September 7, 2014

She didn't recognize the sounds coming out of her own mouth. Deep and guttural one moment, high pitched and needy the next, she'd never been like this before, but now she couldn't restrain herself, couldn't stop the flood of whimpers and groans and breathless gasps.

She was lying on her back on Elliot's bare mattress, his head between her thighs, his tongue driving her slowly insane. It had been a long, long time since a man had last put his mouth on her, and she was certain it had never been quite like this, like Elliot, eager, enthusiastic, goddamn hungry. That tongue of his curled inside her, did not shy away from the evidence of his own need still hot and damp within her, his lips against her clit, against the oversensitive folds of her sex, his beard burning the tender skin between her legs with abandon. Her own hands were curled around his head, trying desperately to hold on, to find some way to anchor herself to him, to keep him close to her while her hips bucked wildly beneath him and her back arched in pleasure.

Jesus, the things that man could do with his tongue. He was fucking her with it, and she could hear his mouth working over her, wet and debauched, one of the single most erotic things she'd ever experienced in her life. The solid, heavy muscles of his back shifted as he worked and he was grinding his own spent cock against the mattress, and she wondered, for a moment, if he would get hard for her again. She kind of hoped he would. He'd already made her come twice and was doing his best to bring the count to three, but she wanted more of him, still. Wanted more of him than she'd ever wanted from anyone else. Wanted all of him.

"Yes," she heard herself cry, and "fuck", as his tongue slipped out of her, as he replaced it with two thick fingers, curling sharply into her tender heat. That tongue of his slid up to her clit, and she felt him lap against her, once or twice, before he took her clit between his lips and sucked, and the sound he tore out of her then was practically a scream. There was no way he could breathe, with her thighs clenched tight around his ears and her hips grinding against his face, but he didn't seem to mind; he just kept right on, thrusting his fingers inside her, sucking her clit, branding her skin with his beard, and she fell apart with a wail, jumping back from the stimulation as her body burst, and the sensation of him touching her became suddenly too much to bear.

Elliot relented, did not continue to push her but only slid up her body, just far enough to press a kiss to her belly before resting his head there. His hands palmed her hips, and she could feel him painting her skin with her own wetness, and for once she didn't mind. He had made a mess of her, of them both, but in that moment she was glad of it. It felt good, to be a little messy. Not pretty as a picture, not carefully contrived and displayed to her best effect, but honest, and grimy, and human, and real. She kept her hands on his head, running soothingly over his skin, what little hair he had prickling her palms while she smiled into the darkness, and tried to catch her breath.

It surprised her, a little, that he'd been willing to do this for her, that he wanted to, knowing he'd come inside her, knowing that Wheatley had taken her earlier in the evening, but it was all Elliot's idea. It was Elliot who had inched his way down her body with gentle kisses, Elliot who had looked up at her from between her parted thighs with lust in his eyes, and he had not shied away from her, and he had drunk down the taste of her like a drowning man swallowing great mouthfuls of the sea. He'd wanted to do it, and had done it well, and she felt an overwhelming rush of fondness for him at the thought.

"One more time?" he asked her, his voice vibrating through her belly. "One more time for me, Liv."

"Are you hard?" she asked him before she had the chance to feel self-conscious about the question, though his rumbling laughter quieted any fears she might have had about sounding a little desperate.

"Yeah," he said.

"I'm too tired to move."

"Let me worry about that."

He rose up over her on his knees, and when he did she looked, and saw his cock bobbing up towards his navel, and he hadn't been lying, she thought with a grin; he was ready for her again, and she was ready for him, too. With his hands still on her hips he squeezed her once, gently, and then smoothly rolled her onto her belly. She sighed when he did it, burying her face in a pillow and relaxing into the mattress; it felt good, laying like this, and he would feel good, inside her like this, and yeah, she could go again.

"Just lemme…" he muttered, reaching up to grab the pillow next to her before carefully tucking it under her hips. She giggled, just a little, feeling a little silly with her ass raised up like this, but that felt good, too, knowing he wanted to see her like this, the stretch in the muscles of her back -

Shit. Her back.

She lifted her head, looked at him over her shoulder, and found his eyes fixed on her body, drinking in the sight of her mark. That dark, undeniable creature, spanning the entire length of her back from her ass to her shoulders and up her neck, he'd never seen the whole thing before. He'd seen most of it, that night he'd unzipped her dress, but not all of it, and not like this. That night he hadn't been able to see the way the feathers curled down over the cheeks of her ass, up over the rise of her shoulders, hadn't been able to see the full span of the phoenix's wings, wrapping around her ribs as if it was embracing her. It had been years since anyone but Brian had seen the mark - Wheatley hadn't really gotten a good look at it, earlier in the evening, mostly because she hadn't wanted him to - and she felt suddenly self-conscious, defensive almost.

"Elliot-"

"You're beautiful," he said, leaning forward to press his lips to the rise of her shoulder. "You're beautiful, and the mark doesn't change that."

He had been very, very careful in his choice of words, and she knew it, and she was grateful for it. The tattoo was a piece of art, would have been beautiful on its own if it had been drawn on a canvas, and plenty of people had said before that it was beautiful, but Olivia knew what the mark meant, and could never see it for its own beauty, not without remembering what it had cost her. And Elliot knew, too, what it cost, what it had taken from her, had heard her call it a brand, and he did not call the mark beautiful, now. He called her beautiful instead.

"It is…powerful," he mused, his hands running gently over her ass, careful not to touch the mark. Powerful, she thought, was one way to put it. The thing was huge, and imposing, and impossible to look away from. "Like you."

"You think I'm powerful?" she asked him softly.

"I think you're the strongest woman I've ever met," he answered. "And you deserve to fly. Like your bird."

"It's a phoenix."

"Isn't that a type of bird?"

"Listen, are you gonna fuck me or not?"

Behind her he chuckled and smoothly drove two fingers inside her, and she was wet enough to take him but still yelped in surprise, her cunt clenching down against his hand instantly.

"That what you want, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice low by her ear, the weight of his body settling over her back, covering her like a blanket.

"Yeah," she managed to gasp, arching her body up into his, desperate to feel him, everywhere.

"I can do that," he murmured.

And then he was shifting above her, his hand slipping out of her, his fingers drifting over her clit while the head of his cock slipped easily into her, and she groaned at the stretch of him, eager for more. But he held himself there, just barely inside her, eased out and then back in, just the head of him, lighting up the nerves around her entrance like a goddamn Christmas tree, but teasing, still, for the moment. Teasing her clit with those barely there touches, teasing the rest of her with those shallow, gentle thrusts, pushing into her and pulling back, and she could feel her body sucking at him, trying to draw him in deeper, and damn him, she thought, smiling, panting into the pillow, damn him for making this good.

"Elliot," she groaned, trying to convey a warning tone, a challenge, though the word came out breathy and begging instead.

"Right here, sweetheart," he said, and then he slid home, the hand not currently occupied with her clit landing on her ass, his fingers curling into her flesh, holding her open as he watched himself driving into her. She didn't mind that she couldn't see it for herself; her eyes had slammed shut the second he thrust into her, and she couldn't seem to wrench open them again.

He withdrew, plunged forward, again and again, and then he was fucking her in earnest, and she lifted her hips higher, angling her body so that he was driving down into her, so that each time he bottomed out she felt it in the very depths of her, and his fingers were still circling, circling, circling her clit, and her hoarse cries of pleasure were muffled in the pillow as she pressed her face hard into it, every muscle in her body tensing with pleasure.

"Wanna hear you," he gasped, and then his hand was on her shoulder, drawing her up, gently, not too hard, not too demanding, but enough to free her face from the pillow, enough to arch her back into a graceful bow, enough so that he could hear her crying out for him the next time he sheathed himself inside her.

"Fuck-"

"You feel so good," he groaned.

"So good," she panted in reply. "So good."

It was better than good; it was damn near righteous, the slide of him inside her, their bodies molding together, their sweat and cum and gasping breaths mingling in the thick, still air of the RV. Never, it had never been like this, and she could have cried, in that moment, to think of all the years she'd spent enduring mediocre, perfunctory sex, could have cried in joy on account of how fucking good his cock felt, could have cried in relief at the happiness that filled her each time his cock slid home, but she could hardly breathe as it was, could only ride out the rising tide of her pleasure until for the fourth time that night she fell apart beneath him. Elliot didn't even try to hold himself back, only chased his pleasure in the midst of hers, pounding relentlessly into her release until he found his own, and came inside her for the second time.

His strength wavered, for a moment, and he collapsed along her back, gasping and nuzzling his bearded chin against her tender skin, and she could hardly draw breath and she was going to have to ask him to move soon, but for the moment she just wanted to enjoy it, the weight of him on top of her, the comfort of his skin on hers, the peace that came in the aftermath of a release they'd both been desperate for. His hands fumbled at her sides, caught hold of hers, and then he raised them up, pressed her palms to the mattress by her head, covered her hands with his own and laced their fingers together, and held on tight while they breathed together in the darkness, calm and free.