Paranormal Fantasies: A Promotional Collection of 14 Erotic Supernatural Stories (24 page)

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Letting Go

By

Polly
J Adams

Copyright © 2012 by Polly J Adams

* * * *
*

She
went to him in the night.

She heard him moving about the house, sounds drifting down
from upstairs. The rush and clunk of water in the ancient pipes,
the bang of the bathroom cabinet, the buzz of his electric
toothbrush. She heard all of these things, her senses fine-tuned.
Alone in the house so much during the day, somehow things had
become sharper for her, more intense.

Some things, anyway. Others: dulled, blurred,
indistinct.

By the time she reached the bedroom he was flat on his back,
the lights out.

He hadn't bothered to draw the curtains and the room was lit
by the cold blue light of the half moon.

She paused.

The bed was like a landscape in the eerie light. A white sheet
was twisted, half-covering him. His body looked as if it had been
sculpted from marble, only a slight rise and fall of the chest
betraying the illusion.

She almost turned and left, but she couldn't.

She was drawn to him.

She had to be here.

She had to join him.

*

She
lowered herself gently beside him, propping herself up on one elbow
so that she could continue to study him.

His head was turned away from her, his dark brown hair looking
black in the moonlight, the stubble thick, several days' worth. His
chest was well-muscled, a thin covering of dark hair stretching
from nipple to nipple, up to the notch where his breast-bones met,
and down across a belly that had once been taut six-pack but was
now just a little more softly-defined. At his belly-button the hair
thickened and then was lost beneath the white twist of
sheet.

She reached for him, one finger, a long nail making gentle
contact with his chest. She pulled her hand towards herself,
drawing the nail through his chest hair. He twitched. She hadn't
expected him to be so well out of it, so quickly.

Her nail reached his nipple, scratched across it, and he
twitched again, opened his mouth as if to speak, then sighed,
settled again.

She moved her finger back to the centre of his chest, dragged
the nail down over his ribs, his belly, and finally pushed down
beneath the tangle of sheet.

There, where the hair thickened yet more, the side of her hand
came up against the base of his cock. She pressed the flat of her
hand against him, teasing the beginning of his shaft, feeling it
stiffen against her palm.

She moved her hand farther down, took him in her grip, and
squeezed and pulled as he grew in her hand.

He always had been a grower and now he was long and hard and
thick and she had to shift her grip, stop pulling downwards, start
pulling up as his cock came to lie hard against his belly in her
hand.

She worked up and down his length, squeezing the shaft. She
slid up to the head, pulling the foreskin back to reveal the hard
head, already shiny and wet in the moonlight.

Loosening her grip, she pressed him hard against his belly
with her palm and started to roll his cock from side to side. He
gasped, shifted his body, but still didn't turn to her.

Moving back down, she cupped his balls, held them. His cock
twitched and pulsed against the heel of her thumb, and she worked
at it, his cock swinging freely from side to side, as hard as she
had ever known it.

Finally, she dipped her head, allowed her hair to trail down
over his ribs, his belly.

So close, he must have been able to feel her hot breath on the
wet head of his cock. She hesitated, his scent so intense in every
breath she took. She drew the moment out and then, when she could
hold back no longer, pressed her lips against the underside of his
glans.

Opening her mouth, her tongue swept across his cock and she
started to lap, a kitten at milk. He groaned at this, and finally a
hand swung down and gripped the back of her head firmly, her hair
tangled in his fingers.

This was all about him, she realised. At first it had not been
so, she had wanted him, ached for his touch, for his hardness to be
deep inside her, but now... now things were different, one of those
imperceptible shifts. Now she wanted to give. Now she wanted him to
have it all.

She took him deep and his body twisted and bucked. His sweet
salt taste was an intense trigger for her, the spark for so many
memories. Of the first time she had sucked him, a cheeky party blow
job in the bathroom of a friend's house. The look in his eyes when
he had realised what she was just about to do, what she was
doing... what she had just done, as she rocked back on her knees,
grinning and laughing and wiping at her mouth with the back of a
hand. Of lazy Sunday mornings, of kissing her juices off his face
and then working her way down to his eager, twitching cock. Of
snatched moments, of lazy foreplay, of him coming... the way he
came so hard in her throat or when she pulled back for him to spurt
over her face or breasts.

Now, she pulled her head clear and wanked him hard, two hands
pulling and twisting, his cock slick with her saliva and his
pre-come.

His hands were at his sides now, fingers clawed, gripping the
bedding.

She took him in her mouth again, still wanking him, enveloping
his glans in her mouth, flicking at it with her tongue.

Her movements had become urgent, almost desperate, a savage
intensity in every movement.

He arched his back, pressed up, forcing himself briefly deeper
and then she felt hot liquid suddenly filling her, pulse after
pulse.

She pressed down on him, her lips around him, swallowing him
deep.

As he softened she drew him deeper, deeper, until his cock was
entirely in her mouth, and still she sucked. Every last drop of
come, sucking him dry, sucking him soft.

His body subsided, the tension ebbing away, leaving
him.

Finally, she released him, moved up to lie beside him, an arm
across his chest, a leg across his hips, his head still turned
away, his breathing slow, deep.

*

He
left the next morning without a word.

Daylight in the room, suddenly harsh on her eyes and she was
awake, aware that she was alone again. No sounds of another person
in the house, just the wind in the eaves and the sound of an
occasional passing car outside.

She could still taste him, still smell him.

She rolled over onto his side of the bed and convinced herself
she could feel his shape on the mattress.

*

He
had dreamed again last night, and then woken with the heart-tearing
rush of reality reasserting itself, the lurch from dream to real,
the fall from her, from his love, to the truth that she was gone,
dead, taken from him.

He'd showered in cold water, scraping at the dried scabs of
come on his belly. Guilty, as if he'd somehow betrayed her by
dreaming of her again, of having a wet dream when all he felt in
his heart and his head were a gaping, aching emptiness.

Dry, he'd pulled on whatever clothes came to hand, grabbed his
keys and left the house in a rush. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't
bear this any longer.

Outside in the car, he slumped until his head came to rest
against the steering wheel. He remembered her hand on him, pressing
his erection hard against his belly. Christ, it was as if he could
feel it even now!

He remembered the wet sliding of her lips over the head of his
dick, so familiar.

He drove. Through the fringes of town, ignoring the usual
turning that would take him to his office.

He turned into the beach car park, an open grassy area that
would close soon for the winter. Easing off, he came to park at the
cliff edge, just a low wooden barrier separating him from the void.
The cliff wasn't high here, but it was high enough. A good burst of
acceleration would take him through that barrier. End it all. Why
not?

He sat staring at the sea for an eternity.

He couldn't go on like this.

Somehow he had to find a way to move on, or he would sink
forever until it was too late.

*

She
went to him in the night. By the time she reached the bedroom he
was flat on his back, a twist of sheet across his middle, his body
sharp and sculpted in the cold light of the moon.

She paused by the bed and looked down at him, taking in every
detail, the shape of his chest, its gentle rise and fall, the dark
body hair thickening towards his belly.

She was drawn to him.

She had to be here.

She had to join him.

She couldn't let him go.

Ever.

*

She
woke in time to see him leave.

In time to see the look on his face as he woke, looked down,
saw the dried crust of their juices on his belly, his drained cock.
The look... it was horror. Pain. Despair.

His eyes were sunken, set deep in heavy black
shadows.

He cried out, twisted his body away from her, stumbled through
to the bathroom.

She lay there in the shape he had made on the
mattress.

She knew he was blind to her, but now it sank in, twisted
something in her chest, made her feel how he had looked.

It wasn't fair.

She needed him.

She couldn't let him go.

She wouldn't.

*

She
did.

She had to.

She loved him and so she had no choice.

*

She
went to him in the night, one last time.

She wore heels. High stilettoes, black, a delicate strap at
the heel. Fishnet hold-ups, with deep lace tops. Tiny black and
cream satin briefs, and a matching balconette bra.

She stood at the foot of the bed, light from the half moon
spilling in around her, lighting up his sleeping body. His chest
was uncovered again, the sheet covering him from the ribs
down.

She reached over and tugged at the sheet.

It came free from his body and she took him in, savouring the
sight. His figure was still lean and strong; he had one leg drawn
up slightly, his cock lying to one side against his hip.

He grunted, shifted, settled.

She reached down to one of his ankles, stroked, ran her
knuckles up his calf. He twitched and shifted again.

She stroked his other calf and watched as his cock started to
stiffen.

"Hey," she said softly. "It's me."

Fingernails on the inside of that bent leg, scraping along the
thigh.

He put a hand to his face and rubbed at the stubble, and then
at his eyes.

Her fingers ran across his balls and back down the other
thigh.

At last, he moved his hand away from his face and opened his
eyes.

"Wha...?"

"Shh."

She stood back, let him take her in.

He sat up, leaning on his hands, eyes wide.

"But..."

She leaned forward, took his chin in her hand and kissed him,
dipping her tongue between his lips and then yielding as his tongue
drove into her mouth.

She pulled back, stood.

"You have to let me go," she said. "You can't go on like this.
You just can't."

He started to raise a hand, then stopped.

"You can't."

She put a hand to his shoulder, gently pushed, and he lay
back.

She stood, looked at him stretched out on their bed, cock long
and hard against his belly.

"But..."

She slipped the briefs down, off, balled them and stuffed them
into his mouth. She took his hands, pinned them above his head,
gripping him hard by the wrists as she swung a long stockinged leg
across him.

Straddling him, she looked into his eyes and she saw that he
knew, that he understood.

She lowered herself, her pussy lips pressed hard against his
shaft, parting, settling around him. She felt his hardness against
her, and started to rock her hips slowly back and forward, sliding
his length against her in gradually lengthening strokes until the
head of his cock met her clitoris and then she slid back down over
his entire length, slow and teasing.

He made to move, to bring a hand down, but she had him gripped
firmly. Slowly, she stroked the length of his cock with her wet
pussy, over and over again.

When he tried to move again she dipped her head, found one of
his nipples with the tip of her tongue, flicked at it. And then she
used her teeth, dragging them across the nipple, then closing on it
until he gasped.