Once more for the crowd- part two

Last week for Wicked Wednesday’s prompt we had a story starter of being home alone… and I had started something I really wanted to finish. It just so happened that Bee’s glorious picture fit the story perfectly. I suggest you read the first part…which is a little more anticipatory… while this is a bit more direct.

Follow the link to see who else has been getting off today.

I shuffle low on the bed, my head below the pillows, knees bent and my feet curled against the bedstead. Fan my hair out, dark on the snowy white of the sheets. This is, after all, predominantly about the visual for him. For our friends.

“Beautiful, petal. You’re sleepy and warm and comfortable. Thinking of me and how I would be touching you if I were there. Use your hands.”

Stretching like a cat, I arch and the blanket falls lower around my waist. My hands, his hands, are slow and deliberate, but not tentative. I wake my body with firm squeezes and pinches. With the delicate fabrics and the harsh bite of my own nails.

“Show me.” His voice pours over my skin, liquid warmth heating me and I am impatient suddenly with the flimsy barriers. Pushing the fabric aside, dragging my arms through the thin straps, hands meet skin.

My eyes close.

When we lie together, without continents between us, I watch him with ravenous eyes. Take in every mark on his skin, the way the hair of his beard grows differently on his neck and his jaw, the flush of blood to his cheeks as I arouse him. I feast on those memories now. Draw up the perfection of images and sensations from every last greedy fuck.

He sees my blue nailed fingers twisting at the tight nubs of my nipples. Sees me pull and roll the flesh roughly. I feel his mouth, his breath panting in hot wet bursts between aching, drawing suckles. Teeth and tongue trapping me, I let go of the cries that spill as we dance backwards and forwards across the line of too much and not enough.

They hear me, and I wonder if their mouths are wet for the taste of soft, salty skin.

My legs shift restlessly against the cool sheets, rucking the slip higher, its silky finish complimenting the needy slickness gathering between my thighs. The scent of my arousal is mixing with the cool cotton of the freshly made bed, so different from the heavy muskiness we create when combined. The rounded scent of his sex, savoury and spicy, is missing I feel pangs of hunger for him pierce through me.

“I know you’re wet for me. For us. Show us what you’ve got, petal.”

He calls me many things, but when I am his petal, we are something else. I am his, but he is holding me up, letting me fly. I know what he is asking and why and I love that he is maintaining control for us.

I can’t hear them, can’t see them, but I can feel the anonymous eyes watching as I hook the blanket and slip higher, exposing the coy shadows and clefts of my groin. I imagine the click of keys and mice driving the cameras to move and refocus.

This is my fantasy. As I spread my legs, hook my right foot high on the bed frame, I want to be seen and to be ignored. Want the focus narrowed to my blossoming cunt, the colours and curls highlighted with succulent juices. To be the hole they want to fill.

Spreading myself wider with my fingers I wonder if the slap and slurp will carry to the microphones or whether this is another loss to technology. I soak my fingers, then taste them, glossing the salty sweetness across my lips before licking them clean. Sucking them, as if it were his mouth directly feeding from the source, bringing tongue and teeth into action.

“Fuck. You taste so good,” he groans, his voice filling my head. Maybe, like me, he can taste our mingled flavours carried by the ghost of familiarity.

“Under the pillow. I want to fuck you.”

I search out his cock and close my fist on it, ignoring the cold hard surface in favour of the weight in my hand. Imagine how I will look stretched and stuffed.

My dominant hand moves without thought, directing the show. Pinching.  Plucking. My hips grinding up to meet my hand as though it was your weight they are seeking.

One hand clutching your cold, glass cock, the other ravaging my swollen pussy, I wonder where your eyes are? Whether the details you see are different from those chosen by others? Finger-bruised  nipples, proudly crowning tits jiggling with exertion as I writhe against the bed. Unkissed lips, flushed with desire and seasoned with lust.

It hurts to drive the spear of glass into the hot mouth of my cunt. Aches as I yield to its uncompromising hardness. Your cock, parting me. Fucking me.

You order me deeper but I have no idea if the words were ever said aloud. I spread my legs further, brace my feet through the bars of the footboard and fuck back, loving and hating the bright bruise of sensation on every thrust as I reach my limit. Not stopping, though the glass becomes slippery and warm.

Even as I feel you inside me, I can picture your strong hand as certain and as rough with your body as I am with mine. I set my pace by your harsh breaths and we move together across the internet.

The hitch and the stutter and growl of release signifies your orgasm and drives me to force your glass cock hard and deep into my core until the pain blooms then implodes into contractions of pleasure.

Later, when we can be together as me and you as much as Sir and petal, I will ask Sir about the watchers. I will choose if I want to know who they were, or if I want their identities to remain his secret. For now, your raspy voice creeps through me and round me, holding back my exhausted tears until you tell me they are gone and we are alone. I let you go slowly, the cameras motors whirring while their lights blink out as you turn them off. I hold you and you hold me until we are as ready as we can be, and you sign off from our call and return to the work that keeps us apart.

It’s very quiet here, and I am home alone.

I miss you.

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