Callie
I don’t plan on sharing with him, I don’t plan on walking around his desk and looking into his jet-black eyes, and I don’t plan on initiating a kiss. At each turn, I surprise myself. I suppose I could blame it on the whisky, say that I am behaving this way because of the alcohol coursing through my veins, but the lust and the feeling coursing through my veins is thicker than the whisky.
Damien is the first person I have been close to since Mom died. Damien is the first person who I’ve been comfortable sharing with. Maybe that will pass when this night passes. Maybe my insecurities will return. But for now—I blot out my thoughts. I blot out my second-guesses and my maybe-he’s-using-me and I blot out my terror, the always-present terror that everything is on the cusp of going wrong. For once, I just listen to my lust, and my lust tells me to kiss him.
Damien leans in with me. Our lips touch. Heat erupts between us, spreading from our lips over our faces. I keep my eyes open, and so does he; we stare into each other’s eyes as we open our mouths and thrust our tongues into each other. His mouth tastes like whisky, but then, so does mine. He lets out low groans, and I moan with him.
He is wearing a T-shirt and scuffed jeans and boots, looking every bit the wild biker with his thorny tattoos and his jet-black stubble.
He grabs me under the armpits and lifts me up, bringing me to his lap. I open my legs and sit atop him, straddling him in the President’s chair. His cock presses through his jeans. I can feel it. I am usually nervous in sexual encounters, even when drunk, but now I feel at ease. I don’t know why, but I feel comfortable reaching down and grabbing his cock through his jeans, squeezing it with my hand. It is huge, so big it’s difficult to tell where the mass begins and ends squashed in his jeans. I fiddle with his belt, all the while kissing, all the while urgent signals of pleasure and lust rippling through every part of my body.
I fiddle with the belt, but my hands are clumsy. My hands are experts when it comes to stealing, or secreting away items I don’t want anybody else to see, or taking the keys from a guard’s sleeping hands, but with Damien’s belt, they are useless. Damien makes a growling noise, lifts me up by my armpits, and carries me through the door into the bedroom. He tosses me onto the bed. I land, jolt up into the air, let out a scream. But it’s a scream of delight, not of fear, and there is laughter in it.
Damien stands over me for a moment, staring down with hard, black eyes. Then he lifts his T-shirt, showing his thorny tattoo: the flowerless garden on his back spreads around his ribcage. I feel my mouth go dry at the sight of his muscles, bulging, massive, tight, honed. Without even thinking, I reach down and pull down my panties, throwing them to the floor. My pussy is naked and wet, ready. Damien tugs down his jeans.
His cock really is massive. It springs up, long and thick. I swallow, nervous for a moment, wondering how a small woman like me can take something so huge. But then my lust overrides my nervousness, and all at once I’m hungry to try.
Damien leans over me on the bed, gazing down at me with those unflinching black eyes.
“Kiss me,” I say, voice becoming hoarse, as if what I am feeling is too much for my voice to handle.
He presses his lips hard into mine. I close my eyes now, sinking into the pleasure, and lift my hands to his back. The muscle bulges against my hands. I dig my fingernails into his skin as the kiss lengthens, our tongues stroking over and over, and then as his hand reaches down my belly and to my pussy, I dig my nails in deeper.
He presses his finger down on my clit, hard, harder than any man has ever pressed his finger on my clit. It takes me by surprise and I break off the kiss and throw my head back and almost let out a cry. Then I remember that there are probably men in the next room, and bite down. Damien stares down into my face. I get the sense that he’s enjoying watching the pleasure he’s giving me, and so I arch my back as he rubs my clit. The clit—it is magic, surely. At least the way Damien touches it. He goes side to side, and then around, and then, when he has warmed it to his touch, he presses down hard again and rubs in earnest.
I close my legs around his hand. An orgasm is something a man has rarely given me, something I have always had to give myself. But now, as Damien rubs me, I feel one approaching, the first tickles of wind before a hurricane. He rubs quicker, his breathing getting quicker, too, and I find that so damn hot, that just getting me off is getting him off, too, that the tickles of wind become gusts, gusts of euphoric wind moving through my body, causing my muscles to become tight. I close my hands into fists on his back, and then—
“Yes, yes, yes,” I moan, or hear myself moan. I am faraway, caught up in the hurricane.
The orgasm blows through me, touching every part of my body. I squeeze my legs around Damien’s hand, telling him with my thighs that I want him to keep rubbing; I cannot tell him with my lips, they are too busy moaning. It starts at my clit as a point of extreme heat, and then spreads up through my belly, hotter for the whisky, and up and up to my breasts and my neck and my face. I feel a flush creep up my neck to my cheeks. My toes curl. I bounce on his hand, taking more pleasure, getting hotter, deeper pleasure. And then it passes, and Damien removes his hand and stares down at me, wide-eyed. His eyes are still black, but they are swirling horny pools of black.
“I need you,” he says, his voice choked.
“Then take me,” I reply, my voice just as choked.
He looks at me like an animal ready to fuck, and it drives me fucking wild. He reaches down and grabs his cock and guides it to my waiting, aching pussy. I am so wet that when the tip of his huge cock touches my hole, it opens for him straightaway. The biggest cock I have ever seen—and I just open for him. I am letting him in, emotionally and physically. I am in new territory here.
He thrusts his hips, and the tip of his cock pushes ahead of the base, thrusting deep into my pussy, the tip touching my deep, hot spot and the base pressing against the walls of my pussy. Pleasure, burning, fills me down there until I cannot feel any particular sensation, only an overwhelming sense of heat. I want to look up into his face, but the pleasure is too intense. My eyes are blurry with it.
Then we begin to fuck, and I am lost to the world.
He pounds into me and I take all of him, as hard as he can give it. We are both too horny and too hungry to start slow. It is rough, quick, hard, a pounding that throws us both right into the midst of the pleasure at once. I lift my legs and bounce up and down on his cock, the sheets rubbing against my back, sticky with sweat, and with my hands I grip his bulbous shoulder muscles, using them as handles to better bounce up and down. Damien thrusts up, angling his cock so that it smashes into my sweet spot perfectly; each thrust sends ripples of pleasure throughout me, ripples which soon become waves, and then tsunamis.
I moan loudly, no longer caring that people might hear. Let them hear! This is our moment, nobody else’s, and I will not be quiet for it. I bounce, fast, faster, until we have reached a perfect, rough rhythm, until his cock is drilling into me and I am bouncing in time with the drilling. Until the tsunamis of pleasure are roiling so quickly through my body I hardly have time to react. Sweat slides down Damien’s forehead onto me, and I hardly feel it, only the heat of it, the heat of him, on and in me.
I tear my hands down his back, down, down, feeling pricks of blood, and then I feel my hole getting tight.
“Oh, fuck,” Damien groans, thrusting harder past the tightness.
“I’m going to—”
The tsunamis surge through me at impossible speed, one after another after another. I close my legs around Damien’s hips, linking my ankles behind his back, pulling him into me. The orgasm hits. I am floating atop the tsunamis, being carried far, far away, being carried into a land of unspeakable pleasure. I pull him into me with my feet, harder, desperate for more. It is hot, and wet, so fucking hot and so fucking wet. Oh, oh, oh—
“Oh, fuck, fuck, yes, Damien. Yes, yes!”
I am not ashamed of the pleasure. I am not embarrassed by it.
I tilt my hips, arch my back, and drive my pussy down on his cock in one last ferocious taking of pleasure. Damien gasps as my pussy and his cock come together in the most perfect way, and then I turn my head and bite down on the pillow, the last waves of the orgasm hitting me. When the orgasm has passed, I look up into his face and see his pleasure written on his features.
He comes inside of me with a series of loud groans, and then collapses, exhausted, onto my chest, face on my neck, breath on my skin.