His hot tongue circles the tip of my nipple and around it again and again, depressing the flesh and letting it bounce back. His left hand squeezes the mound of my right breast to raise it even further to his mouth. As for his other hand . . . ah well –
His other hand slides down to the front of my jeans to fumble at the zipper there. He’s clumsy with need, and so I help him. With his mouth still on my breast, we roll my jeans over the crests of my hips, those jutting pair of bones that prove to be my widest obstacle point.
He transfers his mouth to my left nipple as my jeans drop to pool around my ankles. I’m still wearing my shoes. Unspectacular shoes that in no way would tease any man with a well-turned heel. He repeats the same lazy flickering of his tongue, as if my nipple is a teat that must be whipped back and forth to coax it into submission.
His hands now grab my panties at my sides. They are plain cotton. I had no illusions I would be making love to Don on this trip after his rejection last night, and so I didn’t want to court fate by dressing up. (Not that I had any naughty stuff to dress up in.) But Don doesn’t seem to mind that I am not dressed to the ninth circle of temptation, and he tears away the fabric from my hips like it’s a shred of tissue.
I gasp, exhilarated by his passion. If this goes on, I’ll be running out of clean underwear.
I step out of the crumpled mess of my jeans as he removes his mouth from my nipple. In a sudden move that takes me by surprise, he scoops me up by my shoulders and knees. I squeal as he carries me and flings me upon the bed – that rough, musty-smelling synthetic coverlet that has seen plenty of lovers before us.
I am completely naked to his gaze. His scorching eyes take in every exposed part of my flesh – from the tits that I am ashamed of to the flat expanse of my belly (thank goodness my depression has caused me to under-eat), to the untidy mount of my blond pubic hair.
I am by nature a shy woman. Shy of my body, that is. Men scarcely ogle the wallflower than I am. But Don stares at me with such voluptuous hunger than a furious blush shoots through my cheeks.
I make to cover my exposed sex, driven by my natural prudishness.
“No, no, no,” Don says, moving my cupped hands away. “You’re beautiful. Just look at you . . . just stay there and let me look at you. Don’t cover yourself.”
“I’m not beautiful,” I say in a breathless tone.
“But you are. You just don’t realize it.”
He is so sincere and fervent that I almost believe him.
He climbs onto the bed. His knees indent the hard mattress as he wrests my shoes off my feet. He tickles my insoles as he runs his fingers down them. I giggle. He parts my legs. I’m so embarrassed for him to be looking at my pussy, which is no beauty in my definition. But he gazes at it in rapture, as if it’s a long-coveted holy grail that he has been searching for.
His hands are at the insides of my thighs, holding them apart. I try to close my legs but he pushes my knees wider.
“Jean,” he warns me in a teasing tone, “don’t.”
The flush on my cheeks, neck and upper chest says it all.
His fingers go down to his button fly. I already know how his cock looks like, but I’m still mesmerized as he undoes each button in a slow, prolonged way, his burning eyes never leaving my pussy. He is not wearing any briefs. Not even those I bought him yesterday, so his marvelous dick springs out like a Jack-in-a-box, finally freed from its tight denim prison.
I will never tire of feasting my gaze upon Don’s cock. Fully erect, it is a magnificent beast – solid and ramrod straight. It rises at a one-hundred-and-fifty degree angle from its usual plane, its massive head proud and regal. The veins that delta across its wide tubular shaft are filled to bursting.
He rolls down his jeans and eases his feet out of his shoes.
My legs are bent at the knees and still wide open as he mounts the bed again. Oh, but he is so beautiful, so splendid – the stuff of fantasies and dreams.
“I have to take you, Jane,” he says in a hoarse voice. “I can’t wait. I’m sorry.”
The thrill of being desired so much by this gorgeous naked man that he can’t wait explodes in my brain like a sexual grenade. It’s been so long. So long. My clit is wilting under the heat of his gaze, and my vulva is a moist little mouth that must be fed and satiated. I’m creaming down there in an endless floodgate. How slutty he must think I am – I who attempt to play the blushing maiden.
He places the head of his cock at the ravenous mouth of my vulva. He pushes, and there comes a swoosh – a rush of opening velvety walls and rapidly filled crevices. His penetration of me is so sudden, so total that I shriek.
“Did I hurt you?” he says anxiously.
“No, no. It’s been so long, that’s all.”
“Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
He stills his shaft inside me. His cock stretches my pussy walls so completely that I can’t imagine being expanded any further. I throw my head back on the scratchy coverlet. My hips rise on their own accord to further suck his penis in.
He is deep. Very deep. Head against the aperture of my cervix deep.
“Are you all right?” he says, his breath coming out in short bursts.
“Yes, oh yes. Please. Don’t stop on account of me.”
He begins to move – a titillating seesaw motion that rubs slickly against my walls, drawing from me a blossom of pleasure so sublime that it shoots straight into my spine. I moan as I open my legs further. He smells of sex and sweat and sweetness and life. I keep my eyes wide open, not wanting to miss the sight of his sublime face – his glazed blue-green eyes, smoky with desire; his parted and beautifully-shaped mouth; the dew-like beads of moisture above his upper lip.
It’s surreal. I’m being fucked by a god.
He lowers his lips to mine and we lock our mouths in a wet kiss. Down there, he continues to grind his hips against mine. His cock hurtles against my G-spot – pressing it, kneading it, rubbing against it until I have to squirm in ecstasy. A tide of sensation engulfs me. I am filled in all ways – physically, psychologically, emotionally.
The specter of Neverlake floats in my mind. Does it mean I have until tomorrow to make this last? What will happen once he gets to Neverlake?
I picture his memories swarming him in a rush once he sees the familiar surroundings. He’s so convinced he has no one waiting for him . . . but I’m not so sure.
Will this night with him be my last?
The dread this posits in my soul almost stems the orgasmic deluge that follows. The erotic sensation of my G-spot being mercilessly pummeled for the last fifteen minutes or so – and coupled with Don’s frenetic French kissing of my mouth, as though he would like to drink me in – washes over me like a late breaker on a beach.
I scream into the ceiling as Don continues to slam into me. My pussy is a veritable mound of merging fluids. But he doesn’t stop. He’s panting very slightly.
“Did you like that?” he whispers.
I almost can’t speak for the sheer bliss that follows.
“Yes, oh yes,” I utter when the clenching and unclenching of my pelvic muscles have succumbed.
He grins. “Will you be able to take it if I go a little faster?”
Faster?
Then it hits me.
My vision blurs when I remember what he did on my lawn. Oh my God.
He’s already speeding up his thrusts. Steadily, pumping his hips like an automaton whose dial is being slowly turned.
“Tell me stop anytime you feel uncomfortable,” he says, grunting.
I close my eyes, savoring the acceleration of his cock as it pistons in and out of me. My vagina is pouring out more sticky fluids in seemly preparation for this. He rocks his buttocks even harder. I toss and turn my head on the coverlet for the frenzied activity of it all. His penis slams against my cervix as his balls strike the undersides of my buttocks, and then withdraws. Harder, faster. His breath is harsh against my neck. I’ve abandoned all nuances of romance. Th
is is raw, purposeful, sensuous fucking. The fucking of nymphs and satyrs in the gardens of pleasure.
The friction in my vaginal walls grows as my fingers rake his back. I open my eyes again and almost cry out in shock. Down there, Don’s hips are a blur. His eyes are closed and a large bead of sweat drops from his fine forehead to shatter upon my lips.
I taste it – that salty, sexy evidence of his effort – and allow myself to be swept away by the blinding vortex again. Why even fight it? I’ve become a primal being, surrendering my body to whatever forces that wish to claim it.
Orgasm merges into orgasm, until I’m whipping my head and clawing the covers as I scream and scream into the night. I barely realize it when he shoots into me. The burning liquid jet gushes into my vagina, flooding every crevice and fold.
A beatific satisfaction descends into my very bones as every single one of my muscles go limp with our collective release.
Somewhere outside the cavern of my skull, I hear his harsh cry.
“Jean!”
So he’s thinking of me. And only me.
I sink into the mattress as his body collapses on top of mine. His breathing is ragged in my ears as he nuzzles my neck.
How can I let this man leave?
8
We are deep in Kansas, and my mood grows more somber as we approach Neverlake.
Last night is vivid in my mind – the frenetic animal coupling that is the stuff I’ve only read about in romance books with bodice-ripping covers. This morning was gentler and sweeter. As the sun breaks upon the roofs of the courtyard motel, I am awoken by the exquisite sensations at my clit.
Don has his head buried beneath the covers and between my legs. His writhing tongue cleverly darts and flickers in and out of my folds, delving in between my pussy lips, curling around the rosebud crown of my electrified flesh.
I immediately gasp as my hands reach for his head.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He pauses long enough only to say, “Tasting you.”
I draw the covers away so that his beautiful head, half covered in the shadows, is revealed. He augments his deft licking with two fingers inside my vulva – worming inside me, massaging my walls to probe for my much-used G-spot.
No, I will not think of that. It is too distracting and I am doing forty on the freeway.
As we have no GPS, I buy a map of the area from the gas station at Arveda when we stop for lunch.
I stab a finger at an irregularly-shaped body of water somewhere in the southeast.
“Neverlake.”
I raise my eyes to his. His face is bright with excitement. My spirits sink. Is he so eager to leave me behind then? Or perhaps the implications of recovering his memories and what they mean to not have me in them have not sunk into his brain yet.
I should be glad for him. Isn’t this what we set out to do?
As we draw closer to Neverlake, the Kansas countryside starts to change. Fields of crops with lonely windmills start to give way to plains. Bales of hay are neatly rolled like carpets. White clouds dapple the sky and a cool wind sweeps in from the horizon.
Don points to a wooden signboard.
“Neverlake.” His jaw is clenched, as if he’s determined to deal with whatever it is he will have to deal with.
Guilt courses through me. Here I am being selfish and wanting to keep him for myself. I have been subconsciously hoping that everything would stay the same and he would never return to his home. I would be his only family. Like a spoilt little child who wouldn’t share, I just wanted him all to myself.
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
I swallow the lump in my throat. I stare steadfastly at the road, stepping a little on the gas pedal to do penance for my sins. The car rumbles into a lane leading to a woods area. Trees fringe us, accompanied by birdsong and a tapestry of interlocking branches, filtering patches of light. After ten minutes or so, the trees thin and lead out to grassland. A placid green lake lies in the middle of it all, spanning several miles across.
Green, not red. The sky above is a light blue, not crimson.
Beside me, Don takes a deep breath.
“Neverlake,” he says.
“You recognize it?”
“Yes . . . and again, not quite. It’s Neverlake, and yet not the Neverlake of my vision.”
All I can think of is the red. Don’s strange visions and dreams have always been crimson.
“Because of the different colors?” I venture, rolling the car to a stop.
“Not only that.”
I kill the engine, and we both get out. We walk to the lakeside. The wind whisks my hair behind me, bringing with it the smell of fresh water. There’s a pensive look in Don’s eyes.
“I can’t quite describe it,” he says, waving his hands around, “but it’s like visiting somewhere that you know really well and you can describe the look and feel of it to someone else, because you’ve lived here and it’s imprinted in your head. Then returning to the same place twenty years later and remembering everything the way it was, only it’s not the way it used to be because there are differences. Am I making sense to you?”
I must admit what he’s saying is a little garbled. But I think I do understand. A little.
“So you’ve been here twenty years ago?” I say.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s different then?”
He throws his arms up helplessly. With the wind buffeting his dark hair into rippling tendrils, he’s carelessly marvelous to look at.
“I don’t know. Everything. This blade of grass, for instance.” He bends over to pluck it. “It’s different. Wrong.”
“Wrong?” I’m starting to get worried about his seeming lack of articulation.
He shakes his head, frowning, as he gazes upon the errant blade of grass.
“The water . . . it’s all wrong too.”
“Why is it wrong?” I touch his arm, hoping he will calm down. My own heart has begun to race rather painfully as though the ‘wrongness’ of the place is seeping in, affecting me as well.
Then I feel it. A presence behind us. I swing round, seeing a little girl with pigtails come out from the trees. She wears a plain cotton dress with smudges. Her feet are bare.
She pads towards us, her eyes never leaving Don’s face.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hello,” I reply cautiously.
She points a dirt-streaked finger at Don. “You’re John.”
He’s thunderstruck.
“I am?”
I’m equally as shocked.
“Yes,” the little girl says. She has clear blue eyes and a sprinkling of freckles on her cheeks. “How did you get down here?”
“We drove,” Don says. I can tell that he’s majorly startled.
“Did you jump out of the picture?” the girl says. She couldn’t have been more than five.
“Uh, no.”
“I’ll go home and look. If you’re not in the picture, then you’re here.”
She happily turns tail on us and scampers away.
“Wait!” Don calls after her.
My pulse quickens as we both run after her. I’m aware of how rapidly Don can gait, of course, but he doesn’t utilize his supersonic speed this time. He’s possibly afraid of scaring away the little girl and losing me in the dust. We catch sight of her as she vanishes through the trees and into the open front door of a little house.
We stop short as we approach the two-story house.
It’s a little ramshackle, made out of wood slats that are frankly rotten at some places. The wooden beams of the doors and shutters are vertical, and the whole house is painted in a dirty white. Or maybe it was a clean white once, and it has gotten dirty over the years, I don’t know. A little driveway leads to its rickety porch, connected to a lane that vanishes beyond the trees.
I exchange glances with Don.
“Is this familiar to you?” I say. My stomach is fluttering. This is the truth, I tell myself st
ernly, and there’s no way you can deny him the truth.
He wears a puzzled frown on his perfect features. “No.”
We hear the pad of footsteps. I tense as a shadow emerges from the depths of the house. An older woman frames the doorway.
She takes one look at Don.
And screams.
9
The old woman can’t seem to stop screaming. Don takes a step towards her, but she backs away.
“No, no, it can’t be.”
“Madam.” I hold up my hand to appease her even though I’m frightened as anyone has a right to be under the circumstances. “Please . . . what’s wrong? We don’t understand.”
The old woman points a finger at Don. Her voice quavers. “John . . . you have come back. Please, someone tell me I’m dreaming.”
“I don’t understand,” Don says. I can tell that he’s as nervous as I am. “Do you know me and am I . . . John?”
But the old woman looks as though she has seen a ghost. A bubble of spittle forms at her lips as she keeps backing away and shaking her head.
The little girl pops out from somewhere and tugs at her skirt. “Grandmama, I checked. John’s still up there.”
The old woman – her rheumy eyes rolling in her skull – says in a whisper, “But John is dead. He has been dead for twenty years.”
A strange sensation – like a goose walking over my grave – grabs me by the marrow. At that moment, I achieve a glimmer of almost understanding. And then it goes away as quickly as it has appeared.
“Then I’m not John,” Don declares. “But I would like very much to hear what you have to say about him. Please, madam, I am not his ghost. As you can see, I am very much alive.”
For a split second, I am almost unsure. I glance at Don – at his splendid side profile. The perfectly shaped nose, the high cheekbones, the strong jaw. I recall the feel of his solid arms around me, the hypnotic pulse of his hard cock inside me. I have to repress a blush when I think of it.
The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense) Page 6
