Author Note - "To smut, or not to smut: that is the question."
The answer, of course, is smut.
The bedroom wasn't mine. King-size bed, thread count I couldn't afford, and three framed photos on the nightstand of a man I'd never met. Good-looking guy. Square jaw, decent haircut, smiled like a man who owned things. His wife's legs were on my shoulders and I had my mouth on her pussy and she was gripping the headboard with both hands so hard the whole frame was creaking against the wall.
Her name was Laura. Or Lauren. Started with an L.
She was in her late thirties, dark hair fanned out across the pillow, a body she clearly worked for. Tight stomach, full hips, tits that looked expensive but I was pretty sure were real because I'd had my hands on them for the last twenty minutes and they moved right. Wedding ring sat on the nightstand next to the photos. She'd taken it off when I got here, set it down carefully like she was putting it to bed.
The bedroom was cold. Central air cranked low, goosebumps on my arms and my back and everywhere her thighs weren't pressed against my face. Between her legs was different. Hot. Slick. She'd been wet before I got her pants off and she was wetter now, twenty minutes in, and the taste of her was on my lips and my chin and I didn't care because I liked it there.
I dragged my tongue flat up from the bottom and her whole body jerked.
"Oh god- oh god oh god-"
I pressed her thighs wider with my palms and did it again, slower. She pulled at the headboard like she was trying to rip it off the wall. I found her clit with the tip of my tongue, circled it, and her hips lifted clean off the mattress.
Most guys treat eating pussy like a chore. A toll you pay to get to the real thing. Spend forty-five seconds down there, lick in random directions, come back up and ask if she liked it. That's why their wives end up in bed with guys like me. I liked it. I liked the taste, the sounds, the way a woman who walked into the room composed and put-together would fall apart under my mouth if I paid attention. The paying attention part was the whole game. Where her breathing changed. Where her thighs tightened. The spot that made her voice go up half an octave. You find it, you stay on it, you don't get creative, you don't switch it up because you're bored. You stay on it until she breaks.
Her hand left the headboard and grabbed the back of my head. Fingers in my hair, pulling me into her.
"Right- right there, don't stop, don't- don't you fucking stop-"
I didn't stop. I sealed my lips around her clit and sucked gently and worked the tip of my tongue in a tight circle and her thighs clamped around my ears and her back arched and she came with a sound that started in her chest and ended somewhere near the ceiling. Long. Loud. Her legs shaking on either side of my head, her heel digging into my back hard enough to leave a mark. Her stomach jumping under the skin, tiny involuntary contractions she couldn't control, and I pressed my palm flat against it and felt every aftershock pulse through her.
I eased off. Kissed the inside of her thigh. Let her breathe.
"Fuck," she said. "Fuck."
I looked up at her from between her legs. Her chest was heaving, nipples hard, a flush spreading down from her collarbones. Eyes half-closed. Lips parted. Her hair was starting to stick to the sweat on her neck and she looked like she'd just run a mile and liked every step.
"Come here," she said.
"Not yet."
I went back down. She made a noise like I'd punched her. My mouth on her again while she was still swollen and sensitive and twitching, and this time I slid two fingers inside her, the wet sound loud in the quiet room, and curled them up and her hand found my hair again and pulled harder.
The second one built faster. She was already there, body still buzzing from the first, and everything was wet and hot and she kept lifting her hips to grind against my face and I let her. Let her use my mouth while my fingers worked inside her and my other hand pressed flat on her stomach, holding her down just enough to feel the muscles under the skin jumping. My jaw ached. My cock was so hard against the mattress that every time she pulled my hair I ground into the sheets without thinking about it. My pulse was hammering in my neck, between my legs. My face was slick with her and my chin was dripping and every breath I took was nothing but her.
"I'm- I'm gonna- ah- I can't- ah fuck-"
She bit her lower lip. Held it for half a second. Then her mouth fell open and she came again and this time she was louder. This time the neighbors could've heard it if there were neighbors close enough, and she didn't care, and I liked that she didn't care. Her thighs squeezed and released and squeezed and her whole body curled up toward me and then fell back flat, boneless, the breath rushing out of her. She was breathing hard enough that her ribs were moving, chest rising and falling, the flush on her skin darker than before.
I pulled my fingers out. A thin string of wet connected us for a second before it broke. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and crawled up over her, my body dragging along hers, and kissed her neck. She tasted like expensive moisturizer and salt. Her skin was warm under my lips, the rest of the room cold against my back.
"Hi," I said.
She laughed. Breathless, loose. She pulled me down and kissed me and didn't care that she could taste herself. Her tongue against mine, messy, lazy. She was still coming down and the kiss was half-speed, her breathing too fast for it, breaking away to gasp and coming back in.
I'd been hard since I walked in the door and she opened it in that dress. The dress was on the floor now, pooled at the foot of the bed with my shirt and her bra. My cock was pressed against her inner thigh and she could feel it because her hips shifted, grinding against me, my shaft dragging through how wet she was. Along, not in. Her breath caught.
She reached between us and wrapped her hand around my cock. Her fingers were warm and her grip was firm and she knew what she was doing. I dropped my forehead against her shoulder.
"You're so hard," she said, like it surprised her.
"You've been making those sounds for twenty minutes. Yeah."
She laughed again and guided me to her entrance. The head pressed against her. Heat first. Then the give. I pushed in slow. The first inch, the stretch, the resistance, her body opening around me, and her mouth fell open and her eyes closed. I pushed deeper. Inch by inch. She was so wet from coming twice that the fit was slick and easy but I could still feel her clenching around me in little involuntary pulses, her body gripping and releasing, and she grabbed my shoulders and dug her nails in and I bottomed out.
All the way. My hips flat against hers. Held still.
Her breath came out shaking. Her heartbeat was everywhere, or mine was. The heat of her wrapped tight around me and neither of us moved.
"Oh- oh that's- you're-" She couldn't finish it.
"Look at me," I said.
She opened her eyes. Dark brown, pupils blown wide, wet at the corners. Her face was flushed and her lips were swollen from kissing and she was looking at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered, which was funny because I was the only thing in the room that didn't belong there.
I pulled back slow, almost all the way out, the drag of her walls clinging on the outstroke, and pushed back in. She gasped. I did it again. And again. Unhurried. Deep, long strokes with my hips flat against hers at the bottom, grinding forward before pulling back, each thrust a full-length slide that she felt from start to finish. Her breathing was trying to match my pace. Through her nose. Controlled. She was still trying to hold something together. Her hands were on my back, fingers spread, pressing but not scratching.
"More," she said.
"Say please."
She bit her lip. The flush on her chest climbed up her neck, hit her face.
"Please."
I gave her more. Faster. Deeper. Her legs came up around my waist and the angle changed and now every stroke hit somewhere inside her that made her whole body jump. She was making a choked sound each time, "ah- ah- ah-", rhythmic, matching my hips, getting louder. The headboard was tapping the wall and I didn't care and she didn't care and the photos of her husband on the nightstand were face-down because I'd knocked them over when I threw my shirt.
The wet sounds filled the room. Her pussy on every thrust, slick and obscene, louder than it had been at the start because she was soaking now, because two orgasms and twenty minutes of her grinding against my face had turned everything between her legs into a mess. The sound was there on every stroke and I watched her face when she heard it. She heard how wet she was and she couldn't do anything about it.
"You're loud," I said.
"I- ah- I know, I'm sorry-"
"Be louder."
She searched my face for the joke and didn't find one because there wasn't one.
"His flight doesn't land until ten," I said. "Be as loud as you want."
Her mouth opened. Her shoulders dropped and she stopped biting her lip and stopped holding back and the next sound she made was a full moan, open-mouthed, loud enough to fill the room. Her face went slack. A woman getting fucked and letting herself feel all of it.
I fucked her harder and she got louder and the headboard banged the wall and sweat was forming on my chest, on my arms, on the space between her breasts where my body pressed against hers. The sheets under her were damp. The clenching went from random to rhythmic, her thighs tightening around my waist, and I pulled out.
She gasped. Her hips chased me for a second, rocking up toward nothing, and the cool air hit my cock and it was glistening.
I grabbed her hip and flipped her over.
"Hands and knees."
She scrambled up. Fast. Eager. Her ass in the air and her back arched and she looked over her shoulder at me with her hair hanging in her face, dark and messy and stuck to her neck with sweat. I grabbed a fistful of it at the base, pushed forward, and sank back into her from behind.
"Fuck- FUCK-"
Deeper from this angle. The depth, the stretch, different from missionary, and her arms locked and her back dipped and I could see the muscles in her shoulders working to hold her up. I held her hair and set the pace she'd been begging for and then I went faster because she wanted faster even when she said slower. Women like her always did. Women who ran everything, who held it all together, who kept every part of their lives tight and correct. They didn't want to run this. They wanted someone else driving.
My hand in her hair, my other hand on her hip, pulling her back onto me with every thrust. Her ass hit my hips on every stroke, the flesh rippling on impact, and the slap of skin was loud enough to hear over her moaning. She was soaking. It was running down to where we connected, every push in loud and wet and obscene, the headboard and her voice and my breathing all going at once. The sheets under her knees were dark. The room smelled like sweat and sex and her shampoo.
"Right there- right there right there- don't- nn- don't stop- ah- AH-"
Her arms started shaking. I watched the tremor run from her shoulders to her elbows. Her hair was swinging with each thrust, dark strands flying, and her voice was breaking on every sound, raw, pulled out of her. I gripped her hair tighter and drove in harder and her elbows buckled and she dropped from her hands to the mattress and her fingers twisted in the sheets and her face went sideways into the pillow and she screamed. Muffled. Broken. Her whole body locking up and then shaking, pussy clenching around me in waves so tight I had to stop or it would've been over right there.
I held still, buried all the way in, both hands on her hips, jaw locked, breathing through my teeth. Her body was shaking under me. Her face was buried in Egyptian cotton that belonged to a man who was somewhere over Nebraska right now. Small sounds were still coming out of her, half-moans, half-whimpers, muffled by the pillow, and she was still clenching, each pulse weaker than the last.
I let go of her hair. Ran my palm down her spine, over slick skin, down to the curve of her ass. She was still trembling. Still twitching. Her breathing ragged and hot against the pillow.
I waited until the tightening eased. Then I started again. Slow at first, because she was sensitive now, everything swollen and lit up, and she hissed through her teeth on the first stroke. The second was easier. The third she pushed back into. I built up and her sounds went from hissing to breathing to moaning, and my own orgasm was building now, in my legs, in my stomach, in the base of my cock. Close. The tightness of her, the heat, the wet sounds louder than they'd been all night because she was a mess, because I'd made her a mess. I grabbed both her hips and pulled her back against me and the last few thrusts were hard and deep and graceless and she was moaning into the pillow and I came inside her with a sound I didn't recognize. Low. Rough. My hips stuttered and stopped and I was pulsing inside her and her pussy clenched in response, milking, and she made a soft sound when she felt the warmth.
I stayed inside her. Her face still in the pillow, her back rising and falling. My hands on her hips, my thumbs pressed into the dimples above her ass.
Then I pulled out. Slow. My cock slick, her pussy swollen and wet, a drop of cum already leaking out of her. I looked at it for a second longer than I needed to and then collapsed sideways onto the bed.
The ceiling fan. One of those brass ones with the fake wood blades, spinning on the lowest setting, clicking. The kind of ceiling fan someone picked out of a catalog and had opinions about.
Laura. Her name was Laura. I was pretty sure.
She rolled onto her back next to me, breathing like she'd sprinted to the mailbox and back twice. Her hair was wrecked. Her skin was flushed from her chest to her ears and glistening with sweat. She had a pillow crease on her cheek and a strand of hair stuck to her lip.
"Jesus Christ," she said.
"Yeah."
"Where did you- how are you-" She gave up on the question.
I looked at the ceiling fan click around. Thought about nothing. That's what I did after. Lay there with my head empty and my body cooling down and the fan turning and the sweat drying on my skin and nothing else. The AC hummed. The sheets were damp under my back. Just the click and the dark and the cool air on wet skin.
She rolled toward me. Her hand on my chest, tracing a line down my sternum. Warm fingers. I let her do it and then I reached for my boxers.
"Leaving already?"
She was propped on her elbow, hair in her face, the sheet pooled at her waist. Looking at me like I was something she'd ordered online and it arrived better than the picture.
"Your husband gets back at ten."
"He gets back at eleven."
"I like margins."
She laughed. A real one, surprised out of her. I stepped into my boxers and pulled them up and found my jeans on the floor near the dresser. Her dress was down there too, crumpled next to my belt.
"You could stay an hour." She was watching me get dressed, eyes half-open, already thinking about next time. "We could order food."
"I don't eat in other people's houses."
"That's a weird rule."
"I've got weird rules."
Jeans on. Belt buckled. I looked around for my shirt and couldn't find it, and then I remembered I'd thrown it toward the nightstand when she started undoing buttons and it was somewhere on the far side of the bed, probably on the floor behind the photos I'd knocked over.
The garage door opened.
It was a sound I'd heard before. The mechanical grind of a motor pulling a heavy door up on tracks. Somewhere below us, directly below us, the garage that was attached to this house. The house I was in. With this man's wife. In this man's bed.
We both went still.
I was shirtless. Jeans on, belt done, but no shirt. She was naked, sitting up now, the sheet falling away from her, and her face had gone white.
The garage door finished its cycle. A car engine shut off. A car door opened and closed.
"He changed his flight," she whispered. Smaller than before. Barely there.
Footsteps below us. The door between the garage and the house opened. The footsteps moved inside. Across the kitchen, from the sound of it, hard shoes on tile.
I grabbed my shirt from behind the nightstand. Pulled it over my head. The shirt was inside-out but I didn't have time to fix it. My shoes were downstairs by the front door.
The footsteps reached the bottom of the stairs.
I looked at her. She was reaching for her robe on the chair. Her hands were shaking. The wedding ring was still on the nightstand, still next to the photos. She hadn't put it back on.
The footsteps started climbing.
I was supposed to have margins.