Home Alone

It's Thursday evening. You come home late from work. The streets are cold and dark, and when you unlock the front door and enter, your house seems too empty. Like the darkness coming in through the windows has hushed every sound, every movement that might creep along the bare white walls.

Tomorrow is Friday, then the weekend, which makes tonight survival. Watching TV, going to bed, getting another day done.

You pour yourself a drink, red wine (why not?) and sit down on the couch. You let your head sink into the thick cushions and close your eyes. You think about letting yourself just fall asleep. But you don't like the dark, the feeling of nothing beyond your eyelids. You open your eyes to turn on the TV, kill the sound, and then you close them again. The white and blue light washes over you, and while it's not quite like someone else being there, it's at least something.

Sleep comes, mostly a tease--a light drifting off into nonsensical thoughts before a harsh whip-lashing back to the couch, the light dancing through your eyelids. At one point, a sound from somewhere behind you brings you back, like the hard click of the lock turning in the door. It couldn't have been the door, though; it was most likely the house creaking, or your imagination tricking itself out of sleep. You don't worry about it. You sink deeper into the cushions.

Then, footsteps. They're impossible to ignore--the creaking of the hardwood floor is more than just imagination. You're not sure how to react, and by the time you realize someone is in the house with you, it's too late. The footsteps have stopped behind the couch, and when you open your eyes, you see a tall silhouette reflected on the TV.

Then, you feel fingers in your hair. The hands are large; they easily encompass either side of your head. The fingers run down as far as your throat, stop, and trace back to the ear, running along the crook behind each lobe. Now one of the callused hands drops to the tender area between your neck and shoulder, while the other weaves itself into the hair on your scalp, kneading, pulling slightly. Breath, hot, clean breath, hits the side of your neck. You feel bristles, a beard, and in between the scratchy sharpness, two lips plant themselves on the trembling flesh of your neck. The hands are strong, aggressive, contradictory to the soft kisses and sucks that work up to your jaw, down to your throat. Then, you feel teeth. A bite on your neck, and you gasp. You realize that you're gripping the fabric of the couch, that there's a swollen feeling below your stomach. You throw your head back, ready to give yourself to this evening intruder. Ready to give yourself to me.

With both hands I take hold of your hair and pull your head even farther back. Your mouth hangs open as I dip over the couch and kiss the front of your throat, the collarbones visible above the cut of your shirt. The fabric of my jacket falls across your face, and you breath deeply. The smell of dirt and aftershave, like the smell of construction. I move up and I'm kissing your chin now, your bottom lip. You press your mouth into mine. You want to taste me. You want to taste my hot and heavy breath.

As we kiss, I tear your shirt open. Buttons bounce across the floor, and your chest rises with anticipation. I press my rough hands down your stomach, pull at your hips with hungry fingers. You rise and fall with the motion of my hands, still drinking deep kisses from my mouth, pulling on my lip with your teeth as you grow hot and wet.

I move my lips from your mouth to your ear, and you hear my voice. It sounds the way my scruff feels. "I want you to unbutton your shirt." You try and say "Okay," but only a rush of air escapes your lips. You reach down and slip out the button, taking a long time to peel down the zipper. "Now," I say, "I want you to touch yourself." You press a hand beneath the tight boundary of your jeans, but keep your fingers above the fabric of your underwear. With one finger, you trace a line up and down. You can feel yourself hot and wet through the cotton.

With two fingers I unclip your bra, and I squeeze your breasts firmly, relenting just when you think it's going to be too much. I pinch and roll your nipples, all the while kissing and biting your throat, neck, and shoulders. Each bite borders on pain, a kind of hot, dull pain that radiates down your back and into your groin. When I pull your hair again, you shiver. "Turn around," I say.

For the first time, you see my face. Long, scraggly hair hangs in my eyes. My beard is dark and cut short, accenting my strong cheek bones, the subtle jut of my jaw. I'm wearing red flannel with the sleeves rolled up, and you can see the veins in my forearms highlighted by the still-glowing television. "On your knees," I say, and you position yourself so that you're kneeling on the couch, your elbows hanging over the back edge. You're still touching yourself, but you've ventured underneath the cotton, feeling your slick, radiating heat cling to your fingertips.

When I unlatch my belt, the leather slaps against my hand. The sound makes you shudder and bite your tongue. I drop my jeans around my knees. You see my cock turned sideways, too big in its hardness to do anything but fight the fabric. There's a spot of wetness near the tip. I press your face into my abs, and you know what to do, kissing the space around my navel, running your free hand along my still-covered cock. I hook my thumbs in the waistband of the boxer briefs and pull them down. I'm hard, long, thick and straight, uncircumcised with a full mushroom tip, the end of which glistens in the dark with pre-come.

My hands run along your ears and into your hair, and I pull you forward slightly, so that the tip of my cock rests on your lips. You kiss away the wetness and open your mouth, rolling your tongue over me playfully before pulling my hips toward you. I fill your mouth with my shaft.

I press forward, slowly, gently, and you feel my cock running down your tongue, along the roof of your mouth--into your throat. I go all the way in and pull out just as slow, and when I do, you take a deep breath. You look up at me with surprise, and I pull your head forward again, going all the way in, filling you up so that you can't breathe, before releasing you once more. You feel yourself oozing beneath the hand you use to touch yourself, and now it's you pushing forward, eager to fill your throat with my large, clean clock. Each time you do you can't breath, but it's a good feeling, a heaviness in your forehead, a swelling of the veins in your neck.

As we go on, you get more comfortable. I keep my hips thrust into your for longer, back out a few inches only to press back in, and when you push me away for air, you see long, silver strings of saliva hanging between my cock and your lips. We do this until your masturbatory hand is soaking, coated in your thick juices. Finally, you pull my cock out of your mouth, gasp for air, and say "Fuck me."

I look down and you and smile. "Can you say please?"

"Please," you gasp. "Please please please please please."

I tell you not to move as i climb over the couch. Your elbows are still hanging over the back side, and your jeans are still on, save for being unbuttoned and unzipped. I take the jeans and pull them down around your thighs. "Not yet," I say. You feel my hands on your ass--I squeeze you, caress you, give you a hard slap--and you feel them slide down your thighs as I drop to my knees.

You feel my face press into your cunt. I suck all of you into my mouth, like a hot, wet cover has been placed over you, and in this cover you feel my tongue flick forward, precise as a fine tool, to seek out your swollen clit. You rock up against the back of the couch but I've wrapped my arms around your thighs, pulling you into me, pushing my face deeper into your dripping, red-hot sex. I pull away only to spit your dripping juices onto your cunt. When you feel your orgasm beginning to build, my hands clamp onto your ass, and my tongue continues its quick, regular flicks. When you come, I pull my tongue away from your clit, bury it into your dripping lips, and wait for your body to stop convulsing. I stand back up.

"Now," I say. "Do you still want me to fuck you?"

"Please fuck me," you whimper. "Please."

I press the tip of my dripping cock to your cunt, and slide it forward, the rim of my mushroom tip grazing your clit so that goosebumps run along the back of your arms. "How about pretty please?" I ask.

"Goddamnit pretty please," you whine, clawing at my hips to pull me forward. With one hand I hold your shoulder at the top of the couch; with the other, I grip the shaft of my cock and press the tip on the verge of entrance. "Okay," I say.

And I make my long, slow plunge into you.

I fill you entirely, and you're glad I go slow at first. When my hips reach your ass, you feel me pressing deep inside, somewhere near your stomach. You're so wet that you're dripping down my front, and my cock slides in and out of you easily, despite how tight you are. I hold your side with the other hand now, pulling my cock all the way out to the tip, then sliding back with slow, full strokes.

You press your face into the pillow as I go faster, pistoning like a machine now, throwing your hips into mine with each thrust so that we crash into each other. As I fuck you, I lean forward and place kisses down your spine. I reach forward and pull your hair. I dig my fingernails into your back. The entire experience is a combination of raw and tender, of rough and soft. When I feel you tightening up with your second orgasm, I keep my rhythm consistent. When you buck up as you come, I wrap an arm around your waist and stay all the way inside of you, shuddering with my own small delight at the tremors run through you.

I tell you to stand up and take off your jeans. You do, and face me. My shirt is off now. You take a moment to trace your eyes along the round swell of my shoulders, down the sharp cut of each long vein in both biceps. When your pants are off, I push you onto the couch. You fall sitting, and I grab your ankles and place them on my shoulders, kneeling myself. I press my cock back inside of you and go even deeper this time. Your eyes roll up into the back of your head, and for a moment all you can do i swipe at my wooly chest with senseless hands. Then you come back to your senses, see me looking down at us--at me going in and out, a wet, almost violent assault of flesh into fleshu--the hair still in my face, now dark and sharp with beads of sweat. You pull me down by my neck and kiss me. They're raw, passionate kisses, full of tongue and bitten lips and you don't even know what else, goddamnit you can't even hardly think, and then that third orgasm comes, builds, and as you start moaning I clamp a hand on your throat, squeezing the sides of your neck so that your head gets hot and heavy again. You come, and again, I keep myself inside of you.

I stand back up and tell you to get on your knees. My cock is soaked--absolutely soaked--with your come. I tell you to put it in your mouth, and you do so, greedily taking the shaft to the back of your throat, running your lips up and down its sides, tasting your sweet, thick taste. When I'm satisfied, I pull you up by your hair and bend you forward so that your hands are planted on the couch. I kick one of your legs up and out on the couch too, so that you're standing bent over with your legs spread, one raised above the other. This time I don't wait to enter you, to start fucking you hard and fast. Now I'm gripping your shoulders on either side, pulling you into me for hard, steady crashes. Another orgasm builds, and despite your bucking and pushing away, I keep fucking you as you come again.

I tell you I'm getting close, that I'm going to come. You tell me that you want me to come inside of you, that you want to feel me. I get harder, faster, more frantic. You feel my hands tighten on your sides and ass, and I say that I'm coming, I'm coming, that oh god I'm coming, and then you feel it: the shudder of my cock, the deep thrust inside of you, the strong, hot explosion of semen that is complimented by your own body-racking orgasm. I stay inside of you for a long time, absently tracing my hands down your back side, as if I were drawing lines there.

Finally, you lay on the couch and I lay behind you, spooning you as you face the pillows. My chest heaves heavily for a while, then softens, and before too long, I've fallen asleep. You pull one of my hands over and clutch it to your breast. Sleep comes to you too, something silver like the glow of the TV screen.