22 Strokes · [淫欲]

The heavy emergency door feels like a dead leaf when you hastily pull on the handle. The rumble of barging into the stairwell quickly recedes and turns into pornographically wet sounds and heavy breathing. 

“Off,” you hiss through your clenched teeth, almost ripping the buttons on his useless cardigan that barely covers anything.

Less than a second later, his sublime physique is on full display. Doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen it, your jaw still drops. His coarse touch is in stark contrast with his utterly graceful silhouette, scratching, kneading, and squeezing your flesh hard enough to brand your body with his prints all over. His hand travels up the skirt of your dress, and just when you think this is a warning shot before he gropes your thighs, he harshly rips your drenched underwear off of you. The sound of fabric tearing bounces off the walls and amplifies like a storm is approaching.

“Down,” he orders, palms pressing hard on your shoulders. You oblige too eagerly.

He loves it. He loves it when you look up at him with that same question in your eyes.

You drop to your knees and hook your fingers in his belt loops, dragging his jeans down to just enough without revealing everything all at once. Fucking flawless. Skin so smooth yet firm to the touch, stretched over his magnificent figure like a bespoke suit that fits perfectly. When you run your hands up his hip bones, you feel every curve, every hill, every sweeping meander his rivers flow in. You can’t help the urge to press your lips on each. You kiss every valley, every plain, every perfect imperfection that magnifies his gorgeousness.

He is just so fucking beautiful.

You play connect the dots on his body with your tongue, licking slow drags from one beauty mark to another and tracing the bulging veins you encounter on the way. He melts. He throbs every time you descend closer to his crotch. With your kisses turning sloppy, his bulge grows bigger in your face, begging for his misery to be put to an end, and when his size becomes too mouthwatering to resist, you palm him.

He sharply inhales.

You peel the layers off of him one by one and finally set him free. It’s like he holds his breath awaiting your next move. When you wrap your fingers around his cock, he actually empties his lungs as if he’s been trapped underwater. You smear some of his precum on your lips like some overpriced lipgloss, your gaze completely glued to his, then you collect the remains on your fingers to rub it on your pussy. He loves it when you look up at him with that same question in your eyes, no matter how rhetorical.

You fucking love this, don’t you?

You fondle his hips and approach just a tinge closer. You move barely half a millimeter per second, properly frustrating him with how damn slow you are. It amuses you. It fucking gratifies you that he gets this desperate when he sees the land on the horizon. Because you know he will jump into that freezing water and swim to the shore at full speed, zero fucks given as to how many miles it will take him.

You choke on his huge girth with no warning whatsoever, and his eyes flutter close in complete rapture.

“Yes,” he moans the word through his heavy exhale, dragging it out like it’s made up of twenty two letters, “Milk it.”

Arms stretched over the rails behind him. Head thrown back completely submerged in ecstasy. His pleasure is a fucking delight to watch. He doesn’t give a fuck that his moans echo. He doesn’t give a fuck that someone might see. He is too busy comparing the feeling to a tall glass of thick milkshake slowly making its way up the straw as you sip on it. He can feel it. He can feel his cum getting milked out of him, rushing to meet your lips as fast as it can. He starts counting.

One… Two… Three… Four…

It’s not the seconds he’s counting, nor is it how many licks it takes to get to the center of him. He’s painting a picture behind his eyelids. An elaborate dreamscape of a looming disaster. He sketches it first. Then he colors it. Then he gives it depth. It’s supposed to come alive only after his shading is complete.

When you hollow your cheeks, however, it suddenly turns full technicolor beyond his control, way earlier than it should.

He stops you.

He swiftly lifts you up from your wrists, then places your hand on his slobber-coated cock to calm him down. His tongue glides on yours. When his hands slither down to your waist, he feels every curve, every path, every sharp turn that threatens to derail his sanity unless he pumps the brakes.

But he’s never going to.

He bends you over the rails and admires the view, ass arched and slick dripping down your thighs. Your eyes close on their own when he prods your entrance, this time a proper warning shot for you to brace yourself.

“Now count,” he breathes down your neck and rams himself into you to the hilt.

Your vision momentarily turns white.

One… Two… Three…

It’s not the seconds you’re counting, nor is it the number of peaks you’re climbing before you jump into an abyss. You’re writing a confessional that’s made up of a single word. An intricate memoir documenting all hell breaking loose when you simply make eye contact with this man. When you just breathe the same air as him. When you just exist in the same lifetime.

“Touch me,” you rest your head on his shoulder, one arm around his nape, “Touch me everywhere.”

Seven… Eight… Nine…

He spits on his right hand and starts rubbing your clit while his left fondles your breasts. Nowhere fast. Not to force you to climax. He just touches you like you ask him to. To savor you. To seep through your skin and feel you run through his veins. 

But he still feels incomplete.

Fourteen… Fifteen… Sixteen…

He hates it. He hates that it has to be like this. Indifferent glances. Stolen touches. Moments of privacy stashed under the tables, behind closed doors, or any secluded corner. He wants to touch you to his heart’s content. He wants to kiss you until his lips are numb. He wants to love you for an eternity and he is willing to commit cold-blooded murder if that’s what it takes.

“I want it all,” he licks into your ear, “All of you.”

Twenty… Twenty one…

One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. One woman’s misery is another woman’s glee. No one’s death warrant should be written in disgustingly fancy cursive letters. Cursive. Even the name itself sounds sardonic as hell. Like someone’s cursing at you, and you’re supposed to just sit there and take it. Because there is nothing you can do. Because it can’t be helped. Because it is what it is. You stomp on someone’s grave like a marble dancefloor sometimes. Your tears of grief become the champagne in their crystal flutes. A celebratory invitation written in disgustingly fancy cursive letters.

Cursive letters…

Cursive…

Curse…

“Fuck, I’m—I’m cumming. Cumming. FUCK!”

Twenty two.

He’s dying in unbelievable pain but laughs like a demented lunatic when he breaks you again. When he unravels you. When he claims ownership of your entire existence for the trillionth time. He fucks you through each wave of orgasm washing over you until you come down, hands around your waist, head in the crook of your neck, his thrusts slowly coming to a halt as you pulsate around him in longer intervals.

“We should head back inside,” you look away from him, your cheeks a shade of crimson that screams shame.

“We will,” he brushes your hair away from your face and looks deep into your eyes as he pulls you closer, “Just a couple of more seconds. Please.”

When your lips are in his, he feels every trial, every obstacle, every chasm standing between you disappear. He is aware the pain is eventually going to kill him and that he has to stop. 

But he’s never going to. He doesn’t care. Because he knows.

When he dies, all it takes to resurrect is twenty two strokes.

Exxxtraoddinary? Appreciate with a pudding.

© 2024 Feelfolio.

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