Despite everything he’s done to me already this evening, this is the first time he’s examined me so closely, so intimately, and I’m unaccountably embarrassed. Even so, and with some effort, I make no attempt to close my legs or hide from him. I remain still, let him look, and hope he likes what he sees.
I needn’t have worried. “So pretty, Miss Stone. And red as a cherry. You’re really very eager, aren’t you?”
I’m not sure if I should be answering that, but on this occasion he seems not to intend to press me on it, preferring to devote his attention to placing his thumbs on either side of my labia and pulling them apart, gently opening me. He leans forward, blows onto my sensitive, engorged flesh, and I shiver, the gesture so intimate. He slides his thumbs up, toward my clitoris then gently pulls back the delicate folds surrounding it, causing my clit to stand even prouder, even needier, desperate to be touched. Licked. Sucked.
He does all three, in that order. And I put up a valiant fight, enduring his sensual onslaught for all of seven or eight seconds before orgasm takes me once more. It’s gentler this time, less intense, less the earth-scorching firestorm and more the howling gale that goes on all night, rattling windows and toppling roof slates. He plays me like a maestro, holding me at or around the point of orgasm for what seems like eons, frequently tipping me over the edge, just to catch me on the other side and toss me back up again. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how he’s affecting me, how my body’s responding, and each time I think he’s finished, that maybe I’m done now, he starts me up again. I’m not writhing and thrusting under him, rather I’m lying still in his hands, like a baby bird, shivering and helpless and hoping to simply survive.
And at last, at long, long last, he decides I’ve had enough. He delivers several last hard laps around my clit then sinks his tongue deep into my pussy, wringing one last lingering shudder of bone-deep satisfaction from me before he slowly lowers my legs, easing me back onto the length of the bed and moving to lie beside me. He doesn’t ask my permission, no final checks or further molly-coddling. No, we’re well beyond that now. He stops only long enough to grab a condom from the drawer beside the bed, snap open the wrapper and unroll it along his length. Then, with no further ado or fanfare, he simply spreads my legs and positions himself between them. He eases the head of his cock into my thoroughly prepared and disgracefully ready entrance, and thrusts hard. His entire length plunges inside me. Easily, deeply, totally. Embedded to the hilt, Nicholas Hardisty stops, holds still, allows me the few moments I need to adjust, to stretch and shape myself around him, to accept his invading presence. My eyes are closed, my head tilted back in silent ecstasy as I savor this moment. I open them slowly, and he’s there, looking down into my face, waiting for my signal that it’s okay to continue.
I lift my right hand, but only to loop it behind his neck and pull his face toward me. He allows me to pull him down, and I stretch up to kiss his mouth. And that is signal enough. He starts to thrust, at first slowly, withdrawing then re-entering me. I’m tight, I know it, I can feel it. And so can he, and he appears to love it. I’m not so sure, he feels huge, wide and thick and so very hard, and as he forces his length inside me, my body stretches helplessly around him. He’s not hurting me, although I’m still nervous, still slightly tense.
He continues to slide into me, then withdraw before filling me again, his full length entering me more easily with each thrust. I know he’s treating me very gently and soon my body relaxes, accepts him. He obviously feels the moment my doubts and any remaining resistance borne of inexperience melt away and he picks up the pace, thrusting more quickly, harder, deeper. He lifts my knees, his elbows
I needn’t have worried. “So pretty, Miss Stone. And red as a cherry. You’re really very eager, aren’t you?”
I’m not sure if I should be answering that, but on this occasion he seems not to intend to press me on it, preferring to devote his attention to placing his thumbs on either side of my labia and pulling them apart, gently opening me. He leans forward, blows onto my sensitive, engorged flesh, and I shiver, the gesture so intimate. He slides his thumbs up, toward my clitoris then gently pulls back the delicate folds surrounding it, causing my clit to stand even prouder, even needier, desperate to be touched. Licked. Sucked.
He does all three, in that order. And I put up a valiant fight, enduring his sensual onslaught for all of seven or eight seconds before orgasm takes me once more. It’s gentler this time, less intense, less the earth-scorching firestorm and more the howling gale that goes on all night, rattling windows and toppling roof slates. He plays me like a maestro, holding me at or around the point of orgasm for what seems like eons, frequently tipping me over the edge, just to catch me on the other side and toss me back up again. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how he’s affecting me, how my body’s responding, and each time I think he’s finished, that maybe I’m done now, he starts me up again. I’m not writhing and thrusting under him, rather I’m lying still in his hands, like a baby bird, shivering and helpless and hoping to simply survive.
And at last, at long, long last, he decides I’ve had enough. He delivers several last hard laps around my clit then sinks his tongue deep into my pussy, wringing one last lingering shudder of bone-deep satisfaction from me before he slowly lowers my legs, easing me back onto the length of the bed and moving to lie beside me. He doesn’t ask my permission, no final checks or further molly-coddling. No, we’re well beyond that now. He stops only long enough to grab a condom from the drawer beside the bed, snap open the wrapper and unroll it along his length. Then, with no further ado or fanfare, he simply spreads my legs and positions himself between them. He eases the head of his cock into my thoroughly prepared and disgracefully ready entrance, and thrusts hard. His entire length plunges inside me. Easily, deeply, totally. Embedded to the hilt, Nicholas Hardisty stops, holds still, allows me the few moments I need to adjust, to stretch and shape myself around him, to accept his invading presence. My eyes are closed, my head tilted back in silent ecstasy as I savor this moment. I open them slowly, and he’s there, looking down into my face, waiting for my signal that it’s okay to continue.
I lift my right hand, but only to loop it behind his neck and pull his face toward me. He allows me to pull him down, and I stretch up to kiss his mouth. And that is signal enough. He starts to thrust, at first slowly, withdrawing then re-entering me. I’m tight, I know it, I can feel it. And so can he, and he appears to love it. I’m not so sure, he feels huge, wide and thick and so very hard, and as he forces his length inside me, my body stretches helplessly around him. He’s not hurting me, although I’m still nervous, still slightly tense.
He continues to slide into me, then withdraw before filling me again, his full length entering me more easily with each thrust. I know he’s treating me very gently and soon my body relaxes, accepts him. He obviously feels the moment my doubts and any remaining resistance borne of inexperience melt away and he picks up the pace, thrusting more quickly, harder, deeper. He lifts my knees, his elbows
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