Authors: Ava Lore
This was going to happen. Like,
really
going to happen.
His lips found my ear. “Let me fuck you,” he whispered gruffly.
“Let me come in you. Nod if you consent.”
I couldn't have shaken my head for the world. Mouth dry, pussy
wet, I nodded and closed my eyes.
Malcolm kissed my earlobe, then let his tongue gently tickle the
inner folds of my ear, his breath hot and harsh inside my head. My skin
dissolved into shivers as he gave my belly a nudge with his cock, clearly
wanting to be inside me now, but under my hands I felt him trembling, holding
himself back. He wanted to fuck me badly, but he wanted to do it properly.
A hot kiss landed on the pulse point in my throat, where my
jugular leaped with anticipation. Quickly, frantically, he placed burning
kisses down my throat, drawing moans from my mouth as he reached up and cupped
one breast in his hand before descending upon it and sucking my nipple into his
hot, wet mouth. I cried out, holding on tight to him, as though I would fall
apart at any moment and he was the only thing keeping me together.
"Malcolm," I moaned as he nipped and nibbled at me.
He made an indistinct grunt of pure desire before dragging his
fingers over the flesh of my back, massaging the muscles there and releasing
the tension imprisoned in them. I cried out and quaked as his hands found my
ass, squeezing and massaging, molding them together and pulling them apart. My
quivering pussy lips opened and closed, and I ached deep inside, needing the
pressure of his cock.
Then he broke away and twined his fingers with mine again,
leading me over to the pile of clay beneath the wet towels that kept it
pliable. Turning me to face him, he lifted me up onto the clay as easily as
though I were a child, and I suddenly realized what he meant to do. He meant to
fuck on the clay.
Clay as a medium is alive. Every push, every pull of it is
recorded within the clay. A true record of the artist. And we were going to
fuck on it. Whatever we did would be recorded forever on its surface.
The thought inflamed me and I opened my legs wide. Malcolm
reached between them and ran his long finger over my slit, probing my wet,
slick entrance. Then he reached around me and laid me back, gently letting me
splay out across the clay. The warm air of the room caressed me, the warm damp
towels beneath me were delightful, as though I were at a spa, about to be
pushed and kneaded into bliss. And I was, I realized. Malcolm bent his sandy
head to my pussy and gave me a lick and a kiss, as though saying hello to an
old friend, then slid his hands over the backs of my thighs and lifted my legs
into the air.
"Are you ready, Sadie?" he asked. "Nod if
yes."
I nodded vigorously. I ached and quivered, needing him. It was
almost surreal in that moment, knowing that I was going to get what I knew I
had wanted from that first moment our eyes met across a crowded room. So corny.
But true.
I closed my eyes and bit my lip as I felt him move between my
legs. The soft, wet head of his cock slotted against my entrance, as though it
were made for me, and then, slowly, he entered me.
It was bliss.
I cried out as he did it, my body curling and twisting, and I
had to force myself to hold still, to relax and take the full girth and length
of him. Three times he had to pause and pull back before gently pushing forward
again, filling me up slowly, letting me become adjusted to his invasion. I
wanted him to fuck me fast and hard, but I also didn't want this moment to end.
I wanted him to enter me for the first time forever. I felt him inside me, and
nothing else was real. In, out. In further, out. In, out, slow, steady, until
at last I finally felt his pelvis run up against my soaked pussy lips and he
was buried inside me.
For a long moment, we stayed that way, trembling with the
sensation of each other. I was full to the brim, his thick, long cock brushing
against something inside me I'd never felt before. It felt strange, but also
delicious. I didn't want to move, because I knew if I moved we would fuck, and
I knew that when we started, we would eventually stop.
But I wanted him inside me always. I wanted this feeling, this
fullness. I needed it. I hadn't known I'd needed it until this moment.
At last I moaned and twisted, impaled on his body, my hands
reaching up to my hair, tangling in it as I tried to comprehend the fullness of
him.
"Ah, Sadie," he whispered. "I love to see you
writhe and thrash. Let me make you scream."
"Yes," I begged back.
It was a surprise this time, when he flicked my nipple with his
finger, but the pain and pleasure speared through me and I shrieked, my hips
thrusting into him, and then he pulled out and pushed in, and we were fucking
like animals.
His hips pounded into mine, small grunts escaping the back of
his throat as he fucked me, and I was helpless under his assault. I moaned and
writhed, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the clay, the towels slipping and
sliding under me. I reached back and tried to dig in, feeling the clay give way
under my grip as he plunged his cock deep inside me. Each time he bottomed out
inside me the tip of his cock brushed over that sweet little spot that I hadn't
even known existed and I shrieked. My head tossed as his fingers dug into my
hips, my back arched. Beneath me the clay became more volatile, moving and
slippery, like mud.
Then, reaching down, Malcolm began to rip away the towels,
exposing the warm clay to the air, and I reached out and dug my fingers into
it, feeling it cake beneath my fingernails as I held on for dear life while his
thrusts became wild and uncontrolled.
"Fuck, Sadie," he grunted. "You feel too
good."
I wanted to tell him there was no such thing, but I felt the
same way. He was too good, frighteningly so. Humans weren't meant to feel this
way, I thought, the part of me that hid under all my brashness, my crudities,
my artistic flairs whispering its insecurities in my ear. Something this good
can't last. Something this wonderful is not meant for you.
I bit my lip as Malcolm abruptly pulled out, and I felt the loss
of him inside me so sharply I almost screamed No, but I didn't. He didn't want
me speaking. I wanted to give him what he wanted. Everything he did to me was
exactly what I needed, even though I hadn't known what it was.
Tugging on my hips, he pulled me from the block of clay and
removed the last of the towels before assisting me back onto it, on my hands
and knees. His hands were large and warm on my skin, and as he took up his
position behind me I braced myself. The clay moved under me. It resisted, but
it moved.
Oh, I thought.
His cock found my pussy and slid inside again, an easy entrance
this time. His hips picked up a quick, sharp pace, and I cried out, my limbs
suddenly trembling with the effort of staying upright on the slick clay.
Streaks of red earth traced paths over my skin when I slipped and fell,
scraping my elbows and arms over the clay, but Malcolm didn't let up. Within
minutes we had worn a groove into the sculpture with the force of our fucking
and my arms and hands were caked with clay.
Sliding out again, he helped me down. My pussy pounded with my
heartbeat and I felt the sweet beginnings of a powerful orgasm building in my
belly. God, he was beautiful, I realized as I stood and watched him climb onto
the clay himself, settling down on his back, his cock, slick with the juices of
my cunt, jutting proudly in the air. He looked like one of those Greek statues,
well balanced, perfectly proportioned, ready to leap into battle, throw a
javelin, triumph over Persians or whatever, I didn't care and I could barely
think as he extended one hand toward me, his beautiful dark eyes smiling,
burning into my skin, his fingers awaiting my own.
I put my hand in his, and he helped me up onto the clay, bracing
me as I swung a leg over his hips and stared down at him, stunning and
mysterious, flawless and obscured. He was a work of art, too, I realized. Very
much so. We were two very different kinds of art, mating and making a third. A
sacred coupling, a symbolic procreation. My heart hurt for some reason,
thinking of the clay beneath us as the product of our union. Had he thought
through those implications, or was he only pursuing me in his own roundabout
way, unsure how to deal with the things I inspired in him, putting a layer
between us as he tried to connect with me?
His hands gripped my hips and guided me over his cock. Slowly I
slid down onto his erection, panting and trembling as he filled me again. When
at last we were flush with each other, he reached up and smoothed his hands
over my ribs, trailing his fingertips up my spine. He lingered on the ink in my
flesh, sending shivers out over my body, but he didn't seem to be startled by
the scars I had hidden well with my designs, and he certainly didn't remark
upon them. He was a gentleman like that.
Streaks of red clay traced across both of us now, and I felt
tiny balls of it rolling between his skin and mine where he touched me. The
smell of wet, sweet earth and fucking surrounded us.
I licked my lips, waiting for him to instruct me.
"Sadie," he said at last. "Ride me until you
come."
He didn't have to tell me twice. Bracing myself on his
shoulders, I angled my pussy over his cock and began to ride him. Under me, he
arched and thrust in time, a perfect partner in our dance. His legs rose up,
pushed down, and beneath us the clay began to give way, molding around us as we
fucked.
His hands were everywhere on me as I rode him, squeezing my ass,
cupping my breasts, scratching down my arms until abruptly he took over again,
turning me under him, but by now the clay beneath us had been fucked away into
a new form, and we twisted and braced against it, our hands scrabbling for
purchase as I moaned and he plunged into me over and over, driving me
relentlessly toward the release I needed. I didn't know what to do, my toes
curling, my body winding up into a ball of pure need. His cock in my cunt
pounded out a raw, primal rhythm, but his body as it arched over me, thrust
into me, was poetic, classical. His muscles quivered under his skin and I ran
my hands over them, feeling them bunch and pull, shift and slip. My core
tightened, drew in, and I bore down on him, straining and reaching for my
orgasm as the wet clay slipped and slid beneath my back. I groaned, pushing
back, clinging, aching.
"Come, Sadie," Malcolm whispered to me. "Come and
take me with you."
I cried out, my eyes flying open. I saw everything so
clearly—his sweat-sheened face, his hard, pumping body, the play of light and
shadow on the ceiling, the bright streaks of earthy red slathered over our skin
like war paint. The sea wind rattled against the windows, his flesh slapped
against mine, his breath grunted in his throat as he fucked me, and his eyes...
His eyes were dark and vulnerable and so achingly needy that I
had to look away. When I did, he bent his head to my throat, opened his lips
against the flesh there, and sucked my pulse into his mouth.
I came.
I felt as though my body sucked him inside, bearing down so hard
I was afraid I would hurt him, but instead of pain he grunted in surprise and
pleasure, and then his hips stuttered in their rhythm, bucking wild, and deep
inside my core gushed hot spurts of his seed, pushing into me, his seal, his
brand, his mark, his signature on me, making me his. I came silently as he
pumped into me, my mouth an open sob of pleasure, and this time instead of
breaking apart I felt as though he were putting me back together, his arms and
legs curling around me as we orgasmed together, and together we slid down the
mound of clay and he strove to wrap me up inside his body, even as my legs
hugged his waist. His face was still buried in my throat, his breathing ragged
and harsh on my skin, and I reveled in the feel of it dragging over my flesh.
At last he pulled away, but he only pulled back far enough to
rest his forehead against mine. We still breathed in time with each other, our
hearts in sync, and I closed my eyes, still trembling around his softening
cock.
"Sadie..." His voice startled me in the quiet room,
and I opened my eyes again to see him looking at me. Leaning in, he kissed me,
lightly, then pulled away again. "Thank you," he said.
"Oh," I told him. "Don't mention it. Any
time."
He threw his head back and laughed at that before pulling me
close again and covering me in kisses, and I wrapped my arms tight around him
and reveled in it.
*
We were a mess, covered in red clay and sweat and pussy juice
and cum. Malcolm led me to the bathroom next to the studio room, and together
we took a long, luxurious shower. He soaped me up, his hands smoothing over my
skin as he gently cleaned me, and the water ran dark with clay as it sloughed
from our skin. His fingers found my sore pussy lips and soothed them gently,
stoking the fire inside me that burned for him until it was blazing once again.
I couldn't get enough of him. I hungered, dark and deep, for him
to fill me up. I certainly didn't love him. I'd only known him for four days.
But I
wanted
to love him. I
wanted
to fall in love with him. I
hadn't fallen in love with anyone in years. And Malcolm... he was so promising.
I almost believed he might love me back.
At the very least, however, he made my body sing, and I made him
laugh. It was enough for now. When at last he turned the water off, his cock
was hard as a diamond again, and he led me out of the bathroom, dried me in a
towel as though I were a child, then scooped me up and carried me into the
master bedroom. It was white walls and splashes of blue and dark wood floor,
but I really couldn't be bothered to note it all as he tossed me down onto the
down-filled comforter and slid my legs open, his eager mouth descending on my
quivering pussy until I begged him to fuck me, which he did. The chill of the
winter outside had crept in through the windows of the bedroom, and together we
snuggled down and screwed, our muffled moans a soft duet beneath the covers.