It began with a light smack upside his head. Downton Abbey in the background. Rolling around, wrestling and kissing. Fucking him, on the couch, his arms thrown up over his head, pulled taut but the leather cuffs and the soft tangle of rope, not knotted up properly in some orderly fashion, but set just to hold him helpless.
My cunt, engulfed around him, hilting repeatedly, watching the shaft vanish into the dark pelt of my hair and the lurid pink of my labia. It’s the sort of view that sticks with me, turns me on later when I think about it. He’s swearing, because I’ve been teasing him earlier, palm and fingers, circle grip that swirls and drives him to whimper and arch his back. I note those human things, the way that as he loses himself in the sensations as he comes, his abs push out, legs folding.
Before, seeking, looking for the right button. Trying slaps, spidering my fingers into his armpits in scurrying hooks, seeking him groan as my hand slides under him and the sharpness of my nails scrape his back. Later, in the shower, I will see livid curls of red, tracks of where I rent him. When I uncuffed him, he asked me to rub his upper arms, where they were sore from the pulling and tingling from how he’d pressed into the wooden curve of the couch arm.