A Study In Contrasting Temperatures

Two weeks is too long. It is February.

We walked up the stairs to his one-bedroom, he cupped the fullness of my buttocks in his large chapped hands, squeezing me through my jeans. I had a weekend's worth of clothing in a backpack, which I threw off as soon as we crossed from the front door into the kitchen. He grabbed me around the waist, pressing his abdomen to my back as I raised my arms up around his neck and he kissed my shoulders.

Those hands explored my body: they squeezed my flesh and piqued my senses; they ran over my shirt then under my belt. He pinched a nipple through my bra with one hand while the other was slowly exploring my overheating sex with the other. My hips rose and fell with the rhythm he defined. His erection grew and pressed against the small of my back. We were edging towards the kitchen table.

His hand left my tit and joined its companion at the buckle of my jeans: that was swiftly undone and my pants and panties were immediately around my knees. The edge of the table was level with my mons, and the pressure of the cold wood against my skin raised goosebumps across my body. With his left hand he pulled back on my left hip and with his right he undid his fly and released his penis, then grabbed my other hip. I bent forward stood on my toes as he penetrated me, the both of us sighing and flushing with the satisfaction of our combined sense of urgency that had percolated over the course of the days that we could not be together.

Everything is hot and cold: the air and the table steal warmth from our bodies and harden our nipples, the heat from my lover's flesh brings a glaze of sweat to my back. The cool smoothness of the wooden table against my outer labia is in stark contrast to the temperature of cock inside me, the tempo generated by the one heightens the sensual-pressure-numbness-warmth donated by the other.

His hands dig into the curve of my waist. I brace myself against the table with mine pressed flatly on its surface. The combined sensation of my partner's aggressive thrusting and the firmness against which I am forced is overwhelming, and when I orgasm I leak fluid down my thighs and leave a small puddle on the table while I whimper.

My lover pulls out of me before he comes. I am momentarily surprised at the sudden departure, until I hear him moan behind me and feel his semen splash against the cleft between my cheeks. He grabs me by the joint between the top of my thigh and the fold beneath the fullness of my ass, pulls towards himself, and licks from my perineum to the top of my sacrum until I am clean. The warmth of his mouth is the opposite of the coolness of his saliva left on my body. When he stands, I spin around and we embrace, squeezing out all the air between our torsos and having as much flesh against flesh as we can. The time without my lover is the antithesis of this closeness.

We shower. We clean off the longsuffering kitchen table. We eat and laugh, I sit in his lap and he pinches and tickles me. These two days are what I spent ages waiting on, and they are always over far too quickly.

Republished with permission from La Ravaudeuse. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.