nacho 8

Graves keeps a good house. She loves having her knick-knacks in order, her tchoctchkes designed in specific manner. She likes having the bat-wing gingham tablecloth. She loves making sure that there's not a single particle of dust on the crushed velvet curtains or the pearlescent gray wallpaper.

Especially considering that her honey was so kind to help affix them to the wall the last time that the two of them had time, well—before they got to the really fun stuff.

And oh, Graves really loves the fun stuff—but she also loves keeping a beautiful house. It always makes it better to have a good backdrop when her man comes back, after all.

And so she arranges the spider sculpture she purchased with the monthly allowance that promptly arrives in the mail every two weeks dotted with suspicious blood stains. They're always folded roughshod in same envelopes that have an acrid cigar smoke that cling to them—a scent that she loves being suffocated by.

And oh, with the messages scribbled in barely legible handwriting with each wad of cash that he sends, she's clear of one thing. And that thing is—it seems like he's heading back her way.

At least, that's what she assumes it means by the way he keeps saying "See ya soon, babe—"—usually when he's on the mend and not on the way over, it tends to be more a of a "miss yer tits" or "wish I could get a bite of that sweet ass" which means that any visit is not forthcoming.

But Graves knows that something's on the wind. So she cooks and washes and cleans—and keeps a weather eye to the sky. And then, she finds that she's finally rewarded.

Of course, he never announces himself with much of a greeting through the door and a slap ton the rump—that's always a second or third part to the interude. Instead, she knows by the walloping rev of a familiar engine, the glimpse that she catches the acrid smoke on the sky.

Paired together, it's always a welcome interruption to the general peace and quiet of her perfectly-kept house. Meaning that something is going to break up the monotony. And she can't wait.

It's like a faithful, loving dog heralding the return of master from the hunt, the manner in which she crosses from the kitchen where she's been tracing circles in the uniformity of the tablecloth—and then she's risen to her feet. And then she's crossing the span of the kitchen, down the hallway, to the door that she flings open without a second thought, without a care.

And he's there—none the worse for wear. A little more scuffed up than before, wreathed in the expulsion of the exhaust and the excess of the cigar that's worn down to a nub in between his teeth. But he's smiling—which is always a good sign. And he's sweaty with the exertion of a long fought journey to get back to her. She watches in breathless silence as he kills the engine, rolls his shoulders to stave off some of the tension that he's collected on the ride back.

She's moving without realizing, a sweet smile on her face and arms spread wide as the spacehog belches residual fumes into the manicured lawn bearing bat topiaries—not that she cares. The person who made them possible—the cause for her joy—the reason for all—is back.

He's polite enough to kick up one of those boots jingling with the chain link accoutrements detailing it, and stubs out the roach before flicking it off into the yonder wind.

"You miss me much, babe?" Lobo asks with the surety of someone that knows the answer, given response by the way that she plummets into the embrace his arms. The way that she makes a near-sobbing exclamation of verbal joy before she finds his mouth with her own.

The way that her lips press against the seam of his with rapt delight, and longing—the means in which his arms tick around the small of her back with ease and that wide, menacing palm begins to drift down.

Graves pulls away before it makes purchase, though she's given constant physical reminder of its presence—there are practical stars in her beaming eyes as she stares up to him.

"Oh honey, you're finally back!" She exclaims, and her fingers are already fanned over the broad expanse of his chest, reminding herself of details long since denied physical reminder.

"Sure am," he comments with a gloating veneer to the reply. His hand squeezes over the span of her ass. She jumps but the noise she makes indicates pleasure. His grin grows.

"I've been waiting so long for you." She asserts, indicating she's trying to keep composure that is rapidly breaking—usually Lobo has wherewithal enough to keep his desires in his pants until the doorway.

"You hungry?" She asks brightly, but there's an entendre—something layered in the statement beneath it all. She just has to coax it out with that disarming manner she always does, that bright ken that she maintains in the gleam of her eyes that only have sights for him.

He eases one leg over the hog, so that he stands at full height over her—the visual difference is something that makes her want to fan herself, lick her lips, think of trysts in the sheets. And it's clear from how his hand has maintained grip over her, the way his eyes have darkened without changing—he feels the same.

"Sure am hungry—"—He boldly replies in means that alludes to other proclivities—"—But might be hungry fer somethin' else first."

"Oh," And Graves is playing the game now, but it's oh so fun and she's excited to keep her voice cheery and chipper, "You don't want to eat?"

"Wanna eat somethin' from you first." It's that rich baritone that lets her know there's no argument to be brooked—what he says goes. And she's oh-so-excited for it.

"Oh, you—"—Graves begins, thinking there's more opportunity for teasing to be had, more time to articulate her appreciation at his return. But there's no time at all. Not in the manner that she's lifted, an unseeming tangle of limbs, in the heft of that one large arm. As she's moved through the air, her unbeating heart in her throat—and then settled over the meat of his shoulder.

"Oh!" Is all she can say, before she's silenced by the clap of a wide hand over her ass. And then—they're off to the races, into the belly of the beast, of the house that Lobo built.

All Graves can do is allow herself to be jostled, to be taken along for the ride that is interspersed by the bump and bounce of each great plodding footstep that he puts through the span of the house. The door closes behind them both with a loud, reverberating slam as it settles into the jamb. The little cobweb whindchimes that hang from the knob jangle in discordant melody.

"Been a while, babe," Lobo grunts, "You been thinkin' about me?"

"Of course, Lobo," Graves returns happily, but this is interrupted by the clap of another heated hand over her ass. She can't help but squeak—but there's an undercurrent in the noise that escapes her.

"Um—"—She begins, trying to keep a semblance of conversation going as Lobo makes beeling for the master bedroom—"—I set up some of the bounty posters of you that you sent. They're framed, see?"

She points, but she may as well be articulating these statements to a musular brick wall for all it matters. Lobo makes a chuffing noise and lets the swathe of his hand settle over the meat of Graves' thigh. When he clenches, she does moan, a ripcurrent of sensation settling straight up her spine, jolting painfully, needfully between her legs.

"Y'smell good," Lobo comments gruffly, "Y'been keepin' clean fer me?"

There's layers, insinuations, implications to this statement—Graves knows exactly what he means.

"Of course, darling," She sends back with a sweet smile that he can't see. There's a growl in his throat as he continues to explore the nuances of her leg, sinking his fingers into tender flesh. "I'm always loyal to you."

"Yeah?" Lobo asks as Graves tries to point out the wilting, rotted flowers she refreshed in a new obsidian vase, "That's what I like to hear."

She's rewarded with another crack of his palm against her—she has to dig her long fingers into the leather of his vest, arch into the muscle of his shoulder. And then—there's no more time for her to make statement. The door to the room swings opens and batters into the adjacent wall with the force that he expends into it—the smell of incense and philodendron wash over the two of them.

"Lobo—"—Her voice is more needful, more pitched, more squeaky than she would have hoped for their reunion—her man just has a specific aim of making her so flustered whenever he returns. But she can't articulate any speech—gravity is precariously upset and she gasps as she's settled onto the dark sheets of the king bed.

Another gift that the main man took care to construct and then put to excellent use the moment it arrived. And, it seems, from the manner that he's sinking in between her legs, taking care to tick them open with the impatient spread of one hand—

She swallows thickly, looking at how he proceeds down on bended knee. And with that other colossal hand, uses those fingers that prove suprisingly dexterous as they work to open the buckle settled at the junction of his legs.

"Been achin' for a taste of home," Lobo groans, and here, there's an audible click and the drag of a zipper to punctuate the statement. Graves watches as what proved to be impressive, familiar bulge juts free to release the length of his hardening cock.

"Oh—darling—"—Graves feels as though her mouth has gone dry, and she looks up to her suitor come home for the roost, something painful throbbing in her core. When he settles to both of his knees, drawing his colossal frame down to the tufted black rug that covers the perimeter of the room, she knows the score.

"Gotta getcha ready for the main man, don't I?" Lobo asks throatily, and there's something lustful and starved as his free hand works to ruck up the hem of her skirt, his other hand pumping up and down the length that she's dying to have inside of her.

"Yes—please—"—She begs, squirming uner the hand pushing it past the the curve of her thighs. He makes a smug, crude laugh of satisfaction. Graves wants to flush under the heat of his incendary stare, the exploratory means that his hands are taking up her thigh, working towards her entrance—the cool air feels like it's evaporating on contact with her bare skin.

"Nothin', honey?" Lobo obviously likes what he sees, but he can't resist taking advantage of he humiliation that she's roiling in. "Eager for me to fuck ya, huh?"

"I've—"—Graves squirms as his thumb works up her entrance, sliding his finger against her—the teasing of his thumb is driving her crazy, making her feel as though her heart is going to burst through her ribs, push through the column of her throat—"—I've missed you so much."

"Yeah?" He asks with a deep, consumptive need as he leans down—when she feels the brush of his hot breath against her, it's almost impossible for her to resist pushing into that smirking face. "Guess I oughta get started on the first course, then."

"Please, honey—I need you—"—Is all she squeaks out before she's rewarded with a slow, torturous lick of that rasping tongue up her cunt. And then it's all she can do to sink her fingers into that mane of hair—and angle her head back against the plush sheets.

The moan that eases out of her is wanton, loud—embarrassing—but the way that she's rewarded with the way his mouth slows at her clit, the way that his tongue laps at her—

"Oh, Lobo, Lobo—"—Is all that she can say, pushing her legs into him. She's vaguely aware of the hands that are encouraging her legs up over his shoulders, feel the jostle of his shoulder as his one hand leisurely strokes his cock—but all she can focus on is how incredible his tongue feels. How overdue it's been. How wonderful it feels, as each lapping lick that he focuses on her clit, slow, short strokes—the waves of sensation roll up her body and she can only shudder.

It's when he draws her clit into his mouth that her legs pitifully clench around his head, squeeze for dear life—when he makes a rumbling chuckle, she can't help but succumb to the vibrations that it sends through her body. Graves cries out, a keening noise, the mewl of someone who's happy to be at the mercy of the little death that is drawing near.

"God—Lobo—"—She nearly sobs, because he keeps his mouth latched to her, his arm is hooked firmly around her leg—she can't help but clench tighter against him. He makes another deep laugh that sends her into another squirming fit. But he's got her happily trapped, as his tongue continues to eke out new incredible, torturous pleasure through her.

"Honey—I can't—"—Graves begins, because it's been so long since she's felt his touch. It's been an eternity since she's been pinned down underneath him. It's been ages since she's been manhandled in these means—and she knows she's not long for it. Not if he keeps it up. "Please—"

When he pulls away with a lewd pop, lets her take in the broad, carnivorous smirk on his face—the way that his jaw, his moustache, his mouth are obscenely wet—it's so fucking hot. She makes a low, disbelieving gasp as she watches him, as his shoulder ticks back with another flex of muscle.

"Don't worry," Lobo grins as he begins to find his footing—she's given the privilege of seeing his cock at full mast, a lazy stroke of his hand as it works up and down the length—"—Wouldn't wantcha to come on anythin' other than my cock, babe."

"Oh—"—Graves makes a needy, wanting noise. He laughs again, but says nothing more, ready to get down to business. When he draws forward, he makes sure to ease her legs around the ample width of his hips, pulling up enough that he can look at the view below him.

"You want this?" Lobo asks, almost mocking—she jumps at the way that he bats his cock on her entrance, at how sensitive and overstimulated she already is. It's all she can do to wordlessly nod, mesmerized by it.

"Uh-uh," Lobo directs her, bidding her look up to him with the intensity of his voice's timbre, "You gotta tell me you want it."

She knows how to play the game—Graves lets a ditzy little smile cross her face, wiggles her hips against the full of him—watches as his jaw sets with lust at the sight.

"Please, honey—"—She croons, trying to sound more composed than she actually is—"—I need you to fuck me."

This is all it takes. He makes a sharp intake of breath, a proprietary growl in the pit of his ribs, the insistent pull of his hands as he hefts her flush against him.

"Guess it's time for the main course, then," Lobo says, and when he sinks his cock into her, it's perfect. Impossibly big, as always, like velvet as he makes the first thrust spreading her wide. She can't help but wrench her eyes shut, her face twisting up in that silent, agonized pleasure as her lover reminds her of his prowess.

"Oh—my god—"—She gasps, because she's taken him so many times before. But the first time is always the toughest, always the hungriest, always the most relentless. He's able to have more restraint the fifth or sixth time around—but the first time is always the most desperate, as he has his way with her.

"Fuck—"—He grunts—"—Perfect as always, honey."

"Yeah—"—Is the beginning of her question that never gets finished, because he bottoms out—and all thought flees the foreground of her mind. Her mouth is a perfect o, a sheen already beading on the crown of her head as she takes him.

"Lobo—"—She whines, and there's relief and longing at once as he pulls out—a harsh gasp ekes out of her as he thrusts back in with a salacious slap of skin on skin. A shock of pleasure bolts up her body, her nails dig into the sheets—the only thing that she can find grasp upon as she holds on for dear life. "I missed you."

"Yeah," Lobo laughs, "Missed you too."

And then he gets to the business of fucking her. And the problem is, Lobo's not only huge, but he knows how to use it—he goes slow at first, with great thrusts as he sails in and out of her that make the breath leave her body. But then he's more persistent with the pace, as patience loses out to carnal desires.

And the pace picks up, leaving her trapped to the rhythm of his cock as it rolls into her, the only thing that fills the room the sound of their moans in tandem, the pornographic noises of their bodies in union—the bedroom grows tight with near-electricity. She's babbling, she thinks, singing his praises as he works out the meter of her body with every pump into her.

"Oh, fuck, Lobo, fuck—"—Is all that she can say, each time that he sinks in—she swears that she can feel every detail of the curve of his length as it hits the back, in that spot that makes her see stars, that has her feeling like a used fuckdoll. "Fuck—"

"Yeah?" He asks, and there's that similar jaunty, mocking cant to his voice again. "Thinkin' you missed this—yeah—babe?"

"Yes—yes—"—She practically sobs, because the way that he rocks into her, the way that the head of his cock sinks into her is already making her thighs tremble. "Oh—Lobo—"

"Yeah? You miss the main man?" He asks, and it's taunting the way that his hips roll into her, the way that it makes her gasp—it's been too long. She's needed him.

"You want—"—He spreads her legs wider, thrusts in deeper than she thought possible—"—All of this?"

"Yes—I—"—She begins, because she's already trembling, her legs are already twitching in that familiar way, that nascent heat is already building hot in her abdomen, something pooling sweet and terrible at once. "I—Lobo—"

"Yeah?" He asks, and when he hits the back again she feels like she's going to die but die happily—"—You wanna come?"

Graves is inarticulate as she does so—the orgasm rips through her, sweaty and incandescent and body-shaking. She practically wails as he makes the final thrust that has her coming undone, has her unmoored from the bed, has her saying his name over and over and over again in near-worship. It's a long while for her to come back down to herself, to be alert to her senses again.

When she does, she realizes that he's still inside of her, working easy, idle strokes—his teeth are on full display at the undone sight of her.

"Looks good," He comments, and as he pushes flush into her once more—making a weak, but still satisfied sigh scrape through the meter of her body—"—Looks like we better get started on the second course."

It's a long, long while before the two of them are satisfied of each other. Lobo has a few positions that he's wanted to try—against the wall, on the bed, on the floor.

The manners in which he wants to consume every square inch of Graves' body is relentless and something that she is happy to provide. It's not until the early morning rays of sun are beaming through the lacy black curtains of the bedroom that they decide now is adequate time to take break—at least, before they start up again.

"I missed you so much," Graves sighs as she settles against Lobo's frame—an arm rucks around her as he puffs away at a celebratory cigar he's recently lit up. He takes a crackling drag and releases a thick plume of smoke when he speaks—his hand sinks into the naked, exposed flesh of her skin and she can't help but shiver.

"Feeling's mutual." Lobo smirks back. "Now lemme smoke this and we can back to business."

When his eyes find hers, she can't help but laugh in good humor—and wait for the fun to begin again.

Graves keeps a good house. She loves having her knick-knacks in order, her tchoctchkes designed in specific manner. She likes having the bat-wing gingham tablecloth. She loves making sure that there's not a single particle of dust on the crushed velvet curtains or the pearlescent gray wallpaper.

Especially considering that her honey was so kind to help affix them to the wall the last time that the two of them had time, well—before they got to the really fun stuff.

And oh, Graves really loves the fun stuff—but she also loves keeping a beautiful house. It always makes it better to have a good backdrop when her man comes back, after all.

And so she arranges the spider sculpture she purchased with the monthly allowance that promptly arrives in the mail every two weeks dotted with suspicious blood stains. They're always folded roughshod in same envelopes that have an acrid cigar smoke that cling to them—a scent that she loves being suffocated by.

And oh, with the messages scribbled in barely legible handwriting with each wad of cash that he sends, she's clear of one thing. And that thing is—it seems like he's heading back her way.

At least, that's what she assumes it means by the way he keeps saying "See ya soon, babe—"—usually when he's on the mend and not on the way over, it tends to be more a of a "miss yer tits" or "wish I could get a bite of that sweet ass" which means that any visit is not forthcoming.

But Graves knows that something's on the wind. So she cooks and washes and cleans—and keeps a weather eye to the sky. And then, she finds that she's finally rewarded.

Of course, he never announces himself with much of a greeting through the door and a slap ton the rump—that's always a second or third part to the interude. Instead, she knows by the walloping rev of a familiar engine, the glimpse that she catches the acrid smoke on the sky.

Paired together, it's always a welcome interruption to the general peace and quiet of her perfectly-kept house. Meaning that something is going to break up the monotony. And she can't wait.

It's like a faithful, loving dog heralding the return of master from the hunt, the manner in which she crosses from the kitchen where she's been tracing circles in the uniformity of the tablecloth—and then she's risen to her feet. And then she's crossing the span of the kitchen, down the hallway, to the door that she flings open without a second thought, without a care.

And he's there—none the worse for wear. A little more scuffed up than before, wreathed in the expulsion of the exhaust and the excess of the cigar that's worn down to a nub in between his teeth. But he's smiling—which is always a good sign. And he's sweaty with the exertion of a long fought journey to get back to her. She watches in breathless silence as he kills the engine, rolls his shoulders to stave off some of the tension that he's collected on the ride back.

She's moving without realizing, a sweet smile on her face and arms spread wide as the spacehog belches residual fumes into the manicured lawn bearing bat topiaries—not that she cares. The person who made them possible—the cause for her joy—the reason for all—is back.

He's polite enough to kick up one of those boots jingling with the chain link accoutrements detailing it, and stubs out the roach before flicking it off into the yonder wind.

"You miss me much, babe?" Lobo asks with the surety of someone that knows the answer, given response by the way that she plummets into the embrace his arms. The way that she makes a near-sobbing exclamation of verbal joy before she finds his mouth with her own.

The way that her lips press against the seam of his with rapt delight, and longing—the means in which his arms tick around the small of her back with ease and that wide, menacing palm begins to drift down.

Graves pulls away before it makes purchase, though she's given constant physical reminder of its presence—there are practical stars in her beaming eyes as she stares up to him.

"Oh honey, you're finally back!" She exclaims, and her fingers are already fanned over the broad expanse of his chest, reminding herself of details long since denied physical reminder.

"Sure am," he comments with a gloating veneer to the reply. His hand squeezes over the span of her ass. She jumps but the noise she makes indicates pleasure. His grin grows.

"I've been waiting so long for you." She asserts, indicating she's trying to keep composure that is rapidly breaking—usually Lobo has wherewithal enough to keep his desires in his pants until the doorway.

"You hungry?" She asks brightly, but there's an entendre—something layered in the statement beneath it all. She just has to coax it out with that disarming manner she always does, that bright ken that she maintains in the gleam of her eyes that only have sights for him.

He eases one leg over the hog, so that he stands at full height over her—the visual difference is something that makes her want to fan herself, lick her lips, think of trysts in the sheets. And it's clear from how his hand has maintained grip over her, the way his eyes have darkened without changing—he feels the same.

"Sure am hungry—"—He boldly replies in means that alludes to other proclivities—"—But might be hungry fer somethin' else first."

"Oh," And Graves is playing the game now, but it's oh so fun and she's excited to keep her voice cheery and chipper, "You don't want to eat?"

"Wanna eat somethin' from you first." It's that rich baritone that lets her know there's no argument to be brooked—what he says goes. And she's oh-so-excited for it.

"Oh, you—"—Graves begins, thinking there's more opportunity for teasing to be had, more time to articulate her appreciation at his return. But there's no time at all. Not in the manner that she's lifted, an unseeming tangle of limbs, in the heft of that one large arm. As she's moved through the air, her unbeating heart in her throat—and then settled over the meat of his shoulder.

"Oh!" Is all she can say, before she's silenced by the clap of a wide hand over her ass. And then—they're off to the races, into the belly of the beast, of the house that Lobo built.

All Graves can do is allow herself to be jostled, to be taken along for the ride that is interspersed by the bump and bounce of each great plodding footstep that he puts through the span of the house. The door closes behind them both with a loud, reverberating slam as it settles into the jamb. The little cobweb whindchimes that hang from the knob jangle in discordant melody.

"Been a while, babe," Lobo grunts, "You been thinkin' about me?"

"Of course, Lobo," Graves returns happily, but this is interrupted by the clap of another heated hand over her ass. She can't help but squeak—but there's an undercurrent in the noise that escapes her.

"Um—"—She begins, trying to keep a semblance of conversation going as Lobo makes beeling for the master bedroom—"—I set up some of the bounty posters of you that you sent. They're framed, see?"

She points, but she may as well be articulating these statements to a musular brick wall for all it matters. Lobo makes a chuffing noise and lets the swathe of his hand settle over the meat of Graves' thigh. When he clenches, she does moan, a ripcurrent of sensation settling straight up her spine, jolting painfully, needfully between her legs.

"Y'smell good," Lobo comments gruffly, "Y'been keepin' clean fer me?"

There's layers, insinuations, implications to this statement—Graves knows exactly what he means.

"Of course, darling," She sends back with a sweet smile that he can't see. There's a growl in his throat as he continues to explore the nuances of her leg, sinking his fingers into tender flesh. "I'm always loyal to you."

"Yeah?" Lobo asks as Graves tries to point out the wilting, rotted flowers she refreshed in a new obsidian vase, "That's what I like to hear."

She's rewarded with another crack of his palm against her—she has to dig her long fingers into the leather of his vest, arch into the muscle of his shoulder. And then—there's no more time for her to make statement. The door to the room swings opens and batters into the adjacent wall with the force that he expends into it—the smell of incense and philodendron wash over the two of them.

"Lobo—"—Her voice is more needful, more pitched, more squeaky than she would have hoped for their reunion—her man just has a specific aim of making her so flustered whenever he returns. But she can't articulate any speech—gravity is precariously upset and she gasps as she's settled onto the dark sheets of the king bed.

Another gift that the main man took care to construct and then put to excellent use the moment it arrived. And, it seems, from the manner that he's sinking in between her legs, taking care to tick them open with the impatient spread of one hand—

She swallows thickly, looking at how he proceeds down on bended knee. And with that other colossal hand, uses those fingers that prove suprisingly dexterous as they work to open the buckle settled at the junction of his legs.

"Been achin' for a taste of home," Lobo groans, and here, there's an audible click and the drag of a zipper to punctuate the statement. Graves watches as what proved to be impressive, familiar bulge juts free to release the length of his hardening cock.

"Oh—darling—"—Graves feels as though her mouth has gone dry, and she looks up to her suitor come home for the roost, something painful throbbing in her core. When he settles to both of his knees, drawing his colossal frame down to the tufted black rug that covers the perimeter of the room, she knows the score.

"Gotta getcha ready for the main man, don't I?" Lobo asks throatily, and there's something lustful and starved as his free hand works to ruck up the hem of her skirt, his other hand pumping up and down the length that she's dying to have inside of her.

"Yes—please—"—She begs, squirming uner the hand pushing it past the the curve of her thighs. He makes a smug, crude laugh of satisfaction. Graves wants to flush under the heat of his incendary stare, the exploratory means that his hands are taking up her thigh, working towards her entrance—the cool air feels like it's evaporating on contact with her bare skin.

"Nothin', honey?" Lobo obviously likes what he sees, but he can't resist taking advantage of he humiliation that she's roiling in. "Eager for me to fuck ya, huh?"

"I've—"—Graves squirms as his thumb works up her entrance, sliding his finger against her—the teasing of his thumb is driving her crazy, making her feel as though her heart is going to burst through her ribs, push through the column of her throat—"—I've missed you so much."

"Yeah?" He asks with a deep, consumptive need as he leans down—when she feels the brush of his hot breath against her, it's almost impossible for her to resist pushing into that smirking face. "Guess I oughta get started on the first course, then."

"Please, honey—I need you—"—Is all she squeaks out before she's rewarded with a slow, torturous lick of that rasping tongue up her cunt. And then it's all she can do to sink her fingers into that mane of hair—and angle her head back against the plush sheets.

The moan that eases out of her is wanton, loud—embarrassing—but the way that she's rewarded with the way his mouth slows at her clit, the way that his tongue laps at her—

"Oh, Lobo, Lobo—"—Is all that she can say, pushing her legs into him. She's vaguely aware of the hands that are encouraging her legs up over his shoulders, feel the jostle of his shoulder as his one hand leisurely strokes his cock—but all she can focus on is how incredible his tongue feels. How overdue it's been. How wonderful it feels, as each lapping lick that he focuses on her clit, slow, short strokes—the waves of sensation roll up her body and she can only shudder.

It's when he draws her clit into his mouth that her legs pitifully clench around his head, squeeze for dear life—when he makes a rumbling chuckle, she can't help but succumb to the vibrations that it sends through her body. Graves cries out, a keening noise, the mewl of someone who's happy to be at the mercy of the little death that is drawing near.

"God—Lobo—"—She nearly sobs, because he keeps his mouth latched to her, his arm is hooked firmly around her leg—she can't help but clench tighter against him. He makes another deep laugh that sends her into another squirming fit. But he's got her happily trapped, as his tongue continues to eke out new incredible, torturous pleasure through her.

"Honey—I can't—"—Graves begins, because it's been so long since she's felt his touch. It's been an eternity since she's been pinned down underneath him. It's been ages since she's been manhandled in these means—and she knows she's not long for it. Not if he keeps it up. "Please—"

When he pulls away with a lewd pop, lets her take in the broad, carnivorous smirk on his face—the way that his jaw, his moustache, his mouth are obscenely wet—it's so fucking hot. She makes a low, disbelieving gasp as she watches him, as his shoulder ticks back with another flex of muscle.

"Don't worry," Lobo grins as he begins to find his footing—she's given the privilege of seeing his cock at full mast, a lazy stroke of his hand as it works up and down the length—"—Wouldn't wantcha to come on anythin' other than my cock, babe."

"Oh—"—Graves makes a needy, wanting noise. He laughs again, but says nothing more, ready to get down to business. When he draws forward, he makes sure to ease her legs around the ample width of his hips, pulling up enough that he can look at the view below him.

"You want this?" Lobo asks, almost mocking—she jumps at the way that he bats his cock on her entrance, at how sensitive and overstimulated she already is. It's all she can do to wordlessly nod, mesmerized by it.

"Uh-uh," Lobo directs her, bidding her look up to him with the intensity of his voice's timbre, "You gotta tell me you want it."

She knows how to play the game—Graves lets a ditzy little smile cross her face, wiggles her hips against the full of him—watches as his jaw sets with lust at the sight.

"Please, honey—"—She croons, trying to sound more composed than she actually is—"—I need you to fuck me."

This is all it takes. He makes a sharp intake of breath, a proprietary growl in the pit of his ribs, the insistent pull of his hands as he hefts her flush against him.

"Guess it's time for the main course, then," Lobo says, and when he sinks his cock into her, it's perfect. Impossibly big, as always, like velvet as he makes the first thrust spreading her wide. She can't help but wrench her eyes shut, her face twisting up in that silent, agonized pleasure as her lover reminds her of his prowess.

"Oh—my god—"—She gasps, because she's taken him so many times before. But the first time is always the toughest, always the hungriest, always the most relentless. He's able to have more restraint the fifth or sixth time around—but the first time is always the most desperate, as he has his way with her.

"Fuck—"—He grunts—"—Perfect as always, honey."

"Yeah—"—Is the beginning of her question that never gets finished, because he bottoms out—and all thought flees the foreground of her mind. Her mouth is a perfect o, a sheen already beading on the crown of her head as she takes him.

"Lobo—"—She whines, and there's relief and longing at once as he pulls out—a harsh gasp ekes out of her as he thrusts back in with a salacious slap of skin on skin. A shock of pleasure bolts up her body, her nails dig into the sheets—the only thing that she can find grasp upon as she holds on for dear life. "I missed you."

"Yeah," Lobo laughs, "Missed you too."

And then he gets to the business of fucking her. And the problem is, Lobo's not only huge, but he knows how to use it—he goes slow at first, with great thrusts as he sails in and out of her that make the breath leave her body. But then he's more persistent with the pace, as patience loses out to carnal desires.

And the pace picks up, leaving her trapped to the rhythm of his cock as it rolls into her, the only thing that fills the room the sound of their moans in tandem, the pornographic noises of their bodies in union—the bedroom grows tight with near-electricity. She's babbling, she thinks, singing his praises as he works out the meter of her body with every pump into her.

"Oh, fuck, Lobo, fuck—"—Is all that she can say, each time that he sinks in—she swears that she can feel every detail of the curve of his length as it hits the back, in that spot that makes her see stars, that has her feeling like a used fuckdoll. "Fuck—"

"Yeah?" He asks, and there's that similar jaunty, mocking cant to his voice again. "Thinkin' you missed this—yeah—babe?"

"Yes—yes—"—She practically sobs, because the way that he rocks into her, the way that the head of his cock sinks into her is already making her thighs tremble. "Oh—Lobo—"

"Yeah? You miss the main man?" He asks, and it's taunting the way that his hips roll into her, the way that it makes her gasp—it's been too long. She's needed him.

"You want—"—He spreads her legs wider, thrusts in deeper than she thought possible—"—All of this?"

"Yes—I—"—She begins, because she's already trembling, her legs are already twitching in that familiar way, that nascent heat is already building hot in her abdomen, something pooling sweet and terrible at once. "I—Lobo—"

"Yeah?" He asks, and when he hits the back again she feels like she's going to die but die happily—"—You wanna come?"

Graves is inarticulate as she does so—the orgasm rips through her, sweaty and incandescent and body-shaking. She practically wails as he makes the final thrust that has her coming undone, has her unmoored from the bed, has her saying his name over and over and over again in near-worship. It's a long while for her to come back down to herself, to be alert to her senses again.

When she does, she realizes that he's still inside of her, working easy, idle strokes—his teeth are on full display at the undone sight of her.

"Looks good," He comments, and as he pushes flush into her once more—making a weak, but still satisfied sigh scrape through the meter of her body—"—Looks like we better get started on the second course."

It's a long, long while before the two of them are satisfied of each other. Lobo has a few positions that he's wanted to try—against the wall, on the bed, on the floor.

The manners in which he wants to consume every square inch of Graves' body is relentless and something that she is happy to provide. It's not until the early morning rays of sun are beaming through the lacy black curtains of the bedroom that they decide now is adequate time to take break—at least, before they start up again.

"I missed you so much," Graves sighs as she settles against Lobo's frame—an arm rucks around her as he puffs away at a celebratory cigar he's recently lit up. He takes a crackling drag and releases a thick plume of smoke when he speaks—his hand sinks into the naked, exposed flesh of her skin and she can't help but shiver.

"Feeling's mutual." Lobo smirks back. "Now lemme smoke this and we can back to business."

When his eyes find hers, she can't help but laugh in good humor—and wait for the fun to begin again.