Erotic Snapshots (6)

http://jakemalden.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/erotic-snapshots-5.html

It’s mid-spring, trees in full blossom on the streets off Belfast’s Lisburn Road. Or that’s how he remembers it. They’ve been broken up some months when she spies him drinking coffee and comes into the shop.

“Hey there.”

“Hey.”

There was no acrimony in the break-up, but their chat is awkward to begin with and a touch reserved. She joins him at the table when he offers and slowly they talk their way back to something more relaxed. Affection is still there and yes, he still finds her sexy in that guileless girlish way of hers.

“I’m dating someone,” she tells him, more apologetic than defiant. No apology required. He had suggested the break-up, though she hadn’t fought it, so turbulent had things become between them. God, what an emotional handful she had been, and he’d been ill-equipped to deal with it.

The identity of the guy she’s with surprises him.

“Really?” He hopes it doesn’t sound rude. Neil was okay, he supposes, one of the more earnest members of the church through which he’d met her. A zealous Christian, Neil, always talking about some initiative during Sunday service; not a match, he would have thought, for this sex-loving Canadian girl.

“It’s just… It’s not… We’re taking it slow.”

I’ll bet you are. “Right. And are the two of you…” Suggestiveness of tone completes the question.

“Mind your own business.” She softens her words’ sharpness by kicking his sole playfully under the table. So it’s like he thought. He wonders why she would hook up with a celibate guy after all the times they had. Hardly guilt. More likely a misguided rebound thing. Or she genuinely likes the guy, there’s always that possibility. But is she ready to forego sex? Memories of their naked interludes fill his mind as the conversation unspools. It’s good they can chat as friends, but he can’t easily brush away those affecting thoughts.

They remain with him, the images potent, as her accompanies her out the door and sees her home. He doesn’t have to go that way, but excuses it as gentlemanly. And she doesn’t object. More than that, she asks, “Wanna come in for a bit? Mrs McNeill is out. I’ve got some tidying to do though…”

“Sure.” There’s something comforting about her company again. It’s been a work-filled few months since they split. And Granny McNeill, the vicar’s widow, has left them all alone. They chat easily about her plans and his and laugh at old jokes, as he helps her wash dishes in the kitchen. It’s nice. It’s relaxing. It’s slippery when their hands brush in the suds—slippery and electric. Like eels. The first few times they let it go, but after that hands linger on each other. Something’s been brewing that afternoon, whether either had acknowledged the fact, and all comes to a rushing head. Instinct and familiarity take over with a fucking vengeance.

He grabs her, she grabs back. They kiss, fervently, tongues wrapping and writhing. She’s in a big woolly baggy sweater and he gropes her body through it while kissing her neck, making free with her breasts through the soft wool-knit layer. She clutches his body hard in return and they give themselves up to what, he suspects, neither has enjoyed in the interim.

His mouth breaks from her warm scented skin, and he stares at her face; it’s as flushed as his feels. “Want to take this upstairs?” He asks it before the moment has time to pass.  He knows what he wants and from her mouthed “Yeah”, she wants it too.

Sorry, Neil. There’s no damn way I’m passing on this.

Sheer force of lust drives them both to the top of that bending staircase. She’s leading the way while he follows, hot on her tight Canadian tail. They hit her room, swing the door shut behind them and get to it, no fucking around. Their undressing is quick and efficient. He unbuttons his shirt, while she sweeps the sweater over her head in a single move and sets about undoing her skimpy bra. (Her bras were always skimpy.) He’s delighted to see her full tits again and responds by stripping off everything else, setting his erection bouncing-free.

Her leggings and panties are whipped off swiftly and they’re on each other, all over each other’s naked body, his hand groping between her legs for wet cunt, hers sliding brazenly about his cock and balls. They want each other’s sex and foreplay can get stuffed. Raw need. All they know is raw sexual need.

He manoeuvres her roughly to the dresser and bends her over. It’s reminiscent of the night in the Donegal guest house—maybe that’s why he works the move, or maybe it’s the fastest route to get inside her. Either way she’s not objecting. In fact she’s moaning as he fits himself to her. “Fuck me as hard as you can.”

She had a habit, when they were a couple, of uttering choice phrases which inflamed his lust. “Shoot it all over me.” “Put it inside. Now.” “I want you to suck my cunt.” One of the things he loved about her. God, he’ll fuck her hard. That she can depend on. He slams it home and starts to shaft like a demon.

Fuck yes, so good to be back here, reliving those best of times. He secures her by the shoulder and the waist and powers it into her, loving the slam of their bodies together and the clutch of her pussy around his cock. He drives to her depths with a recklessness he learned as they got to know each other better. Even on the tougher days they might end up screwing hard and fast. Angst would only fuel the fucking. And this out-of-the-blue session is as good as he’s ever had it with Miss Canada. Two hours prior he was sipping coffee with no prospect of any such excitement. Now he’s naked and ramming his cock right up his ex with all the vigour at his disposal. She’s yelling out obscenity, tits shuddering, as he gives it to her hard. What a glorious afternoon. He’s missed her, for all the friction between them, and he’s missed this.

It doesn’t last long—how could it after lonely months? The heady rush is on him and there’s no slowing down, no controlling this rampant break-out of desire. So he grips hard and pounds home those final strokes, before all lust surges from him, deep inside this girl. A long and gorgeous emptying. He’d needed it more badly than he realized. It occurs to him whether or not she’s still on the Pill, but only once the deed is done. How did he get that stupid?

After the gooey extraction of cock from cunt she assures him all is well.

They’re both gasping for air, even as the sheepishness creeps upon them. Not the outcome either had expected or planned, it seems. Awkwardness overtakes them. “Mrs Mac will be back soon and I’m meeting up with Neil tonight.” Poor bugger. “I’d better…”

“I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll get dressed first.” They laugh. A little.

“It’s been… It was really nice,” he says at the door.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was.” They kiss, still awkward and hardly able to meet each other’s eye. The door is held closed so no one on the street can see. Mrs McNeill would get very confused, she says, if they were caught any way that seemed compromising. As he walks away he’s sticky in his shorts and a bit screwed in his head.

The meet randomly down town months later and chat in the street before moving on. She’s with someone new (that Neil thing was never going to work) and have a dog together—a Labrador she takes for walks along Helen’s Bay. Nice. A year or so down the line he hears she’s married. He’s read about bi-polar disorder by then and figures it explains some about his Canadian girl. His failure to cope better with all she went through—put that down to youthful stupidity. He tried, he really did, but ultimately they didn’t click in many ways beyond sex. The sex, though, was so damned hot.

Maybe she and her husband work on more levels than the sex one. He hopes so. He truly does.