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Shard 703: The Gravity of Desire

Does my good girl want to taste my cum?
It was a no frills fuck. No toys, no lingerie, no roleplay, no power exchange. They had exchanged a look in the car, a longer look in the hotel lobby, and in the elevator a fiery exchange of eye contact so incendiary if that old lady with the dog had not been standing behind them they would have started fucking right there.

It was a no frills fuck, and it didn’t last long. She walked into the room, turned and flopped backwards onto the bed, a dirty smile ricocheting across her face. He leaped headlong onto her as if swan-diving into a pool. Not a single piece of clothing was entirely removed. His pants were around his knees; her skirt was hiked up to the waist. She had torn open his shirt, buttons flying like popcorn. That he had taken the time to actually unbutton her blouse was only because it was one of her favorites, fashion temporarily trumping the extra few seconds lost in fumbling with the buttonholes.

She came first, and quickly, wrapping her arms and legs around him like vines around a trellis. He came moments later, thrusting deeply inside her and letting out an ursine wail before collapsing on top of her.

Cum was dripping down her ass and thighs; he could feel the sweet warm stickiness against his skin. He sent one arm snaking down between their legs, scooped up two fingers full of it, and held it over her mouth. A viscous blob of their shared juices was already threatening to spill over the side of his fingers.

“Is my good girl hungry?” he asked her. “Does she want my cum?”

“Our cum,” she corrected.

“Our cum,” he agreed, grinning devilishly.

“Yes. Your good girl wants our cum.”

He touched the tip of his tongue to the stuff. “It tastes like you. It tastes like me. All mixed together.”

“Yum,” she said.

He held his hand so that his fingers pointed down at her; the blob morphed into a long thick translucent rope, stretching down from his fingers, reaching out toward her tongue. Her tongue pushed out between her pouting lips and sought to make its way closer to the treat, a flower seeking sunlight.

“Don’t be greedy.”

She pulled back her tongue a fraction of an inch. The rope of cum grew longer, still attached to his fingers, the gooey thread bridging the gap between his finger and the droplet growing thinner and thinner.

She opened her mouth to receive it.

The thread grew thinner still, but maddeningly did not break. Time slowed, the moment lengthened, warped by the gravity of desire.

The pregnant drop of cum swelled, shimmering at the end of the seemingly unbreakable thread. Under the drop yawned a patch of empty space. Under the emptiness lay her open mouth, her outstretched tongue, her plum-red lips framing the sight as if it were a work of art, which of course it was.

The thread broke in slow motion, the pearly drop patiently separating from the thread by which it was hanging, forming a teardrop shape as it fell. Between the thread and the pearly drop formed another, much tinier drop, perfectly circular, hovering in the exact midpoint between the teardrop and the thread.

The world grew still. The sun paused in the sky. The second hand of the clock on the wall halted. No tic. No toc.

Her tongue, his finger, the teardrop, the tiny perfect sphere, the thread, all poised in time and space.

Then: time snapped back into place like a rubber band as the teardrop fell onto the side of her tongue, the tiny globe splashed onto her upper lip, the thread of cum retracted toward his finger.

He watched this small miracle before him, wide-eyed as a child.

She kept her tongue extended, felt the drop continuing its slide downward, watched the mesmerized focus of his eyes upon it. When the motion slowed, then stopped, she theatrically raised her tongue to her lip, licking off the tiny drop of cum. She smiled, her tongue and lips gleaming in the afternoon light.

“You were right,” she said. “It tastes like us. All mixed together.”

He bent down and kissed her, pining to know again the ripe flavor that painted her skin.

*

The Shard series is a collection of flash fiction pieces that focus on short scenes from the experiences, memories, fantasies and dreams of the narrator. Think of them as shards of a broken mirror.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © 2018 Verbal P. Incandenza | Yeah, not my real name, but I still wrote this. Be cool. Please don't steal it.

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