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Shades of She

Attempting to control my debauched inner vixen in the heat of the moment
Sometimes I wish She would not surface. I long to control Her, to be able to keep the cork firmly in its bottle despite the dark pressure, and only release my dirty genie when, and if, it suits me. Just once, it would give me immense satisfaction to have the strength to make Her stay inside when it mattered. No intrusion. No rabid hunger. To enjoy moments of intense highs at my own pace.

Moments like this one, my back shoved unceremoniously against the wall, eyes to the heavens while irrepressible staccato gasps are forced from my slack jaws with every sharp thrust. The wall clock above my head rebounds obediently in time to our actions and I swear even Kurt Cobain and the Red Hot Chili Peppers are judging me from nearby posters.

Not that I'm able to reflect upon how far I've fallen, from innocent to insatiable within such a short period. His hands support my weight, clutching my bottom beneath the hiked pleated skirt, panties long since torn from me and flung across the room that we'd burst inside, twirling and kissing, hands roaming impatiently across clothes, seeking skin before crashing against the far wall, the giggling subsiding as tongues set up a furious dance.

Dull thumps from the music emanate through the floor, each beat a reminder that we're on borrowed time. Any of the other partygoers might throw open the bedroom door at any moment and catch us in the spilled light, nowhere to hide. What would they think of me? Would they laugh? Utter an apology and leave? Stay and watch? I shiver. Exposure suddenly feels risky. Dangerous. Yet utterly thrilling.

She stirs and my legs wrap his torso, his belt buckle cold against my thigh. The shift of weight permits him to more easily bury his face in my neck. Light stubble first scuffs then scratches my tender flesh, his patchouli and cinnamon scent drifts between us, mixing with faint traces of wine and the distinct overtones of jasmine from my fiery sex.

I'm overcome with the raw energy between us. Never been more ready and willing to accept what he has to offer, despite the risqué circumstances. Barely ten minutes earlier we'd been holding hands downstairs, enjoying the company of our friends, laughter gradually turning raucous as the alcohol flowed. Now I'm struggling to keep quiet out of necessity, low mewls spilling into the dim room past a hastily bitten lip. I want to cry out in ecstasy, to scream the fucking place down. Instead, my hands clutch the back of his head, spurring him on even though he needs no urging to continue slamming inside my drooling, velvety tunnel.

Every time he buries his cock to the hilt inside me I shudder. This is what it feels like to be alive. To be impulsive. Reckless. Indecent. Hormones effervesce through my bloodstream, swelling my heart, making it race as we selfishly take what we need from one another without regard for the unfamiliar surroundings. Hot and hard, I start bouncing, using the wall as leverage to grind myself to meet his upstroke, our pubic bones colliding and crushing my exposed clit between us. God, I love it. The clicking wetness is audible over the muffled opening bars of Bust A Move a floor below us, our own rhythm syncopated with that of Young MC in his prime.

Nothing can beat this. No music, no food can top the binding togetherness laced with the thrill of potential discovery. The electric storm that whips between the two of us shoots lightning along my pussy walls and up to connect the swollen nubs at the apex of my breasts, straining beneath the thin turquoise fabric of my blouse. Responding to their call, I release his head and cup each mound, first squeezing the flesh before tweaking my hard nipples. Lust-filled messages consume my neural cortex and I can no longer contain my voice, panting and groaning his name as fire rages within me. His fingers dig into my ample bottom, the ramrod that pierces my soft folds takes on a ferocious pace and I start to lose control.

I sense Her welling from the pit of my stomach, the ethereal need unfurling like a pirate's flag, poisoning me with inky desire. I fight back, desperate to retain power as the thirst threatens to devour me from the inside. Although I know the result will be electrifying, it's the last thing I want when I'm this close to coming. Losing grip every second signifies failure on some level, my conscience tumbling away despite the mental gymnastics as She emerges. I want this to celebrate love, not cloaked lust. The blurred distinction between the two may be semantics, but to my inner bitch it's all about torrid execution.

As I wither and She blossoms, the fractured mirror between my worlds affords glimpses of my body being besieged like a virus through a hapless host. Nipple tweaks turn to pinches. My 36Cs begin to feel like E cups ready to burst and I thrash my head from side to side against the plasterboard, moaning, utterly possessed.

The top few buttons yield as I dig inside my bra and free my tits, kneading and rubbing the flesh to further throaty outbursts. My feet lock together, thighs squeeze around him, and pussy walls ripple to draw more of his savagery inside. I'm sure he detects the balance of power shifting within me; She and he are very well acquainted.

Fuelling Her unquenchable dirty desires, his hot breath invades my ear, whispering filthy names I fully deserve. The words filter into Her psyche and the subsequent nibbling of my earlobe triggers the complete transformation from wanting to wanton. She's rough to my gentle, not above leaving a mark. My hands fly involuntarily from my breasts to grapple with his T-shirt, seize his shoulders and sink my nails into his back.

Inner bloodlust erupts. She snarls to be fucked and I'm forced to take everything he gives in response. The bite marks on my reddening neck lead down to the swell of my chest, lewdly exposed. His teeth connect with a nipple and clamp around the teat at Her insistence, while my nails claw at his back in delight. He bites a little harder, swapping to the other nub and She makes me beg for more, revelling in the boundary between pleasure and pain being crossed.

I'm caged in my own body, a helpless spectator experiencing a fantastically intense ride. While She is shades of me, I momentarily don't seem to know myself. The limits I impose on my body when I'm in control are gone, replaced with a base desire to test them, to push, to explore my sexuality beyond the acceptable.

Far in the distance, as if they belong to someone else, explosions begin. Their epicentre isn't distinguishable at first, then all of a sudden everything rushes to a deep clarity and I gasp, frozen for an instant on his throbbing manhood. Fire roars from the tips of my distended nipples down my belly and whips around my clit. The starburst gives me a head rush and everything slows briefly before a white heat spills into my soaked cunt and a series of deep spasms take hold. I milk his wonderful cock for all it's worth, rewarded by the sound of him groaning alongside me as jets of searing come lash my pulsing interior. Our worlds collide and we're momentarily fused, the sweet high of release overwhelming my battered body. She basks in it too, glowing with every kaleidoscopic wave, sated. For now.

I'm lost in the silent roar of orgasm, reality muted, unable to account for my inveterate groaning, a thudding heart my only focus until the grip-release cycle starts to tail off and the room gradually rights. Only when our eyes meet do I reanimate, embracing him in wordless thanks before disentangling and being gingerly returned to Earth.

On shaky feet but sporting a wide grin, I make myself presentable and scout the room for my panties, locating them snagged on the corner of the radiator. They're ruined, the waistband ripped beyond repair, so I simply use them to mop as much of the beautiful, sticky seed oozing from inside me as I can.

We share a satisfied smile before joining hands and stealing from the room, leaving behind no trace of our indiscretion, save for the musky reek of sex and my soiled underwear in the wastebasket.

Rejoining the party downstairs, wetness drizzles gently from me, a delicious souvenir of our decadence. As we dance, part of me wonders what my friends would think if they were to notice the glistening trail extending down my thigh. Would they connect the dots of our absence with my flushed exterior? Can they smell my obvious arousal?

I tingle inside and She greedily feasts on my thinly veiled integrity. My depraved core, hiding in plain sight.

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

Copyright © Copyright 2018 Belle Fleure. All Rights Reserved.

Please respect my intellectual property and do not reproduce, display, modify or distribute this work without my permission.

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