Chevelle's Story

chapter 9

Picture: Abel Seifu, naked as the day he was born, holding all nine inches of himself in his palm. Stroking.

The fever in his eyes is wicked. He stands above me, and I am held in place by nothing other than the sheer power of his gaze.

New picture: A single bead of sweat, racing down my back.

My arms, bound together at the elbows, held behind my back by a grunting beast of a man who is pounding into me with a vicious urgency that I don't fully understand, but that I share, nonetheless.

His fingers are greedy. I feel them on my clit, pinching my nipples, around my neck, in my mouth.

There is a mumbling of words, either from me or from him. Different languages are being spoken. A 'you're so sexy,' a 'please, fout mwen pi rèd,' a 'fuck, it can barely fit,' a 'god, yes.'

There is a speeding up, and then a slowing down.

God, yes.

He smacks my ass and asks me if I like it. I want to tell him he should hit me harder, that I'm not afraid of a bruise or two, but I can't speak anymore. I can barely breathe; every inhale is a gasp that is knocked out with every thrust.

A sound: Abel's moan.

A deep, throaty vibration with that beautiful baritone to it. The kind that makes your skin tingle.

The sound rumbles in his chest as he pries me in two. As he fills me up, slowly.

Now that we can see each other's faces, the sex is different. Each thrust is more purposeful. Like he is trying to empty me out so that he can fill me entirely with himself. And the way he's looking at me...like I'm absolutely everything; it melts something inside of me. I find myself dripping out of my body and into him, seeping through his pores like a virus.

I want him to feel every inch of me. To understand that when I moan his name, it is a plea from every cell in my body. I am begging him.

Deeper, please.

I don't have to speak it for him to understand. He holds my waist as he thrusts into me even more roughly—more deliberately. As he knocks the breath from my chest. And I look him in the eyes as he tears me apart, because I, too, want to see him unfurled.

Erupting.

'M ap vini.'

He doesn't understand the language, but he understands the frenzy in my eyes. The breathy, choked gasp just before an unraveling. He knows what comes next.

He tells me I should cum all over him. That he can feel how fucking wet I am. That he'll clean me up with his tongue afterwards.

And so I cum, and as the shudders of orgasm overtake me, all I can think about is how I once spent over a year dating a man who didn't give me head even once. How I hadn't even known what I was missing back then.

All I can think about is the way Abel is looking at me right now—that fucking look. The way his gaze always seems to make me love the part of me on which it lands a little bit more. How I barely know this man, and yet, I already feel so close to him. Like we've forged an unbreakable bond during our time in this bed.

Abel cums, and I can feel it dripping down my leg as it overflows from the condom. We should clean it up, but I don't want to dismount him yet. I like the feeling of him inside me. Warm and throbbing. Like a second heart.

His breath is still ragged, he can barely keep his eyes open as he tries to catch it. His hands are still glued to my waist, and although I know he's worn out, I can't help it. The sight of him all sticky and sweaty...his heaving chest glistening in the low light...it does something to me. I can't stop myself as I begin to grind back and forth, rubbing my clit gently against his dewy skin.

Soft, swallowed moans float from my parted lips, and Abel peers up at me with keen eyes. As his gaze darkens, I feel him growing inside me once more.

We fuck and we fuck until day becomes night. Until we've used up all the condoms in his bedside drawer. Until Abel has touched so deep a part of me that I am bare, in the purest sense of the word.

We share a blunt at some point between rounds. There are no more condoms, but with this new high, our arousal has also hit a new high, and so we fuck again. This time it's raw. This time, as he fills me, I can feel every pulsing vein. He can feel the way my walls quiver at the sound of his drunken moans.

Sometime during the twilight hours—as he's fucking me against a cold wall—I tell him that I'll stay. I'll stay until I absolutely have to leave. As long as he promises to fuck me like this, again and again, for as long as I'm around. For as long as I can take it.