Your Weekly Dose

I like to hold you open while we fuck; when you're on top of me. I dig my nails into your ass, pull to expose your tender hole. Think about who might be sliding a finger up in you. How it might feel as it presses my cock forward. I watch you arch your back into our lover. Stare into their eyes over your shoulder.

We have made this
cave, you and I. With brushed
cotton and sweat; with our humid
breath. To ward off drafts and the seeping
December damp. To bar the orange glow
of our lunar streetlamp as it creeps
through the cracks between curtain and warped
wall. We have

made this heat. Moving. With friction. Between
my breasts, in the small
of my back, the skin drips. Your lapping
tongue finds salt.

You ask us to go easy on you. We look at each other and laugh. But she chooses a smaller dick than I've seen her choose before and I discount the cane. We love you, we really do, though you curse us as we scratch and bruise and fuck your ass.

It's been weeks, but feels like months. Time has stretched and refracted till your pixellated face seems real. We come together shyly, at first, until our tongues and noses register familiar pheromones and our hands grope hard. Your crevices are strange to me now, but my fingers still know their secret spots.

Apologies for the filth interruption.

If you follow my Radial Symmetry blog, you know that I'm doing National Novel Writing Month. It'll be done November 30th. Your Weekly Dose will be back December 5th.

Yours in smut,
Megan

You're off into the chill November air, my smell to be scrubbed from your skin. Though I am hiding in your warm places, you'll catch me in a waft as you reach your arm across the dinner table for salt.

Me, I'm sitting down to breakfast without you, trying to read the paper, eyes glazing over with exhaustion, hot memory. My entire house reeks of our fucking and I give up on food, the daily news, such small pretensions. I drift from room to room, holding my sore nipples, wanting more.

You hold my arms above my head with one hand, your other forearm across my shoulders. I hold my breath, waiting for what isn't fucking. Your nose into my armpit, you breathe me in deeply, pull my arms down around you. I hold you tight; you sigh and settle in.

You're close enough to the mirror you could kiss yourself. You've got the pout to do it, too. Your mouth slightly open, watching my face as I fuck you. I pull my cock out of you, work the base of it over my clit. Three fingers raw into your swollen cunt.

I don't know where you found them but they're strong. Bulging muscles, impassive faces; they are strong enough to hold me suspended above you. My knees graze the floor but can find no purchase. I can only hang, using every ounce of my strength to keep my shoulders whole.

You spend minutes just staring up at me from where you're lying. Telling me to turn my head towards the window, away. Chin up, to the left, down. All the clean angles. You nod.

They lower me slowly, four inches, you guide them so your cock slides up into me. "That's my good girl," you say. "My wet girl." You nod again, they keep me still. You thrust up into me, short hard strokes, evenly paced, the fat head making me want to cry.

You tell me to look up, face into the light. You want my cheeks to shine.

We have made a tent of the covers, dived down into the middle of the bed. We have wrapped ourselves around ourselves. Left the need for oxygen behind. We are limbs and lungs, tongues, various grooves read by deft spinning fingers. And we are finally warm.