#526) Zero to Sixty

I was returning to the bedroom from the bathroom a little before dawn, lost in reflections on how “tinkle” used to onomatopoeiacally capture what I just did, but now it’s more of a torrent. Realizing that so much thought devoted to the semantics of this meant that I was still partly asleep, I crawled into bed, looked at the clock and thought that I had about ten to fifteen more minutes of sleep before I had to start getting ready for the day. Because the floors had been cold on my round-trip sojourn, I enjoyed the warmth under the covers, even considered pressing my chilled soles against my lover’s legs. Why was Robert always so toasty-warm in bed? I didn’t get the chance.
Like a jaguar in the jungle, my lover sprung on me as if I was a succulent tapir. Instead of seizing me by the throat, Robert tossed my nakedness over his lap and started spanking my bottom. I shrieked after the sixth or seventh swat because they started to add up to more sting than I was ready to accept at this early hour. Like that tapir, I only caught a glimpse of my fate before it was foretold in swift action. Robert had morning wood, and with just enough prelude to get me wet, he sunk it into me.
I groaned gutturally at how good he felt invading my insides. He was an immediate injection of adrenaline into my system, an instantaneous infusion of action into my inert body. My heart raced to catch-up, my pulse pounded, I felt it in my temples and I felt it in my pussy. He was thrusting into me with such urgency, such passion, I wondered if my vagina, one big cone of muscle, could withstand it, if my heart, another pure muscle that had kept beat my whole life long, could hold on. His movements in and out were pulling the pleasure out of me. It was the pulling that the oceans feel from the moon, the grip gravity keeps on my feet to the earth, the hold of something cosmic, a life force much bigger than two mere lovers.
The thought passed through my still-sleepy brain, ‘okay, I guess we’re doing this.’ Normally, we go to bed early just to be sure we have enough time to devote to really long, satisfying sex, and now we were wedging it into a few spare minutes? Well, that’s novel…
He slowed just enough for me to stretch out on the bed face down, slowed enough for me to think my heart might not explode or my sex implode. His body covered mine, toes by my tootsies, broad shoulders over the slender ones of mine, his face buried in my hair, planking over me, the only thing moving were his relentless hips and they were slamming against my bottom, as his cock jackhammered me into tiny crumbles of disjointed thought.
Before I became dust and blew away, Robert slowed more and sat-up on the backs of my thighs. He kept a heart-beat-like cadence with his cock, but now my butt was bared to his sight, his desires, and attentions. He again beat on it, beat on my bum like a bongo drum. No, not something small enough to fit between his knees, he pounded on my round posterior’s cheeks like a pair of conga drums, something more substantial. Robert, like all percussionists, seems in-tune with the rhythms of life. Like all Doms, he dances to the beat of a different drummer. Magically, he suddenly was transformed into Gene Krupa, Ringo Starr and Charlie Watts, Phil Collins. No, none of those, no drumsticks here, he uses only his hands, and he was better than all those journeymen. He was Tito Puente. He was fucking Ray Barretto. He swept me up in his cadence and carried me away with him. Between the steady fucking of my sex and the hard hammering on my hind end, this sub found her heaven.
“I’m about to cum…” I cried out.
“Good girl.” Those divine words were not enough here, however.
“Cum with me,” I pleaded.
He stretched out over me once again, now resting his weight upon me so that his hands would be free. His fingers found my pussy, his fingers parted my flesh wider, and as his hard flesh impaled me, his dexterous fingers diddled my clitoris. I sighed, I bathed his hands with jism as my sex gripped his cock in waves of ecstasy. My pleasure triggered his pleasure, and he filled me with a tribute of his ardent passion, jet after hot jet, agonized moan after euphoric gasp.
All was still and silent again, as it had been minutes before. His fast and furious quickie-fuck had eaten up the precious minutes of rest I hoped to get on my way back from the bathroom. But I carried the passion he displayed in this carnal, ferocious act with me at work, sneaking a surreptitious rub of my sore backside or a fleeting caress of my clothed cunt. Robert made me smile all day long.

4 responses to “#526) Zero to Sixty”

  1. That’s a very nice description of waking up, Jean Marie, starting with the title.

    Btw, I’m a stutter too but have found my profession requires public speaking. It’s easier, nut never easy. Writing I enjoy more.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: