DragonNarrative Writes

The man buried inside your pussy seizes up in shock, which unfortunately hits a spot deep within and mangles into a painful moan-gasp that hurts your throat.

The large, dark shape over his shoulder is sitting up, features illuminating in concert with the television-blue light. The man beneath you is fine bones and thick skin, pretty as a catalogue model. Full lips and expressive eyes. In contrast, the roommate now facing you is a series of scars and ridges like landscape molded into flesh, hardened. Thick corded neck, the band of his torso an intricate map of coarse hair and muscle and fat. The boxer shorts don't cover that he's fucking hung, his hard cock straining the fabric, and your first reaction should be raw terror.

But it's just not. You want it to be. It would make you halfway normal.

Maybe it's the man whose cock is twitching inside you; his reaction tells you that this is not planned and not what he had in mind. This was no trap to lure you in, and if it had, well didn't you just waltz right in, hand on his cock the whole way?

But, no. He seems desperate in the right way, the kind of wholesome that sets your teeth on edge. Not the desperate that would set a woman up into a dangerous, unknown situation. He either trusts his roommate implicitly, or he's the stupidest fucking person you've fucked…in awhile.

You hope for trust.

He lunges his arms around you like gathering you to him will…protect you from exposure? Not your first rodeo and not your first time caught in flagrante delicto, but it's high up there for you.

The roommate reclines back casually, the bed creaking under his weight. He sucks his teeth sharply, keenly, and sets his eyes to the television set.

"Don' mind me now. Keep fuckin' her 'fore she gets sick of ya," he mutters gruffly.

You do not miss, for one second, the way the man's cock surges inside you deeper, his hips driving up, when the roommate says this. You narrow your eyes, watching his face go through a shift of shock to embarrassment to poorly hidden heat. You clench back — this exchange hidden far away from the roommate's eyes — and his cock answers; a filthy call-and-response that you did not learn in church.

You grind your pelvis against his, setting the train back on the course. You lock your eyes on the roommate, your blood rushing fast and fervent as you see his thick meaty arm prop up on his hip. A tattooed hand stroking, surprisingly gentle, over his boxers. You want to see it. He doesn't look at you.

Your body begins to do the fucking now, thighs pressing hard as you wind down, and you think your teeth might rip through your bottom lip. Where you were silent, you now let your panting breath cover the soft slicks of your bodies rubbing together. A little whine ripples out when he hits the right spot and you see the roommate's hand grip his thick cock in answer.

"Fuckin' 'ell," the man beneath you mutters coarse into the crease of your neck. "I'm—I'm close, love. We gotta stop or—"

The path of the evening has already diverged. You would've crawled off his lap and been disappointed with him, letting him soak it up and make it up to you with silent pleas and and his beautiful mouth licking up the cleft of your pussy.

But here, a new path has emerged: the dead end has branched and you have new options, unforeseen and infinitely more interesting. A playful smile on your face, you let him shudder and jerk, and yank himself out at the last second to come all over your clit and stomach.

With the new challenger tensing like a bull in the corner, hand now working up under his boxer shorts — you still can't see him, for fuck's sakes — you leave no time for recovery.

You ease off the man, the cum dripping down your seam, and stand up. Feel tipsy and thick, even with one drink in your system. You wind your way around the bed; the roommate's got you in his periphery, but his elusive eyes remained fixed to the television.

You sit on the inside edge of the bed. Facing the roommate. Then you spread your legs far, far apart. Enough room for the man to kneel at your feet and feast.

You pull the bikini top off, and make yourself perfectly comfortable, leaning back to watch. You don't look at the roommate, but you hear the slick sounds of his hand working his hard flesh, fuck, and it makes you sticky wet and frustrated.

The man kneels between your legs, and sensing your mood shift, does not waste an ounce of time on a teasing play. You don't want your feet stroked or your thighs petted. You want his beautiful mouth clamped over your pussy until he gives you a long, trembling orgasm. You want to hear and see the roommate jerking himself off, hear his voice again let out grunts and groans, as he listens to the sounds of mouth over wet pussy. A feedback loop.

As his tongue licks up the hot seam of your pussy, not even hesitating to lick up his own drooling cum, you wonder how differently they'd eat pussy. This man is all enthusiasm, wanting to do right and do good, the type to spend hours trying to figure you out until he's got you learned: a natural-born student. Sulky if you don't let him. Whereas the roommate has the bullish ruthlessness who's gonna give you a tongue lashing whether you wanted one or not, an assault on the senses because it's going to be the orgasm he gives you.

The heavens shake open above, and the roommate works off his boxer shorts, to just under his cock. God almighty. You've never been with two men at the same time, and you're not even particularly sure you want to be — not yet. But, the intimidatingly hot sight of his cock dragging out over the fabric has you letting out an ugly whiny moan with the man's tongue between your pussy lips.

Both men probably think the moan is for them.

The man works at you fast, but the roommate is faster, his fist impatiently fucking himself across from you. You are surely a glazed-over, sweating creature, keening sounds pulled out of you on this motel bed, but you are not a woman who lives with regrets.

"Jesus Christ," you let yourself say.

The roommate fucks himself faster, and there it is: the only real signs, other than jerking himself off, that you're affecting him.

You're a born theatrical, so you let no sound, no whimper go buried. You grind your pussy against the man's mouth, your nails dragging down to tighten in his curls, pressing his hot mouth to you, his hollowed cheeks as he sucks at your clit a sight for the ages.

The roommate lets out a deep grunt, fast and quieter than you want.

The tongue between your thighs will absolutely tip you over the edge, but now you're frustrated with the roommate. Bold as the day is long, you move the man out of the way once more, grabbing at his neck to follow you.

You crawl between the roommate's tree trunk thighs as his fist shuttles up and down his cock. He pauses, unsure of you. You situate the man on the bed with the two of you; spine to bed, face up into your pussy as you kneel in front of the roommate.

Wanting a show while being a show. He can't look at the television anymore, but stare at your lush tits and pussy being devoured by his friend.

"Yer a fuckin' piece'a work, luvvie."

And oh, it's fucking delicious. It's perfect. You grind your weight down onto the man's tongue blissfully, placing your hands on the roommate's widened knees for leverage. His eyes are dark, flat, and hungrier than anything.

His pre-cum is leaking down over his fist, and his grip is heavenly to look at. His cock is not pretty at all, but that's just perfect for him. You think he's probably the source of the darker smell in this room and that works for you, too.

"You gonna come all over the lad's face, eh? Just li' that, yer cunt achin' for it. Yer a fuckin' sight, luvvie."

It's very obvious when he's about to come, his face wrenched, neck tendons flexing sharp out of the flesh of his throat, his big hips getting sloppy, his cock darkened and angry. "Fuck, fuck me, luv—"

You dig your cherry nails into his knees and tense your whole body, letting the muscles ripple and rush to one driving point, all to a sharp, aching orgasm, your eyes trying to take in the roommate's sounds and the man's lapping tongue beneath you before you have to shut your eyes through a partial scream and let it wash over you in the dark.

Then there is just a different game show. The air conditioner clicking off, then on again. Chests heaving, breath panting out from all three.

"Well," you say brightly, climbing off the bed and collecting your bikini. You fasten it back on and readjust yourself to make it appropriate. "Cheers."

You slip out of the room before either of them have crawled off the bed. Tiptoe barefoot and silent to your room a few doors down. You shower in your own room, and slip down between the cool sheets. Your brain races for awhile before you fall asleep, but you fall asleep after laughing to yourself.

Your alarm clock is set early to give you time to pack and get ready for your long drive. You return your room key to the front desk clerk, and head to your car, not noticing that the tires have been slashed. When you wander back in, the motel manager lets you make a call to the local roadside assistance company and suggests you walk over to the diner to wait for them to arrive.

You order a coffee with cream and a full English breakfast. You're reading your paperback when the door jingles open. Your eyes flicker up and catch the man and his roommate coming through the door. They latch eyes onto you immediately, and head over to your booth. The man wedges himself in next to you. The roommate sits across. You're hemmed in.

"'ello," the roommate says calmly.

"Leavin' so soon?" The man turns over an empty mug for himself. Makes eye contact with the waitress for service.

"Oh," you say. "Yeah, some punk fucked with my car sometime in the night, so just waiting for assistance."

"Ah, more's the pity, that," the roommate tuts.

The man hums in agreement. Nudges his leg into yours playfully. "While you wait on the tires, you up for another swim? Gonna be another scorcher."

You laugh softly. They get coffee and large breakfasts, taking their time. You keep checking the parking lot for the roadside truck, but there's no sign. Then something strums funny in your gut.

The layout of his room is identical to yours, but surprisingly tidier. Even only here for 48 hours and change, your room looks like the ass end of a strip club — earrings and hairspray left by the TV where you'd wandered from the washroom to watch some bit of a show, your clothes yanked out and draped across the extra bed.

Your smells better, like coconut and shea butter and sunscreen and vanilla.

His — their — room smells like man; sweat and musk and beer and trapped heat. The fact that your pussy clenches a little in response anyway is none of your business.

The only source of light is the flickering glow of the television, set to some station airing an old game show. The sound is low, ambient and covers the deep breathing coming from the other end of the room. Your eyes trace a large, much larger than you expect, lump curled away on the bed furthest from the door. The roommate is wearing a pair of boxer shorts and long socks. You stand and watch the body for any sign of movement, but he's just deep breathing. That can be mimicked, but you've got the tipsy sun-drunk blood keeping you too high to really care.

Steady as she goes.

The air conditioner is chugging hard in the window, blowing a brisk stream against your pebbled skin as you push the man toward his bed. He tries to curl his thick forearms around you, but you're not in the mood to be trapped right now. He steps back against the mattress, waiting for you. Expression hard to make out, but hungry even through the dark. He must be painfully hard in his shorts.

You sidle up to him then and reach down your arm, and make out the length of him. Or rather: the girth. You can't stop your eyes from flicking up to his in surprise; you weren't expecting this, but what a night of surprises. You cradle him, your nails exploring the extent of him, scraping playfully through the fabric of his shorts. His body is tense, holding itself upright, but his stomach is flexing uncontrollably at your mapping.

You smile, and pull at his waistband. Slip your forearm deep down, to find him so achingly hot and hard against your hand, his stomach and pubic hair still damp from the swim. His knees look like they're about to knock together.

Ever merciful, you tip him backwards, cherry nails to brown chest. He clambers as quietly as a dog onto the bed, his face now glowing blue-lit beautifully from the TV. He sits up against the headboard, looking a little unsure if that's what you want.

Another glance to the resident sleeper. No movement, no change.

You start from his feet, slinking your way up toward him, your hands tip-toeing across his jerking thighs as you get closer. Your breasts swaying pendulously together, that bikini string not long for this night.

His face: so, so gorgeously eager to an almost tender degree. He can't be much younger than you, but there's a youthfulness to him that hasn't faded yet.

You use your long nails to pull at his waistband, and he helps you work them down his thighs. Shuffle them further down until they're softly landing on the carpet. You roam your hands up from his knees to his hips, watching his cock jump and produce the beads of pre-cum.

He watches, enraptured, as your fingertip swirls over it. You pop the pearlescent cum into your mouth, drag it across your tongue, and you almost laugh when his face squeezes shut in absolute torture. It's beautiful. More pre-cum begins to leak out, and you stroke it down in soft painterly strokes over his shaft until you've covered the circumference.

He pulls a pillow up to his face and covers his mouth entirely, making you fight back a laugh. So dramatic.

You let the pre-cum act as your lubricant, curling your hands around his fat cock, feeling it pulse eagerly in your grip. You tighten, loosen, then tighten back up to find your sweet spot with him. Girth like his takes a slight readjustment. Your breasts jiggle together generously as your forearm works, your fist tightening on the glide down the shaft as he presses his face deeper into the pillow.

You lean up impatiently and remove it; you're the show here.

He looks frustrated and pouty. Your hand pulls at him harder, giving him a languid tug with a flourish at the end of the stroke, and his whole buddy stutters under you. His mouth is alternating between hanging open and clenching shut. Oh, he very badly wants to say something, but cannot.

Your handjobs are exquisite, so it doesn't take him long until his feet and thighs are flexing, his stomach tightening in anticipation, his balls drawing tight and close to his body.

That's when you release his cock altogether, swiping the pre-cum across his thigh hair to absorb it from your hand.

He stares dumbly at you.

Man, still asleep.

You shimmy up and easy as anything, slide your wet bikini bottoms to the side of your pussy, and hover over his cock. His face is an exclamation mark. The slip-glide onto the thick heft of him takes a bit of work, even with how wet you are and his pre-cum. He feels divine, but that's none of his business.

You play with angles, ignoring him completely, shifting your weight until you settle on a reclined position. He's a big boy, in all ways, so your thighs will burn soon for accommodating his frame under you, but it's worth it. You rest your hands back behind you on either side of his thighs, and let your hips do the work. Your pussy clenches around him experimentally and you see his eyes roll back.

Smirking, you grind down in a figure eight, teeth biting into your bottom lip in concentration.

He could so easily come like this, you see it broadcast all over his open face.

Surprising you, he swiftly sits up more and tugs at the strings of your bottoms until they give, the fabric flayed open to the side, exposing your pussy. He shoves a pillow behind him for leverage, resettles very quickly, and then grabs your hips.

At first, you assume he's trying to control your pace, slow you down, or make you change angles so it's better for him. But his thumb slides down the hinge of your hip until it's square over your aching clit.

You control your expression, just watch him curiously as his thumb begins to work at you, rubbing some slick up over it to ease the glide. He's now watching you carefully, face so beautifully determined and serious, to see what you like. You let him figure it out slowly, not making it too easy for him. When your eyes slip shut for long seconds after he flicks you fast and light, then slower and tighter circles, his mouth gets a dark smile on it.

His cock dragging so wet and perfect against your G-spot like this, and with his thumb working you, you could achieve orgasm pretty quickly. So, you slow right down. Your hips giving light rhythmic passes, and you swat his thumb away.

You slide off him completely, missing the deep full pressure, and like moving a mannequin in place, get him to sit on the side of the bed, feet on the floor. His large frame can hold you like this so easily, you almost laugh. As a bonus, behind him, you can keep an eye on his friend.

Still asleep.

You climb into his lap, straddling him until you've lowered back onto his cock, and wrap your arms around his thick neck. Those muscles are popping and flexing like crazy, trying to get himself back under control. Oh, he feels good at this angle, sliding deep and hitting you right.

Your hands climb up his head, nails dragging down his scalp, through his soft tight curls. He bites back a loud groan, and you cover his mouth with yours as a better fix to that problem. He fucks up into you, his hands now freely able to grab your ass. He really does have wonderfully large enough hands to make your lush ass feel…taken care of. Every grab and silent little slap is a jolt up to your clit.

You let him bury his face into your damp cleavage, and he makes a muffled sound while down there, his hips driving even deeper in response. His motions are getting more desperate with him pressed up into you like this, like the closeness of you is what works best for him.

You work your hand between your bodies, and play with your clit rapidly, your nails hitting your thighs. You could come. You probably will. The night's not going to be over until you've claimed at least two orgasms from him. He still hasn't gone down on you yet. But you can give yourself this first, as the apéritif before the full course. You didn't sneak into some strange man's motel room for a dissatisfactory orgasm you could've given yourself after a frantic 45 seconds.

His hands are pulling your ass cheeks apart desperately, his dominant hand sliding down deeper to the cleft, his index finger coasting over your asshole, a light curious stroke and rub before slapping the lush fat of your cheek like it answered a question he was asking. The sound is muted by the TV and air conditioner, but you stiffen.

Same position. Sleeping.

You wrap your hands around his neck, nails on nape, a dark necklace laying against his collarbone. His eyes shut heavily again, hips shuddering, his cock grinding against your softest, most sensitive tissue. He breathes out a long quiet gasp.

And then —

You'd been strategic this morning, grabbing one of two pool shades. You weren't going anywhere, even if you needed to use the washroom and you were thirsting for something cold and icy. The ice would melt immediately in the dense heat but you wouldn't let it last long enough to get that far.

It's a dangerous sort of summer day, when the heat is a force of nature, pushing you. The idea of soaking up the sun and getting soused with drink is far too great a temptation. You didn't need to add in the beautiful man sitting across the pool in his own chair, the sun pouring down golden over his glistening brown skin. You'd spent the late morning eyeing him up behind your large sunglasses.

There's a mouth-watering bulk to his body; muscle taut under delicious fat. He looks like he eats his greens and then some. You'd cook him up big, hot suppers when it turns cool — gravy and sauces, buttery carbs, and perfect cuts of meat. He'd moan appreciatively, his mouth full of your cooking, eyes closed to absorb every morsel. You'd kiss the gravy off his beautiful mouth, lick butter from his teeth if you could. On a day like today, he'd come into your kitchen like a farmer, drenched in sweat and starving, ready to eat a huge plate of cold food, like a heavy potato salad and cold cuts sliced thin. You, in the kitchen, foot propped up on the other, smiling at him while he wolfs down your meals and chugs at his lemonade or iced tea, his throat working in earnest.

Your book, a pulpy paperback you'd grabbed from a gas station, is a wonderful cover for your ogling. You turn the pages to complete the theatrics of it all, but your body, saturated and buzzing with sugar-sweet liquor, is slowly transforming into a woman in heat.

Eventually, a younger family climbs out of the pool to go cool off in their air-conditioned room and eat some late lunch. A couple slips off, giggling, into their room.

You and the man are left alone, on opposite ends of the pool area, the hot-blue water stilling in between you. You sigh, laying the book face-down, and stand up. You grab the bottle of sunscreen, shake it, and squeeze a fat dollop into your palm. Rub both hands together slowly and then begin from your forearms, dark brown and radiant from sweat and sunscreen an hour ago, working the cream up into your shoulders. Throat tipped back, up to your ears, sending your dangling earrings swaying, and then down your neck, around to the nape. Another dollop, spread across the tops of your breasts where your bikini top is drawn together with string. Fingers splaying out under the string, lifting and shifting it, your breasts with it.

"Need a hand?"

You don't expect him to be English. Your fantasy burns into a new mirage of being in a small, rambling cottage, laying out cold ham and hard cheese; a ploughman's lunch for your sweating English farmer coming in from the croft. He smells like sheep's milk and stones and dirt, and you want him to wash up before he digs in. He'd take a clean rag, soak it under the cold running water, and wipe at his dirty throat, down to where his shirt opens at his chest.

"I'm doing just fine, thanks," you demur, smearing it across your tummy and tops of your thighs. If your thumbs drag at the bikini bottoms a little, so be it.

"You're missin' spots," he says leisurely, sprawling out in the lounger next to yours like a cat in a pool of sunshine, openly watching you behind his tinted sunglasses.

"Hm," you hum haughtily. Your fingernails are painted a cool cherry red, and you both watch as your fingers slide the lotion into the soft creases of your inner thighs where your flesh is plumpest. You wonder how hungry he really is. You're hot inside under his heavy gaze, but make no other sign of it.

Down to your toes, you work fastidiously, making a meal of it. When you glance over, you see that the man has gotten hard in his swim trunks, but his hands are laid out calmly on his thick, hairy thighs. Patiently waiting, for something.

As you finish, you stand back up and throw the bottle into his unsuspecting lap. He laughs abruptly in surprise, then hauls himself up. Instead of standing in front of him, you lie down on your own lounger.

He follows your cue, kneels down beside it, and puts some lotion in his big hands. You turn your face in the opposite direction of him, as coolly relaxed as ever. He huffs a short chuckle, and begins to drag his hands from the tops of your shoulders down your nape, across your shoulder blades.

"Undo them," you mutter boredly.

There's a slight hesitation, and then the strings at your neck and breastbone are released in sequence, his fingertips gliding across your skin.

More lotion, more drag, down your ribs to where the fat of your breast is plumped to the side. His hands are good, strong, sturdy. Every bit the farmer's hands holding his wife to fuck each night in their bed.

Down to your lower back, across the band of flesh above your bikini bottoms. He's not missing one single inch. You fight the squirm that your body wants to do, signalling the sites of interest for him to rove over. His hands massage and knead delightfully, and you sigh prettily into your towel.

Lower down now.

Cheekily, he undoes the side strings of your bottoms before you decide whether to tell him to or not. You inhale deeply, the anticipation suffusing through you like melted ice. One wayward finger of his will reveal that you've soaked your bikini bottoms.

He strokes over your ass, keeping the fabric mostly in place, and then, dreamily and hotly, his fingers tighten and shape your thighs, thumbs coming together as they encircle your flesh. The tips of his fingers are so close to your pussy, you hold your breath until he drags his hands up and off. Next thigh, same move. Back and forth until now you are twisting a little in your spot.

He makes a soft groaning sound, and then he moves on. He spends a longer time on your hamstrings, the damp underside of your knees, and the full curve of your calves. Ankles and feet to end.

You're wound tight and loosened all the same by the time he reties your bottoms and pats your ass firmly.

You fall asleep under the shade; wake up sometime later, the sun dipped low, casting its final beams on the motel room windows, hazy on the water. You're sweaty and overheated when you sit up, forgetting your top's still untied.

The pool area is empty. You dive into the water, which is unfortunately not cool enough to be refreshing anymore, but better than nothing. The sun disappears for good and you stay swimming, holding the heat at bay. You do some laps, then lay out on the shallow-end steps, listening to the rasping grasshoppers and buzz of cicadas. You have no desire to return to an empty motel room, alone and trapped in stale, recycled air.

"Got heatstroke, do ya?" The voice comes from above you. You open an eye to see the man standing so he's peering straight down at you. You can, almost, see up his shorts — different ones from earlier.

You shrug, picking at your nail. "Get me a drink then."

He wanders out of the pool area, comes back several minutes later with ice cold drinks for you both. He cracks them open and hands yours down to you, then sits down with his thick legs in the water.

You float back from him a little, taking a deep drink, using your big toes as your grounding force on the pool floor like some motel ballerina.

"Got a name?" He asks, a look on his face saying he doesn't really expect you to give one.

You do, but it's your middle name.

He gives you a big, earthy smile when he hears it. He leans back on his hands, elbows straight, legs lightly swishing. Watching you closely.

"So, where—"

"Can you hand me a smoke? From my bag." You point. He squints at you a little, then retrieves it. Sees your wet hands, lights it up for you. You toe your way to the edge of the pool and tilt your face all the way up.

He dutifully places the cigarette in between your lips, his gaze dark and low-lidded.

Then walks down into the pool, joining you.

You orbit one another like tentative lovers do, the string of teasing pulling and snapping tighter as your bodies circle, the radius getting smaller by tiny measures.

You drink and smoke, ignoring his questions about you until he gives up. He's getting restless. He begins to swim beneath the shadows and flickering neon from the motel sign, back and forth.

You idle between the shallow and deep end, watching him. Tracking him under the water until he resurfaces right in front of you. He looks delicious as he blinks off water, then rubs a hand down his face to disperse the rest. Shakes his hair a little. Then his arms are caging you in against the edge, his mouth lowering down to yours in increments.

His eyes are hot, dark with want, pinning you to the spot. Not waiting to hear your rebuttal.

You had none, anyway.

His lips are chlorine and beer and a smokiness you can't fully catch in your mouth. He plays with your mouth, teasing you open, his tongue meeting yours early. He's a pleasantly full mouth kisser, your heads tilting in tandem to accommodate one another, to find the groove of a good kiss. You're both making sounds up through your throats, a loop of noises that drive you both closer. His hand floats down into the water, and yanks the triangle cup of fabric down and away from your nipple.

His fingers are bold, tweaking and pinching while he mouths wetly at your neck, the spit and chlorine mixing. You gasp a little at the tug in your stomach from his fingers. "I wanna get my fingers inside you," he groans in your ear, sending a fizzy sensation through your body, anchoring in your pussy. "I wanna know how you taste." His hand curls against and cups you through the bikini bottom, and you push up against him tensely.

Logistics. Like sand poured over a fire.

You stare at him — figure it out.

He gropes your ass cheeks, head probably empty but scrambling for thought. "My room…my roommate's been passed out since dinner. Sleeps like a rock."

You raise your eyebrows. I know you don't think that's gonna fly.

He laughs a little, which actually resets you a little. "Trust me, I know how it sounds. But the man has slept through bombs going off—"

You stare.

He continues. "He drank himself into a dead mess at dinner and won't be up til at least 10 tomorrow, best guess. We—he's military, so he sleeps through anything."

You definitely don't want him in your room. There's no insidious reason for it; you just want to fuck the man and go back to your own, without needing to peel him off you and negotiate his exit. You'll be gone by the time the town's sweating tomorrow, anyway.

"Door stays unlocked."

He nods.

"No games."

He shakes his head.

He wraps you in a sun-warmed beach towel and leads you back to his motel room; he's on the second floor like you, although you don't tell him this.

By the time you've reached the stairs, his body is butting up against yours, his cock pressing into your hips and back before you can even climb properly. "Fuck sakes, woman," he mutters hoarsely.

You don't trust the iron balcony railing, but he does. He sits on it for a moment outside his door, grabs at your lush hips, pulling you closer into him. "C'mere. Let me just look at ya before we're in the dark," he groans. "You're so fuckin' hot."

You let him look, the beach towel yanked down a little so he can suck at the tops of your breasts, releasing small heated groans along the way. Your neck is the lightning rod and when he fastens on, with no pool water to dull the sensation, you feel your pussy tingle.

"What can you do to me in there?" You tease.

He closes his eyes in pain. "Tell me. Whatever you want. I'll eat you out. I'll eat that pussy so good for you. I'll let you do whatever you want to me." He's babbling now, a desperate thing in your palm.

You cup his cock through his shorts, sending his body into a jerk. "Fuck."

"Yes. Whatever I want."

He attends therapy. He avoids drink and drug. He runs every day. He eats right.

He attends funerals. He gets texts from his mates; so-and-so is gone now. He can't fall asleep in his own bed. His dick doesn't work.

When he meets you, he feels clean and bright anger. It should be something he mentions at group later; he won't. Instead, he watches you across the room, eyes tracking as you laugh with a friend. Your body speaks as loud as your voice, your hands and arms their own language that he reads from afar. He knows he was boisterous at parties — before — and that he was his own magnet of charisma.

It was what everyone told him — before.

Here's you now: a radiant beacon of unbridled laughter and lightness. A wellspring of warmth bubbling from you. And he hates you for it.

Maybe that's why he finds you later. Contorts and reshapes himself back into his old skin, tight and ill-fitted, to approach you and buy you a drink. Eventually bully you into a dark corner of the party and put his hands up your dress.

You're game, a smile loose across your bright features.

He doesn't want you at his place. So you take him to yours, too easily, too freely. During the cab ride, his hand works itself back up under your dress, getting you hot and panting until you peel his questing fingers away, for now. You laugh the whole time.

Your place is exactly like you, and he hates it. It's too cute and too sweet and naive in a way that grinds against him. He wonders how many one-night stands have stood in the doorway like him, shadow spoiling bright.

He wants to make you ugly. He wants to leave you angry like him, ruined and dissatisfied. His teeth hurt for it.

You're a good kisser, but Garrick's better. He bites and nibbles your lips, forcing your mouth to open wider than you expect, and the sweetness pours out of you anyway. He bullies you into your bedroom so he can spread his rot deeper into your lair. You gambled wrong this time and brought home something bad.

"On the bed," he orders, toeing his boots off, hands unbuckling his belt.

You pant greedily, climbing up with zero hesitation. The gleam in your eye will fade; he's curious when.

"Strip."

Your dress, lifted high and curved over your shoulders, reveals mismatched underwear and bra. You probably weren't expecting to get fucked tonight. That fact tightens his gut considerably. "Get those fuckin' things off."

Your tits are small, drawn down by age, dark. Bite size.

Thighs wedged at the edge of the bed, he forces you down on your back, your legs spread wide open for his viewing. Your pussy is shining wet and fat up at him, an invitation begging to be licked. He lets himself imagine what noises you'd make.

His prick is rock hard.

He uses his thumbs to spread your lips apart — you make a little soft welp — and complete his inspection. You squirm under his firm, tight hold. It pisses him off.

"Quit fuckin' movin'," he says quietly, and grabs the fat of your pussy one-handed to hear your gasp. To watch your restless hips still completely. A bit like holding a kitten by the scruff of its neck.

He threads his fingers through your pubic hair and tugs, not lightly. A line between your eyebrows appears; the gleam hasn't faded yet, but it's filmed over with confusion.

"Flashin' this fuckin' thing all around the party for anyone to take home, eh?"

"What?"

You weren't. You both know it.

"Just a hungry cunt wantin' to be filled by a stranger's cum, hm?" He grits out as he takes his cock in his other hand, and slides it up against the open mouth of your body. The only mouth he wants to hear from.

Your moan, when the head of his cock makes contact with your drenched cunt, is loud and almost frantic. You are a bad listener and you're trying to work his cock into you already, sweat glistening under your tits.

"Please," you whisper.

"Please what?"

"Please, I need it, that feels so—ohh—"

He bullies his cock into your soft, waiting heat. Drives his hips into the back of your thighs until you cry out, the gasp trilling out in the bedroom. He fucks you like this, standing and bored, until his body drives into the next gear. You're too bright still.

He moves you up further onto the bed and climbs over you, hands on either side of your head. His cock slides out of you, dragging wet across the soft skin of your stomach.

"Open that mouth."

You open your lips.

He spits in your waiting mouth. Lifts a hand and pinches your lips shut so you swallow it. Your eyes are dark and wet, open so wide he could slide right in. He maneuvers you onto your stomach, face pressed into your covers.

A hand on the back of your head, his eyes watching your mouth open desperately to the side, as he bullies your thighs until they're fat together. Drives his hips into your ass to fuck into your cunt, pinning the rest of you down. To take, accept, endure.

The sounds he fucks out of you are as bright as you are — sweet and ugly.

"Oh my fucking god," you babble thickly when he slaps your ass hard, the flesh rippling under his hand. He can't dim it. Can't quiet you.

"Shut up," he growls.

He grabs your asscheeks and feeds them apart with his thumbs, exposing you. Spits on your seam, dripping from your ass to your cunt. And you start coming under him, your body shaking uncontrollably, your sobs wrenched out of you as he fucks you through it.

He's so angry at you, he wants you to scream at him to stop so he can ignore it, but you don't. You don't and your body is taking what he's giving, but taking something else now; draining and bleeding him dry of that rich, cold rage.

And that clean control breaks — his own hips and ass driving him to parts unknown, drowning in your warm flesh and cries, plunging him to a depth. He can't catch his breath, can't get his breathing back under pace and control, and then he's coming he's fucking coming for once in ages — in your pubic hair, across your stomach, up to your tits — and he's gasping and bucking, mind blank just blank blank blank for fucking once it's empty and clean and good again. His body collapses on yours, husked and heavy.

When he swims back up, you're drawing circles on his sweaty back. Your legs are spread out under him, hot and damp. You're making soft sounds, almost like a lullaby. He won't — can't — look at you. He pulls off you, the cum sticky, pressed between flesh like a flower.

"Mm," you murmur quietly, a small smile on your face. You disappear into your washroom then return with his cum and your makeup all washed off, hair up in a sloppy bun. You're wearing an oversized t-shirt and baggy boxer shorts, and you ask him to move over a little so you can remake the bed.

You tell him to go pee, then come back to bed.

Good work, ladies! I like seeing those adjustments! The foolish part of you hoped that his words were just for you, although you're positive that Gloria and Pilar from aquafit class also hope so. He doesn't know you, will never know your name, and wouldn't know anything about you, which makes him an ideal crush. The most he'd know is that you show up every week, wear the same navy blue athletic swimsuit, hobble a little getting in and out of the pool, and mostly keep up with the workout.

When his eyes roam over you, you burn in spite of your rational thoughts: you are one of many women in a wide array of ages and body types and skin tones. You are as asexual as a pool noodle, bobbing around in the water.

He sweats when he teaches. You like that about him: he always puts in just as much effort as he knows his class does. He smiles often, openly, sharing it like a gift with everyone. You wonder what it's like to be someone whose smile alone can make someone's day brighter.

Today's workout is a tough one, and you're pouring sweat, needing to dunk your head back underwater to stay cool. But Kyle is as encouraging as ever, telling you all he's going to push you but he knows you can do it.

You don't talk to him, but you never do. He doesn't know your name. You pass by, making eye contact with him quickly enough to mouth thank you before shuffling into the locker room. He acknowledges the thanks with a kind smile that wrinkles his eyes and nose, then carries on his conversation with some older ladies that like to chat with him afterward.

Thursday's afternoon class is always the busier of the two, and the old community centre pool has never upgraded its locker rooms. You take a seat on a bench by your locker, chat a little with Colette, and then wait your turn for a shower. You rest your head back against the cement wall, eyes closed, absorbing the gentle and amiable chatter from the other women as they schluck off wet swimsuits, dry themselves off, and get dressed, calling to one another. It's become your favourite white noise this summer.

You like to wait for the locker room to empty out before showering; everyone's always in more of a rush at this time, and you just don't have anyone to return home to or anything to do in particular.

You're in the middle of sluicing the conditioner out of your hair when the fluorescent lights flicker rapidly, and then cut completely, plunging you into utter darkness. Your hands stutter as you wait in silence for it to return. It doesn't.

"Hello?" You call more timidly than you'd like. The door out to the pool is always locked from the other side after class ends; the only way in or out is now the main door, bringing you out to the front desk. You shut off the shower valve and reach out your hands, touching hesitantly to make your way there.

The darkness is thick; you have spent hours in this locker room, aware of its every poorly designed corner, but it is still a windowless and empty room. And you bang your fucking knee on the corner of a bank of lockers, gasping so loudly that it scares you.

"Fuck!" You cry, clutching it desperately, like holding it will contain the shooting pain.

"Oi, y'okay?" A voice shouts from outside the main door, by the front desk. Deep, younger, English. There's only one Englishman you know that would be here.

You feel too shy to call him by his name, like it's overly familiar. "Hi," you answer pitifully.

The door squeaks open; there's a privacy wall preventing him from seeing in, even with whatever shit light could be cast. "Y'okay in there?" He asks again. "Do you need a hand?"

"Uh, my…I hit my knee a little. It's fine but can you—"

You hear a thud of something hit the floor. And through the dim grey-dark coming around the privacy wall, you see Kyle enter the locker room. The light provided is like shining a penlight down a tunnel, but you're able to unlock your locker and grab your backpack.

"Hey," he says. You can't make out his expression with the light at his back, but he sounds a little relieved. "How can I hel—"

The door shuts heavily, leaving you both in pitch black.

"Bloody 'ell, stupid door," he mutters. Then refocuses. "You're about five steps from me with nothing you'll hit. Can you start toward me? I'll get you out without re-injuring that knee of yours."

"Sure," you say softly.

You hobble toward him, painfully and embarrassingly slow, your hands outstretched just in case he didn't see something in your way.

There's a smile in his voice when your hands smack into his, and he says, "I got you. C'mon, nice and slow." He's dripping wet like you, a pair of shorts keeping him decent.

His gym bag had made a poor emergency door stop, it turns out.

"Wait here?" He forms it as a question, but really, just sets off confidently to the family change room to holler out for anyone. Disappears altogether, silent, deeper into the building. Trots back out with no one in tow. "Breaker seems fine. The desk girl, Amelia, left like five minutes before this; she had some family emergency, so she left me to the keys for the next one coming in." He goes behind the desk, shuffling through papers.

You wrestle a thin dress out of your backpack, trying to hoist it over your head and pull it down over your wet swimsuit without making a silly scene, even though the fabric gets stuck. You're too hot-faced to glance toward him to see if he witnessed the display, until he speaks.

"Hey, is your cell working?" He's staring at you, causing you to jump.

"Oh," you fumble around to open your front backpack pocket. Flip open your phone. "Huh, that's weird. I'm at full battery, but…there's no bars."

"Fuckin' 'ell," he mumbles to himself.

"Should we…leave a note? In case people show up for class at," you check your watch, "5? Or for the next girl, in case the power's not restored by then? Could be just a hydro outage?"

He cocks his head at you. "A what outage?"

"Hydro?" You lug your backpack on. "Like, hydroelectricity."

"Oh," he smiles, nose wrinkling a bit. "The leccy bill."

You stare back at him. "Leccy?"

He laughs easily. Scribbles out a large markered note, and ushers you out to the main door ahead of him. Reuses some poster tape on his sign, and then you're both outside the building, the keys locking up.

The community centre is tucked deep in an older residential area, surrounded by slow traffic signs and aging bungalows. The area is naturally quieter, but the lack of electrical buzzes that you ignore every single day is almost unnerving.

"Did you drive?" Kyle asks you politely, pulling on a white t-shirt so erotically you want to scream.

"Ah, no." You gesture down to your right leg. "Bus, for now."

He nods, and you can tell he's making decisions on the fly. "Where's your stop? I'll keep you company."

"Oh…"you trail off, fingers playing with your backpack straps nervously. "No, that's totally fine. It's not even ten minutes away."

He goes from looking around, taking in the scenery, to suddenly focusing his gaze on you. You find yourself shrinking a little. "What? Nah, don't be daft. Which way?"

You dumbly point east. Affably, he shrugs his gym bag over his shoulder, herding you to the inside of the sidewalk naturally.

"Wonder how far the outage went," you remark for something to say. You have said an insane amount of his and thank yous to him, and nothing else. He still doesn't know your name. You pretend like you don't know his either, to even some stupid playing field in your head: a battle of nonchalance. Like you don't imagine his eyes on you, his words of encouragement a warm bath just for you.

"Hm," he hums idly. "You grow up around here?"

It feels like when you'd get paired up with one of the hockey boys in some class of high school, forced to make conversation and find common ground. Kyle's so naturally charming, at teaching his classes, at the after-class chatter, and just how he seems to move through the world. An ease to even how his body seems to operate that you couldn't even begin to imitate.

"Uh, kinda. About an hour south of here." And then, inanely: "how about you?"

He turns his face, smiling down at you, and you think, my god his dentist must love him. "Just a few more hours away," he laughs. "Moved here for uni, got a big boy job, and now here I am."

"Is…aquafit your job?"

Another lazy smile. "Nah, I'm a physiotherapist. I just teach twice a week to mix it up. Find new patients maybe?" He points down to your knee. "What happened there anyway?"

Shame spills through you. "It's embarrassing."

"I've heard it all, love," and yes, you've heard him say that to old women and yes, it still gets you all the time.

"With my…now-ex. I, uh, twisted it funny. Torn ACL, although I probably don't have to tell you that."

You receive a wink. "Sex injuries might as well be right under sports injuries."

"What?" You stare. "No!" Laugh to ease your embarrassment. "No, no. He, uh, wanted to race up a flight of stairs. I obviously didn't win."

His head falls back in a loud, shouty laugh. "Jesus, at least make it worth your while, eh?"

You laugh along, trying to hide the confusion on your face. Luckily, you've just about reached the main road, and you both notice that it's packed with cars headed in both direction, slowed to full stops.

Traffic lights are down. All of them, stretching in both directions north to south. Drivers are improvising the four-way stop system in lieu of, and you can see where someone's got out of their own car to direct the flow of traffic.

"Whoa, the grid must be knocked out pretty far," you comment.

You keep walking, because what else is there to do? You both check your phones: still no cell service.

A power outage in the city doesn't bother you, but the lack of service is what settles under your skin. The two combined feels wrong, but what do you know?

You pass two neighbours chatting about it; hear one of them mention that they think there could've been another attack. You and Kyle exchange wary glances, don't say a word, keep walking toward your bus stop.

The sun is still scorching, not yet melted off the sky, and your skin's almost dried by now under it, replaced with a layer of sweat.

"This is weird, right?" You ask quietly.

"Little bit," he murmurs. "Judging by traffic, I'm not sure your bus is gonna be of much use to you, love."

You pass the bus stop. The further you walk, the greater the picture is revealed to you: every intersection is blocked, and there's total gridlock even on side streets as people try to avoid the main thoroughfares.

Most shops you pass have closed up already, with similar signs taped to the doors.

Power outage

Closed early

Gone til powers back

"How's your knee holdin' up?" Kyle checks in once you reach a street corner, waiting to cross.

"Uh, I'm okay," but you wince, and he makes a determined face in response. He removes your backpack, ignoring your protestations, and hikes it across his broad shoulders. His white t-shirt is soaked through the back and it looks so good, you have to look away.

"Here, let's go sit by the water. You can rest there."

Once he's propped your knee up on his gym bag while you stretch out under a large tree, offering sweet shade, by the waterfront, he relaxes beside you. You wonder how he smells right in the crux of his armpit; probably chlorine and clean sweat.

He hands you a bottle of water that'd been in his bag. You trade him a granola bag from yours. You both decide to split each item. You can't watch him guzzle the water, it's too tempting to see his head tilted back, Adam's apple bobbing in rhythm as he gulps his share.

You startle when his hand lands on your knee. "What?"

He's not looking at you; eyes are down, focused. His hands are palpating very softly, inspecting. You try not to shiver when his fingertips brush a little higher, just for leverage. The width of his hand bridges across your kneecap, and it's so warm it should be uncomfortable, but it is not at all. It feels like the first bit of warmth you've had in months.

"He's an ex, you said?" He asks mildly, and with his hand still on your knee, it's as if he's your physiotherapist conducting an assessment and neutrally collecting your medical history.

You breathe out a shaky laugh, unsure what to do with your hands. You end up just flipping your phone open and shut repetitively in your lap. "Yeah. He, uh…didn't handle the injury well."

He quirks a brow.

"When I fell, he thought I was just being a sore loser," you laugh uncomfortably. "He didn't want to come to the hospital with me, so…"

"'So' what?" He presses pointedly.

"So, he didn't. I rode there alone. Ended up getting a really nice paramedic. He gave me some nice relationship advice, but I think he just felt bad that I was crying so much. Maybe being stuck there by myself was what I needed, because after I got discharged, I dumped him."

"Christ, love. Bloody brutal." You detect the disgust in his voice, and have nowhere to put that.

"Yeah, well," you shrug.

You feel him looking at you. You don't want to meet his gaze, but you do anyway. "That's fuckin' awful, love. Glad you canned 'im." His fingers are kneading the soft flesh along the sides of your knee, and you sigh before you can stop it.

This small assessment now feels like a massage, and you're confused. Too confused to hold on to your question.

"Do you even know my name?"

He laughs. "'Course."

You jut your head back in surprise. "What? Since when?"

"Dunno, for awhile now, s'pose. Why d'you look so surprised?" The tips of his fingers stroking, melting, stretching. He adjusts your leg manually, pulling your knee up toward him into triangle shape. Flexes something; you can't look anymore.

"Well, we…it's not like we ever speak," you huff a laugh.

"Yeah," he says teasingly. "Why is that?"

You definitely have nowhere to put that. What response even suffices here? That he's too busy being mugged by some older ladies? That you're too shy to offer more than a meagre hello and thanks? That you have nothing else to say except you're so beautiful and even though I don't want kids I would have your babies?

"You're a busy guy," you settle on.

"Not that busy, love." And the teasing softness to his voice is gone now, replaced by something else entirely.