Goode Vibrations

by Jasinda Wilder

  I could not breathe for the aching stretching enormity of Errol inside me, fully filling me. I was split open, glutted around him.

  “Fuck, oh fuck,” he snarled. “Holy fuck, Poppy. Holy fuck.”

  I gripped the bedspread in my fists and pushed myself backward, and he pushed harder against me and somehow there was more of him to fill me, and then his hands were gripping my ass and now, now he was pulling back and I ached for the emptiness within where he just was. I cried out, needing him to fill me, stunned at the wondrous ache of absence.

  His grip on the crease of my hip and curve of my ass was rough, harsh, wild. I gloried in it. In the fingerprints he’d leave. Slowly, once again carefully and gently, he thrust all the way into me, and now our moans were synched. One groan, two throats.

  “Poppy,” he breathed.

  “Harder,” I sighed.

  “Oh thank fuck,” he whispered, and withdrew.

  Fucked into me, and now it was real, now it was on. He shoved his huge slick hard hot cock into me and his hips slapped against my ass and he held the cheeks apart to get deeper and I pushed against him with his next thrust, pulled forward when he pulled back and rolled my ass back into him when he next thrust in.

  Again, and again, his cock drilling in, my thrusts meeting his.

  “Poppy,” he moaned, and there was a question in his voice.

  “Huh?” An answering wordless moan was all I could manage.

  “You feel too fucking good,” he growled. “I want it to last forever, but you feel too fucking good.”

  He pushed deep, thrusting hard, and I felt his balls tap against me. I curled backward into myself, reached between my thighs. Felt his shaft like a piston sliding into me, and then I felt his sac fill my hand, and I squeezed. He snarled, leonine and guttural, so his next thrust I did it again.

  “Want you to come,” I gasped, voice tremoring as his thrust shook me, as he fucked into me hard. “Come for me, Errol.”

  “Don’t wanna come yet. Want to fuck you forever.” He lost his voice as I caressed his balls on his next pounding thrust. “Fuck, when you do that, Poppy? Makes me insane. Feels so fucking good. Too fucking good. Can’t last much longer, you make me feel too fucking good…”

  I had to grip the pillow and writhe against the mattress and scream into the bedspread as he drilled into me, thrust after thrust, and each one I caught at his balls and squeezed and kneaded. Until his thrusts faltered, and I heard his breathing go hoarse and heard him whimper, a low masculine sound of desperation, of abandonment.

  “I can’t—” he whispered, voice breaking. “Can’t…can’t stop it.”

  Pushed into me, and now his thrusts were deeper without pulling out, and I had his balls in both my hands, cupping and squeezing, and his groan became one of agonized disbelief as I clenched around his balls and kept him from coming as he let go. He was pulsing against me, gripping my ass and spreading me apart and pushing deeper, and now he was shouting as I clenched hard, holding on to him a beat longer.

  And then released him, my grip now soft and caressing, squeezing his delicate pulsating sac in time with the rhythm of the vein I felt behind his balls.

  He shouted, a loud hoarse broken male scream of release. “POPPY!” A wordless, guttural roar as another quaking wave wrenched him, and he jerked out of my grip and pulled back to fuck me, twice, three times, fucking me hard through his release, and then another wave crushed him in its grip and I had his balls in my palms again, kneading now, swift and gently as he feathered small helpless thrusts deeper and deeper and deeper.

  His face was slack against my spine, his breath hot and damp, and he was limp.

  He let me go, and I fell forward, and he went with me, covering me, lying on top of me.

  “Holy shit,” he murmured.

  “No kidding,” I breathed.

  I was aching.

  Crushed by him, but not minding.

  “Poppy.” A question in the form of a flat statement. “You didn’t come again.”

  “No, but I came three times before you did, so—”

  I never got the rest out, and he was sliding down my body, gathering himself slowly as if summoning the strength to even move, lips stuttering over my spine, and now his lips kissed the swell of my right ass cheek and then he was pushing me over onto my back and curling down between my thighs.

  He kissed me.

  He kissed my sex, lips slathering over my clit, worshipping slow and soft.

  This was not just to make me come so we were “even,” oh no, this was something else.

  Thanks for the way I’d made him come, as if he owed me thanks for the fuck of a lifetime.

  I could die right now and die happy, knowing I’d been well and truly fucked.

  But yet, he wasn’t satisfied.

  He used his fingers to pry open my slit and bare my clit for his mouth, and this was all about making me come, but…the speed, the gentility, the silky slither of his tongue and the soft press of his lips, it was about giving me…something.

  What, I couldn’t name.

  But something.

  “Errol?” A gasp, as I flew out of my depth.

  “Just take it,” he whispered, the words huffing against my taut nether lip and swollen clit. “Take it, and say my name when you come.”

  I took it from him, and I didn’t just say his name when I finally came again, for the fourth time in I had no clue how much time—I screamed it.

  I screamed his name until my voice broke and the sound of his name on my tongue lost meaning—semantic satiation, a professor had called that phenomenon.

  I think I actually passed out.

  When I returned to awareness, I was on my belly still, and my sex was aching and pulsing and tingling, and I was awash with post-orgasmic blissed-out glow. I heard a faucet running, managed to pivot my head until I could see into the bathroom. Errol was standing naked in front of the toilet, in the act of peeling the condom off, careful not to spill, wrapped it in a folded wad of toilet paper, which he then used to wipe himself with, and then discarded the whole in the trash. Washed his hands. Dried them. Returned to me, dick swinging long and limp.

  Fierce blue eyes, going soft with affection as he saw me.

  He tugged the blanket out from under me, covered me with it. Lay down under the blankets beside me. We were both unsure of what was next.

  I wasn’t a cuddler after sex, and I felt like he wasn’t normally, either.

  I twisted my head the other way; still unable and unwilling to move any more than was necessary. Stared at him.

  Words failed us both.

  My eyes fluttered. He was within reach; close enough I felt his body heat warming us under the blanket. On his back, next to me, head to one side.

  I was a stomach sleeper, and so I let myself float.

  My eyes flickered open, briefly, partially, and he had one hand across his chest, the other down his side, near mine.

  Another floating drifting in the warm darkness of near-sleep. Another flutter of my eyes, but this time I saw nothing. Too dark. But I felt him.

  I felt his hand in mine.

  I didn’t withdraw mine. His hand in mine was a strange comfort in this drowsing dark of unfamiliar comfort, this blissful sleep of absolute safety and absolute satiety.

  I’ve never, ever, not once, finished sex and felt utterly sated. I always felt like there was something missing. Like I hadn’t come all the way. Or not enough. Or, that I hadn’t gotten enough of him, or that there wasn’t enough of him to fill me, to complete me.

  I was so used to that feeling that this, this satiated existential physical wonder…it was too much.

  Unfamiliar.

  Frightening.

  But only frightening—and indeed, more truly termed terrifying—because now I would never feel sated again.

  Sex would never be the same.

  Fucking would never be the same.

  Orgasms, touch, kisses, none of it would ever be the same, now that I kne
w what this felt like.

  Errol

  I woke to near darkness.

  Aware of her.

  Aware that I was aching with renewed and intensified need for her.

  On my side, facing her, hearing her slumber, soft girlish snores.

  She was still on her stomach, and I didn’t think she’d moved.

  I drowsed back under.

  * * *

  Woke again, later. Achingly hard.

  Dull reddish-orange light streaming like a knife through the darkness from between an inch-wide crack in the curtains. Felt her against my body. Couldn’t help but hold. Reached, filled my hands with soft curves.

  She murmured in her sleep.

  Wiggled, rolled to face away, pressed deeper against me.

  This was spooning?

  God, now I got it.

  Now, with this glorious creature of womanly perfection nestled in my arms, feeling her soft curves pressed all against me, I got it.

  Drowsed again, and this time it was to fall more fully asleep than before.

  * * *

  The next time consciousness returned, it was slowly, and disorienting. All was dark in my world.

  I ached.

  Yet something began to soothe the ache. Something caressed the ache with unhurried affection. I heard a sound, and I think it was me, and I was moaning my appreciation of the soothing caress of my ache.

  Darkness receded, and the soothing caress intensified. Became more than merely soothing.

  And that was when I awoke more fully. Eyes flickered, shuttered, opened. Full daylight streaming white-yellow through the crack in the curtains. Blankets were gone. I was on my back. A shape was above me. Curled, curved over me. I felt hair tickling my thighs and belly, obscuring her face. She was sitting on my thighs, hair splayed in a curtain around her and over me. I felt her small strong hands around my cock and her tight wet mouth was on me.

  “Ohhhhhffffuuuuck,” I growled, my voice sleep-rough. “Poppy?”

  No answer. She just continued her ministrations.

  I pulled her hair into my hands and held it, curled it around my fist, and now I could watch in the dim light as she went down on me. Slow, unhurried. Fists pumping and twisting around my base and shaft, mouth suctioned around the head.

  Her eyes met mine in the near dark, and a smile lit up her eyes.

  I wanted her.

  This, yes, always.

  But her.

  I tried to pull her up, but she shook her head. Paused, let me fall out of her mouth. “Just take it, Errol,” she murmured, echoing my words from the night before. “Take it and enjoy it.” A hot grin, her lips curving against my cock, and then her tongue slid up my erection. “Take it and say my name when you come.”

  And then her mouth went over the top of my cock and down, her lips stretched around me, and her fists pumped twisted. She backed away and caressed my length, and then put her mouth on me and took as much of me as she could, or wanted to—I didn’t care which, I only knew that it felt incredible.

  Again, and again. Mouth down my shaft, sucking. Tongue flicking and licking as I slid out of her mouth. Pump, twist, caress, lick the tip, lick the seeping, weeping droplets of precum. I groaned as the first shudders started in me, low in my gut, in my bones, my balls boiling, cock hardening further, swelling as she gulped around me, spat me out and kissed the head.

  Then, as I began to grind, began to thrust helplessly, she just gripped me at the root and held me away from my belly and went down, bobbing, tongue working.

  My hands gripped and knotted in her hair. I fought for air, for words. “Poppy…I’m…oh fuck.” Words eluded me.

  I knew there something I was supposed to do, let her know I couldn’t hold out, couldn’t wait. But I was gone, brain melted, my whole body arched up off the bed and she was sucking me higher and higher to an ever more elevated state of existential ecstasy, and I was not me, not a man, not even a person, just a being of pure sexuality, pure pleasure, and purely at her mercy.

  “Pop—Poppy…” I gasped, her name a whisper, a breathless benediction. “Poppy…”

  I exploded, and she moaned a sound of surprise, gulped, and somehow went deeper, took more of me, pumped me hard and fast and I exploded again, a sound rasping out of me, something like her name but a hoarse whimper of her name, and only my heels and shoulders were touching the mattress, the rest of me bent upward nearly to breaking and she still did not relent but sucked the very life out of me, a sensual succubus; I groaned in disbelief, and still she sucked until I broke, until I could not come any more, and even then she suckled and licked and kissed as I descended helplessly back under the frothing churning surface of wakefulness.

  I felt her cheek against my belly. Her hand petting my cock as if it was a favorite pet.

  I moaned, murmured, tried to rouse myself, because now I needed, wanted, was ravenous for her pleasure, for her to scream, but I was utterly spent and couldn’t even stir a finger.

  “Ssshhh.” She wiggled up my body, cheek sliding against my belly, diaphragm, and then resting on my chest. Thumb on my lips, then grazing gently over my eyelids like a battlefield priest closing the eyes of a deceased warrior. “Shush, Errol. Back to sleep.”

  I had no fight. I slept, and it was with her in my arms, and it felt like, for the first and only time in my life, the whole of the universe was finally oriented correctly, as if something had clicked into place.

  * * *

  The last time I woke, she was asleep beside me, on her stomach once more, hand curled up against her cheek. Plump buttocks bare, blanket rucked at the backs of her knees.

  Hair a spray of inky black around her tanned shoulders and wisping around her lips, her back a sexy curve, a delicate sinuous line from shoulder to ass, one thigh drawn up, the other stretched out.

  My stomach rumbled, and my entire being demanded coffee, so I dressed silently in my stubbies and a tank top and thongs, headed out for the Maccas I’d seen back down the other way a kilometer or two. Hit the drive-thru, got four large black coffees and four different breakfast orders of various items that sounded good to me. Brought it all back and tiptoed in, juggling the bags and the key and trying to quietly close the door.

  She stirred as I set the food down on the small table near the window, rolling to her back, bringing one foot up under her other knee, arm across her face, the other splayed across the bed. Breasts draped to one side as she was tilted slightly. Unaroused, her nipples were fat flat buttons of pink. Belly button was a tiny dimple between the lush expanse of tan flesh between her breasts and sex.

  Her sex was a pink rosebud, partially opened with the way her thighs were splayed, thigh bent up ninety degrees, calf and foot angled down under the opposite thigh. I brought one coffee over to her side of the bed, removed the top so it would cool. Crawled onto the bed, and she stirred, head swiveling to the other side, making a soft smacking sound with her lips.

  Bracing my hands on either side of her hips, I bent over her sex. Huffed a hot breath on it. She mewled quietly, hips flexing. Oh, she was ready for it. I licked up her slit, ending with a pressing swirl over the nub of her prominent clit. She flexed her hips again, mewled more loudly, shifted, wiggled. I let her settle, and then went to pleasuring her with slow precise licks—up and down, side to side, circles; up and down, side to side, circles; again and again, and now her huffing breath and mewling voice were louder, more insistent, and her hips began to move to match my tongue, lifting and circling, flexing and swaying. I held her lips apart and shoved my tongue inside her, and she gasped, and I think that was the first moment she began to surface toward wakefulness.

  “Errol…” she whimpered, soft, sleepy—not sleepy, asleep. Dreaming.

  “Come for me, Poppy,” I murmured.

  “Mmmm…” she breathed. “More…more.”

  I gave her more. She seemed to like being fingered while I ate her out, so I gave her two fingers curling up and in, and she responded by gasping aloud, but a glance to
ld me she was still dreaming, thinking this was a dream.

  Let her dream of being pleasured, then. As long as I got to feel her come, hear her scream, taste her pleasure.

  It didn’t take long. I had her bucking within a few minutes, and I felt her hands reaching for me, so I helped her find my head, my hair, and I grunted as she tangled her fingers into my hair with knotting strength, jerking me hard against her slick wet hot sex.

  And then, as I fingered her the way she liked it, licked her the way she needed it, she came.

  And as she came, her eyes flew open, wild and confused and desperate and bliss-fraught. “Errol?”

  “Say my name, Poppy,” I growled, pausing only briefly. “Come for me, and say my name.”

  “Errol! Fuck, Errol!”

  She came, and I tasted her pleasure as it washed through her, and she writhed against me, held me against her and rode my mouth and screamed a deafening scream.

  Finally, the orgasm left her, and she wilted.

  She pulled at me, and I crawled up. Sat beside her. She clung to me, rested her head on my thigh. I reached over and carefully grabbed the hot coffee. Blew across the top, toward her.

  She mewled. Shook her head. “Sleepy.”

  “So sleep.”

  “But…coffee.”

  “And pancakes, and hash browns, and McGriddles, and sausage, egg, and biscuit sandwiches, and…something else, I’ve forgot what.”

  She huffed. “Fine,” she growled, as if I’d insisted she rouse herself.

  And sat up, tugged the blanket up to her waist, but otherwise stayed naked from the waist up, which I thoroughly appreciated, especially when she shifted and wiggled to get her pillows behind her just so and the blanket this way, making her tits jiggle and shimmy delightfully.

  I handed her the coffee, and she took it, closed her eyes and inhaled the steam, and then took a slow, careful, slurping sip.

  Handed it to me, watched me with every bit as much lustful intensity as I’d watched her.

  * * *

  We shared the coffee without talking.