“I don't believe illusions 'cos too much is real” The Sex Pistols.
A dark corner of a smoke filled house where sweet strawberry mulled instantly with ice and puffs from a weed lagoon with smoke snaking through its three tentacles into the beckoning lungs of youthful lounging girls, one guy tarted up in years but not bedraggling them, and another guy like a formation of rocks trying to adjust his mound to appear as a mountain might had it the valleys and plains to lord over. Three of them were nineteen years of age and full of capers, the other in the tumult of his roaring twenties.
A wistful few hours spent slamming tongues, loitering against historic moments of carnage days, stroboscopic memories, summaries of gutted ordinaries, lyrical tracks tucked beneath bellyfuls of laughter, some rhythmic sparring with invisible allies of melody, half nods to demigods of poise and composition.
A dark corner of a house. One girl stripped off her clanking belt buckle pinned to its strap, slithered in jeans that hissed across the skin of her braying legs.
Somehow without sight his hands weaved his own garments in quick succession seamlessly losing apparel in proportion to her own vanishing dirt-bag fashion.
She moves in the darkness, shrugs and twists slightly but quickly. He writhes off her top, scoops both hands behind her back and claws her bra releasing the pearly skinned breasts that bob in the lost deep dark air.
Down his tongue slides, unsealing her cunt from the clamped vestiture of cotton briefs patterned with threads of paled pink.
The first note of flavour peeps from her held frame, then sincere tongue strokes deepen the colour of desire between her thighs, razoring against the brim of her pussy. Her legs corresponding overlap in the succulent farming of her pubis. His cock hardening, changing its stature from a perched hooded angel to a bird about to take flight.
It was a house furnished with nothing else but darkness. There was shuffling, the shifting of a door, the closing of another. There was chuckling from another room muffled as if a cast aside memory by the sheer space its mirror had to reflect.
Frescoing her cunt with laps of saliva, licks of bedewed fluid streaming down her crest. Ducking up for air and leaning over her handsome body, he dabbed the tip of his cock upon the conscience of her physical pleasure. Then perching back down again, looking up, he sees her two knees like spotlights in the darkness, illuminated by a stream of moonlight.
At a moments notice, because index finger was massaging inside her, from behind, moist sweat and sloppy cunt juice, thumb popped into anus, pincer moving the two holes, at a moments notice, a shot of an idea, a waft of inspiration, her anus was slippery from the trickles of moisture, from both saliva and cunt sap, that he felt she was proffering a foray into either chamber.
Cock was wavering like a divining rod, his frame unfolded forward and the pith of his penis entered her anus.
A shock, a spasm, she flipped one arm sideways and limped her hand, legs quivered and triggered a flash of streetlight from outside. His hand held her down, “Just breath” he said, “Now relax”, pushing in again, the inevitable terseness lapsed, “Relax everything” and she did.
There was a thud. Did it come from the next room? He retreated to the door, she rolled over and sat up. He looked out of the room, emptiness, the long hallway crept its distance to the front door. Two narrow windows on each side of the front door took in the suburban glow, but there was no movement. There was another thud. He ascertained it must be coming from the room next door, a thud, and then a slap, a slap and then a thud, slap, thud, slap, thud … moans pried through the drumming of skin and knees pounding the wooden floorboards.
He was inside the room once more, “Close the door” she said, he snapped it shut. There was no lock except for the anchoring of his eyes on the easy feeling crossed-legged girl watching him with a grin of curiosity. He wondered if she expected from him the same tempest of fuck rapturing from the other room. Her kiss sort of said she didn't. He had kneeled beside her, one hand on her breast, one hand guiding hers to his cock.
She shook it like a Maraca rather than coaxing it back from its dwindled position brought on by the oaring through the chilly blackness as the first thud was heard, when he got up to investigate. He fastened his hand around her wrist and slowed the motion in line with their preening tongues.
He felt a frustrated urgency to be spontaneously erect and functional because of the mound of rocks avalanching from the adjacent room. Did she want to be moaning right now as her friend was moaning? Were they competitive friends? Would they both want to retell, embellish and compare their sexual adventure with each other afterwards? An idea entered into his head; carpet burn. This room had carpet, the other, mere floorboards. The proof would lie in the pudding. Mild carpet burn is a rather painless but effective trophy of lustful tussling. If she needed medals, he would reward them.
He filtered his mind of all conscious thoughts and allowed sensation to bask once more in the fondles of plaited limbs. Fingers tickled the underside of her cunt once more, she clinched the shaft of his cock and with striking yanks steeled it into a sturdy mast.
She was all fours, her arse a buttress against his pelvis, legs in an upright squat, and cock scooping into the folds of her cunt. The shadows blinkered to each thrust, her rich crimson hair stranded each follicle across bucking shoulders, his cock stamped and sent an orgasm promise with every landing. She huffed and cooed, fanned her fingers across the floor. Embedded in the wall at the other side of the room a cold dirty fireplace gaped in awe below its mantle, he held her thighs firmly. Balls knocked home runs against the mat of her pubis. She shed her way across the carpet an inch or two, a prickling gasp of delirium must have collided with her as she grunted her breath into the shag, he catapulted his cock into the open air and snuggled it into the crevice of her arse crack, milking out vital vestiges of their tryst.
Talk came beckoning from the next room, yet, still in the masked atmosphere of the void which surrounded them, he pressed into her and they cradled each other in the engulf of endorphins that flirted with the echo of nothingness hanging still in the enclosed night.
Afterwards, at the phone booth, as the two girls were calling a taxi. He asked if he could see her again. A well worn line but suitably spoken by the lonely light of a phone booth. His male friend was visibly flexing his pride at the evenings outcome, his female companion for the night reclining her ear against the receiver.
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