Shorts and a baggy shirt flapping in his cycle-created breeze he coasts down the last yards of street to home. There’s a thread of hopeful excitement ticking in his throat, a little rapid thread of pulse. He hopes she’ll be pleased at this early return, this intrusion, his lust. It doesn’t always work, surprise. He stops at the gate. Leaves the bike. Silence now. On sneakered feet to the back door. He listens in the shade of the oak-hung garden. Over the hum of the heat of this ridiculous summer he hears it, the rush, rush, rush of the wet, wet brush. The broken rythmns of her voice hum-singing against the tinny sound of a phone’s speakers. The glee and the naughtiness, the voyeurism, her all unknowing, scrubbing away, hands and knees no doubt, heat like a bath under his shorts. Thinking of her rump encased in tight linen, knees of the trousers a little damp, cock twitching he eases open the back door.
He freezes in shock. Her rump is towards him indeed, raised, thighs taut and stretching, but there’s no tight linen. She hasn’t heard him yet and he watches her move, the delicious play of muscle and flesh, the swell and stretch in her bum and the sweep of hip into waist, the perspiration at the base of her spine, glistening, wet like the floor. The curve of her ribcage like fingers reaching, stretching to stroke and to cup. He gazes fascinated at the lithe meat of her thighs, the hard muscle that runs into the base of her arse, and between those sweat-gleaming buttocks the split fruit of her cunt, veiled in crisp black, cupped and presented, beautiful.
“Oh you beautiful scrubber.”
She yelps, looking back over her shoulder and he thumps painfully to his knees on the slabs, grabs her, buries his face in her. The black knickers are damp, sweaty with effort and she smells rich and ripe and he chews at her while he pulls at his cock, yanks it out of his boxers and out of his shorts, pulls the fabric away from her dark, sweaty cleft and, absent all ceremony, with the inevitable grit cutting into his knees, takes her right there on the wet kitchen floor. The force of his thrusts pushes them, slides them into the wall and the vegetable rack, and she groans and whimpers into the fluttering skin of the humped Jersey Royals while he fucks her, hard. So hard that it hurts, god she fits him so well, the scalding, slippery grip, and she pushes back on him fiercely and, strangling, cries:
And tears at her bra, freeing one breast. She tugs hard at the nipple and claws at herself, face screwed up like a beast and speckled with dirt, sweat and fragments of Jersey Royal skin.
The discomfort is awful, his knees squealing with pain and a cramp is building in his left calf and she looks all bent up and twisted but he can’t stop, won’t stop and he grabs at her hair and pulls it and bites and drives three more times inward before his mind splits, and full of the summer that burns down from above he bursts and she wails and they lie exalted, and sticky with love.
Links and acknowledgements and other good stuff
I think I’m just about getting the hang of how best to do this now – halfway through #Summer 100…
So after today’s somewhat headlong, rutty fantasy my Summer Shoutouts are more considered. They deal with how not to be an asshole with Carly S and a very interesting thought piece on casual sadism from our favourite witch, Meg.
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