Hold Me

The first few times we had sex, we made love. It was sweet, it was romantic. I would have showered late in the afternoon, or taken a long bubble bath. Put on my frilliest underthings. Carefully dabbed on the lightest of makeup, with the most subtle come-hither red lipstick and swoosh of Clinique body power. Picked out the most feminine of silk blouses and not-too-tight not-too-short skirts, with matching medium heels.

And after dinner and a movie, or that party at Gerry and Joan's, or the evening in the city at the symphony, we'd find ourselves at his place or at mine. Standing at the foot of the bed, he'd slowly unbutton and unsnap me, and I him. Nervous hands, sometimes almost trembling, and wet open-mouthed kisses of anticipation.

I'd be on my back for the longest time, holding my lips apart like a butterfly's wings while his mouth played in my honeyed folds, his tongue and lips making close friends with my clitoris and my fragrant mysteries. I let my pubic hair grow wild and untamed in those days. I wanted my lovers to unwrap me, to get past the frilly feminine trappings and discover the animal within. When they first got into my pants, they were always surprised.

Or he would lie back and I would explore him, from the tiny pebbles of his hard nipples to his flat, furry belly, and eventually to his velvet-skinned stiffness, always insistent, always leaking. My tongue would lick him from base to tip in long straight paths, marveling at how he would quiver and throb as I passed over each bump and ridge on my way to that distinctive mushroom head with its dark rim.

And when I would finally take him into my mouth, at first just the barest inch of promise, then soon thereafter a plunging engulfing of his entire shaft, he would gasp and squirm in my wet grasp and leak even more.

He was a slow and patient lover. He entered me gently, almost hesitantly, making sure that every gradual step was met by a willing and slippery welcome. When he was finally and completely inside me, he would just soak there for a time, while I relished the stretching hardness of him. He was alive in my vagina, and I was alive snugly enveloping him.

And then he would move. Tiny little circles at first, then larger circles, then long smooth strokes that teasingly ricocheted off one side then the other. My legs would wrap around his strong back and I surrender myself to him, feeling creamy slick and yielding. My fingers would play on his back or in his hair, and he would kiss my red lips as I nibbled on him and sucked in his tongue the way my red-lipped cunt was sucking in his cock.

Gentle touches. Soft sighs. "Are you ready?" he would whisper, and when I replied "Yes" he would quicken his movements. We built together, matching my upthrusting hips to his downthrusting curving tool. I was inflamed and panting, my juices melting from the heat of my loins to lubricate his thick, stabbing erection. And when he whispered "Now!" and throbbed and spurted inside me, the raw excitement of his climax and the warm fluid flow of his semen would trigger my own polite quivering orgasm.

We would slip apart, still kissing and touching, showering together only when my nipples lost their hardness and his penis shrank back into the stickiness of his black bushy pubic hair. He would dress and leave me after feathery parting kisses, or we would both dress and he would drive me home.

"What would you like me to do tonight?" he finally asked me one evening, his face smeared with my pussy nectar, his rigid pole poised and ready to engage.

"Hold me," I told him. "Hold me tight." He wrapped his arms around me.

"No," I said. "Hold me down." I curled my arms above my head, and his hands followed. "Take me. Hard."

His hands gripped my wrists, not roughly, but not gently either. "That's it," I whispered. His legs straddled outside mine. His cock prodded and fumbled to find my opening. I rocked my hips from side to side, half helping, half not. With a grunt he was in, thrusting firmly until it was fully seated, the friction dragging my labia and pulling on my clit and making me shiver. Now his legs constrained mine from the outside, pushing my knees together. His cock felt huge. "That's it," I repeated. "Now fuck me."

He fucked me. Fucked me with short halfstrokes that bottomed out with a straining bending push. My clit twitched endlessly as he fucked me with that huge cock of his. My body squirmed hopelessly under him, pinned down, my arms unable to move.

My whimpers turned into moans, and then into gasping, almost screeching animal noises. "Fuck me," I growled at him, "fuck my cunt. Do it." He worked his prick in me, stretched me in broad, twisting motions that felt as if he was tearing me deliciously apart. "Fuck me!"

He fucked me. My body shuddered with his every pounding thrust, his back arched, my breasts wobbling freely beneath his chest, his fists tight around my wrists. I fought to release my hands, and when my right hand slipped away from his sweaty grasp I raked red fingernails across his back. He growled and snatched it, returning the escaped hand to join the other. "Hold me tight," I grunted at him, and now he knew why.

I came in a blind rush, that first one arriving so fast it surprised me. He kept fucking me, relentlessly, as my body stiffened and my cunt spasmed around his hardness. Now wetter and more inflamed, he kept me on the edge, allowing me no relief. I came a second time, almost as hard as the first, then a minute later a third, blessedly weaker.

I was frenzied, fighting against his strength with all my might. "Oh fuck fuck fuck," I gasped. He groaned. My legs struggled to get free. "Let me," I pleaded, "around you." He raised one leg, then the other, and I wrapped my legs around his hips. Now he was impossibly deeper. I felt him all the way up inside me.

"Now fuck me," I demanded, "fuck me like a slut." He pummeled into me, and I squealed with the pleasure of it. He slammed his hips against me, filling my slick cunt with his cock that wanted all of me, as fast as he could. "Harder," I pleaded, "faster," and he tried. I held myself open to him and his belly slapped against mine, liquid smacking sounds, the clickety-clack of lubrication as he pistoned in and out, always in and out.

His wail was almost imperceptible at first, then grew over a the span of a dozen strokes until it hit him, a grunting groaning impaling thrust that buried him seemingly into the pit of my stomach. I never felt his spasms that time. Mine were so overwhelming. I felt my entire vagina clamp down on his steel-hard flesh, one long drawn out almost muscle cramp of a clench, with something everything pulsing inside me and everywhere around him.

We locked together, a lewd tableau of two bodies connected at a fulcrum point of twitching, throbbing slippery heat. And when the tension melted, this time we were both breathing too hard for gentle kisses. His body, then my body, then his again would shudder. Two race horses past the finish line, straining for air.

Almost as an afterthought his hands relaxed their grip on my wrists. Only then did I feel the throbbing and the blood flowing back into my cramped fists. I opened them, flexing the frozen muscles. His penis, now softer and less rigid, was still meaty in my tender grip. He remained socketed inside me. "I hope," I whispered, "I hope I didn't frighten you." I suppressed a giggle. I knew I was fibbing.