Different Sort of Blue (couple, blowjob, facial, cum, couple, public, rimming) (2 page)

You have the most delightful grin.

"That was amazing," I
praise, opening my eyes, observing you. You're beautiful, no doubt, but the
sight of your face covered in cum is a beauty not many words can describe. You
smile up to me, knowing so. I smile back. Your face is painted with the cum.

I add jokingly, "If you wanted
a keepsake, we could have had a quickie here and I could have finished inside
you."

"Not the same. I want to wear
you."

"That's got to be the... most
perversely romantic thing I've ever heard you say.”

"Haha. You're sweet," you
laugh. When you say I'm sweet, I'm not altogether certain you meant my
personality, or my taste, as your fingers push on the thicker parts of my cum
on your face, directing it towards your lips, sucking it down, sipping, relishing
everything about it. I watch with fascination, with awe, with desire.

“I fucking love the sight of my cum
on you,” I confess. There’s no shame in this confession — only pride. It’s only
the swell of pride from seeing you like this.

We cuddle in the afterglow of my
orgasm for a few minutes more. You've wiped your face, swallowed most of my
cum, though you continue to wear several minuscule white splashes. You rest
your head against my shoulder.

We feel a sudden urge of
restlessness flare up at once and we explore around us. This roadside tryst has
invigorated both of us; we can’t get our hands off each other. I wrap my arms
around your waist, but you escape and laugh and let me chase you.

The trees surrounding us are silent
witnesses, and we push past each other in the slight dark until we find a
clearing.

“It’s a lake!” you whisper in
delight, while I’ve got my eyes fully fixed on you. I turn to see what you
mean. Even I’m impressed. Almost out of nowhere, where a pond would have been
more likely, there’s a beautiful lake in front of us, modest in its proportions
but tranquil, cool, romantic. We couldn’t have possibly come up with a better
place to cap our last morning together.

“Fuck,” I murmur. You’re dipping
your feet in the water already, a little wooden pier the only indication of any
other human having been here. Maybe later in the day this will be a popular
picnic spot, and maybe later in the evening some adventurous teens will tease
each other and strip down to bare skin to skinny-dip in the lake.

I sit beside you for now.

"Kiss me."

"You've still got cum on your
face. I'd rather not."

"Kiss me."

I contemplate it. Your lips pout,
waiting for me to accept the kiss. The thought of tasting my own self is
something that, peculiarly, leaves me a little disgusted. But for you, I'm
willing to. I kiss you.

"I'm going to miss you a lot
when I'm gone," someone says. It might have been you. It might have been
me. Come to think of it, both of us said that a lot. The speaker is
interchangeable, but the sentiment overcomes. We echo back and forth saying
that. But I know it was me who said it last.

"I'm going to miss your cum
painting me," you tease back.

You lift yourself up to sit on me,
parting your legs, riding my lap. I grab you by your neck and kiss you with a
hunger that shows in my eyes, bleeds with heat all through my body, etches my
fingers into the skin of your neck.

“I want you. Again. Always,” I say.

When I hold you close, I let my
lips tingle against your neck.

“I was just thinking about that,”
you say.

“Oh, yes? What exactly?”

“I was just thinking about how you
get me so, so wet when you use your mouth on me. When you place it here,” and
here you point to the side of your neck, where it converges with your
collarbones, which I kiss, “or here,” and now you point to the top of your
chest, which I kiss, “or here,” and now you snake a finger down all the way to
the delta of your pussy. With you dressed, my kiss there is little more than a
light pat. You laugh.

“I think that’s getting in the
way,” I say. You agree. We slip out of our clothing again, seamlessly, fluidly,
bodies meant to be freed for sex rather than the trapped for propriety’s sake —
in a minute you straddle me, grabbing my cock with one hand while you breath
warm against my ear, going “mmm,” with every exhale.

“Fuck,” is all I can offer, feeling
a wave of arousal that brings my cock to a slow, casual hardness.

You know just how to tease my cock
into action: you know how to do it with your mouth, with your pussy, with your
closed fist. But one rare trick you take a lot of pride in is the way you can
tease me hard with just the ball of your thumbs, rubbing it against the tip of
my cock.

I grind and writhe against you. My
arousal is a pressure and a burgeoning heat that you stroke with the light
flicks of your thumb. You press your thumb harder and feel me harden around
your hand. You slick your thumb with the irresistible drip of precum that
follows that arousal, using the wet friction to slide against the frenulum of
my cock, encircling my shaft below where my head bells outward. My gasps are as
full as the tension of arousal I feel. You can hear my gasps bounce off the
water.

When you feel my cock stretch to
the hardest it can be, you begin to dip your head to suck me again, but I have
other ideas. I hold you down against the wooden planks of the pier and I make
you lie still under me, letting your thighs part from your frenzy.

This is the most natural we will
ever be: smelling like sex, readying to fuck. Every atom in our bodies know the
carnal truth of fucking. The time we’ve spent together have sharpened that even
further. When we fuck, we fuck to please together.

We’re both too overwhelmed in each
other to want anything other than to fuck right now. Acrobatic positions do not
matter. You spread yourself open for me and I give to you. I give and I give
and I give.

You look down to watch my cock
thrust in and out of you. Our thighs kiss together with the rapid motions of us
fucking. You can feel the way your pussy parts open for me deep inside you when
I enter you.

“Fuck,” I say.

“Fuck,” you moan.

We do all that and more, again,
again, again. With me over you you reach for my back and wrap your arms around
me, pulling me closer. I take you as deep as I can, letting you sheathe my cock
whole until you feel the stirring of your heat sizzle upwards, making you kiss
at my cheeks to bring about that orgasm — and it comes, it comes, oh my love it
comes, when you inhale sharply and tremble for me, rocking your hips against me
to feel the sensation of my cock press against all the walls of your pussy. The
tremor of you cumming brings me to do so too, pulling out of you and rubbing my
cock over the lips of your pussy while your legs close up and wrap around my
thighs. I shoot a modest pond of cum all over your stomach, my balls pressed
against your pussy so you feel the force of my orgasm in full, frenetic in its
production from my balls to the shaft of my cock to the tip that shoots that
sticky load onto you.

We are perfect in our passion.

Minutes later, we're back on our
way to the car. We take our respective original seats. I'm looking out the
window. You're driving. We're talking about idle things,
somethings-or-anothers.

The airport is in sight, and the
car follows the instructions to the car park. You’re still wearing some of my
cum. I can still feel your tight, pursed lips pleasuring me. I close my eyes
and try not to doze off again. I close my eyes and try to wake up from this
dream. You find a spot. You stop the car. I should reach for the door now, I
know.

But I don't want to go.

Paul Hellion
— journalist, author and designer — is the author behind the popular Sex & Wistfulness blog and short story series. When he is not writing about sex and/or wistfulness he is usually traveling and documenting unusual encounters in his highly-acclaimed blend of first person journalism-erotica. He founded Peccadillo Press in 2013 with long-time collaborators Kitty Ferdinand and Wendy Doer.

Peccadillo Press
is a new imprint for erotic digital short stories and the most provocative new fiction. Founded in 2013 by erotic luminaries Paul Hellion, Kitty Ferdinand and Wendy Doer, Peccadillo Press publishes stories ranging from the tinglingly arousing to the expertly erotic.