I worshipped the ground she walked upon long before the flight from London touched the tarmac. Long before she let her flight-tired legs touch any ground that had ever been familiar to me. Three flights, four airports, through two continents and an entire ocean. A journey from the sunbaked desert to the frozen landscape I call home.

I’m old enough to be her father. She’s young enough to be my daughter. A twenty-two-year-old gap people notice and project fantasies onto.  That, and an intolerable envy none of us asked for. Don’t get me wrong, we understand the envy.

It’s the utterly intolerable projection of ownership we shake our heads and laugh about.

I woke up too early that day and tried to shower long enough to make the wait feel shorter. I tried not to pace; I tried not to jump on a too-early train toward the city. I tried to pretend I got on the first rail arrow to the airport out of convenience and not from sheer impatience.

I tried to read her message about the fear of missing her connecting flight at Heathrow as a joke.

I was there, Oslo Airport, Gardermoen, almost an hour before her plane was scheduled to land. I had a coffee, a sandwich, and a bottle of water, and time that stalled to a near complete halt.

Each time the gates opened, I looked for her. Even before her plane landed. Some came by themselves, some came in pairs, and a few came in groups of laughter. Most hurried on their way to the shuttles, the trains, and the taxis. A few were met by loved ones.

One couple stands out in memory. I’d noticed him waiting, clocking how he paced when I sat still, noticing he had arrived with a fistful of flowers, where I held an empty bottle of water. When she arrived, they shared a long embrace that I read as time spent apart. Something I projected into a first meeting. Maybe they couldn’t wait to get out of there, to a home, a hotel, a cheap motel where they could fuck like they’d talked about. Something whispered over phone lines and dreamt about at night.

I sighed and glanced at the board again for the hundredth time. She’d landed.

My phone buzzed. Her first message sent within the same borders it was received. Same soil, same country, only separated by concrete, steel, and glass.

And an excruciating wait.

You may want to get lunch. Do some shopping. Take your time. It’s going to be a while.

As if I weren’t exactly where I wanted to be, where I needed to be.

She was stuck for two hours in border control. Perhaps Norwegian efficiency is indeed a myth. Our ineptitude for small talk and our difficulty in accepting strangers without anything but suspicion isn’t.

But she wasn’t a stranger.

Say jump, and I’ll jump, she’d told me.

I was sitting in the wreckage of a marriage that had lived on life support for as long as I could remember. There had been happy times, of course. But they were a distant memory that made wedding photos look like lies and forgotten promises. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but in the end, you can only fail so many times before self-erasure settles as truth. When we finally did abandon failure for reason, it didn’t feel like failure, but release, and the weight of suffocation lifting off my shoulders.

My ex is the type who will weaponize every vulnerability, every truth whispered in secrecy, and every disagreement ever had. I decided to let her rot in her anger.

I asked Alissa to jump.

Every time the gates slid open, I hoped. I hoped it was her. I imagined twice that I saw her. When she finally did arrive? I didn’t have to imagine. I didn’t have to wonder. She was stunning.

Stunning.

It was Valentine’s Week. It comes with its own calendar, its own countdown. That day was “Hug Day”. Not sexualized by intent, but it certainly doesn’t discourage a warm embrace and letting it fall into something else. A day reserved for embrace.

Arrival.

I can’t recall how she landed in my arms, but I do remember my need to pull her in as tight as possible. I felt it, then. Her exhaustion, her overwhelm, and her anxiousness.

She leaned into me and didn’t just accept my hug, but melted into it. To me, everything disappeared. The people around us, the noise, even ourselves dissolved into the silence of comfort. I breathed her scent, not even knowing what to expect. It had been twenty hours since she boarded a plane in the desert. Maybe it would be the creosote bush lingering in her hair. Maybe I expected her clothes to smell of sunburnt dust.

Perhaps it would be girl-sweat and travel-exhaustion; a part of me wanted that.

I can’t explain her scent. Flowery, perhaps, something that’s settled in her skin that is uniquely hers, tangled with recycled cabin air, a faint whiff of fabric softener, and maybe just exhaustion itself.

I feared I was suffocating her, as her face seemed pinned to the curve of my neck and shoulder. I eased my grip, but she didn’t let go; only pulled me back in. She didn’t look at me, and she said nothing. I brushed the hair that had fallen over her face back and tucked it behind her ear. My fingers traced the line of her jaw, and I nudged her chin up. I don’t think she knew where to look.

“So gorgeous,” I whispered.

I’d made one promise. To be there. To let her arrive, let her find me. As I was leaning in, I hoped the gum I’d chewed excessively for the last three hours did its job. Her lips were softer than I expected, but they also didn’t meet me at first. It might have lasted a fraction of a second, enough for my heart to whimper: Oh, no.

She softened, though, at first just a hesitant parting of her lips, as if tasting my touch. I think she let out a sound, not quite a moan, not quite a whimper.

And then she met me.

She tasted of the same hunger I was trying to contain. I don’t know if the bypassers jolted at the sight of the old man and the young woman. If they went from “It’s cute of her dad to pick her up,” to “Holy cow!” in the same fleeting breath. I couldn’t know what they thought; they were out of existence. Outside our bubble.

I remember my hands gliding underneath the layers of clothing to find skin. I just had to feel her beneath my fingers. She once told me that past experiences had hardened her into stone, but I could only find her impossibly soft.

“My God, Alissa,” I whispered when I finally managed to pull away. “You’re actually here.”

I have no clear memory of gliding through crowds or the endlessness of the airport. There was a glitch with the ticket machines and the apps, but we somehow managed to get past the gates and down the escalator and find the train waiting at the platform.

We slid into a row of seats, and I let her have the window spot. It might have been out of courtesy, but in honesty? I could look at her against the view from the window without the distraction of the carriage and its bodies.

She was beautiful. Not the picture-perfect beauty of glossy images on the site where we found each other, but the kind of beauty that only twenty hours of travel can conjure upon a face.

Her lips found mine again. More certain than at the arrivals gate, hungrier than I had expected.

I hadn’t expected to act upon my urge, but my hands were quicker than my mind. They knew the path under her layers, traced the shape of her belly, the warmth of her feeding my hunger. I didn’t stop until I found myself groping her tits.

She let me.

Her answer was in how she traced her fingers up my thigh, drawing bigger circles with each swirl. The two older men in front of us didn’t say anything; the couple to our left might not have noticed. I sought her lips, still kneading her breasts, and still trying to map her exact scent.

I think she moaned at one point, but it could have been me. Time and details have a tendency to blur, and that’s exactly what happened to us.

“Look at all the snow,” she said at one point, when her eyes drifted out the window.

“Yeah,” I think I said. “Norway. Mid-February, babe.”

The rest of the conversation? I don’t know. Whispers mostly, I think. If memory serves me right. My mouth was full of hers most of the time.

We hit Oslo Sentralstasjon almost right at the peak of rush hour. We’re both mortally shy and anti-people, but somehow, we managed to stay in that bubble until we found ourselves on another train, just in time for departure.

Lips on lips, fingers braided into fingers, and breaths shared between mouths. Again, the world disappeared, locked outside the bubble that became our reality for five days.

Eleven minutes traveled through the Blixt Tunnel to get to our destination.

“This is us,” I whispered.

“Huh?” I think she asked.

She stepped into the biting cold of minus eleven.

Or positive twelve, if you favor less logic and more chaos.

She took a deep breath, pulled me in, and exhaled the most surprising words she’s ever offered me:

“This is wonderful.”

The hotel lay just across the street, and the warmth of the lobby felt like mercy to me. I’m not sure what it felt like to her. Arriving? Finally sensing the chance to close her eyes and sleep?

There was a quick exchange, key cards handed over, quick instructions on breakfast and where to find the elevator, followed by a gentle ask to enjoy our stay.

The elevator offered privacy for the first time. No eyes on us, no one else to share the air with. Enough time to pull her in and kiss her with us as the only witnesses.

Her lips parted for me, soft and gentle, and her tongue sought mine with a slow curiosity. She later told me she loves the taste of my breath. My curiosity was, “Does she taste of desert or twenty hours of travel?”

She tasted of neither. She tasted like love. Love given and love received.

Even with being on the top floor, the elevator ride was too short. In memory, all our moments now feel like that. Too short.

At first, the room was impersonal, like any other hotel room. We just hadn’t claimed it yet.

“There’s a balcony,” I said.

The smile she gave me told me she understood where my mind went, but the balcony was covered in mid-February’s residue of January’s blue frost. The mid-winter sun doesn’t rise and fall, but glides across the horizon with just a tease of spring.

She dropped her luggage by the window and exhaled. I have never seen anyone as beautiful as her in that moment. When I reached for her, she met me in an embrace. Then, kiss.

Dialogue ceased to exist.

Layers, babe. It’s important in mid-February Norway.

I regretted my advice as I fumbled to reach her skin. When I found it, I remembered my own vow.

Patience.

The urge was to strip her naked; the patience was about doing it right. I’d developed ten thumbs and the grace of a dino; her thermals stuck to my hands and tangled.

“Layers,” she whispered into my mouth.

She didn’t protest when I slid her hoodie up, just extended her arms as she held me in the kiss for as long as possible.

Urge.

The room closed in, or perhaps it was just our first claim to the space. Her breath found mine again, and I couldn’t fight the compulsion for her skin. I traced the shape of her, the impossible softness of her against my fingers and inside my palms. They sought her heat, pushed upward until I found the outline of her breasts, and followed the line until I found the back of her shoulders.

“I need to…” I whispered.

I could have bared her in one sweep, bunched her clothes, her bra, all of her, and pulled her free of them. But that would be breaking a promise.

“I want you to,” she answered.

To let go of her skin was nearly impossible, but I somehow managed. I somehow found the calm in her to stay steady. I think she smiled when I pulled her t-shirt over her head. I think it caught in her hair, just slightly.

I think thermals are sexy on the shape of a woman. On her?

Hunger.

It loomed in my stomach, something that had once started like a craving, then turned into an appetite. Now, it was starvation.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Norwegian winter air is dry; it invites static like the desert longs for rain. Or maybe it was indeed the heat caught between us. I kissed her again as the fabric bunched against the low of my arms. Electricity surged in the dry crackle of fabric dragged over skin, and for a moment, I feared the jolt would catch between our lips.

I traced her arms. The shape of her breasts. The rise of her ribs. Then I let my hands settle on her hips.

“Turn around,” I whispered while guiding her.

It wasn’t a mechanical response to an instruction, but a bodily one where her weight settled into my chest. I didn’t need to be patient with my own undressing. Same three layers, one bunch of fabric tangled into a ball that fell heavily to the floor. My bare chest against her bare back.

I brushed her hair to the side and pressed a deep kiss into the curve where her shoulder met her neck.

“I love you, Alissa,” I whispered, as my arms curled around her, just to hold her close enough.

My hands needed to find the shape of her—the tactility of her breath, how her skin, still impossibly soft, came alive under my palms, and the ease with which she settled into me.

It’s still a blur, how my hands slipped under her bra and found the shape of her again. I’d tasted the softness on the train, but now, with the full shape of her in my palms, the way she perked inside the hollow of my hands, I had to let out a moan.

Young, I remember thinking. But even more precise, an actual memory of age.

Twenty-five.

“Your hands feel so nice,” she whispered as she turned her head to find my lips.

I slipped her out of her cloth prison, and her exhale was a full-body release. It felt like tension surrendered to the now. When I slipped her bra over her head, she let go with the same ease she leaned into me with.

I cupped her again and realized my mistake as she undid her belt, flicked the button open, and unzipped her pants. However, her breath told me it was an invitation, and that she was perhaps running out of patience.

I traced her spine with my lips, a little too hurried, a little too impatient, until I was kneeling behind her. My fingers traced the waistband of her pants, starting with my palms pressed against her ass, ending where her clothes clung to her hips. I tugged gently and didn’t worry about layers this time. I only made sure her panties stayed.

Untouched.

Her skin rose as if it’d never been touched before. Or perhaps she’d never been touched the way she’d desired. The ten thumbs returned as her clothes bunched at her feet. She giggled slightly at my struggles. I cursed my impatience as I wrestled with socks, thermals, and denim, but made up for it by licking the hollow of her knee.

I think I did both her knees. I know my hands trailed the path up her thighs, like eager scouts mapping the terrain. My lips followed, making sure to taste every inch they covered. I didn’t bite until the soft curve of her ass invited me. Not a hard bite; it was just a nibble of flesh, an ask more than demand.

She said yes.

Please.

I let the full shape of her fill my hands, then gave her a squeeze and another bite. I breathed her in to stall myself, just long enough to savor the moment.

“Oh,” she whimpered when my fingers pulled impatiently at the waistband.

I remember it as being slow. Reverent. Awestruck.

I let the fabric trail down her thighs, but never fall, each inch of its descent a reveal of its own. She lifted her left foot and let the garment slip off her, then offered me the same grace with her right foot. I trailed her legs again. Only hands this time, until I could fill my hands with her ass again. My grope was hungrier now, as were my kisses.

But it was greed that made me fill my hand with her flesh, and it was starvation that made me bite into her with more than a little force. I can’t remember if I split her cheeks, if I dragged my tongue the length of her crack. If I pressed my tongue against her tight hole just to taste her.

I only know that’s what I wanted to do.

My hands found her hips again, and I nudged her gently to turn. When I pressed a kiss into her belly, her hands found my head. I don’t know if it was to steady herself, me, or to pull me closer to her skin.

It felt decadent.

Somehow, knowing her place in the desert, my mind leaned toward dryness. Leathery. I think I laughed later at expecting ancient parchment.

She is not. Her skin is like silk and feels like virgin petals in morning dew. Have you ever touched the wing of a butterfly?

Her softness is impossible.

My thumbs found her first, in the hollows between hip and thigh, then my lips followed, freeing my hands to pull her closer. I know my tongue traced the line of her left thigh first. Then the right.

I’m so smooth, babe, she had whispered into the phone just before her soft moans took over the conversation.

I could no longer not.

I pressed a kiss into her, and she felt pliant. Silken warm.

A slight gasp escaped her, but she seemed confused in her want. Her fingers dug deeper into my scalp, yet her body tensed rather than giving in to it. I kissed her again, only softer this time. Then again.

“God, Klaus…” she moaned as she allowed herself to open for me.

My tongue traced the shape of her, finding the outline of her want, the edge of her last restraint, if there was any left. Smooth doesn’t even describe how delicate she felt under my tongue. Her labia are intensely silky, and I urged myself to—

Hunger, my body replied. Starvation and need. Feed me. Feed my hunger.

—meet her with the same tenderness her body offered me.

Patience and reverence gave way when the tip of my tongue coaxed her open, yet I lingered in her warmth.

I get obscenely wet.

Not an exaggeration.

I drew a slow, unbroken line upward, dragging her slick and the wetness she’d pulled from my mouth along the shape of her until I found the throb of her clit against the flat of my tongue. I let my teeth drag along her nub before I sucked her between my lips. I think I remember her moaning. She might have said something or tried to. I can’t recall. I was drowning in her.

Something beautiful happened.

It felt like the strain of travel left her, as if licking the salt off her skin had made her new, as if patience were foreign to her. It felt as if my kneeling in front of her arrived as permission. Permission to be her, truly her, in that moment. And, God, do I love her.

Her legs parted a little more, and her hips started moving. Just gently, not rolling to fuck my face, but a gentle shift, a nudge.

“Oh my God…” she breathed.

My hand found her hips again, and I nudged her—half-guided, half-pushed—over to the edge of the bed. She didn’t sit, I think. She let herself fall into it, and for the first time, I could take in all her beauty. All of her.

As I stood, still half-dressed, my eyes didn’t want to leave her. Not because desire was thumping through my veins, but because of the way she looked at me. The way she welcomed my eyes on her. The way my eyes met hers.

I don’t know if her smile was because of the way I fumbled with my belt or at how awkward it was to peel off Norwegian winter layers, but it didn’t matter. She smiled. Naked, vulnerable, fifty-three hundred miles away from home, and observed by eyes that only offered her love.

And in that, I realized I was standing in front of her just as naked as she was, just as fragile and vulnerable as she offered herself to me. No shame, no insecurities, no awkward hesitation.

Met. Like she’s met me every day since that first hello. Not questioned or examined, not blamed or diminished. Never once letting me taste the familiar foulness that parts of me needed to be erased or deleted.

I don’t know if she expected me to slide on top of her and take her. If she waited for me to claim her and make her mine. If I was supposed to penetrate her need, fuck her like the men in her stories, or make her into the fantasies that were my own.

I just know I couldn’t.

Patience settled in the length of her legs, in the way my palms found the shape of her calves, the hollow of her knees, the flesh of her thighs. I pulled her toward the edge of the bed, and she groaned.

I meant to kiss her, just a soft touch of my lips to the inside of her thigh. I ended up licking the length of her, from inside her knee to the soft mound where her thigh dissolved into silk and volcanic heat. I think I bit again.

Her scent devoured me.

I sucked her warm flesh between my lips. She was impossibly bare, so smooth that her skin tasted like virgin.

I think I pushed her legs wider, but maybe she did that on her own.

Equality, I thought. Balance.

Maybe I just needed to know her skin tasted the same on both sides. Maybe I needed to feel her smoothness anew, as if my mouth on her somehow had marked her.

She has a beautiful pussy. A perfect cunt. And then, even through eight time zones and almost a full day of travel, she glistened with invitation. I needed to taste her again, and this time my tongue was greedy. I pressed against her slick, and she parted for the full shape of me. She coated the flat of my tongue with her need, and only offered a small whimper when I pressed against her entrance. Not to enter her, just to feel her pulse. When I dragged my tongue up the shape of her, I think she expected me to suck her clit between my teeth again. I only offered her a kiss before circling my tongue around her, then pulled downward again.

Repetition is the mother of learning. And I needed to learn her. Each drag of my tongue coated her with her own slick and my drool, until I couldn’t deny myself. Her clit throbbed against me, and now, I had to taste its pulse against my lips.

I know she moaned this time. I know she took your Lord’s name in vain, and never has He sounded so filthy in the mouth of a woman. I remembered the first time I heard her voice. It was an audio accompanying one of her stories:

My keys clatter in the dish by the door. I drop my purse on the bench—muscle memory. A decade of repetition dressed as devotion. Ten years of meeting the same hazel eyes across the dinner table; of the same cock filling my holes in the dark…

…You’re still leaking out of my cunt when I take him in.

(Alissa Palmer, “Between Two Mouths”, LushStories.com – published October 19th 2025.  Used by kind permission.)

Fuck.

But it was another memory of her voice that settled around my want.

Slide a finger in me, and see how quickly I come apart for you.

There was no resistance when my middle finger slid through her. There was only the slick glide through her softness. The sound of wet guiding me through the shape of her and inviting me inside. It was merely a tease of her entrance, maybe the first joint exploring her heat.

“Oh…fuck…”

She was absolutely frictionless, even as she tightened to my probe. I sucked her a little harder, flicked my tongue over her clit, but waited for her to settle. I waited for her to invite me in.

And she did.

It was a slow slide, or at least as slow as her slick allowed, and all the while my tongue flicked greedily over her throb. The sound she made as her hips nudged forward was angelic, and the way her back arched, just slightly, fueled me.

I dared two fingers. Two fingers that curled up against her pelvic bone, opening the shape of her to my mouth. I needed more fingers, more hands, and more mouth because anywhere I didn’t touch her felt like too little. And she didn’t deserve too little. 

I watched her chest rise, then fall. I hungered for her breasts, the way her nipples carved into the air itself, the way their shape fit perfectly inside my palms. My free hand sought them to what I intended as a gentle caress.

I found her right tit first, and I was surprised at the hunger in my own touch. The way I let her fill my hand, then squeezed with greed. It was nothing like the patience I had imagined or intended, and it was too hasty in the way I found her left breast. I only offered her the same hunger, the same greed as I’d claimed her right one. Although, when my pinch caught the pin in her nipple, a moan escaped me.

Or maybe it was her.

I didn’t realize how deep my fingers fucked her. Not until I felt her wet coat my knuckles, not until I felt her cunt squeeze, at first just a light press, a mere tremor, then tensed. I sucked her clit back into my mouth. I might have bitten her.

“Cumming…” she whimpered. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Stopping wasn’t an option. She was delightful. I needed to stay just as I was. One hand pinching her nipple, lips sealed shut and sucking her clit, two fingers fucking her steady. Steady, slow, and deep. She tightened around me as if she was considering snapping my fingers off, and the way she drove her cunt down and forward just enforced the sensation. Something or someone was breaking.

She…

She is stunning. Her whimpers are so gentle that angels cry in envy. She stops breathing when she tenses, and her exhales are like soft prayers.

“God…”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

She allowed herself to fall into it. Her cunt almost locked my fingers into place, holding me tight enough to slow me down. I pressed into her, as deep as I could go, and held her there. I chased her as she lifted slightly off the mattress, and when her fingers dug into my scalp, it felt like an invitation to devour whatever she decided to give.

What she gave was my name.

Half-choked into the room, as if it witnessed us and needed to take our confession.

“Klaus…”

Her release coated me anew. It was a flood of slick so plentiful it felt like sin and forgiveness given in the same breath.

I kissed the last tremor out of her thigh, but stayed inside her.

“You’re beautiful,” I whispered.

“Oh my fuck,” she replied.

She truly has a beautiful cunt. My own need was boiling under my skin, and I imagined sinking into her. I imagined what she would feel like when she found the shape of my cock. I imagined what her breath would feel like against my skin, and how her moans would reach me whispered into my ear.

And maybe that’s why I hadn’t registered that my fingers were fucking her again.

She moaned in protest when I pulled out, but gasped when I lifted her legs and pressed them up against her body.

“Fuck. Fuck.”

I licked the length of her, but let her clit rest. I could only offer long, slow drags of my tongue through her softness, through her wetness, through the impossibility of her actually being there. I pressed her legs tighter to her chest and felt her butt lift off the bed.

I hadn’t meant to lick her ass the way I did. I hadn’t expected the way her moans changed from angelic to filthy. I didn’t know she’d gasp the way she did when I licked the entire length of her, from her tight, puckered hole, through the softness of her cunt, to the throb of her knot of nerves pulsing against my tongue.

But I meant it when I did it again.

I meant it when I sucked her ass with hunger. The kind of pure hunger meant to coax her tension into something beautiful, something pliant. Something that allowed her to feel as worshipped as she deserved to be. Something that allowed her to believe.

To trust she didn’t exist in a world that made her an object to fulfill a fantasy. To trust that past experiences were a fallacy of them, not her.

Gorgeous, in the way I sometimes think you deflect with lust. Maybe your body, because that’s somehow easier than letting someone close enough to see the real you.

—How do you do that? Strip me naked through words alone?

I wanted to strip her naked of doubt.

My thumb slid through her, gathered her slick before finding her clit, and rubbed slow circles into the shape of her. My tongue pressed against her tightness, and it mellowed, allowing me to enter her core.

Still, no words escaped her, at least none I can remember. She didn’t need them; her body answered all the questions my touches suggested. The final press of my thumb before sliding through her, my tongue fucking her ass, the way I held on to her hip with only a prayer that she was real.

She did utter words when my thumb entered her.

“God.”

“Jesus.”

“Fuck.”

I shifted. My tongue followed my thumb’s escape from her, licked the trail of slick it left behind, then sucked her back in between my lips. My tongue lapped over her with hunger as my fingers slid back into her. She arched immediately and clenched as if trying to hold on to reality.

“Again?” I whispered.

“Mmhmmm…”

Her body.

An object of desire. A piece of flesh for indulgence. A wet hole to fuck. A narrative from A through Z so engraved in her skin, she had started to believe it.

Available. Body. Cunt. All the way to Zero Regard. I hate what they’d done to her.

Hardened into stone.

Her.

As someone had once told her: A friend? A friend?! If you won’t offer me your body, how can you expect me to be your friend?

But she was beautiful and free, not breaking, but allowing herself to believe she was worth existing without apology. To say out loud: “This is me. This is my choice. This is mine!”

She came, almost without sound, and let me witness her impossible beauty.

Stay, hold me through it. Watch me dissolve for you.

Yes, baby girl.

Her thighs still trembled as they found the shape of the mattress; her back didn’t collapse like a released bow but settled softly against the sheets. My fingers were soaked anew. Her wetness was something she had worried about, whispered to me as if it were shameful.

She protested silently when I pulled out of her again, but I don’t think she noticed how I sucked my fingers.

My eyes met hers, or tried to. I’m not sure she was entirely there yet. I had meant to slide on top of her and kiss her, but ended up at her chest. Hands first, always hands, finding the shape of her and the firmness settling inside my palms. The perfect fit they offered to my touch.

My mouth followed, and it was hungry for flesh. It was intentional how I sucked her right nipple first, but it wasn’t by intention that I sucked as hard as I did. She tasted of the sweat of a day’s travel and from the smear of her cunt left by my fingers. There was no intent in how I squeezed her breast with a pinch that had to be painful. I surely had no intention of biting.

But that’s exactly what I did.

“God!” she groaned.

All the while, I was kneading her left breast with the patience of a baker grinding life into warm dough. My mouth shifted its attention, as if catching the scent of prey. I wrapped my lips around the shape of her, but didn’t bite this time. I let her settle in the warmth of my mouth, then let my tongue find the shape of her. It was a wet drag, pulling her nipple up against the ridge of my front teeth. I held her there, just briefly, before swirling my tongue around the shape of her, grinding the base of her nipple along my teeth.

I’m not sure if it was she or I who waited the most for me to find the pin pierced through her. I suspect it was me. Just a slow spin, a half-round, before releasing her again. I drooled all over her tit before sucking it into my mouth.

I sobered. Not much, but enough to pull myself off her. She looked at me now, and as I shifted, she let her legs fall apart as if I had always belonged there.

I kissed her. Once.

She wouldn’t have it. She answered my lips with the same hunger that stirred in my belly. I ground my cock into the shape of her and felt her heat. I felt how her hips answered with the same starvation I had tried to quench through her skin.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Or meant to.

If I did, I think her answer was: “Oh, God. Yes.”

I ground my cock against her clit, just once. Then slid through the mess of her, coating me in her excess. But I didn’t push into her like the feral need in me begged me to. I rubbed against her clit again. Then again.

I watched her. The rise of her belly with each breath, the shape of her breasts, swollen with anticipation, and how she bared her throat for me as she pushed deeper into the pillow. Her back arched slightly. I realigned and let the shape of me pull through her, as if carving new territory into my memory.

I didn’t even press against her entrance, but let the silken slick of her guide me.

Nudge inside me and hold me there until I open. My cunt does this strange thing where it pulses and throbs, then locks up slightly. Give me that moment, let me find the shape of you, then feed me slowly.

I wasn’t even sure exactly what that meant, so I watched her face and listened to her breath, felt the subtle shift in her hips as I let the head of my cock pass through the give of her.

She gasped soundlessly. It was as if her spine coiled slightly, but no involuntary jolt of hips, no curled lips of pain, and no grasping at the sheets. I found her eyes. They flickered, and then I felt it.

Her spine relaxed, her legs fell open, and molten heat covered the swell of my cock. Her arms reached for the shape of me, climbing up my arms to find grip at my shoulders. I sank into her as slowly as hunger allowed.

I’m an ordinary seven inches, but maybe with a generous girth. Her give was frictionless, and I held my breath at how she adjusted to the shape of me. I’m still ashamed of my thoughts, my raunch, the horny building up inside me.

She feels so young.

It was the memory of losing my virginity to a then nineteen-year-old girl who would much later birth me two children. That teenage pussy was just as confused about what was happening to her as my cock was at cumming too soon, too messy, too deep.

This time? Only the sensation of her felt young. Her tightness, her slickness, how she initially felt confused about the shape of me. All that felt young. But the way her body responded? The way she pressed up against me—not to hurry me, but to meet me—the way her thighs split wide before she curled her legs around me? The way her moans weren’t gasps of confusion but breath giving way to sensation? That felt like someone who knew what to expect, and still chose to receive it as something new.

She took all of me, and I still wanted to give her more. She clenched around me as I pressed as deep as I could, and her shape found me perfectly. Her legs locked around me, and her hands traced my back until her nails found enough flesh to sink into. It was the perfect pain.

I wanted to kiss her, but the half-beg, half-plea that escaped her stopped me.

“Daddyyyy…”

 “God, Alissa,” I exhaled, not remembering the last time I drew breath

Filthy thoughts stacked themselves in the back of my brain and spilled down my spine like rancid rot and feral heat.

Fuck her perfect pussy raw.
Make her plead ugly.
Take her.

My lips found hers.

“You’re beautiful,” I whispered. “Gorgeous.”

I didn’t move. We stayed like that, lips to lips, breath against breath, and body to body. Connected.

When I did move, it was almost motionlessly slow, and her slick offered no resistance. Not when I pulled out, not when I pushed back in.

“Yeah,” she moaned. “Just like that.”

The monsters in my brain still growled, but they stilled at her utter peace, as if her soft whimpers summoned sleep in them. Rest and dormancy.

Air stilled to the slow sounds of bodies rubbing against each other. The slow glide of the sun, still barely above the horizon, cast long shadows through the window, illuminated in the glow of red and orange.

I’ve never fucked anyone so slowly.

Her nails surrendered grip for caress, but it was the lithe whimpers that escaped her that made me find the exact rhythm of her.

I had to make sure, though.

Her sounds resemble someone crying silently in the night.

The first time she gave them to me, I didn’t understand why she was sad. Why she was crying, or if I’d said something wrong. Maybe it was the static of the phone, maybe it was my imagination.

I’m touching myself. I’m thinking of you sinking into me and touching myself. God…

“So beautiful,” I whispered.

I didn’t realize it at the time; it’s one of those subtle changes in her terrain I had to map out over time. It’s the way her orgasms start. Her cunt clenches, just slightly, and I only thought she tried to shift underneath me.

I didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

“Daddy…” she choked again between the whimpers, and now I was sure she was trying to milk me dry.

There’s an even pulse inside her—faint at first—that rides the length of her walls, as if every vein inside her has come loose and tries to snare my cock. Then, she clenches again, and you can’t mistake it for anything other than a spasm. I’m not even sure she knows.

She doesn’t scream or thrash; she just tenses. Not rigid, but drawn tight over bones she claims she doesn’t know what to do with. To me, though, she was beautiful, even as her whimpers turned into something breathier, louder in its quiet.

“Fuck…” she groaned.

All I could do was stay present and steady, even as she clenched, even as her pussy closed tight around me.

“Jesus Fucking…”

She didn’t break and shatter, but she wrapped herself around me, legs pressing into my back, arms pulling me down until her breath warmed the pulse of my throat.

She gave me my name again—not daddy, not the Lord’s, but mine—pressed into the skin of my throat.

And flooded me.

Warmth spilled from everywhere inside her, a kind of heat unknown to me before her. I’ve had the thrashing, the screaming, vulgarities yelled into the dark, a cunt squirting obscenely, but she? She remained beautiful.

“Good girl,” I moaned.

I licked her throat, bit her jaw, and found her ear.

“Mine.”

Possessive? No. A promise fulfilled.

I want to be a good girl for you, Daddy.

Let me fall apart for you as you make me yours.

Her eyes met mine. They were soft, deep hazel, and slightly blurred as if she was still trying to find me. I don’t know how my eyes met hers. I only know how I saw her, how her hair spilled across the pillow, how her cheeks were a deep-warm red, and how her breath steadied. The last tension in her was gone, every tension of her body had given way to—

I didn’t know it then. Where she found herself in that moment. She didn’t find the words until later, when she’d returned to her desert, and the ache that ate at us both was pressing so hard it felt like suffocating: I’ve never had love like yours.

—intimacy.

Maybe my inability to read her came from her whisper:

“Cum inside me, daddy…”

I moved slowly. Still slowly.

“No, baby girl,” I whispered, “Not yet.”

I wanted the moment to last, the sensations to bloom, to see her lose sense of time, of place, and her past, and stay with me in the present. To make the present stretch.

Besides, she offered an impossibility. The kind of impossibility that dawned on me with each glide out, each push inside her. She was so slick, there wasn’t enough friction for me to cum.

There were more realizations that dawned on me. How perfect she was, yes, but how utterly devoted she is to pleasure. All she’d ever asked for was the space to make that safe. Possible.

I tried not to be hungry. Stay steady and not fuck her the way my brain growled for. I was too focused on the sensation of her to realize I was sucking her nipple raw. I had half her breast in my mouth as if swallowing her flesh could quench the starvation somehow.

“Easy…eehhasy…” she moaned.

“Sorry,” I offered, spit clinging from her tit to my lips.

“God…no,” she answered. “Just…easy.”

Another realization dawned on me.

“Babe?” I gasped. “Are you cumming again?”

She was louder this time, and greedier to welcome it.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” she half-moaned, half-pleaded. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

As if I had any intention of stopping. As if I wanted anything but to witness her beauty, her utter desire to take the full shape of me.

“Deeeepeeeer.”

Her voice is velvet. And when she drops an octave and whispers?

I wanted to cum for her, but even with how hard she clenched around me, it stayed a slick impossibility.

She gasped when I pushed into her, full force, full depth. Then again. And again. My hardness and force felt dirty and intrusive against her softness, her absolute glassy perfection. And to make the impossible an illusion, she drenched me again.

“God, Alissa…” I groaned. “Why would anyone ever cheat on you?”

It was an honest question. Born out of my complete inability to understand that sort of stupidity. And still, as I buried myself in her insatiable hunger, I was still married. Tossed out and discarded, yes, but still legally bound to a woman I’d not loved in years. I could understand why men would cheat on that kind of boredom. Sex with her had become so predictable, so boring, there was no temptation left, even in release. It’s what had me flattered by a lesser woman. It’s why I’d allowed myself to become someone else’s validation, a mere emotional crutch. Someone so kind it felt like I owed her something, while still being the butt end of a joke.

Alissa’s the kind of woman who had me wake one night, next to fourteen years of marriage, throbbing with lust. But my lust stretched across continents and oceans, and an endless stretch of time zones. Cock-heavy and stupid, I’d stumbled into the living room to send a message halfway around the world. I don’t even know why.

I came violently on the couch from her imagined touch.

What the fuck is going on?

That was the message I sent her.

And her reply had me hard again within seconds.

Why would anyone cheat on her?

You want the slut fantasy? She gives it. You want the most tender love? She’s it. You want a girl who clenches tight and calls you daddy?

Why would anyone cheat on her…

I stopped, then pulled out of her slowly as I tried to regain breath.

She spun around, buried her head in the sheets, and pushed her ass up in invitation. She arched perfectly, tits pressed to the mattress, thighs wide, cunt dripping. She didn’t ask for patience, and I had none to offer her. My hands found firm grip on her hips as she guided me inside her with a wet moan.

“Cum for me...please.”

I pounded her, or at least tried to.  The feral monsters growled, the slap of skin on skin filled my brain and urged them on.

“Fuck me, daddy!”

Yes, baby girl.

“Fill me, daddy!”

God, yes!

“I’m cumming, daddyyyyy....”

I fucked her through it. All of it, before collapsing behind her.

“God,” I grunted. “I can’t...”

She stayed like that for a moment before sinking down into the bed again. She smiled when she looked at me.

“God,” she whispered. “What are you doing to me?”

I gasped for air still. Desperate to cum and utterly unable to even know how to with her.

“Yeah,” I said. “You can suck my cock now.”

It was like striking a match in a room filled with the oxygen of our exhales and the explosiveness of hydrogen.

She was on me like a fever on the flu, the kind of delirious, scorching heat that consumes everything in its path.

She likes sucking cock; you only need to read her stories to know how much it fuels her greed. Her grip was firm around me, but her eyes didn’t let go of mine. She just stroked me slowly and watched me.

I groaned.

I think that’s what she was waiting for.

Her attention turned to my cock, still stroking, but watching now with greed flickering behind her eyes.

Her tongue came first. It was a greedy lick around the ridge, then a slow drag down to the base before her mouth climbed up the length of me again, leaving a slick, wet trail behind.

“Fuck,” I muttered. No, I think I gasped.

I’ve had my cock sucked before. I’ve blown my load in a chick’s mouth, sure. The way she tried to swallow me was nothing like anyone before her. When she parted her lips, it was wet and greedy.

Her tongue pressed flat against the shape of my cock, and she still tried to take more of me. All of me. She drooled obscenely, and I wasn’t sure if it was the taste of her on my cock or the shape of me filling her mouth that had her moan with such hunger. And still she tried to take more of me.

She pulled off, drool clinging to her chin and coating her fingers as she stroked me. She looked annoyed as she studied the shape of me, the slick spit she’d coated me in, and how I pulsed in her palm.

“Fuck!” she muttered.

She was on me again, like a lioness on her prey. My hands found her hair, and my fingers twisted her burgundy strands into a tight knot that allowed me to find solid grip. I’m not that kind of man, not really, but she releases all inhibition in me. I pulled or pushed her down on me until my cock found the shape of her throat. I pressed and felt her tighten around the head, but she didn’t flinch then, either.

Her eyes met me as if in a dare; as if she were telling me to stuff her throat with my cock. I didn’t have to, though. She pushed, slobbered, and opened as wide as her jaw allowed. Her mouth was as drenched as her cunt, and when I wouldn’t fit, she started fucking me with her mouth. With each downstroke, she coated me anew, and every time she pulled off, her spit soaked the entirety of me until my balls were coated in a slick, glistening layer of her want.

Something deep inside me growled deeply, and the shackled beasts inside my skull pulled at their chains, threatening to snap my sanity in half.

She released me in a gasp, sucking air back into her lungs as if she’d just remembered the basic need for oxygen and the taste of air.

“Fuck,” she repeated. “Your cock’s too fat, babe!”

She kept stroking me, her own spit coating her hand and making it the perfect fleshlight.

She was determined to swallow something. Anything. It turned out to be my balls. When I groaned deep, she did it again, then licked the entire length of me before sucking me back in between her lips.

I could have cum then. Should have, maybe, cum then. Instead, she looked at me as my cock plopped out of her mouth, then rolled over on her back and spread herself wide.

She didn’t say anything, and yet, the chains snapped free, the moorings ripped clean off the last frail edges of my sanity, and the beasts consumed me.

I was on her like the lion king claiming his lioness. I had no thought, just need and instinct. I don’t know what she felt, what she needed, what she craved. I mounted her as if I owned the right, as if I owned every inch of her body.

And I fucked her.

I fucked her with only one intent: To cum as deep inside her as I’d go. To claim every space of her cunt as mine, to infest her with the need of me, and me alone.

I might have licked her throat. I might have sucked her mouth. I might have done a lot of things.

The truth of it is, I don’t even remember. I wasn’t claiming her any more than she was claiming me. Us.

“Daddyyyy…cum inside me. Please.”

She’s young enough to be my daughter.

It wasn’t a release. I pushed inside her in a violent thrust, and when she clenched perfectly, I couldn’t hold back.

I’m supposed to write the absolute filth of it, describe how hard I came, how much I came, and how consuming it was.

All I can remember is the intimacy of it. How close we were when she wrapped her legs around me to hold me there, locked inside her. How her lips found mine, still stupid from cumming, and whispering love letters into my mouth.

I slid down, kissed her chest, her stomach. The inside of her thigh. She dragged a slow finger through the mess of herself, pulled the slick of us over her clit, before sucking her fingers into her mouth.

My head found rest on her thigh as she let her legs fall open for me. Her breath steadied to the rhythm of mine, and the sun crawled below the horizon. I breathed the scent of sex, of her and me, radiating from her still pulsing cunt. I don’t know if sleep found her first, or me, and it never mattered.

When I woke, I didn’t know how many hours had passed. The daylight was gone, and the room had closed around us. Every space of it was ours, every scent proof of our afternoon. I’d slept, breathing every slow pulse of her perfect cunt, and none of us had moved.

“Babe,” I whispered. “I fell asleep on your thigh…”

She didn’t jolt or close her legs. She stayed perfectly open as if she wanted my eyes on her.

“I want this,” she said. “For always.”

Her words.

Her voice.

My everything.