamming deep into me now. As fast as I could draw a breath, he would knock it back out with each thrust. As if there was no such thing as 'too deep,' he would pull me back hard against him each time he plunged into me.

I knew without being able to see Gary's face that that cat smile was there, but I didn't care, because I came again when he let loose to satisfy his own pleasure, and wasn't that what it was all about?