Red Flags

Part.4

For a moment you wonder how long it’s been for him, this man who seems to have no family or friends to speak of, alone in a city of nine million inhabitants, and how lonely he must be, lost in the clustered sea of anonymity. Because he touches you like you’re the first sign of life on an abandoned planet and wants to reassure himself you’re real. Devoted fingers fan over your ribs, palming over every inch of skin he can reach, kneading and grasping.  

You don’t get a chance to revel in the thought, before he drags his nose upwards against the ticklish inside of your thighs, tongue trailing a wet streak across your tights as he goes. You claw your skirt up around your waist and out the way so you can keep watching him, and you can’t help the blissful sigh that parts your lips when he gets to his destination. 

He noses at the damp crotch of your tights, but it’s not enough to actually give you any friction. You can hear him suck a long breath in, his chest rising under you with the extended inhale, and then the warmth of his breath gusts over you as he releases it. He does it again, another deep inhale, and a wash of heat rolls through you at the realisation that he’s smelling you. That’s… that’s just… 

You spear your fingers into that messy hair, and drag his head forward, pressing yourself against him. You groan at the contact, and he groans with you, mouthing at you desperately. 

“Can you– Can these come off?” he says into you, the words barely intelligible between biting kisses and half-licks. His hands grip your thighs, lifting you forward, helping you to ride his face. “ Oh, fuck. Can I taste you without these? Please?” 

“Rip them,” you say without conscious thought, and he does.

He leans back marginally, chin tilting down at a sharp angle to see what he’s doing, and his hands sneak up under your thighs to grip the fabric of your tights on either side of the crotch, fingers digging in, pulling until the material gives way with barely a whisper of sound. His fingers fumble at you again, and there’s a moment of unexpected pressure. Your knickers dig into your hip almost painfully before there’s a much louder rip , and you realise he’s torn them too. You have half a second to be glad they weren’t your best pair, then his mouth is on you.

You expect him to be tentative, the way he is in so many other parts of life, clumsy even. Instead, Steven is all enthusiasm and hunger. There’s nothing shy about the way he works you open with his mouth. 

It starts with a long slick drag of the flat of his tongue down the seam of your cunt. Leaning back slightly, you brace a hand on his firm chest and roll your hips forward into his waiting mouth. He meets your invitation with a groan that makes his whole chest shudder underneath you, lapping at you with a fervour that you would never have expected from him. 

A slow, sweet ache unfurls from between your thighs, spreading and twining steadily outward, until the pleasant warmth climbs its way up your chest, and you smile down at him indulgently.

He’s greedy for you, shifting underneath you and dragging his mouth against your cunt, his hungry moan muffled into your thighs. The bump of his nose nudges against your clit, and white-hot pleasure streaks down your limbs as his tongue curls, licking into you. 

The familiar rasp of a zipper fills the room. It’s followed by a slick wet sound attracting your attention that makes you turn your head, twisting awkwardly to look over your own shoulder. And fuck, are you glad that you did. His fingers are wrapped around the girth of his cock, slowly stroking himself up and down, slick and shiny with copious precome dripping down his painfully-erect-looking cock. 

"Touching yourself, Steven?" 

His hand abruptly stops, whole body freezing in alarm at being caught. He drags his mouth just far enough to resurface with an apologetic murmur. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm—" it’s slurred and drunk, a thickness caught in his throat from your slick. 

“Don’t be sorry.” With the way his mouth is working you, he has nothing to apologise for, and you press your hips down flush against his face, shutting him up quite handily. “You look so fucking good like this, keep touching yourself, fuck , keep going. You’re doing so good,” you encourage as your fingers brush away the errant locks that stick to his forehead with perspiration.  

The deep groan rumbling from his chest is nothing short of grateful as he grabs a firm hold of you with his free hand. There’s nothing tentative about his touch anymore. His fingers dig into the plump flesh of your hips with a surprising force, holding you down against his mouth, forcing you to grind down on his tongue much harder than you would have on your own out of fear of hurting him. 

The strength of his hold is entirely unyielding. It’s depraved with how you’re grinding down on his mouth. Debauched in how he lets you fuck yourself on his tongue. It has you bucking and writhing, the pleasure of it so overwhelming that you lose orientation. 

You need to anchor yourself because fuck , your legs are burning from the exertion, giving under and you’re not sure you can keep yourself upright. Your hands grip near the nearest surface, clamping down against the wooden shelf above the bed hard enough that your knuckles ache. 

And oh crap , you should not have done that.

The books start to slump sideways, collapsing against one another like dominoes. Dazed as you are by the pleasure of his mouth on you, it doesn’t occur to you to try and catch them until a whole mess of books and papers and other clutter tumbles down, spilling across the corner of the bed and onto the floor. 

“Fuck! Steven, your books!”  You belatedly lurch forward, but you don’t get far. Steven groans into you, a feral snarl of sound, and his arms curl tight around your thighs, locking you in place. 

Yeah, okay, the books can wait. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, gripping the heated, sweat-damped curls until you’re sure that it must hurt. But the only response you get is an enthusiastic groan, as his mouth moves more eagerly than before. 

And God, it’s good . Heat spreads down your trembling thighs, shivering under your skin. The sweet ache of it builds with each press of Steven’s tongue until it feels almost too big for your body. There’s nowhere else for it to go, and for a moment you are almost worried that you are going to burst open with it— And God, you’re nearly there—  almost , just a little bit more. 

Steven must be able to feel it because he makes a muffled noise of satisfaction against your cunt. His fingers dig into your thighs even harder, his nose sliding against your clit as he holds you flush to his mouth, and that’s all it takes to shove you over the edge.

You come hard, grinding down harshly against Steven’s face as waves of fierce pleasure ripple through you, searing and endless. He doesn’t protest, just holds you even more solidly against his hungry mouth.

His tongue slows but doesn’t still. A soft, lazy drag, working you through it as he fastens his mouth around you, swallowing like he can’t bear to let a single drop of your slick go to waste. And... and... fuckoh fuck— he’s not stopping.