Red Tank Top

Black running shorts and a red tank top, she smells of hot lycra and damp cotton and sweat and this morning’s shower. Pulse of electricity on the glance from under her ball cap, from behind her thick hair as she takes it off and my hands… my hands reach. I hold her by the elbows, pull her in. Sweet thump of pelvis to pelvis. She wriggles and I feel the weight falling, filling, the rub of her soft curve against me, growing, growing rigid.
She’s half laughing half biting her lip, squirming in my grasp. There’s no doubt in the circlings of her hips, in the mingled damp of running shorts, no doubt at all in the salty, dark scent that curls upwards. I look down. Her nipples strain the cotton of her top, and in the tangle of our shorts I can see my cock rolling, pressed between us. I am in fire below, all restraint burned through, roiling heat from my backside to navel and my throat is dry and aching, my mouth dry, thirsty, thirsty.
I drop to my knees on the hardwood. I am a curled spring. Need in my arched back, the echo to my hooked and eager cock, twitching tight in my shorts. Her shorts at eye level, sweet cup of split fig hidden hardly by the slick fabric. I release her elbows and tug.
Fingers burn on the blaze if naked unseen hip a swift tug like a magician on a tablecloth and I am face to face with her beautiful cunt. Her hair is dark and rich, ringletted by the rub of running and her salty, seaside sweat.

Her shorts and knickers pool around her ankles now pale hips under trembling fingers, thumbs spread on ridges of pelvis. I lean in.
Blaze of heat and salt and sweat, new eager wetness underneath. I push and tug and lick and pull her to me, splitting slick around my tongue, sweet pearl rolling under my pressing lip.
Her hands seize me and she presses us together, a breathless hip-driven face fuck. I am her toy.
She rides my tongue and slams and grinds her eagerness on the ridge of nose, of tooth, gasping, growling. I snatch breaths between her frantic thrusts.
She pushes me, walks me back until I’m pressed against the sofa, knees unfolded, sitting, sprawled. She kneels on the sofa, straddling my face and with fingers hooked in the angle of my jaw rides me until.
Rigid muscles clench, a fingernail slices at my neck. Her crooning voice is gone, locked up in the full throated spasms, she is hooked around me pushing down, silent straining growl that builds into a shuddering scream.
A few gasping minutes later she uncurls from me and, standing, peels off her soaking top. Stretches, and smiles, and says, from the tiptoe top of her arc:
‘Your turn’.
With a few deft tugs she has me naked and, with a croon of pleasure she fills her mouth with my cock. Sucking, pumping, tight grip tugging. I think this will be it, but no. With no possible twitch of more hardness to be derived, she rises from my cock and turns. She spills herself over the arm of the sofa, face down ass up.
With practiced hands she spreads herself, bum and cunt, legs akimbo. Looks slyly back over her shoulder.
‘Now.’ She says firmly. ‘Hard. Not a piece of gentleness. Take it. Take me.’


 

4 thoughts on “Red Tank Top

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *