Stripped

I lock my legs around his head and keep him coiled against me, and now his fingers are slipping into me, too, two fingers into my cleft, delving in and sliding out, and that move from empty to full to empty makes me whine high in my throat, so he does it again, but more fully, and I throw my head back and arch my spine and I shatter beneath him, scream and gasp for breath and then scream again as wave after wave of orgasm hits me. I have no ability to stop the way I move against his mouth and buck my hips into his spearing tongue, and indeed his hands urge me onward and upward, not relenting when the orgasm hits, but pushing me beyond it into helpless breathless frozen ecstasy of fire released.

  And then I’m coming back down and dizzy, and I moan in desperation as he moves away from me, off me, and I hear something crinkle. I crack my eyes open to watch him roll something thin and clear onto his erection. I know what’s next, a moment of fear, but then I have no time for it take hold because Dawson is back with me, kissing me.

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  I taste myself on his mouth and tongue, vaguely salty tangy and decidedly feminine musk, the smell of me as a taste. His kiss is desperate, and I know he’s preparing himself for me to freak out. It’s there inside me, the panic, but I deny it. I kiss him and revel in the weight of his body against me, and the strength of his arms around me, and I know I want this. I kiss him with everything I have, and I curl one hand around the back of his neck.

  “Grey, you don’t…we don’t have to, if you’re not ready. ”

  “I’ll never be ready. But I’ve never wanted anything more. ” But I owe him all the truth inside me. “But I’m going to freak out at some point. I know I am. I’m lost in you, lost in this, in us, but I’m going to flip out. You should know that. But you also have to know that I do want this. So much. Please, do this with me. ”

  His belly is hard and warm against my stomach, and I feel the tip of him at the inside of my thigh, huge and hard. His arms are strong and now-familiar bars at either side of my face. His eyes search me.

  I put my lips to his, and I let him taste the words as I say them: “I love you, Dawson. ” I feel him swell, see his eyes fill with emotion, feel his chest expand, and even his erection grows harder and thicker against me.

  “Grey…I love you. God, I love you. ”

  I have to ask him. I have to say the words. “Make love to me, Dawson. Please, make love to me. ”

  “With all my heart, yes. ” But he doesn’t push into me.

  Instead, he reaches down between us and finds my sweet spot with his fingers, finds my breast with his mouth and he patiently, slowly brings me to writhing, breathless arousal. When I reach the cusp of orgasm, he kisses me, and I open my eyes to stare into his every-colored eyes. He doesn’t slow his fingers on my pleasure-center; he nudges at my vagina with the tip of his erection. It’s just a slight pressure at first, just the very smallest part of him inside me, and I let my legs fall apart because otherwise I’ll clamp them shut. I am panicking a little. My heart is pounding with as much fear as pleasure, and he knows it, because he lets me fall away from the edge of orgasm, and he slides in a little farther, letting me feel the stretch of him filling me, and I gasp and tears start at the corners of my eyes, because he’s so huge inside me, filling me past my ability to take it.

  But I do take it and he stills, and I begin to need the fullness, begin to understand how much I’m going love this, but there’s pain in the way, so I don’t yet love it, but I will. And then he speeds his fingers inside me and nips sharply at my breast with his teeth and brings me to the furious edge of orgasm, and this time he keeps going, sliding a little deeper with each circle of his fingers, and then I’m bursting apart and gasping and moaning, and Dawson’s eyes lock onto me, silently pleading with me to watch his eyes, hold the gaze, so I do, and he thrusts once, hard, and there’s an instant of blinding pain, but it’s buried under a tsunami of starbursts, pleasure laced with pain. He stays buried deep, fingers and mouth giving me pleasure as the throbbing pain subsides. And then I’m completely filled by him. He’s in me. Hips to hips, mouth to mouth. Our fingers entangle, rest by my face. Our tongues taste tongue and lips and teeth, and he’s huge inside me, stretching me to pinching pain that bleeds into pleasure.

  And then…he moves. He slowly slides out of me, and I’m empty and lost without that fullness. I bury my face into the column of his neck, feeling his pulse on my eyelashes. He glides back into me in infinitesimally slow motion, and I clutch and scrabble at his backside, because the bliss that suffuses me is heaven, beyond heaven, it’s pure wonder, everything that’s good in the universe exploding inside me. It’s the presence of love welling up inside me.

  I’m crying, but I’m smiling, and he sees that, and he kisses the tears, kisses my cheekbones and my eyelids and my chin and my mouth and my neck, and all the while he’s drawing out, and pushing in. But slowly. So slowly. So gently. Lovingly. A sinuous, gentle glide in, breaking every notion of fullness with every in-stroke. And then out, and I’m whimpering at that loss, but it makes the flush of his erection back into me so much better.

  I’m arched, spine bowed, and then I lift my backside and my hips to meet his, and I untangle one hand to claw my fingernails down his back and clutch his backside as he slides in, and I’m making a sound that has no one single word. It’s a screaming gasping breathing erotic moan of his name.

  “Dawson…”

  I repeat it with every swell of his shaft into me. I want to have the words to tell him how this feels, how much I love this, how perfect this is, but I don’t have them. All I can do is try to communicate it with my whimpers and groans, with my whispered utterances of his name.

  He continues his glacially slow pace, but he lifts up on one elbow and brushes the tangles of hair from my eyes. “Ride me,” he says.

  “What?” I can barely speak even that one-syllable word clearly.

  “I want you on top. Ride me. Take your pleasure. Let go. ”

  I open my mouth to speak, because I’d like a moment to think about it. I like him being in control. I like being able to delve into him and not think or do or anything but feel. But he rolls with me, buried deep inside me, and now I’m straddling him, clinging to his chest, face against his neck, clutching him fearfully as if afraid of falling from a great height. He stills, and I’m full of him, but I need the slide, the motion. I meet his gaze.

  “Find where you are in this,” he says. “I took you past the scary part, right? And now I want you to take, rather than give. ”

  He brushes my hair away, buries his fingers into the roots of my hair just behind my left ear, the other hand resting on my hip. I sit up gradually, slowly, until my legs are bent at the knee, doubled so my calves are nearly parallel to my thighs. I find my balance, sway and steady myself with my palms on his chest. Our eyes are locked, and his hands caress the line of my ribs, a thumb under my breast and then across my ni**les, back down to grasp my hips, then he begins a circuit all over again.

  At first I try a simple rocking motion with my hips. I gasp and close my eyes, then do it again. And again, and my gasp turns to an open-mouthed moan. Dawson doesn’t move, just holds my hips and watches me. I lean forward and lift with my hips and core, drawing him almost all the way out, pause with him poised tip in the folds of my cleft, and then bury him deep in a long, fast stroke. I groan loudly, eyes clenching closed and mouth falling open, gasping for breath, and then I draw him out again, nearly out, pause, and impale myself onto him.

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  And then I try something else. I want to feel everything. I lift with my core and hips so he slips partway out, and then sink down just a little, and draw out a little, shallow thrusts so he’s never fully in or fully out. This kind of stroke makes me crazy. Each time I whimper and moan and refuse to let myself sink him deep, and he begins to groan with me. I’m not seeking orgasm, I’m just finding him, finding me, finding us. I’m exploring this thing, this act calle
d sex.

  It’s so far beyond amazing that I can’t comprehend it. I press my open, quivering mouth to his sweating chest and continue shallow strokes for a few moments, and then I feel Dawson tense beneath me. His pectorals go hard as rock, his arms coil into stone, and his face freezes, his jaw clenched.

  “Dawson? What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “I’m—holding back. ”

  I realize he’s at that edge, about to orgasm. “Let go, then. ”

  “No. I want to come with you. ” He leans up and kisses me, intending it to be a quick kiss before falling back, but I follow him down and devour his mouth with mine.

  “Then come with me,” I say.

  He groans as I slide him all the way in, and I love, almost more than anything else, hearing him make involuntary noises. I draw him out, and then impale him into me quickly. Our groans merge as our bodies join. I start a rhythm of deep strokes, holding on to his neck, moving only my hips. He lifts me up and takes a nipple into my mouth, and I whimper louder than ever, and I feel the crest of orgasm approaching. He’s rock hard all over, every muscle tensed, and then as my motions become more erratic and my wordless moans of pleasure become his name groaned over and over again, he starts to move with me, and I have no control at all, no rhythm. I’m just desperately plunging onto him, filling myself with him.

  “Oh, oh, god,” I say as I feel him lose control as well.

  “Swear,” he grunts. He sees the momentary confusion on my face, and he elaborates. “Let go, baby. I want to hear you swear. Come for me, Grey. Come hard, and don’t hold back. ”

  I am holding back. I snake my arms around his neck and lie flat, all my weight on him, and grind my hips against his and let myself go. Screams are muffled by his flesh, and now I erupt, and his name is the only sound on my lips, chanted over and over again as heaven thunders open within me. I’m crashing, hips madly plunging and hands clawing into his skin.

  “Dawson,” I gasp, and then I remember what he said, and I crack the last shell of control, and all I can do is cling to him as the words tumble free. “Oh, f**k, Dawson! God, oh, god, oh, f**k…come with me, come now…”

  The world ends in that moment. Lights flash and my entire existence shifts, and then I’m moving. He’s above me, thank god, and he’s wild, uncontrolled, plunging into me, and I love every touch, every slap, every slam, and I hear him groaning, and I expect to hear him swear like I did, but he surprises me.

  “Grey. ” It’s a whisper, a crazy contrast to his wild thrusting. “Oh, Grey, sweet Grey…my Grey…” And he comes at last. I feel it happen, a tensing followed by heat and he’s gone, wordless, just his breath on my skin and our bodies as close as can be, and I feel his soul next to mine, in mine, around mine, woven together.

  We both still and go quiet, breathing, and his weight is on me. He goes to move, but I stop him. “Stay. I like your weight on me. I like feeling this. ”

  “Grey?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I love you. ” His voice is as soft as silk, a verbal caress. Nothing can ever be as sweet as his voice in that moment.

  I move slightly, and he moves with me, and now his face is cradled on my chest, between my br**sts, my hands in his hair and tracing the shell of his ear and the small place where his jaw meets his ear. “I love you, too. ” I breathe it, and he smiles against my skin.

  We fall asleep like that, in that time where afternoon bleeds into evening.

  * * *

  I wake to his mouth on my breast and his fingers at the apex of my thighs, and before my eyes are open I’m spreading my legs for his touch and breathing sharply in happiness and ecstasy, and I’ve come again within minutes.

  But I want something, I want to feel something. I got a taste of it when we made love, but I want it more fully. I push him to his back and take him in my hands and caress the length and thickness of him. I move my face across his chest and belly, press a kiss to the tip.

  “Grey?” It’s a hesitant question.

  “I want this. I want to try it. ”

  He brushes my hair away in that familiar gesture, and I take him into my mouth. Just a little at first. He moans immediately, and I know he likes this. That moan is what I want. A part of it, at least. I move my fist around him and set his hips to moving with my rhythm, and he groans, so I accompany that rhythm with my mouth on him.

  And then I remember a customer at the club asking me to suck him off, and I think about that phrasing. So I suck, taking him deeper and sucking as hard as I can, and he lifts his hips off the bed and groans loudly, his hands tangling in my hair as if struggling not to pull me against him, and his hips flutter as if trying not to thrust.

  I take him out of my mouth, and he groans in desperation. “Let go,” I tell him.

  He lifts up and glances at me, and I bend closer to him, brush him with my br**sts, and he flops back but then lifts his head to watch again as I wrap my lips around him and suck him deeper into my mouth, close to my throat. And now I suckle him to the rhythm of my fist on his length, and his hips match that rhythm, unfettered thrusting. I match his motion so he doesn’t gag me, and I suck harder, backing away and taking him deep with each thrust and each suck, and now he’s groaning nonstop.

  “Grey, Grey, oh, god…” His fingers tighten in my hair, and he’s pulling me down gently.

  I don’t mind, and I follow his urging, going deeper. I don’t go so deep as to feel gagged, but nearly, and now he’s arching his back and lifting his hips, but I don’t hurry, don’t rush.

  “Oh, f**k, Grey…I’m coming…” It’s a warning, but I don’t have time to think about what I’m going to do, because he’s erupting in my mouth.

  I taste it, thick and hot and salty and nothing like I expected. I swallow it and keep going, because he’s still groaning and thrusting, so I match his frenetic pace with my fist and my mouth, and he spurts again, and again, and I’m swamped. His groaning is uncontrolled and spasmodic, and his eyes are fluttering in his head and he’s mad with pleasure, and that is what I wanted, to give him such pleasure that he lost control like he made me do.

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  When I’m sure he’s done coming, I take my mouth off him, but he’s still sort of hard, and I love the feel of his erection in my hand, so I hold on to him and keep stroking him gently. He shudders with each touch, as if hypersensitive. My cheek is on his belly, and I’m afforded a close-up look at him, at his manhood. It’s a beautiful thing. I’ve overheard girls, including my roommate Lizzie, talk about how—despite how good they feel—men’s privates are ugly. Although they used the word “cock,” which makes me cringe just thinking it, but I’m not sure what other word to use. I don’t agree with those girls. Dawson is beautiful all over, every bit of him.

  Eventually he draws me up to his chest, into the nook of his shoulder, and we sleep again.

  The next time I wake up, it’s slowly, gradually. It’s either late or early, somewhere in the dark hours of the night or morning. There’s a touch of gray on the horizon, making me think it’s early. I’ve never slept naked with a man before, obviously. His arm is draped over my hip, his face buried against my back, his breathing deep and even. We’re both still naked, covered now by the blanket and sheet. I love this feeling. I’m protected, safe, sheltered. He loves me, he’s holding me close, even in sleep.

  And then I become aware of something: His manhood…his cock…is nestled against me. It’s hard, fully erect and thick. He got up at some point after we made love the first time to discard the condom, and now, in the dim light of predawn, I see another square on the bedside table near me.

  I feel his…I think the word more easily, but still with a guilty cringe…his c**k between the cheeks of my bottom, and I’m greedy for it. I want to be filled by him again. I need it. I’m…so desperate for it that I can’t think of anything else.

  I reach for the condom, and it crinkles noisily in the silent
room. I examine it, a gray plastic square, Trojan written in white lettering. I rip it open and pull out what’s inside. It’s a circle of slippery rubber, or latex, actually, a thicker ridge surrounding transparent latex so thin as to be nearly invisible. Which is the point, I suppose. I unroll it a little, and then I realize Dawson’s breathing has shifted.

  He’s awake.

  I roll in place, and meet his sleepy gaze. He just smiles at me, lifts a heavy hand, and brushes his thumb across my cheekbone. I glance down between us and fit the condom over the tip of him, then clutch him near the base and hold him still, unrolling the latex over him slowly with one hand at first, then both, hand over hand until the ridged rim is flush against his pelvis. Dawson reaches down and pinches the tip a little, leaving a gap near the tip. He reaches for me, starts to move, but I just shake my head. I turn in place again, and press my back to his front. I spoon myself to him, and wriggle my hips until his thickness is buried where it was originally. Dawson cups my hip in his hand and presses a tender kiss to my shoulder blade. I wait until the desperation inside me cannot be denied, and then I reach down between us and guide the thick head of him inside me. I’m wet down there, damp and hot and slick. He slides deep into my core. He’s in me, there. Buried home. Neither of us moves for a long moment, and then he rolls his hips and I moan, and he groans in tandem with me.

  And then, oh, god, his fingers delve to the apex of my cleft and slip in, and I press my hips outward to allow him access, and he’s pressing with his long middle finger, and we’re moving together. I shift my hips away, and he pulls his erection out, and then we push ourselves together. It’s clumsy at first, but then we find a rhythm, and his fingers…oh, god, the way he touches me makes me come apart before I’ve even stroked a dozen times against him, and I’m shuddering and gasping with my mouth open wide in a silent scream, and then a few moments later it happens again, and I’m breathless and he’s desperate against me, moving as if he can’t find enough purchase to let go.

  Dawson shifts, and I’m lying on my back on top of him. Oh…whoa. One hand is at my cleft, giving me orgasm after orgasm, and the other is on my breast. He takes my hand in his, and we work my ni**les together, and he’s crushing up and into me, and he’s so, so, so deep that I nearly can’t take it, but I do I take it and I love it and I need it.