#rincyclicals

Pink and purple blossoms paint the great expanse of your body after an early morning encounter with Ryland, who’s faring no better in terms of physical appearance as he rises to prepare for work. You disentangle yourself from him carefully, albeit hesitant to let him go. He’s being mindful of his movements, too. He takes great pains to not hurt and bring you any more discomfort — except maybe the unavoidable emotional lash that he has somewhere to be despite it being the weekend. 

You aren’t too sore about the hitch in your time together, though. You’re lying in bed full of his cum, basking in the afterglow of copulation like a nymph near a pond. Ryland is just as dazed and disheveled. His heart rate has slowed; every edge in him has eroded into something softer, more subdued. He’s got bite marks all over his chest and stomach. Red lines adorn him, created by your blunt nails that scored his upper back just a few moments ago, and his hair is sticking up in every imaginable direction — a golden crown of his and your own invention. 

You’re co-authors of the very fate that led you to this disarray, and are differentiated by your distinct proclivities: Ryland is more libidinous; weaker to his contrastingly enormous appetite in the auroral hours of the day, likely due to being primed by the involuntary ache that’s scheduled to make its appearance every time he wakes up. He’s content with either ignoring the problem or employing his fist to relieve the tension, but since he’s been with you, you remind him time and time again that you’re more than happy to lend a hand. Literally. Or your mouth. Or all of you. He likes the last option best.

You’re more or less in the same boat, if not more fragile. Like him, you’re initiated into a new day with a certain warmth pooling in the depths of your belly, and charged with the objective of tempering the budding tendrils of fire. A relationship is a two-way street. What you give, Ryland gives back. And he aims to please every time.

Before you can even seek Ryland out for some much needed assistance — by way of his fingers or mouth — you quickly find out that he’s right ahead of you in that department. His arms slink around your midsection to preserve the warmth generated by your position. The soft, thin petals of his lips are bedaubing your nape with gentle pecks, bringing forth a pleasant chain of ticklish affection, which serves to aid your consciousness into a fuller hypnopompic condition. Had you been in your first weeks of dating, shame would have been the dominant emotion to berate you as you moan instead of offering Ryland a proper verbal “good morning”. But it has been a while since that amorous inception. You’ve since thrown every semblance of shame around each other. That’s the reason why Ryland did that, after all. Languidly dry-humping your lover requires no participation of such a sentiment, and so does fucking them raw while they have a leg hooked backwards over your own. 

You do your best to persuade Ryland to stay after that sweet singular round. Really, you try. But as impassioned as he is, he has to stand his ground. Or the school’s ground. Whatever. Thinking about it just makes you roll your eyes.

“We have a meeting today,” he says into your forehead when you ask him why he’s choosing to stray from you. You grumble a complaint, and he mollifies your begrudging acquiescence to let go of him with a kiss. The grip Ryland has on you communicates that this is all but acceptable to him, for he dislikes it just as much as you do. He wants to stay at home and frolic blithely in bed with you like two vulpine lovers; inclined solely to copulate and carouse in ardor, but alas, his academic responsibilities are summoning him, and he has to spend half of his day separated from the comfort of your embrace. There’s a reason why “Saturday” and “sex” both begin with the same letter; and why “emergency faculty meeting” does not mirror this trait. That’s a mouthful, and you would rather have your mouth full of Ryland than utter or even ruminate on those three irksome words. 

You have half a mind to harken the bidding of the little devil perched atop your shoulder when you lay your eyes upon Ryland emerging from the bathroom. Shimmering beads of water dot his body, ending with a buffer fashioned by the towel around his waist and continuing where the fibers don’t touch his skin. That visual is enough to have you syntribating beneath the duvet. You watch him like a hawk through your lashes, feigning slumber as he goes about his preparation.

Ryland can see through your ruse. You’re none-the-wiser to the smirk that he’s wearing, occluded simply by virtue of his busy rummaging through the closet; an equally farcical task of his own making, because he’s reaching for the same shirt that he loves to wear even after a while of careful deliberation. Ryland’s more interested in investing his brain power into picturing what he’s going to do to you later — his reward dedicated to you, for being such an understanding, selfless partner… He would dive back in if his word was law. 

Ryland dares to face you as he does the buttons on his top. You recognize it right away. This is his favorite: a light blue dress shirt with white pinstripes, which he often partners with a red tie and a plain gray corduroy jacket, to which he was also partial. He always puts each article of clothing on in the same sequence, too. Black boxer briefs, undershirt, dress shirt; jeans, socks, and then his jacket. Last to be taken care of is his necktie, which he delays to attend to, because he chooses to comb his hair first. A futile chore, really, because you know that’s going to end up wind-swept once he arrives at the campus.

Ryland is so dashing, so put-together in this ensemble in which he instilled so much trust. You’re biased to him when he has nothing on, however; but there’s no need for competition. You love him both when he’s serious and when he’s enslaved by his impulses. Something, something dichotomy of man. Ryland holds multitudes; nevertheless, this is a contrast of his that you cherish dearly. 

You watch him fondly. The necktie was your favorite part. You hold some sort of superiority over Ryland in this area of dressing, in that you can fasten that accessory around him faster and tidier than he can, even after years of endless repetitions. He’s fixing the remaining stragglers in his blonde hair as you get up on your feet. Immediately his focus shifts to you; lucent blue irises alighting squarely upon your figure like iron specks attracted to a magnet. Unlike him, you aren’t burdened by untimely assemblies haphazardly announced in a group chat. This stroke of luck grants you the luxury of lounging at home in your shorts and oversized faded t-shirt; temporarily free from duty, but not from your boyfriend’s surveillance.

You hear Ryland suck in a breath as you move to achieve your goal of doing his tie for him. You fight back a triumphant smile. You know that it’s taking everything within him to keep himself from pouncing on you as you make your approach; a woman on a mission to test his mental fortitude. You’re a daydream showered in mellow lavender light — tousled hair, semi-stiffened nipples impressed underneath cotton; pliant and unhurried — and he drinks you all in to his heart’s content, or to whatever measure is allowed in this limited time that you’re sharing prior to his inevitable exit. Damned meeting, getting in the way of his hobbies…

You, on the other hand, are honed in on the tie that he hasn’t fastened on yet. Ryland wordlessly gives you authority to do so for him, but his reciprocity translates into eyeing you over the rim of his glasses as your fingers deftly work on the slim piece of fabric with effortless ease. You don’t respond in kind. You’re sure that if you give in and provoke him in the slightest, Ryland is going to do something stupid, like tackling you and consequently branding himself a truant among his coworkers who diligently went to work on the weekend. 

Feeling a bit cheeky, you test your theory by pulling him in for a kiss using the tie. He indulges you for a couple of slow, lingering seconds, before reeling himself back in so he may part from you. What a surprise. He doesn’t yield to his urges, even in the face of maddening torture. Ryland’s blood is simmering under his skin from that kiss alone. He’s sure that you can sense this too, and that you are no different.

You finish your handiwork by running your palms over his chest. You meet his leaden gaze. “Come on, go. Before I change my mind,” you say, releasing him from your touch. Ryland smiles, chuckling softly at your manicured exercise of self-control as he kisses your nose; he whispers a promise of his speedy return and disappears into the hallway behind the door. You sigh. You pad back to the bed, hoping to bask longer in the remnants of Ryland that he left from your lovemaking.

Your gaze lands on his discarded shirt instead. He left it on the footboard, neatly folded and hung over the polished wood; he means to slip back into that later when he gets home, is what this means. Upper teeth chew on lower lip while you mull over your subsequent intentions. Perhaps you’ll be able to reap more of his traces from this particular source. The idea delights you. You simper as you pluck the shirt and exchange it with your top in favor of its services. You’re instantly enveloped in everything that is Ryland. Your Ryland. His shampoo, cologne, and even a hint of his natural musk that acts as an aphrodisiac for you. It’s definitely doing that job for you right now.

You stand in front of the mirror and observe how the shirt hangs on your frame. It’s loose and a little too long for your torso. The sleeves come down to your elbows. You shrug your shoulders up, then down. Up and down. You giggle at your own ludic ways. Fingers gently outline the fat tabby cat that’s printed in the middle, sitting on a similarly cartoonish rendering of the Golden Gate Bridge. Normally, the design sits on top of Ryland’s chest when he’s wearing it, but in this scenario, the cat is closer to your abdomen. You two have a short staring contest in the looking glass. The sun is rising steadily in the sky now, and this prompts you to admit defeat and draw the curtains closer to hinder the beams from streaming past the slits of the blinds.

Your herculean efforts to rid yourself of your lover’s clothing prove to be powerless against his scent. You have gone through the motions of removing the shirt, but you end up halting midway. The collar is distracting you, and terribly so. This section is even more redolent of eau de Ryland, you realize, and now you’re nestling the fabric to your nose so you may flood your olfactory system with him. If you demand your mind fervently enough, you can conjure a phantom sensation of being hugged by Ryland with just this one seemingly inconsequential shirt. 

So engrossed you are in your reverie that you fail to account for the surprise that would have you rejoicing in its existence. The front door slams shut not with Ryland’s departure, but with his unexpected retreat. He’s at the lobby downstairs when he receives a text that the meeting is called off. Something about one of the heads having come down with an unforgivable cold — she has the courtesy not to spread contagion among the other faculty members, thank god. Ryland has too many papers to grade for him to contract an illness and be impeded by an ailment. He doesn’t want to infect you, either. He celebrates briefly before turning back to the elevator, punching in the floor that he just left and brimming with joy from the announcement. He can’t wait to free himself from the confines of his attire and join you once more.

You’re still in the same posture when Ryland reenters the bedroom. He doesn’t see you yet; he’s running his mouth to inform you of the rationale of his premature reversion as he steps out of his Converse.

“False alarm,” he says with glee, closing the door behind him, “they said they’ll just email the details of the discussion later in the af—”

Ryland spots you by the mirror. You see him too. You freeze in place, caught like a deer in headlights. You can’t believe that he’s back so early. 

His mouth hangs ajar as he sweeps over you, utterly transfixed by the scene you’ve crafted for him to feast on. You, in his shirt; the smooth skin of your side peeking out, and the waistband of your shorts that had come to sit low on your hips. You redden as he studies you like this. You find it difficult to detect the ocean in his eyes, for they’re overtaken by his dilated pupils — and the reason is all too obvious to you.

The next you know, you’re being lifted off the ground and deposited back onto the mussed white coverlet. Ryland has been thrown into a frenzy. He’s yanking his clothes off, hurriedly undressing in the reverse order of how he enrobed himself just a few minutes ago. Tie, jacket, jeans, dress shirt, undershirt, and boxer briefs. He skips his socks — the thought of peeling them off was so offensively laborious that he declines to even pay them a hint of his attention. He nearly leaves his jeans on, too. The pair has him muttering some not-so-explicit words as they get tangled enroute to the floor. 

Ryland neglects his glasses — he needs them to see you, and more importantly, to have an unobstructed view of him stripping your shorts from your legs, snagging your panties along on their way down to the rapidly mounting pile of clothes. You’re stuck in the process of absorbing the fact that Ryland has come back so soon, that your reacquaintance with reality occurs only when he flips you onto your stomach. You support yourself with your arms, and are given no time to recover. Ryland dips two fingers into your pussy. Your reaction comes at light-speed in the form of a helpless mewl.

Ryland groans. You’re still wet from earlier, and this isn’t just yours, either. He fingers you deeper, more purposeful in his affirmation that you have indeed retained his cum inside you. You arch your back and sink closer to the sheets. The squelching that he produces from you tells you all you need to know about his discovery. 

“You haven’t washed me out yet?” You hear him ask. It’s a rhetorical question, but the inherent mortification arising from the truth urges you to open your mouth. Who knows what Ryland will do when you stay mum? Your words are flouncing about in your brain, delaying the response you’re planning to set forth. You wind them in just in time.

“I — I was going to… ah —!” You gasp as Ryland adds another finger. “B-but I —”

“— but you wore my shirt instead,” he finishes for you. You consider yourself fortunate that he can’t see you all crimson from being criticized. He initially planned to comment on your enamored preoccupation with him; that you crave him so bad, you can’t even get yourself cleaned up, but he’s wise in his restraint and avoidance of sanctimony. He wants you, too. Teasing you for the same fault is only going to expose his own lascivious predilections. You’re both hypocrites who are provoking each other in this prurient dance, and you love it.

You’re missing Ryland as soon as he retracts his fingers from you. The shift in your pose causes the shirt to fall further into your chest, and he’s given more access to your skin. He bows; the intimacy of your orientation feels like a finger ghosting down the length of your spine, one that expressly materializes and unites with the real world as the tip of Ryland’s nose does exactly that: he draws a continuous, gossamer line along the medial column of your body. Delicious sparks flare in his wake. 

“Coccyx, sacrum, lumbar… thoracic… and cervical,” Ryland recites, treading that path until he reaches the back of your head. He plants his lips there. You bite down a moan when his palms circle under and up your (his) shirt to greedily cup and squeeze your breasts. Ryland is aware that you’re trying to defy him, so he doubles down by pinching your nipples. You break, and he smirks. “How about the bone that holds the head upright, sweetheart? You know what that’s called?” he asks, clearly enjoying this little game that he’s roped you in.

When you don’t provide him with a reply — you’re busy clamping your thighs because you can feel his cum trickling out of your pussy — Ryland clicks his tongue and begins cruelly rolling the hardened buds in between his fingers. “[Name], answer me. You know this.”

He can’t be serious. Sexual torture and science trivia? You really can’t anticipate the direction in which the cogs of Ryland’s brain are turning sometimes. Last week, he held you hostage on the kitchen counter for “waking up too early” and didn’t let you leave until your legs shook, and now… this. He’s making you name the fucking bone that’s lodged under your skull… for the hell of it? 

“I don’t know,” you whine as a last resort to dissuade him, “I don’t know, Ry, p-please…—”

“Mm-mm,” you picture him shaking his head. “You know this,” he counters. He uses his knee to spread your legs open. You’re quick to reinforce your arms and steel yourself. You let your forehead fall to the now-cool duvet, a demonstration of your defeat when a rivulet of his cum drips down from your seam to your clit. You know he can see what’s happening, and you know that he’s enjoying it. You can’t decide which is worse: the possibility of Ryland making a remark about how obscene you are, or his decision to silently derive amusement from the aforementioned obscenity. 

Either way, you ball your fists. Ryland is stubborn when he wants to be stubborn; there’s no way of circumventing this until you bend to his will. You ignore your cunt that’s spasming around nothing and seethe quietly. The answer to the billion dollar question flashes across your barely functioning mind.

“T-the atlas,” you say. “It’s the a-atlas.”

“Atta girl.”

Ryland rewards your obedience by finally sheathing himself into your heat, resting at last in the place where he’s been longing to reach. Both of you purr at the unresistant plunge. He fucked you so good this morning that you’ve taken the shape of him; he doesn’t even need to ease himself inside.

Ryland thrusts into you at a set, steady pace; it’s faster than what he did an hour ago, but slower than when he’s right about to fall over. His hands grab hold of your waist, anchoring you where he wants as his hips drive into your ass in perfectly timed intervals. Every slick drag of his cock along your walls equates to a hitch in your breathing, followed by an uncontrolled cry that helps Ryland continue ravaging you. He wants to take his time with you. That’s what this means. 

Despite his unraveling patience, Ryland devotes himself to the sisyphean task of rolling that boulder up the hill, keeping it there just long enough for him to prolong the satisfaction of his reunion with you. He’s good at this. He’s marvelous at enduring anything, especially when he knows that the recompense would feel glorious. He’s got you moaning into the pillow that you snatched to cushion the weight of your upper body. You mourn not being able to see him in full. You’re yearning to witness how bad you’re stirring him up. Fluttering lashes; skewed glasses, parted lips, and head slightly tipped backward — Ryland is such a sight to behold.  Too bad that you’ve no way of seeing him. Perhaps it was better that way; otherwise, you would have come right then and there.

The shirt you’re wearing billows downward; it dangles from your raised torso and sways according to the rhythm appointed by its owner, who has elected to gloss over why he’s behaving this way in the first place; so insatiable and ravenous. He’s too far gone to even command himself to be rational. Ryland has seen you multiple times wearing his cardigan and hoodies. This is nothing new. It should be nothing new. You can’t wrap your head around why he’s fucking you like it’s the first time he’s seen you in his clothes.

Amid the cloudy judgment, you manage to whisk up a sliver of patience within you to pause. You’re being a little too excited to craft and cleave to a convenient conclusion. If Ryland can peer into your methods right now, he’ll warn you against your unscientific ways. So you persevere and reevaluate your hypothesis. Maybe it isn’t the shirt. Maybe it’s because Ryland saw you breathing him in like you wanted to burn the memory of him into your senses. Because if there’s anything that he loves more than knowing that he belongs to you, it’s being proven that you have chosen him over anyone else.

At some point Ryland bends down; he snakes his hands to lave over your plush breasts in an effort to ignite a bigger flame. One travels south to touch your clit in time with his thrusts, and alternates between doling out small ovals and delicate taps onto the tender nub, in adherence to the same principle that he’s put forward. He can’t do too much right now; he wants to enjoy this thoroughly with you, and you’re making all sorts of beautiful sounds in which he’s more than willing to revel.

The bough nearly fractures when Ryland brings his other hand down to press onto your stomach, firm enough so you can feel how far his cock is prodding inside your loins. You fall flat on the objective of clamping your mouth shut, and a heady wail escapes the confines of your throat. Ryland’s sadistic streak activates; he replicates the procedure, much to your suffering and euphoria.

“R-ry, stop — aagh! D-don’t — N-not there!” You garble a protest in vain. Ryland picks up the speed.

“You’re such a liar, sweetheart,” he laughs, broken and affected, “I know you like it when I do that…” He nips at your ear. He does it again, this time in tandem with rubbing your swollen clit, and it has you inadvertently fucking back into his cock, even when you intend to escape from this delectable torment. Ryland, in awe of your sensitivity, ups the ante on everything. The hand on your lower abdomen. His fingers on your clit. His cock that’s fucking you open. It’s all too much; too hot, too good. 

“Baby, I’ll spill,” you sob into the pillow. It’s like he’s sprouted thousands of arms and you’re surrounded by each and every one of his limbs. “I c-can’t take it anymore…!”

Ryland coos. He stamps his lips repeatedly on your shoulder blade. “Spill on me, pretty girl. Come on, cum on my cock, sweetheart, that’s it, that’s it…”

Your back curves up from the force of your release. A disjointed cacophony that’s composed of his name, an annunciation of your collapse, and other incoherent noises pours forth from your lips, both quivering to contend with the onslaught of bliss to which Ryland has successfully delivered you. He holds you through it, dancing along your inconsistent oscillation until you come back to a state of rest. Exhaustion is the better, more applicable term for the two of you, but he’s chosen to ignore that. 

Your brain doesn’t register his drawing himself out from you, nor the way he hissed on his way out; your cognizance strictly snaps back into the waking world when you feel him turning you over. You’re lying supine on the edge of the bed, and your feet are hooked over his shoulders. Anxiety inundates your system. He hasn’t cum yet, and you can already foresee what that bodes for you. 

You’re crying out again when Ryland pushes back into your pussy, resuming and adopting a faster tempo. He’s got one hand curled around your thigh and the other tacked on your clit, rubbing you with three avid fingers like he really wants you to lose your mind. Tears blur your vision now. All you can do is weep and pray that whatever you’re babbling is making sense; you’re far too overcome with pleasure to even screen the words that are freely flowing out of your mouth.

Ryland hears you loud and clear. He’s got a full view of you this time, and he beams at you in spite of your shared stupor. His chest flushes with affection. He reaches out an unoccupied hand to cup your cheek — your eyes are pinched shut and your brows are cinched in, but he coaxes your attention, whispering your name betwixt and between the soughs that you’re tugging from his lungs and caressing you lovingly with his thumb. You meet him halfway, though barely. He almost came when you hummed to acknowledge him.

“I love you,” he declares, breathless yet sincere.

You say it back in a tone that betrays your impending ascent — as if it isn’t already obvious — coupled with your cunt shamelessly clenching around his cock. That hurls a brick at Ryland’s resolve. He turns voracious; he heeds the esurient calls of his flesh to drive you deeper into the mattress like he means to meld your bodies into a singular being. You yelp at the sudden change. Ryland captures your lips to swallow what would have been a noise complaint in a few hours. Once he’s certain that he’s softened you out, he parts from you, panting; he concentrates on persisting through the exquisite burn so he can finish with you.

“I love you, [name],” he says once more, determined to prove the validity of that statement each time he pistons his hips into you. He gathers your midriff, caging you in his arms and resting his cheek upon your sternum. He locks you in his influence so that you’ll only think of him. He doesn’t really need to do that; he’s all you can sense at the moment. Every point, every line leads directly to him, and you let him know of this by weaving your fingers through his damp, ruffled blond tufts. He gifts you a kiss as a gesture of gratitude. He peers at you — fucked out and pussydrunk — and smiles. He delivers his ultimatum.

“I’ll fill you up again, yeah?” a moan breaks through his vows, “I’ll fill you up so much you’ll drip with my cum when you stand,” he chuckles deliriously. 

Ryland picks himself back up. His palm takes root by your head, and he starts frantically stroking your clit once again. It’s all too much. You’re convinced that your crying has spurred him on, because he’s pummeling you even harder now. He takes you higher and sets you aflame; each time he enters you anew is another ration of gasoline that feeds the roaring fires consuming your entire being. They possess you; drag you further into the recesses where nothing exists but you and him.

You’re way past the point of being coherent, both in sound and in thought. Your brain is only concerned with concocting a torrent of every hedonistic hormone and submerging you in that mixture — dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin… You’d get perfect points if Ryland quizzes you about that right now. Not that he can, anyway; he’s been all instinct and impetus thus far. You’ve no idea that you’re whorishly canting your hips up into him, and that he’s drunkenly praising you for it. You’re both wading through utter rapture; some kind of paradise, or utopia. Heaven, even. Heaven is no place. Heaven is a state, and it can only deserve that name as long as you and Ryland are bound together like this. 

You cum again, and like last time, the force ripples according to the decree of your pleasure: white-hot and scalding. Ryland holds you through the entire sequence, enswathing you with him as he approaches his own undoing. Saccharine tongues lick your velveteen walls raw from the unrelenting snaps he deals upon you. He attaches his mouth to your neck. Then he apologizes — voice hoarse and low — he assures you that he’s so, so, so close, and that he’s going to cum soon. “Just a little more,” he says through gritted teeth. Just a little more so he can fulfill his oath to you. He must. He will.

Ryland reaches his summit with a drawn-out moan. He falters and stutters, unable to fall into a consistent cadence as he spills everything into you. He slows down eventually. You swear that your pussy throbs from how sexy everything about him is. Mentally you scold yourself. You can’t even lift a finger — you’re in no place to set off another round, and neither is Ryland. He takes you with him in his descent so he can tether you to him for longer, and you nuzzle into his chest, equally sweaty and reeking of sex. 

“What… what were you saying earlier?” You slur. You don’t expect your question to make sense to Ryland, but it does.

“You seriously—” he gulps down some air, “you seriously didn’t catch that?”

“No…”

“The meeting was called off… That’s what I was saying before I—”

“Before you jumped me, yeah…”

Ryland laughs. He pulls away just enough so he can look at you. He kisses your forehead twice. You kiss him back, but on his lips for a change. You surmise that this stirs something inside him, because he’s leaning further into your mouth and drawing you closer to his body. He’s hungry for you all over again. Is it high time to flip through your repository of prayers so he won’t rally you for a third helping? You don’t even know the words to the oration. You don’t even bother recalling them at all.