Page 43 of Roses in Summer

The only correlation between all the videos I favor is the obvious intimacy and need for each other. Maybe I should be embarrassed, horrified by the fact that I enjoy watching other people having sex, achieving the cosmic orgasm at someone else’s hands or mouth or cock.

But it’s not embarrassment I feel; it’s need.

I settle on my most-watched video: a married couple on their honeymoon, so obviously in love with each other that that fact alone makes your heart race. Their faces are never shown; the angle of the camera ensures their concealed identity, and it adds to the sense that it could be you and your partner in the moment, giving each other so much while high on life.

Placing the laptop beside me, I watch as his dark head disappears between her legs, her moans filling my room as he eats her and devours her like an inmate’s final meal on death row. I let my mind drift, imagining that it’s me in that woman’s place, that the mouth between my legs can’t stop tasting me, licking me, biting me. I picture riding my lover’s face, feeling the scruff of his closely shaved beard against my skin as I grab his head and pull him close, forcing his nose to rub against my clit as his tongue fucks me, working in and out of my pussy in a pace so slow, it’s excruciating.

My eyes fall shut as my hands drift between my legs, one finger running delicately over my clit in smooth circles as my pinky grazes my outer lips, collecting the cum already seeping out. By the sound of the woman’s moans and the smacking of the headboard, the husband flipped his wife over and put her on her knees, fucking her doggy style while he constrains her hands against her back.

It’s not my favorite position, but there’s something about the couple that shows how much trust the wife puts in her husband to treat her body well when she has no power over her movements. How the submission, when given to the right partner, can be so damn good. It’s an experience I’ve never had, but as a voyeur, I’m there with them.

Moving my hand lower, I let the heel of my palm dig against my clit as my fingers shallowly dip in and out of my pussy. I grind my hips against my hand, throwing my head back at how good it feels to have the pressure against the nerves while two small fingers fill me.

The wife shouts expletives, coming all over her husband’s cock, and I fuck myself in rhythm to her cries, speeding up as she chants, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” like a prayer to the man behind her. Mentally, I put myself in her place, a dark, heavily tattooed arm around my waist as he hauls me up and places his chest flush with my back. It’s always the fantasy of the same arm, the same smell that I fuck myself to.

I imagine a rough hand circling my neck while his other rests against my chest as he moves me up and down his thick, dark cock, rubbing sensitive spots no man has reached before. His cock would feel impossibly big, like it’s stretching me from the inside and molding my body to his. His voice would whisper in my ear, telling me how good I feel and how well my body adjusts to him. With a bite to my neck, he’d mark me, murmuring about how good his ciern feels wrapped around his cock right before I explode, coming so violently that my cum drips from his cock while he continues to fuck me until he finds his own release.

Like a monster, he’d fuck me through it, triggering a second orgasm, and just like the scenario I created in my mind, my body starts to tingle, the climax hitting me with the grace of a freight train as my back bows off the bed and a hushed name leaves my mouth, “Lincoln.”

I allow myself a single minute to let my heart rate slow and my mind settle before absolute panic sets in.

“Fuck,” I whisper, letting my clean hand rest over my eyes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” My groan echoes the woman’s moans on the screen, and belatedly, I realize I didn’t turn the video off. Removing the hand from my eyes, I reach across my body and exit the website, closing my laptop shortly after.

Shaking my head, I get up and tiptoe across my room, slowly opening the door before running to the bathroom Bianca and I share to wash my hands, remove my makeup, and get ready for bed. I’m deliberate in keeping my thoughts focused on the task in front of me. As long as I wash my face, dry it, and moisturize it, no other thoughts will filter into my brain. Like how I envisioned Lincoln holding me down and fucking me, or worshipping my body with his hands and mouth, or coming inside me.

How I think about that frequently, with a regularity that’s pathetic.

Yes, I won’t think about his deep voice in my ear, his tongue on my skin, as long as I focus on the retinol treatment I’m rubbing into my face.

“What are you doing, Seraphina?” I whisper, shutting my eyes at the idiocy of my thoughts and talking to myself once more.

Sighing in defeat, I walk quietly back to my bedroom and shut the door and my lights behind me. Moving back to my bed, I hesitate before lying down, looking at the mattress as though it’s the scene of a heinous crime. Which, in a way, I guess it kind of is. Swallowing my self-disgust, I slide under the covers and screw my eyes shut, telling myself that I won’t dream about Lincoln.

As I submit to sleep, I think about how I’m such a liar as Lincoln’s face pops into my mind.

17

Lincoln

Deep brown eyes look up at me from her place on her knees, watery from the pressure against the nerves in the back of her throat. Her tears don’t deter her as her head bobs up and down, sucking my cock like it’s a French delicacy, and she’s a little food critic, hungry for a taste.

I thread my fingers through her long hair, pulling it back over her shoulder so that I have an unobstructed view of how well the siren on her knees is deep-throating me. It’s a view that I never want to end unless it’s replaced by her above me, under me, or in front of me, ass perched in the air.

“Fuck, ciern, your mouth feels fucking perfect,” I mutter, letting my fingers drift over her sharp jawline and hollowed cheeks. My praise ignites her, encouraging her to go faster. I grunt an expletive, tightening my hold on her face and hair as I help guide her along my cock.

“That’s it, ciern. Fuck, baby. I’m coming. If you don’t want it, pull off.” My harsh breath follows my words, the telltale zaps of pleasure shooting up my spine until my cum shoots down Seraphina’s throat, painting the walls of her esophagus.

I close my eyes, dropping my head back against the couch as her mouth releases me, letting her tongue lap me up and swallow the remnants of my orgasm. Her tongue dips to the base of my cock, tracing a vein that forces a shudder from my body. “Fuck, Seraphina.” I reach for her, attempting to pull her up to my lips for a kiss.

But no sooner do the words leave my mouth than the vision is shattered.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

My eyes pop open, and three things hit me simultaneously.

First, it’s dark out, not even four in the morning, judging by the shadows in the room and the dark sky beyond the window.

Secondly, my body is uncovered. The boxers I kept on when I crashed on the couch are the only thing separating my balls and dick from the room, while the blankets I draped over myself are haphazardly tossed to the floor.

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