Page 104 of Burn

His buttocks reeled, pumping his cock through my slot. My own frame rocked against his, riding every vault of his hips. Because he did not withdraw fully, the grinding sensation felt more compact, despite our position. It seemed like a different type of intimacy, prompting my private flesh to squeeze his cock deeper still.

Balling his free fingers with mine at the end of the chaise, he bolstered himself halfway off the cushions and watched. Like that, the jester hoisted his thick length into me, his lower half siphoning between my thighs and splitting them wider. Moans shook from my lungs, in tandem to his own growls, the noises unabashed.

With each agile swipe of his cock, cries dashed from my mouth, the cacophony growing in volume. My pussy contorted, grabbing his erection and soaking him to the brim. For a moment, Poet’s forehead landed on my scalp, husky pants rushing against my nape, as if he was unable to endure it.

Yet he kept going, kept prodding me. The tilt of our bodies made everything new, the stimulation both aggravating and captivating.

The jester lifted his head and grunted, “Look down, sweeting.” With a kiss at my temple, he added, “Watch how your pussy works my cock.”

My eyes had briefly closed in rapture. But when they fluttered open, I glanced at my intimate folds sprawling and Poet’s cock punting in and out. His length had darkened, the veins stood out, and a quick glimpse of his swollen crest abrading my clit mesmerized me. So this was how we looked together.

The exhilarating thought fired through my blood. Arousal puddled from my walls and poured freely over Poet, smearing his cock. I saw that too, how my desire glazed him and enhanced the width of his erection.

So hard and high. So bad for me.

My cries mounted, and I swiveled my backside into him. Our groins slammed together, my pussy thudding with his cock. A low roar tumbled from Poet’s lips, resulting in a quicker pace.

“Mine,” he demanded.

“Yours,” I chanted.

Perspiration beaded down his torso and glazed the gulf between my breasts. His palm tacked my thigh higher, opening me to him. As my frame grew accustomed to the position, I moved with greater effect, bucking into my jester.

Everything felt so taut, so provocative, so wonderful. I chased after the stimulation. My whines pleaded for Poet to end it, to make it last, to take me with him.

On another hiss, the jester pulled his soaked cock from my body. I sobbed in protest until he released my thigh, sat upright, and shifted across the cushions. Perpendicular to my legs, he scissored them apart once more. Balancing on his knees, Poet looped my right limb over his hip and pistoned into me again.

My sobs turned into wails. The inarticulate noises launched from my being and consumed the relic vault, the sounds echoing beyond the tapestries and surging down the remote aisles.

Oh, Seasons.

Oh. My. Seasons.

This had to be dangerous. Yet none of those cautions posed a threat to Poet’s adaptable body, nor his ability to guide me. He tilted me just so and held fast, his sinuous cock plying me repeatedly. Using his knees for leverage, the jester hefted his hips into the split of my thighs, his torso clenching with effort.

My lips fell apart, a stream of moans and cries falling off my tongue. Slanted this way, my gaze consumed the view. My body, sideways and open. His body, balanced and whipping into me. And where I’d once judged such primal behavior as tawdry, I now felt only passionate consummation. He made every caress vital, every moan profound.

One moment, touching him was like touching a shadow—evasive, secretive, and forbidden. The next, it was like touching the sunlight—invigorating and teeming with life.

Whereas being touchedbyhim was a collision of both. An explosion of darkness and lightness.

At last, my eyes landed on his and stayed there. As if helpless, the jester’s shapely mouth hung ajar beneath the mask. Yet his dark brows slammed together, and his irises gleamed with purpose.

As we stared, his waist snapped, fucking me into the chaise. Slight but pleasurable stings accompanied the motion, but those quickly subsided. What was unfamiliar became second nature, the subtle twinges melting into elation. Each sharp pass of his cock shoved broken moans from me, pushing my tolerance closer to a precipice.

The sensations mounted, building in strength. Unable to stand the blissful agony, I sprinted into it like a famished princess, belting my hips with his.

On a howl, the jester accelerated his momentum. His muscles contracted, vibrating as if about to unleash, the bridge of his cock laboring so deeply into my pussy. “Mine,” he groaned.

My core clamped onto him, spurred on by shocks of pleasure. I must have lost track of my voice, which presently engulfed the room. At some point, I’d started howling, “Yours.”

We undulated over the chaise, its knotted wooden legs scraping the ground. Yet it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but his body joined with mine, the force of his bellows, and the ribbons entwining our wrists, the scarlet cords relics of our own making.

The jester leaned down to snatch my hand, lacing our fingers once more atop the cushion. This spread me farther. Fleetingly, I glimpsed the profile of his buttocks as they lunged between my thighs. Fucking me sideways, with his cock aiming in this direction, Poet reached uncharted parts of me, the contact breathtaking. I felt how wet I’d become, my body spilling onto him, smothering his flesh.

Then my eyes sought his once more, clinging to his stare through the visor. Those infinite pupils glowed in the darkness, the green varnish of his irises engrossed in my features, hellbent on them. Merely from the sight, my clitoris tingled, and the muscles of my pussy constricted.

I writhed beneath him, and his spine hunched with effort, the vigor of his thrusts flinging me into the cushions. My cries increased in volume. They drowned the vault and then hardened into shouts, as if I were lost in the throes of a blasphemous act.

---