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Designed Intent

Chapter 14

Saturday Morning

Bobby woke having to pee. He turned and looked at Gleason over his shoulder. She was sound asleep. He looked past her to the clock, seven-forty. He stepped into his jeans, zipped, walked to the living room to retrieve his toiletries, and went into the bathroom.

He flushed, washed his face, brushed his teeth; but he did not shave, Gleason liked his whiskers. He set his kit on the back of the toilet and went to the kitchen.

Bobby set the kettle to boil and prepared the tea. He pulled open her tiny fridge and found nothing of any use. What does this woman eat, he wondered. They would have to go out for breakfast. He was hungry.

The sound of the kettle screaming in Gleason's dream pierced though the sleep and woke her. Then she realized that the screaming kettle was in the kitchen, not in her dream. She stretched and remembered Bobby. A part of her was empty inside. She wanted to be excited that he was here; she loved him, she would always love him. But he didn't trust her; he thought she was a whore. That thought knocked away her breath; a whore. The empty place inside filled with sadness.

Bobby was in the living room, digging through his bag for underwear, socks and a shirt when the kettle started. He dropped the boxers and socks, dashed to the stove and grabbed the kettle. He poured the boiling water into the teapot and set aside the kettle. He placed the lid on the pot and turned to see if the whistle had woken her. She stood at the open bedroom door.

Gleason could not believe how sexy Bobby looked. He was barefoot and bare chested, wearing her favorite jeans, the ones that were a wee bit baggy and loose and hung low; the ones he wore with no belt. His bare chest and muscled arms appeared massive and his mussed hair showed his curls. His whiskers, oh, that face.

Bobby could not make steady eye contact with her; he would glance at her, then glance down, away. She was lovely in her light green nightgown. It hung straight to her ankles; it skimmed over her breasts and draped her curves when she moved. She had pulled her hair back in a loose knot.

She looked at him steadily and saw his contrition as he shuffled in place. Oh, she wanted him. She crossed to him and he watched her. Tentatively, his hands reached for her, but did not touch her. He wanted to, but was afraid he would do something wrong.

Gleason stood in front of him and put her palms on his bare chest. Bobby hitched a breath. Her fingers traced through the thin spray of silvering curls. She ran her palms softly over his shoulders, along his upper arms, savoring the feel of muscles under his smooth, warm skin.

Slowly, cautiously, he took her arms. She stepped closer and her hands traveled to his face. She pulled his head to hers and kissed him deeply. Bobby embraced her, enveloping her completely. His mouth opened on hers, his tongue lapping hers. He rose against her and she felt herself swell.

"Oh, God, Gleason, I love you. Honey, I love you. I am sorry. I am so sorry," he whispered deeply into her hair.

Gleason took his hand, turned and led him into the bedroom. At the bed, she shed her nightgown and he shucked off his jeans. Bobby threw back the sheet and blanket and she lay down. He was on her in a heartbeat. His hands traveled her body from her face to her nest. His mouth took in every part of her. His member bore against her inner thigh. She reached for him and grasped tenderly, running her hand up and down.

Bobby moaned and his breathing quickened. His finger found her nub. He pressed it, rubbed it, and slid inside her hot wetness. She hissed in breath and uttered a deep moan.

"In me, go inside. Now, inside," she breathed against his neck. Bobby rose to his knees, pushed her legs wide open and spread his legs between hers. He smelled her musk, she wants me, he thought, she wants me. He pulled her toward him, slipped one arm under her bottom, and lifted her hips.

"Put me in you," he said deeply. She wrapped her hand around his girth and placed the head at her opening. She rubbed him against herself; his head was large, round and full. God, it felt good, rubbing, smearing!

Bobby pushed and she let go. He pushed all the way and she moaned through an open mouth. He filled her all the way up, packing her. Bobby tensed and issued a slow, deep groan. He lay over her, filling her, not moving. He wanted to be inside her, he wanted to be a part of her; he wanted them to be one, a single entity.

Gleason felt her inner walls push apart. She was so full with him. He was all the way up! Oh, god, he was huge inside her, so good, so good! She gently tightened around him. She relaxed around him. She tightened. He is so big! In her mind's eye, she saw his long, thick penis inside her. She could see what she felt – oh, God!

Bobby's head dipped between her head and neck. Oh, Jesus, oh, god! It felt like she was sucking him inside her. Oh, god. He didn't move, he didn't pull out or push further. He stayed inside, stuffing her. She squeezed and relaxed, squeezed, relaxed. She was sucking him inside! Ugh, ugh!

Gleason continued to squeeze and let go, squeeze and let go. God he is big, so round, hard, long! She gripped him faster and began to move under him.

"Fuck me. Do it. Fuck me," she whispered desperately.

Bobby looked at her, his mouth took hers, his tongue dove through her lips and his hips began to pump. He pulled out and slammed back in. He pulled out and slammed back in, he pistoned in and out. Desperation, more than passion, fueled his moves.

She was hot, tight and wet. So tight, so wet. God she was hot! He slid out and shoved in. Over and over, faster and faster. Short, hard sounds came from deep in Gleason's throat. She flew to the edge. She was going to come. Now, now, ungh, ungh!

Her sounds pushed Bobby there. Each time he hit the cap of her inside, he let out a deep, long grunt. Gleason's body jolted with each of his shoves, he pushed that hard. Ugh, ungh, uungh, oh gaawwdd! Bobby slammed up into her and he exploded, jetting hot streams of cum up deep against her cap. Gleason growled out her orgasm, jamming herself up against him, grabbing his back, pulling him into her.

They lay a moment, gasping, hearts pounding. Gleason's mind ran wild with all sorts of thoughts. It was so good; oh, it was so good. But suddenly, her face crumpled and she began to cry. She could not help it, she cried.

Bobby heard her and felt her and he jolted up onto his elbow, "What's wrong! Gleason, Honey, what? Did I hurt you?" She rolled away from him and covered her face. Bobby was at a loss. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? Gleason, tell me." He tried to roll her toward him, but she shrugged him off. Bobby scuttled over her and sat beside her.

"Gleason, look at me." Her crying slowed. He smoothed her hair away from her face. She shuddered a few sobs and wiped her face with her hand. Then she looked up at him. "Baby, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?" he asked so softly.

She shuddered another sob, sighed and said, "No."

He looked at her, not understanding what had happened. "Then why are you crying?"

Gleason rolled back to look at him better. "It was so good, just now. I have missed you so much, Bobby. But, but after I came, I, I remembered what you thought I had done with Malcolm." Her face crumpled again and she sobbed out, "I didn't sleep with him. I'm not a whore. I'm not a whore, Bobby." And then she dissolved into tears.

"Oh dear god, Gleason. Honey, I know. I know you didn't sleep with him." His heart was ripping from his chest as he leaned down to her. "I am so sorry. Honey, I am sorry."

Gleason cried out loud. He held her as best he could. I have hurt her so badly, he thought.