jazz
It is twenty past midnight, and outside the rain has stopped. I keep my eyes shut, listening to the music, feeling your cum frozen over the skin of my thighs. Was I too tired to clean them off after you came, or was I holding you too tight? And where are you now? I lift my lids and wince: there is no light but the fireplace, but still it is too much for my pupils. Slowly, you start to come into focus, sitting on the couch with the laptop on your legs, a glass of Cono Sur in one hand. You are frowning, and your lips are parted, and from the floor I watch you in silence, my eyes gliding from your hair to your face, tracing your eyes, nose, lips. Your lips. Your lips on mine, on my body. Your lips around my clit. I stir.
You raise your eyes to me and smile. Your lips, again. No, you didn’t wake me up. I feel great. I feel relaxed and drunk. Cock drunk? Maybe, I snicker. I smile back at you with my eyes. You reach for a cigar, one of the Cubans you got last night. No, I don’t mind. Do you mind if I watch you? Yes, while you smoke it, do you mind? I raise my head and hold it in my hand, arm folded. My hair falls to cover half my face. When I move to brush it off, you ask me to stop. Leave it like that, you say. It makes me look mysterious? You are always mysterious. I just like the way it looks right now. I am going to watch you while you smoke, I say. You nod, the first puffs of smoke rising like long lost thoughts. Your lips and the wine. Without noticing, I lick mine. Your eyes do not miss it.
Bill Evans?, I ask. You nod, already entertained with something on the computer. I let it play while my eyes play around your body, your hands, the Cono Sur and the cigar and your fingers. Your fingers. On my nipples. Inside me. Moving. I stir. You raise your eyes again and look at me in silence. I look down, an apology. Your eyes dart back to the screen. You type something with difficulty, the cigar in your hand bobbing dangerously over the keyboard. I watch as your lips wrap around it once again. A veil of smoke hides your face from my eyes. I glide them to your shoulder, and I think I can see the spot where I bit you the other night. I said I was sorry for that, but I am not: your cock was so deeply buried inside me I could not think, and when the orgasm attacked me I had to bite you. Instinctive survival. Call it what you want. But I have to admit, I came harder when I heard you scream, my teeth sunk on your flesh. I stir. Your eyes do not leave the screen this time. No, I don’t want any wine, not right now. No, the cigar does not bother me, sir. You raise your eyebrows, questioning. I smile, because we both know where our minds are going. You shake your head and take the glass to your lips again. Your lips. I stir.
Are you watching porn?, the words come out of my mouth before I can think twice. You turn your head to look at me, serious. No, but if I was? I shrug. Just curious, I tell you, you are so concentrated. I am doing research. It is thirty past midnight. I leave it like that, looking over to your chest, thinking of my lips prancing all over it, making their way to your cock, anxious to get around your thick, hard shaft. You stir. I laugh, because I think you know. You do not comment on anything; just take in some more wine. Your lips. Again. My eyes fall to your hips and my head finds its way back onto the pillow: from where I am laying I can see the shape of your cock lit by the fireplace, but I cannot make sense of it entirely. Still, my mouth waters. And my pussy drenches. I reach for it silently, my fingers sliding from the side of my hips to my mound: if I do this really quietly I might be able to not disturb you. You don’t seem to notice when I touch my pubes to find them damp, sticky juices from some minutes ago still covering them. You don’t seem to notice when I slide my middle finger between my labia and find my clit and press it firmly against my body. You don’t hear the low, soft moan that escapes my mouth. Instead, the cigar makes it to your lips again. My right leg bends, just enough to give me room to slide a finger inside myself, my cunt wet and warm and sensitive from all the exposure to your cock. I bite my lower lip and watch you closely, but there is no reaction: you are immersed at what you are reading online, and only when my finger leaves a trail of wetness over my cunt as it goes back to my clit you seem to catch sight of a glistering and look quickly at me. I freeze, the air cooling the back of my coated finger.
Spread wider, you say, your eyes still fixed on the screen. I do it without hesitation. Now take your left hand to your cunt, and get your index and middle fingers wet. Yes, like that. Now take them to your mouth, and smear your juice on your lips. Suck on them now. Can you taste yourself? Can you taste what I taste when I go down on you? Do you like it? Because I do. I hiss in response. Your eyes have still not left the screen. You are going to do it the way you do it when I am not watching, you say. I know you can see me in your peripheral vision, but you refuse to leave the screen to look at me. You are going to touch yourself thinking of me, but pretending I am not here. Do you understand? I nod, and my leg lies flat against the air mattress again. Do not fake it, I will know if you put on a show. Your warning is so cold it sends chills down my spine, but when I take a hold of my left breast with my left hand, fingers encircling my nipple, my body is heated again. I rest the heel of my right hand on my mound and slide my index and middle fingers between my lips and down to my entrance. I am wet, but I know deep inside me there is more juice: I enter myself with a muffled, soundless moan. My eyes catch the first movements of your cock, and I bite my lips and arch my eyebrows. Ignore me, you mutter. I am not here. Make yourself cum like I am not here.
But you are always there, although you don’t know it. I pull my fingers out and slide them up my cunt, and I can feel the thick, sticky wetness coating all of it. I cradle my clit between my fingers and make a rotating movement, instantly being invaded by pleasure. I moan. My nipples harden and I close my eyes, picturing you in my head, your cock stiff and thick, your hand stroking it while your eyes lick my pussy. I rub my clit again, and suddenly it is you who is touching me, the silky skin of your cock’s head massaging my clit. I rub it again, and my hips jerk, and I do it one more time and one more and one more while, under my closed eyelids, you rub your cock on my pussy, pressing the swollen head on my clit. Are you thinking about me?, you ask, and your breathing is altered but I dare not open my eyes. Yes, I hiss. Good girl. Remember, I am not here. Make yourself cum. My fingers’ movements intensify, and I caress my breasts imagining it is your mouth covering them, your teeth teasing one nipple and then the other, pulling on it gently how you have discovered I like. I press my hand down further between my legs, my thighs tense. With eyes still closed, I hear what I imagine is you stroking your cock. My cunt contracts instantly, a sharp pain inside me. Are you going to fuck me if I come?, I ask, but you do not answer. You are not there. I remember.
But you are between my legs, and suddenly my fingers are your tongue. I run them around my clit slowly and then pick up speed, and when it becomes too much I slow down again. My throat is dry. My lips, parted. My head is thrown back, exposing my neck. I pinch a nipple hard and whimper, fingers caressing my clit slowly as only your tongue can go. You moan stifled, but I have to pretend you are not there. Only you are, and this time flashes of our bodies fucking invade my head, knocking me off all my senses. I can feel your body in mine, your hips thrusting against my back, your cock buried inside me, stretching me to my limits, your fingers pressed hard around the flesh on my hips while you grunt and hiss, pounding me fast. Me riding you in your chair, my clit gritting against the base of your cock, me coming with my head on your shoulder while you hold me around my waist, cum being pumped into me. You kneeled between my legs, stroking your hard cock, your eyes on my body, and you clenching forward as you orgasm, ropes of your semen dropping onto my stomach. I rub my clit faster, and my breath is faster, and I start gathering, incoherent mumbles inhabiting my mouth, and I can feel my shoulders tensing and my left hand looks for a hold over the sheets, pulling it towards nowhere. I can hear you stroking your cock violently now, shoots of curses being uttered by you, and I remember all the times you have cum while grunting in my hair, your hot breath caressing my ears, and I collapse: my fingers slow down but do not stop rubbing my clit in circular moves, while my whole body jerks forward one, two, five times, orgasm making my cunt throb and contract, my back arched, legs pressing down the mattress, your name rolling around my mouth over my tongue.
I would think you came with me by the silence in the room: nothing by Evans and our breaths. With a shudder, I run my fingers one last time down and up my slit and open my eyes. You are still sitting, your hard cock into your hand, your eyes glued to my body. Your lips, parted, are dry. You have not cum yet, saving your juice for me. The look in your eyes is so intense it makes me shiver, but I blame it on aftershocks. Is this how you masturbate for me?, you ask me. Yes, I whisper, my throat too tight to let any sound out. You smile, and you look like a boy with a new present. I melt, and I threaten to sit up because I want to take your cock into my mouth and give you as much pleasure as your eyes over me have given me. No, don’t get up, you say, cock still in hand, shutting the laptop slowly. I am done with my research. I am going to make you squirt now.