Lover, Whore, Bride

We've enjoyed a night on the town, a lovely meal, champagne and dancing. The entire night is foreplay. Our fingers tangle across the table, his sensitive fingertips grazing a line on my wrist, my waist, my neck. Claiming and stamping my body as his own. My hand drifts across his thigh beneath the tablecloth, coming within millimeters of what I know must be a straining erection. His eyes burn like twin suns, fueling my own arousal. I'm so wet that I can literally smell myself, the warm human musk of mating and desire.

The dance floor is a dream and my body takes over, some hindbrain function carrying me through the salsa, every step a mirror of his own. Our bodies are not discreet, they are extensions of the other. He pushes, and I have already yielded. I fall into a catch, and his arms are beneath me. The final dance and he is behind me, his erection frank and bold and demanding against my ass. I will fuck this man, I will be his lover and his whore and his bride. I will be his.

The hotel room, the bed has been turned down and there is a mint on the pillow. It makes me feel like an explorer on another world, so incongruous does that mint seem. It is a small sweet. I am a giant paroxysm of desire. And damn the man, damn him, his hands and kisses are now leisurely. Tender. Loving. He savors and sips. Fuck these mature men and their mature lovemaking. I want to rend and tear and devour. "John, please..." I beg, "will you please just take me."

His smile is inscrutable, powerful, triumphant. This has been coming for so long. For so so so long. And he will not be rushed or swayed. "My darling, my love..." His voice is a purr..."We have all night, and for what I have planned, we will need every minute of it."

I am turned to face the dresser. A stranger stares back in the mirror. "Put your hands here" he instructs, laying my palms flat on the cool wood. "You won't move your hands, will you? Not for any reason, unless I tell you?" I nod my head, mute, transported. A miserable torture ensues, as he removes each stitch of my clothing and jewelry, covering each bared patch of skin with feathery kisses. A silence, and his clothing rustles. "I want you to say you are mine, Cara. I want you to say that I own your body and your pleasure and your heart. I own your cunt and the come on your thighs, your breasts and nipples, your lips and eyes, your hands and mouth. Say it."

"You own them all, you know you do."

"What else do I own, Cara?" My breath is gone, my head swims.

"You own my ass John, You own my ass."

The words are accompanied by a tremendous slap onto my left ass cheek and I loose a mingled shout and moan. "Every time, tell me" John demands, and another blow falls. "My ass is yours" I gasp over and over as his stinging slaps fall. His breathing is harsh with exertion and passion when he wrenches my hips back and I feel the icy shock of lube exploring my crack. Merciful saints, two fingers run slickly after the trail of lube and rub over and around my anus repeatedly until, with the briefest of pauses, the fingers press then enter through my sphincter, introducing the lube as far as his fingers reach. More lube, then his fingers are replaced by the blunt head of his cock. After the spanking I'm ready for him to plunder my ass, but in this as in all things he surprises me.

His cock hovers at my entrance, slipping between my ass cheeks and grazing my anus, but not thrusting. I'm restless, ready for him, ready for the pain/fullness/pleasure that only comes from anal sex. I want him, why doesn't he take me?

Impatient, I press back onto his erection, and thank the stars, he allows it. I've never impaled myself thus on a cock, it is singular. Pressure...pressure...he is in, his head past my sphincters. I hold there, panting, waiting for the burn to subside. Further in, deeper in, until his balls rest near my vagina. Another minute to adjust and he takes over, slow short strokes into my center. A groan escapes him, I love to hear his passion, and never more than when he tells me "Cara, my darling, you are so tight and sweet, I love to fuck your ass. Take your right hand off the dressed and put it in your cunt, rub your clit while I fuck you." I obey willingly, and my pleasure in this joining doubles, and doubles again.

He is disciplined, so disciplined...my hand works my cunt, but, despite his ragged breathing, his strokes remain slow and short. "John, please" I beg "give me more." Instead of pounding me, his hand leaves my hip and slaps my already reddened ass in time to his fucking. It what I need, and with trembling legs and frantic hand I am catapulted over the edge into an orgasm that only intensifies as his deeply buried cock swells further and, with a mingled curse and groan, unspools his load of cum deep into my bowel. It is the best feeling in the world. It feels like it goes on for a lifetime. I never want it to end.

We stay poised and locked, both gasping, held up by our deep connection. Finally he withdraws, catching his dick in a waiting towel. As always, I expect a mess and as always, there isn't one. "Help" I croak, and with a laugh he helps me straighten. He stands to my side, nearly of a height with me, and we stare at each other in the mirror. We don't look real...or rather we look our most real, defenses down and affects unshuttered, these facial expressions foreign to our experience. "I'm leaking" I say, and he puffs out another laugh and kisses my shoulder. A towel magically appears...my boyscout...and I make a somewhat dignified retreat to the bathroom.

The shower walls are glass, and without apology or hesitation John, clad only in briefs, follows me in to feast his eyes on my voluptuous body as I wash. It becomes a dance for him, my soapy hands slipping and exploring my body as I know he wants to...hungers to...is going to right this second. The briefs are discarded in a tug and he joins me under the water. His eyes scare me. They are fathomless. It would be easy to drown there. There is no more thinking as he cups my face in his hands and kisses me. Simple lips on lips, how can it be so erotic? So consuming? In this as in all things with John there are no shortcuts. Soft kisses rain on my lips, the corners of my mouth. He catches my lower lip and sucks it in his mouth, nursing gently. I still have this man's cum in my ass, but I'm not sure which is more intimate right now. I have to go with the kisses. His tongue makes an exploratory pass across my own, and my tongue replies. Deep and drugging kisses ensue, then return to the murmured whispers of lips. He finally draws back. It was the best kiss of my life.

He reaches behind me and turns off the water, eyes never leaving mine. His erection brushing my thigh lets me know that the kisses affected him too. Towels. An ushering hand on the back of my neck. The comforter has been pulled off and only sheets and pillows remain. It is a bed made ready for lovemaking. So far this has been the John show, and I've been more than willing, but although I may choose to obey, I may also choose to command. I turn under his hand and meet his eyes. "My turn" I say, eyes heated and wicked, then I pivot him, back to the bed, and divest him of his towel. "Lie back, lover" I order, and slowly, eyes never leaving my own, he complies.

I drink him in. I memorize his smooth skin, exotic features, close cropped dark hair, clever hands, muscular legs, proud and proportionate erection tipped erotically with a bead of pre-cum. Beautiful. Just beautiful. This is our only night, and there is something I want to take home, back to my empty bed. A memory. "John" I croon, kneeling beside his leg "I want you to take your dick in your hand, your beautiful cock...I want you to stroke yourself for me, exactly like you do when you masturbate, when you jerk off. Fuck your hand for me, lover, and let me watch."

The briefest hesitation. I spread my knees, parting the lips of my pussy with one hand, giving him an unobstructed view of my quim. My other hand raises to my breast and I begin to rub my nipple rhythmically. "You won't be alone" I assure him. His head tips back on the pillow, an acquiescence...even a submission?...and his hand begins to move restlessly over his torso, brushing his nipples and moving down over his belly. He cocks one knee back, giving his hand better access to the package. He smoothes and tugs at his ballsack-he's so rough!-then his hand raises to the base of his cock and his fingers run the length of his erection. The ball of his thumb pulls down the bead of cum to the underside of his head and he massages there, that sensitive stitch where God sewed him up. Gorgeous.

He finally fists himself and begins the rhythmic motions of masturbation. My hand drifts to my pussy and I begin to echo his movements: his fist and cock, my finger and clit. The air feels electric. His eyes lock on my cunt then drift shut with transport. His hips begin to shift and rise to meet his fist. Fucking his hand. My pussy weeps and clenches at the sight and I press my fingers into my vagina and a moan escapes my lips. His own lips are parted and a sheen of sweat has broken out on his body. His tempo increases and a murmured word floats on the air over and over...Cara Cara Cara...his thighs are taut and his breathing is harsh in a way that I recognize...he is going to come. He is going to spend his seed in ropes across his belly. My voice is jarring in the intimate stillness: "STOP."

His eyes fly open and for a moment he looks confused. "Take your hand away lover, now, stop touching yourself." A frustrated groan, and he complies. His hips continue to twitch and his cock looks painfully tumescent and shines with pre-cum. His hands ball in fists in the sheets and a growl, an actual growl, escapes from between his teeth.

I am content to wait. He realizes he is not about to enjoy his release, and throws a forearm over his eyes. I take that moment to stretch beside him, twining my legs with his, and moving into an embrace that feels like coming home. His fingers twine my hair and he mutters "bitch" into my ear before he kisses my temple and wraps me in a bear hug.

More kisses, then his mouth finds my breast and latches onto the nipple. His thumb finds the other nipple and begins to brush it like a metronone, back and forth, back and forth, and his tounge matches the rhythm of his thumb. My breasts are so sensitive, and I arch into him with a moan.

He has settled down to his task, and nothing short of flood or fire will dislodge him until he has my body's surrender. The stimulation to my nipples passes through pleasure and into pain, then back into pleasure.

His mouth and thumb are my world entire, and I clutch his head to my bosom and moan his name. The orgasm builds in slow waves, relentless and preordained, and crest on a beach covered with shells and sand. I don't know myself for several minutes. When I return, my nipples are raw, and John's beloved face is an inch from my own, studying my reaction. Oh, and his hand is buried in my cunt, two fingers deep inside me, his thumb circling my clit in lazy circles.

Despite his hand inside me I am suddenly bereft. I need his cock, now. Both languorous and urgent I say "I need you inside me love, my mouth or my cunt, you choose, but please..." Ever the gentleman, he is ready to honor a lady's request...or a whore's plea...and stretches on his back, but first brings his hand slick from my come for me to lick clean.

At the end of this service his eyes are hooded with desire and his erection strains his control. "I want you to suck me baby, now..." I suit action to word, and have him in my throat in seconds.

He releases his pent up breath in a hoarse shout, and presses further into my mouth, both hands on my head. This is what I wanted by delaying his last orgasm, I wanted to make a chink in his armor. I wanted my well-controlled man desperate under my hands, hungry for the pleasure that only I could provide. I wanted it, and now the reality is pressing urgently into my throat. I relax and open, swallow, relax and open...he pulls back for another thrust, giving me a chance to breathe. Rinse, repeat.

I am slain by his passion, light headed from oxygen deprivation, and aroused beyond all my expectations. My world is his cock, fucking my mouth. I love it. I love him reduced to the primal man that lives behind the cultured facade, clutching my head, fucking my face. Even in this state he knows my desires, my longing to wear his cum like a prom dress, and he pulls back in time to unload his semen in pearly strands across my throat and breasts. This is no polite orgasm. He is undone, groaning and gasping and shuddering as spasms of pleasure wrack him like ague.

Now it is John's turn to go away for a while, trembling in my arms where he rests safely. Time passes. When he recovers himself the fathomless eyes have returned. The scary eyes. I laugh a little nervously and say "my darling, we are about to experience some exfoliation when we peel apart." Cum is as good as rubber cement.

The disentanglement occurs without hair loss but with some impressively slurpy sounds. Back in the shower, we take only mildly erotic pleasure in washing each other. For the moment, we are spent.

He leaves me to continue freshening up in the bathroom and disappears for a short time. He returns with...snacks! A small cheese plate, fruit, champagne and...HEL-lo!...my favorite chocolate. Oh my darling, how well you know me. I am reinvigorated by the repast, and we enjoy feeding each other tidbits and talking about our kids, and work. He has a funny smile on his lips. "What is it?" I ask.

He meets my eyes steadily and says "I'd like to drink this champagne out of your pussy." HEL-lo!

Repast concluded. At his direction I lay back on the pillows, already heated from imagining what came next. John swirls the champagne in his flute, eying me keenly from the end of the bed. "Put your hands under your bottom and spread your legs" he orders. His tone is conversational, even friendly, but the steel in his words leaves no doubt...this is not a polite suggestion. I obey. I feel my face heat as my knees fall away and my hands under my ass tilt the goods to advantage. No one is as young as they once were, and life wears on a body. He is asking for a lot, for me to trust that he will cherish what I display, and keep me safe. But I don't feel safe. I feel fly-stung and fraught with nerves. He knee walks to kneel between my sprawled legs. His free hand caresses my thigh. He sips his champagne. He is oddly graceful as he lowers his head to my quim and allows the champagne in his mouth to trickle over my swelling clit, then catches it with his tongue with a slurp before it fills my vagina. To be sure no drop is wasted...its Crystal...his tongue probes my vagina, which is already weeping for him. He repeats the process, slow and meticulous every time. It is an arousal of mouse kisses, utterly maddening and devastating in its effectiveness. My body is trembling in every part when the champagne is gone, and John's eyes are scary again. I look away, but he's not allowing it. His deft fingers grasp my chin and turn my head back. "Look at me Cara"...a request this time, his gentle words as effective as a horse whip. My eyes are dragged back.

One hand continues to cup my face while the other charts a course in my vagina, tenderly thrusting with his fingers, testing my readiness. He just drank a glass of champagne out of my pussy, so I'm pretty fucking ready. I'm ready to be fucked, but that's not what's about to happen here. Lovemaking is. And I'm terrified. I have been his lover and his whore this night. Now it is time to be the bride, and I am witless with fear and insecurity. But he holds me, my cheek, my vagina, and will not release my eyes. There is an old soul there, and the language of love flows silently between us.

My chest hitches-I'm not ready for this-and his hand soothes my face-I'm here to catch you. My eyes dart away-I'm afraid of being hurt-and he inexorably returns my gaze to his-perfect love drives away fear. Tears stand on my cheeks-you won't want me-and his fingers brush them away-I already want you now, and always.

I free my hands from beneath me and pull him into my embrace. If he lines up his erection I don't know it...all I know is that he is inside me, taking my vagina in slow deep strokes, his face buried in my neck, my arms and legs urging him to my center. There is no art or craft here. It is a mating...a consummation of love, the coming of the bride unto her groom. It is also, of course, free fall without a parachute, but he has asked and I have answered. Not just my lover, but my beloved.

I do not orgasm, as such, but enter a state of being where all my atoms and molecules and cells have aligned and are pointed to our center, where our bodies are mingled, in acknowledgment of my true surrender, the surrender of the heart. I do not know what the future may hold, but as I cradle my climaxing beloved, I know one thing at least. I know we will explore it together.