face down ass up

Sexual Engineering 2: Test to Destruction.

A tall angular step-pyramid of books on a desk on an Autumn afternoon. The base consists of the big black gold-embossed board-bound fancy Thames & Hudson editions of The Anglo Saxons, The Flowering of the Middle Ages, The Medicis. Then more colourful steps, narrowing with modernity, Matisse, Schiele, Toulouse Lautrec. The structure is topped off with novels. Rude, hot, dirty novels, Bad Behaviour, Written on the Body. Delta of Venus. O. The peak of this pyramid, the sacrificial altar, is Fanny Hill, it’s green calf binding marked by a wide stain approximately three fingers wide and a little fuzzy around the edges, slightly polished as if caused by some exotic oil.
This pyramid, this altar, this construction is the work of Cecilia Markham and stands at the end of her long glossy desk in her book-lined office. It is a cradle, carefully designed for herself. In the chiarascuro of the woody, bookish room, lit by tall windows filled with afternoon light she is a pale figure in nothing but rumpled hold-ups, hair up to expose her long neck. In the shadows beyond the end of the desk stands her lover, Jack Renner, still in his shirt and socks, idly touching himself as he watches her work. Trembling with excitement and ignoring her half-dressed companion she uses a foot stool to take her position.

For a long minute after she’d settled, bookboards slowly pressing into the skin of her spread thighs, her belly and breasts spilling down their spines of fabric, leather and card, face resting on the soft calf-leather blotter, Cecilia heard nothing except the sound of Renner’s breath – the rasp of delight at her spreading herself so wantonly, the sighs at the sight of the window-light across her upraised, round and eager bottom. At the deep shadow between and below.
She could hear his steady breaths, deep, regular. Slightly fast. The rustle and thump of clothing as he fully stripped. They sounded like the sounds of an animal moving in its stall.
And with this came the unlooked for and wetting inner sight of Renner transformed, a bull-Renner, a minotaur. She swallowed a sudden cry and gasp at the thought of it. The wide spread of horn over the great head, shoulders just as broad tapering in muscular plane and sheet to strong hips and thick thighs and jutting, there at the junction –

Breath.

Slow, hot breath. Sighing across her bum and whispering up her thighs. She whimpered quietly into nibbled lips, a little spit pooling. Darkening the leather under her suddenly so-hot cheek. The slow breaths moving the curls of her prickled hair, her skin pulling, filling, opening and – oh, oh, cool/hot on her open wetness, her slick slot, lips aching to be kissed.
At his first touch – hands as light as a brush of hair on the hook of pelvis and hip – she jumped and Fanny Hill shifted, digging a little sharply into her pubis.
Light hands teasing. Teasing slow and light and mingling with that close breath and, as his breathing strengthened so did they. His blunt fingers sinking into her soft marble and her circling thighs picked up the corner of Cleland’s harlot and the book began prickling Cecilia’s soft skin with folding, soaking pages. And at the cries that this new tingling brought, one, two, three sharp jabs of tongue tip-at the hinge of thigh. On the tiny hairless strip in her left hip-socket. And then – quickly now – a reproduction on the right and shuddering she screwed her forehead hard into the leather blotter, grinding herself into that book-pinnacle, the inestimable Fanny Hill.

His tongue found her again, a little swirl in the knot of hair below her upraised slit, a tease, a tickle and then, with great firmness and earnest pressure he licked her, lapping in broad even strokes over her whole width. The tongue-strokes forced aside her willing lips and let him in, long licks from front to back ending with a light touch at the nub of her arse. The steady force of it pushed her forward a little and the pyramid settled and then, just as she grasped the desk edge and began to push back he was gone. No, not gone. She could still feel the animal heat of him near her, but no breath, and once again his hands were hard against her hips and he tilted them forward a little, pulling her away from the now wet pages of the altar-book, tilted her upward to meet him.
She gasped. Her voice stopped in her throat, head full of heartbeat and, just as she felt she could bear the wait no longer, there, there was his cock. Sitting pressed against her spread lips, hot, heavy, thick. Too thick, surely? Ah, God. The pressure built slowly, the fat head pressing, her lips sliding in with it, trapped. Taut, tight, a struggle. She winced. Fuck but he was big tonight. And then his bulging cockhead was through and sliding and her stretched lips slipped around him, bloomed along his shaft as it ran inward, the beautiful cock-slide she loved so much. She thrust her arse up to meet him, and the filling never seemed to stop.

It was everything she’d planned and more, this. An avalanche of sensation. The sweet discomfort of the arrangement, the unexpected pressure here and there of books, corners jabbing and her flesh nipped between hard-pressed spines, the bruising along her inner thighs where she rode the stack whilst he rode her, fucked her. God. Really fucked her. There was no finesse about him now, just strength and hot breath falling on her upraised arse, bruising grasp, deep, stretching thrusts, her face squashed down into the blotter, from which the smell of her husband’s come rose, the arabesque stain blurred, too close to focus. And, as Renner fucked her and she half-thought of him as a bull-god fucking her as Ariadne on some altar in his rocky, labyrynthine prison, she slid her face a little forward, found the salt-tang of her husband on the blotter, licked it and imagined him her Theseus, filling her mouth as she was bull-fucked from behind.

By the time she felt Renner swell and lose his rhythmn, gasp and stutter, clumsily grab and squeeze, she was face down, mouth full of blotter and come-salt, left nipple trapped between Matisse and the Medicis, thigh-skin nipped by Anglo-Saxons and her clit¬†-bruisingly¬†driven, hard against the ridged covers and soaking torn pages of Fanny Hill. Exquisite agony as the book pile slid and sundered, and her body took the force of Renner’s lust, knees pressed hard against the wood, arms burning from holding on. And then as she felt his dams burst so did she. A blazing cramp in thighs and buttocks, calf and curled and upraised foot, a whole body spasm that answered the sudden, ringing shout arising from their crux, a wordless, choking, soundless scream that came from belly deep.
For long moments they stayed rigidly coupled, a pulse in Renner’s buttocks as he filled and filled her again and they hung on for dear life and then, a sudden rush of mingled juices spilled from Cecilia and, soaking, the book-cradle collapsed.

The lovers lay entangled, stained and breathless while the afternoon shaded gray to blue and then, on shaking limbs, with the long ungainly staggers of young beasts, they stood and dressed, smiling at what they had done.

Cecilia’s blotter was a mess of teeth marks and Fanny Hill would never be the same again.


 

 

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