R o m antics
Warnings: Sex and language. I suppose you can call this a PWP, though I tried to keep the coarse language and graphic descriptions to a minimum. Still, to protect the fragile minds of younger readers, if you are under the age of 17 (as that is the age that children are allowed into R rated films without a legal adult) you shouldn't read this. Parents, watch your kids. There is a lot of stuff on the internet you might object to – this possibly being one of them.
Author's Note: I am not a writer. I draw pretty pictures. This was simply a product of a passing fancy and lack of thought.
By Oh Boy Enjoi
Thickened by heavy breathing and sweat, the air hung dense around the two bodies that have already abandoned all articles of clothing. Hurried and delirious, the pair paid no attention to the modesty offered by the sheets of the bed. Lovers you could call them if you were blind, even passionate sex was a generous term to describe their actions. This was fucking, plain and simple. An action brought on by a physical need much like eating or sleeping. Emotion had no place here. She knew as soon as his hands reached into her hair, yanking her face toward his to get better access to her mouth. Probing, biting, there was no sign of empathy or even rational thought in his actions. Love had nothing to do with it.
He freed one hand from it's crimson net and teased a nipple, partially out of habit, partially from the satisfaction it brought to watch her moan and being the bucking motion that made it painfully obvious she was being controlled by her body. Swiftly and fluidly like a well-made marionette, her back arched, her ass jutted out exposing the small dimple between her back and the tramp stamp she got on a drunken holiday. Love had nothing to do with her pulling at his hand, moving down her stomach to assure him there was no need for formality. Moving lower to press against her clit. Already wet, normally she would proclaim she wasn't a slut. Normally. But tonight, that was the least of their worries. After all, if love didn't mean a fucking thing who cared about titles.
Not speaking minds empty. Only focusing on the physical, on the immediate. His teeth caught her earlobe. His fingers went deeper, then exited abruptly leaving smears of wetness between her thighs. He entered her suddenly and without hesitation, forcing recycled air and thoughts and bits of her soul from her lungs. Her lips parted brushing against his jaw. He hardly noticed the slight sensation against the side of his face. So negligible compared to what was going down below. After all, it was lovers who noticed the inconsequential.
Clenching and unclenching to match his pace. Daring him to move. Forcing him to decide between the exquisite pressure or friction caused by their furious pace. Her eyes brimming with insanity, debauchery. HE was the man, HE was dominant. He moved faster, harder, her nails dug into the flesh of his arm and back. The biting of her lip interrupted by a kiss. A kiss that turned into a gasp that begot another. Deep filling, bringing with it the thoughts and memories and bits of soul which had been so violently forced out before.
There would be no need for pillow talk. No need for the gentle stroking of faces that silently proclaimed tenderness and devotion, thanks and praise. The bruises and bite marks would be testament enough. Love had nothing to do