O is for…

The wood of the cross is a rough, unforgiving anchor against his spine. He is a frantic mess of heaving lungs and slick skin, his chest rising in sharp, desperate jerks that make the muscles of his stomach ripple like water. I can smell the musk of his fever, a heavy, primitive scent that fills the small space between our bodies. I reach out and wrap my fingers around him, the heat of his skin shocking against the cool air. He is a solid, thudding weight in my palm, a pulse I can feel all the way up my arm.

I don’t play fair. I tighten my grip, the friction of my hand sliding over the swollen, velvet crown of him with a slow, agonizing deliberation. I watch his eyes roll back, the whites showing as he gasps for a breath he can’t quite catch. I lean in, my blackberry tips brushing his damp ribs, and take him into the wet, dark heat of my mouth.

The sound he makes is a broken, guttering animal noise that vibrates against my tongue. I use the suction and the rhythmic slide of my throat to draw the life out of him, my hands working in tandem to squeeze and pull. He is bucking against the ropes, his hips lifting off the timber in a blind, rhythmic search for the end. I can feel him thickening, the tension in his thighs turning them into stone, his toes curling as he tries to find some way to stay whole.

I get nasty with it. I increase the pace, my tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge while my fingers dig into the base of his length, milking every ounce of his mounting desperation. I want him to break. I want to see the moment he loses his mind to the sensation.

The room is silent except for the wet, rhythmic sounds of my work and the jagged, sobbing hitch of his breath. Suddenly, his body goes rigid. His spine arches into a sharp, violent curve, and his fingers claw at the air as the dam finally bursts.

The release is a heavy flooding. A thick, white surge of heat splatters across my face, my neck, and the swell of my breasts. I don’t move. I stay right there, letting the hot, steaming cream paint my brown skin in the evidence of his total defeat. I look up at him, my mouth slick and my eyes dark, watching the way he hangs there, unstrung and shivering. The hardness leaves him in a slow, liquid drain, leaving him heavy and breathless against the wood. I am covered in him, a mess of heat and victory, while he stares at me with the vacant, glazed eyes of a man who has been completely emptied out.