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Broke Down

Car sputters to a stop in the heat and dust. Middle of a long ride from nowhere to nowhere else. Too much driving numbs his legs and it feels good to walk that last hundred yards. He doesn’t feel shaky by the time he reaches the lonely diner that must have been something back before they put in the highway ten miles west of wherever he is.

The old screen door slaps shut too loud, but he’s too dragged out to flinch. So's the bored, slow moving waitress sitting on one of the counter stools. It's not cool but cooler inside while a pair of ceiling fans wave like zombie traffic cops.

The waitress half turns to see who comes in. Cheap, cotton uniform stretches across the side curve of a round breast while her thigh looks too smooth for a place like this. Wild hair falls around her shoulders like tendrils of midnight, but it's the feline disinterest in heavy lidded eyes makes him stop in the middle of the room and wonder where he is.

Her lips curl into a shape they haven’t named yet. He feels like a paralyzed fool until he remembers he’s supposed to keep moving. Takes a seat at the counter. Empty stool between them.

She turns her face back down to the face staring up from her coffee cup. He studies her profile and notices the faint shimmer of body heat on her neck. A few seconds pass in which he thinks he can see the pulse. She takes his gaze like so much business as usual, but he finally looks down at the worn Formica.

"Car broke down," he says, even though she doesn’t ask.

"Don’t they all?" she says. Then: "Get you something?"

"Coffee. Pie. Couple 'a burgers. Fries. Tall glass 'a water."

"That it?" she asks.


She looks a question at him. He looks back real hard. Thinking. Her face is like a thousand different things coming together without a seam. She’s the end of some inexplicable continuum and the rest of the universe is rushing to catch up to the stool she’s sitting on.

Conspicuous breasts push at the buttons of her uniform with lazy heaves of breath. Deep valley of secrets and skin like someone poured raw honey on her once and never got around to licking it off. There’s a patina of fatigue around her that has nothing to do with sleeping. It’s down inside her bones, and yet everything stuck to her bones is like a concert he doesn’t have a ticket for.

But he’s thinking.

Then thinking again.

Asking himself too much and never enough.

How does everything come together like this? All the pieces of flesh and bone and eyes like tiny raining midnights where he sits aching for the kind of pain she stands to wreak upon his finished spirit one fine day.

So he slides onto the stool next to hers. He picks up her hand. Their fingers hesitate but then lace. She casts a sidelong glance and her hand begins to dance under his. Her skin feels like a whole summer of Sunday evenings. She thumbs his lifeline and angles her face to let him half way inside.

Their eyes lock and her thumb grinds hard into his palm.

"Did you ever have an uncontrollable urge to say whatever you're really thinking to a stranger?”

Curious amusement flickers in the coal mines of her eyes.

“Like if you see someone,” he keeps going, “who touches you like a train derailing because she's…’just so’ in an odd, particular way? Like there's something about her too brash and sensuous to name, but she wears it like a negligee of sadness…”

“No,” she says, “I never had that kind of urge.”

“…and when you look at her,” he keeps going, watching her little white lie bob up and down at the base of her throat, “…everything just kind of settles down in a certain place, and if you never got to kiss you'd spend the rest of your life coming back to the nagging ‘what if, what if, what if’ because you know your lips would tell each other stories no one else would ever understand."

Somewhere in the back, something that isn’t a clock makes a ticking sound like a clock.

"You talk crazy," she says. “Like ya musta escaped someplace.” But her eyes smolder. "Besides, it ain't on the menu."

"Yeah," you almost grin. "And the road I got here on ain’t on no map."

She looks like she wants to laugh but then her jaw sets and quivers just enough to keep it down. She flows off the stool onto her feet. There's a lazy dance in her hips when she goes behind the counter. She struts toward the kitchen, humming and snapping a dishrag on the counter with a crisp snap.

"Coffee. Pie. Couple 'a burgers. Fries. Tall glass 'a water. Right?”

He catches his distorted reflection in the stainless steel coffee urn. It makes the way he nods look a sideshow contortionist.

She heads for the grill, giving him the full profile of her body. She’s all curves and shimmering moisture, as if she’s continually dripping over and off of herself. She flips a pair of raw patties on the griddle and the smell of cooking meat is never far behind the sizzle.

“Medium or well on them burgers?” she tosses off her shoulder.

“Yeah, sure,” he tells her.

"Comin' right up," she says.

She turns away from the meat and drops a basket of spuds in the fryolater. A quarter smile doesn’t play at the corner of her mouth while she dances with machines that don’t dance back. She sees him but doesn’t look, feels him and stands her linoleum ground, going about the calm work of her hips and hands, keeping mostly where he can see.

Her body and uniform are constantly moving in opposite directions. It gets impossible to watch and even more impossible to look away, so he gets off his stool and walks outside. Sits down on the old park bench by the door, leans his head back and lets the desert sun make him sweat. The heat is exquisitely punishing.

Even with his eyes closed he sees her moving behind the grill, and by the time she shifts into the space between awake and dozing, the door twangs open and slaps.

“S’ready,” her voice slithers around the edge of his half dream.

He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t have to. The door slaps again as she goes back in.

By the time he steps inside she’s leaning into the turn around the counter. Hips round the corner at a different speed than the rest of her. He sits on the stool in front of where his order’s set down. He starts eating while she cleans around the grill. Her hands look strong. She catches him watching the way she handles the dishrag, shows a flash of self-conscience before leaning back to the work she’s already done enough of.

He’s ravenous but takes his time. There’s a bigger appetite brewing in the back of his mind. Curiosities about a raven desert flower hiding out in a place that doesn’t seem necessary anymore.

“I’m guessing you don’t just work here,” he says between swallows. Waits.

“Naw,” she says. “Don’t just work here.”

Whatever was ticking before has stopped. He looks around and doesn’t see a clock, but he’s not disappointed. The only time of day is that which is told by the heat.

“Just you?”

She nods, half with her head, half with her eyelids. In the second it takes, her eyes resemble almonds wrapped in some other kind of silk. The way it strikes him makes him take a pause.

“How’d you come onto the place?”

Her eyes roll away. “Won it in a poker game.”

Sometimes a white lie isn’t a white lie. It’s a diplomatic way of saying don’t ask.

“Guess you don’t see many people.”

She stops wiping and looks at him. He straightens on the stool, just watching her back, waiting to see if she’ll flinch under his stare but she doesn’t. He sees most of what she’s made of under the uniform and knows she doesn’t belong in it but she wears it for whatever reasons she has and keeps it on. A hundred more curiosities tumble off the ledge in the back of his mind.

She drops the rag and walks back around the counter. She sits a stool away, back against the counter and leans. Her spine curls and her breasts push forward. A long, groaning breath seeps out of her, pushing out the lethargy of too much solitude and not enough to do. She crosses her legs because the uniform won’t let her sit too many other ways. Her thighs are almost brown, almost thick, almost gleaming.

“You know many worth seein’?” she asks.

There’s a catch in her voice that’s a little bit husky and a little bit sweet. She’s telling the truth and something inside him downshifts into understanding she always does.

“Not lately,” he says, “but I’m always open to the possibility.”

He wants to reach for her hand like before, as if it would be ok for their hands to do what the rest of their bodies aren’t ready for.

She finally cracks that smile. It’s not a big one, but it’s enough to put that tiny crease in her cheek that runs down beside a person’s mouth when they mean it.

She stays where she is while he slowly finishes eating. They talk around long silences that feel comfortable. The new highway. Driving. The inertia that comes from traveling too many days in a row. The way mountains change when you drive at them from a long way off.

When he finishes eating he feels a little disoriented. The burgers and pie were most of what they had between them.

“Maybe you wanna rest a while before you deal with that car,” she says.

He wants to crumple a little but keeps the urge off his face so he just nods with an almost smile. He wants to lie down more than breathe and needs it almost as much. He wants to lie down next to her and not think about the clumsiness of parting later on.

And maybe, really all she’s offering him is a chance to rest a while.

She leads him back through the kitchen through another screen door that slaps even louder than the one in front. She doesn’t lock anything and the plates he ate from are still on the counter.

She walks just like she cleans a grill. Slow, easy, with an erotic power she only seems used to because it rides her deep skin like a permanent sheen of sweat. Her hips don’t swing but roll – the spheres of her ass are nodding at the uniform as it bunches at the small of her back.

Behind the diner is a doublewide trailer he saw the corner of from the road. It’s neat, even though the blue siding is faded. There’s another screen door, but this one only creaks and doesn’t slap.

It’s almost like a real house inside. He follows her through a small kitchen that doesn’t look used very much into a salon. She stops in the middle of the room and turns.

He wants to look around the room but keeps his eye on her. It’s like standing in a chamber of memories. She wouldn’t have brought him in if she didn’t want them seen, but he can feel her asking him to skim the surfaces and keep moving. There’s a table diagonally to his left with small, propped up picture frames in rows but he won’t let his head turn to look.

Besides, the only thing that seems to matter is what she is right now, the woman standing there in front of him who has a way of looking weary without looking tired.

He wants to say something but the way the sun slanting through the blinds hits the hollow at the base of her throat is jacking his mind of complete ideas. She looks like the last surviving daughter of a forgotten culture, the last of her line to tell the story, but stands content to keep any such histories to herself.

“You can lie down in here if you want,” she says, turning toward the hollow core door behind her.

It’s not her room. It’s too noticeably barren of personal objects. No pictures or hair brushes. There’s only a neatly made bed. Blinds drawn to keep out the sun. It’s not cool, but still cooler than the diner.

She stands just inside the door so he doesn’t have to squeeze between her and the frame, but as he passes close he catches the scent of mild perfume mixed with sweat and diner kitchen fumes. He stops beside her and closes his eyes. Inhales deep and slow.

He just takes the moment inside him because he knows in a few seconds it’s going to be gone forever. It’s like breathing a picture of her, and letting it pass out of courtesy would have been a cowardly shame.

She touches his hand once lightly and leaves. As she’s shutting the door, she pauses half way and tells him to relax and take his time. If he wants to he can take a shower later on.

He sits on the bed and the door quietly closes the rest of the way. He leans back, feet still touching the floor and spreads out his arms.

Another unfamiliar ceiling. Muffled sounds of a woman moving through her house. A fan turning on.

The ceiling turns to liquid and begins to swirl. His eyes slowly flutter shut and breath deepens and slows. He knows he should toe off his shoes and move the rest of the way onto the bed, but he enters that state of floating between sleep and awake, and moving is off the list of options. His body’s gone to sleep but his mind won’t follow.

The door opens and she’s standing in the room. She whispers something to see if he’s awake but not loud enough to wake him if he isn’t. He wants to answer but doesn’t. He’s so close to sleeping that letting her believe he is doesn’t seem to matter.

She whispers something again and he can feel her coming closer. The angle of her voice shifts and he feels her down by his feet. Careful fingers unlacing his shoes, tentative hold on his ankle then pulling them off. Socks. Carefully. Slowly.

There’s room between his knees where she puts her back against the end of the bed and sits. Not moving. She sighs more loudly than her whispering. Her fingers are tentative along the tops of his feet. Simple touch. Exploring. Her palms come to rest on each side and her voice takes on a soft rhythm, no longer whispering but nearly the same level as clips of words and phrases drift across his consciousness.

“…not poker game…really…past…and…past is kind of a poker game anyway…choices…accidents…bad choices…alone but not alone…sometimes…other times…love and anguish…always living up to…nothing…had a choice in…strangers….feel…question…come along…doubts and fears…chance…risk…alone…just fucking explode sometimes…”

He’s not even sure of hearing the words in the order they come out of her mouth but behind his eyes he can see her lips moving around the shapes of them and just around the time he can see the way they would taste they all disappear into a kind of nothingness.

Sometime later he becomes aware, not quite awake, but aware of himself on a strange bed in a strange room and he’s spooning a strange woman who fits against him and under his arm. Her body moves around the air she’s pulling in and out of herself. Sleep breath. Her hair is touching his face. He sighs once and drifts back to wherever he was.


Sound of running water. He’s alone on the bed. The spread is rippled but everything’s in place. His feet are bare and he doesn’t know what happened to his shoes.

The sun is still out but with the shades drawn he can’t tell much about the angle. He sits up. Stands up. The water sounds like it’s coming from inside and outside the house at the same time. Maybe he’s just disoriented and needs to wake up.

He walks into the empty salon. Stops. Listens. Everything has that empty feel. He follows the sound of the water back out the door she brought him in. The house casts a long, distorted shadow with the sun dipping low on the other side. He walks around to the back.

Here the water has a clear sound, and there’s a two sided, wooden enclosure built onto the back. Her bare shins and feet show in the gap at the bottom. He stops and watches the water run and spatter on the black slate tiles.

“Didn’t know where you were,” he calls.

“Right here,” she says back.

“Yeah.” But he says it to himself.

This is where he has to either go face the atmospheric resonance of a stalled car or complete his intrusion upon the winter garden of her life. He thinks back to his dream of spooning her fully clothed and takes the last few steps to the open side of the enclosure.

The space around the open side feels charmed somehow, but maybe that’s only because she’s a naked, dripping wet miracle looking back at him half wounded and half fearsome with proud defiance. Her areolas are a rich brown that only exists in a certain woman’s skin. The circles are broad, with a lacquered quality as the water beads against them and runs down. Her nipples are thick and prominent, perfectly formed, betraying a shy arrogance that fills his throat with gravel and dust.

There’s a nozzle in her left hand attached to a short length of garden hose connected to a spigot on the side of the house. The sound and sluice of the water give her a sense of motion even though she’s standing still, just watching him watch her. Finally her left arm moves across her breasts, as if she’s trying to stop them mocking all the hopeless desert flowers. The nipples are hidden but her flesh bunches up into globes.

“Sleep all right?” she asks.

“Maybe too well,” he says. “Don’t know how long I was out.”

“Couple hours,” she tells him, her eyes curiously on his face.

“How long were you there?” he asks.

She watches him a moment or two more and then picks up a bottle of bodywash off the slate and dribbles a long bead over the tops of her breasts and the arm covering them.

“Long enough, I guess.”

She spreads the foaming lotion across her skin, watching his face while her hand moves over her breasts, lathering each of her nipples.

“Would’a been ok if you stayed longer.”

She looks down and her hand moves down and across her belly. Her palm works lather over the insides of her lush thighs.

“Didn’t wanna disturb you.”

“Don’t think you could.” He leans against the side of the enclosure, getting comfortable in her naked space.

She doesn’t look up but her hand slows down as if she’s thinking. Then she props one foot on top of an upside down beach bucket and she starts to lather her pussy. She’s shaven except for a close trimmed strip over the cup of her mound.

Her hand slips in the suds over her pussy in near silence, except for the soft rush of breath that escapes her. There’s something so ripe and vital about her in a way he’s never seen before – as if her hair and skin – all the burdens of her offhand beauty – are nothing more than extensions of an idea somewhere deep in the attic of her mind.

“I wanna blow the dust off all that stuff you got stored up there,” he says, as if he expects her to read his mind. But apparently she can, and she nods without looking at his face.

Her hand begins a gentle clawing motion over the curve of her mound, her fingers scrabbling at the lips of her slit. His cock begins to uncoil and thicken. The spray is hitting him and his clothes are getting damp. He moves in half a step closer and gets wetter. He puts his hand on the knee of her leg on the bucket.

She almost says something through the halting whimper. Her fingers dig harder along her flushing lips while her posture changes, softening around the spaces she allows him to invade. He squeezes the flesh above her knee. Her skin is wet and silken and right now it’s everything he ever needed to touch.

He watches her grasping hand and feels himself harden more. His clothes begin to soak through. Something about the shape of her mound claws around the edges of his senses. His hand moves higher on her thigh, squeezes again, fingers sinking into the firm, round meat of her body.

The deep breath she takes to steady herself pushes her russet tipped breasts forward and she finally looks back up at his face.

“Your clothes are wet,” she says.

He seems to notice this for the first time and as he glances down at himself she reaches for his shirt and rips it open off the buttons. It might be something to laugh about, but there’s a hovering shroud of urgency coming down on them, and everything – every soft, tentative touch and unsure look – feels bigger than the gestures of making them. He peels the wet shirt off his shoulders and arms and throws it out onto the dusty ground.

Her eyes are on his while her hands unbutton his wet jeans. Unzip. He watches her eyes flicker. Her mouth opens slightly and she gnaws her bottom lip. He’s aching to feel her push off his jeans, taking his broiling cock in both her hands, but she pauses. Waits.

His pulse spikes and his throat feels tight. There’s nothing nothing nothing like her anywhere but here right now.

He bends down to shove off his jeans and boxer briefs. He tosses them into the dust after his shirt. His cock juts out hard and conspicuous, pulse hammering and the sense comes over him it’s her heart beating inside him now.

Her hand drifts over her breasts again, fingertips brushing the cinnamon tips until they pucker like tiny knots of candied flesh. His eyes float down the racetrack of her curves to the pure impudence of her pussy, rivulets of clear water glazing her mound while she hunkers and splits, taunting and welcoming him home at the same time.

She hands him the bodywash. “Help me,” she says.

Even her voice sounds wet as her eyes take a curious pass across the shape of his rigid cock. Before she can look up he grips the distended shaft with his free hand and thumbs his own ooze around the flare of his tip. Precum gathers on the pad of his thumb and he lifts his hand to her face, pressing his tangy thumb against her lips. Her mouth opens just enough to let her tongue tip forward to taste.

He wants to kiss her enough to collapse, but the intimacy of kissing is still too far away. He smears his thumb across her mouth as his hand moves to her shoulder, turning her to face the wall while he dribbles body soap onto his palm until it’s dripping off his hand and onto her neck. She pulls her long hair forward over her shoulder on one side and he begins to lather and massage the muscles in her neck and shoulders.

A sound rises from her throat that belongs to another kind of place. They’re standing inside the dripping jungle of their closeness while the desert horizon begins turning colors without names. Her muscles resist and surrender under the kneading pressure of his fingers and her head rolls a half circle.

Lathered hands slip and glide. Shoulders, arms and back. Fingers down the knuckles of her spine. Her arms fan out and his palms slide across her wet, slippery torso, waist and ribs, under her arms and forward to caress the pliant breasts that heave to her whispering gasp. Nipples throb and pucker and somehow he knows merely tasting them will never be enough. Neither for him nor for her.

His cock rages with cloying need while her breasts slip in and out of his grasping hands. He moves forward to slip his pulsing stalk in the cleft between her cheeks, pressing his chest against her back and his face in the soaked tangle of her shining hair.

“I feel things,” he says. His voice sounds calm while the pulse through his body becomes a soft, hammering throb.

“Yer feelin’ plenty…”

“You know what I mean.” He puts his lips up against the shell of her ear. “And you feel it like that, too. You’re built like me…down inside. You know when the air’s about to spit something out.”

She starts to breathe like she’s been running somewhere. Rolls that slippery ass and swivels his cock around in its sumptuous trap. He nibbles her earlobe and then tastes her neck.

“And you know when I knew it for sure,” he goes on, starting to breathe as hard as she. His hand moves down off her breast and cups her pussy. Ripe, throbbing and warm.

“No,” she tries whispering.

“Yes,” he puts down. “Back at the counter when you dug your thumb in the palm of my hand like you were trying to stop my blood, except you knew my blood had already stopped.”

“Ffftt..yer just another horny motherfucker can’t read a roadmap.”

He takes her shoulders and yanks her around to face him, pushing her up against the side of the enclosure with his body. It’s all cock, nipples and wet skin trapped in between them but he rushes across the whole expanse and kisses her until her head shoves back and he’s sucking the next ten years’ of breath out of her body.

He begins to drop, tasting her throat while his hands slip back down over her breasts toward her hips. He lowers down slowly but then he’s suddenly on his knees and his hands slide up along her thighs until his thumbs grind into the meat of her mound. She spreads and splits under the pull and takes a sharp breath. Her closely barbered pussy glares at him while a long, slow wave of breath fills him until he can’t hold any more.

His thumbs stroke her splayed petals while he flicks at her clit with his tongue. She winces into a half squat when he slides a finger inside, thumb nudging her clit. She reaches for the wall with one hand and whimpers while a second finger pries in alongside the first. Inside, she’s pure heat and oozing honey. Hips in the shape of the world roll to the deep stroke of her slick channel walls.

He holds his fingers stiff and straight and glides them up deep through the intricate folds of her extravagant petals. She’s almost dancing on his fingers as he holds them in place, unmoving, his breath pushing against the distended puff of her mound. Then his fingers curl forward, digging into her inner places and a roiling feline yowl rasps up out of her throat.

She pulls at the air and slides down into a deeper squat, opening the wet curtain of herself a little more. His thumb grinds against her clit while the free hand scrabbles for the spraying nozzle somewhere nearby.

Embedded fingers slowly pump and curl, pump and curl, while he raises the nozzle to aim the spray against her swollen clit.

“Fuck…you…” she mutters.

Her hands ball into fists and flail at the enclosure wall and his shoulders. He almost wants to laugh, and the thought comes into his mind that one day maybe they will be fucking and start laughing about something, but he knows this isn’t that time.

At least his hair isn’t long enough to be pulled. He looks up to watch her dive through a cloudburst of bewilderment. Her eyes keep darting randomly from point to point, as if everything she sees seems to surprise her.

Suddenly he swiftly slips his fingers from her sheath and drops the hose. He reaches behind and squeezes his hands between the walls and the skin of her ass. Her spheres resist his digging grip but his fingers claw into the muscle while he shoves his tongue flat against her slash and grind-licks along her lips.

Her pussy arches against his mouth as he repeats the motion until she’s dancing with his face. His lips close over her clit and suck around the flick of his tongue, until he finally begins to rise again and meet her back up wherever she’s barely holding on.

Fingers thick with tangy nectar smear her supple mouth and he leans in to take her mouth just as hard as the last time. Her tongue swirls around the swirling of his while her hand blindly searches for his cock. He groans down her throat when her fingers curl around his thick shaft and test the rigid resilience of his shaft.

She’s stroking his oozing length as he releases her mouth and pushes fingers back inside her channel. He pumps and wets his fingers again and smears fresh juice over her nipples. They taste of her pussy now and he sucks them both hard, grasping her warm spheres as she purrs and growls.

He lifts his hand to her neck and faces her face. Somewhere far below her hands are grasping and stroking his overheated cock.

“You smashed your thumb into my lifeline,” he reminds her. “Like you thought you could stop it. Not the life. Just the trajectory.”

Her face becomes a near-vicious sneer while her voice comes out husky and craven.

“Fuck your trajectory. All I want is that hard fucking cock…and I want it in me and on me and I want your cum going off inside me like a fucking oil derrick…and then I want…”

He suddenly starts laughing so hard his head shoves back, and then she’s laughing, too, and they sound like a pair of crazed, naked maniacs unfit to be anywhere near other people. The only thing that brings them back is her hands all over his cock and balls.

Everything breaks and he grips her face in his hands.

“You believe in things you don’t like talking about.”

Her eyes almost begin to well and sparkle as she nods. “How would you know something like that?”

“I don’t. It’s just something I was hoping.”

Then he pushes down on her shoulder and she drops to her knees and faces his strutting cock. Her hand curls around his shaft and she looks up, talking to him with his dome carefully poised by her lips, letting him feel her breath wash over his flesh.

“Then we don’t have to talk about it,” she says. “No sense getting crushed by anything that didn’t happen yet.”

Her eyes evade him as her lips open and take her flesh inside. She’s sucking and pulling his shank at the same time.

Time bends and warps, never to return as she slathers his pulsing flesh with her lips and tongue. Maybe the sun already went down and came up again, but who ever notices the sun’s incurable habits? There is only his pulsing cock and her swirling mouth.

The only reason he finally pushes her off is the air is redolent with her body’s perfume. His cock pulls away soaked, a long bead of moisture tethers her lip and the head. She looks breathless and confused.

“Turn around and kiss the slate,” he says.

There’s a perfunctory tone of acceptance in his voice. A simple announcement of the moment they both knew was coming.

“Just lean forward,” he adds, stroking her cheek. Kiss the slate with your ass up high.”

She nods silently and turns. Her breasts pillow around her knees as she presses down, forcing her cheeks to split and reveal. He slides his fingers up her wet slit and across her puckered rim.

“Open it for me,” he says. Now his voice begins to quiver around his wild breath.

Her fingers appear at her slit and spread her petals as he strokes his shaft. She mewls against the slate while her fingers massage her swollen lips. He feels as if his cock has never burned with need before. He was sure it had a thousand times, but all of it just strikes him as so much practice for now.

“Ok?” she says, and he doesn’t know if she’s demure or taunting him. Her fingers rake and probe until they’re lacquered in her own dripping froth. She anxiously pats her finger against her rim.

Kneeling close behind her, gripping his cock to spank her cheeks with his shaft. Lightly ringing cock-slaps over her globes and across that tender pucker. Her breath becomes a low, seesaw rhythmic rasp while she rolls graceful hips.

His cock slips bluntly through slick petals. She pushes her sumptuous ass back even further, meeting him, welcoming, taking his burning cock inside by agonizing fractions.

He claws onto her hips, clutching her as he as he rears back once and thrusts back in hard. His cock is swimming in her while honey dribbles over his sac. Her fingers drum wildly over her clit as he pulls and thrusts again. Pulls and thrusts.

His knees are grinding down hard on the slate as he rocks and pulls air with every pump. She grinds back with a purring growl like something sleek and craven.

Everything is deeper, hotter and harder. She claws the slate in front of her and grinds, yet there is something inside that shines out of every pore.

Her pussy is a broiling rainforest in the desert, rippling all around him while everything that broke down before begins to break again. The horizon breaks into colors they don’t see as the sun falls.

They’re going down in flames and maybe they’re going to rise up together through the smoke and embers. Maybe.

His cock leaps hard with spasms and his arm swings and stings a single swat across her ass. She yelps in surprise and begins to cum…for him…with him…against him…around him. She fingers that hard clit and he can feel her feeling him…pumping her and loving whatever they are about to become in the next flash of seconds…and pumping her until he finally breaks the surface of the ocean he’s been drowning under and blossoms inside her in a bursting shower of himself.


Nothing left but sweat-soaked bodies and pounding hearts. Somewhere, a man’s cock slowly relaxes and slips quietly from his beautiful lover’s sheath.

No one moves for a while.

“What was that?” she asks the dark slate.

“That was us,” he tells her.

When they finally disentangle, they get up and rinse each other. They seem shy and yet so familiar with each other even though they are once again tentative to kiss.

They wash each other with care. He finally kisses her after she turns off the water and rises back up. He holds her body the way his mouth holds her lips, and they stay there a while.

Without drying off, she leads him back into the house through a backdoor he missed before. They lie naked on the carpet in the salon, watching the ceiling fan turn for nothing.

“You got a name?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Not much of one, and it hardly even seems to matter. Soon as we put together everything that does…matter, I mean…we can learn those things that don’t along the way.”

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.

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