sloppy

I wasn’t planning anything, hadn’t even drank a full cup of coffee yet – was just looking for my comfortable bra, dropped (I thought) lazily on the bathroom floor before a bath the night before. But when I open the door from the hallway he’s standing beside the bathtub, towelling off, room still warm and foggy from the shower.

I don’t say anything, don’t have to; there’s a second of hesitation (coffee bus routes trousers to iron) and then I step towards him, peeling my shirt off and stepping out of my panties in a single movement, cause he just looks so good: drops of water still glimmering over his shoulders, nipples popped from the rough rub of the towel, his cock hanging half-soft between sturdy thighs.

I put the pads of my fingers just over his collarbone, lean in a little, enough that I can lick across his lower lip and press into a deeper kiss, mouths open, wet and warm and lips still sleep-soft. My palms drag down over his chest, slow, feeling every inch, drag down over his stomach and pause over his waist. His hips sway forwards, hungry, involuntary, and his cock bobs against the inner crease of my thigh, stiffening.

I touch it, just a little, fingers stroking light over the crown, just enough to feel his breath grow quicker, harsh. Then I press my palms against the front of his thighs and sink to my knees, roll my head a little sideways so his cock slaps gentle against my temple.

Baby,’ I say, and take him in my mouth, tongue soft and hungry and suckling along his length, take him deeper till the head of his cock bumps against my soft palate and I jerk just a little, resettle my hands on his thighs, breath in deeply through my nose. He’s looking down on me, dark-eyed, mouth a little open, wet hair fallen into his eyes. I let the saliva pool under my tongue and run out the corners of my mouth, bob a couple of times up and down his cock, getting everything wet and – sloppy, slick with want, undignified.

‘Morning,’ I say, around his cock, and start to suck in earnest, and his head knocks back soft against the wall and he starts to groan.

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sloppy

KOTW: crawling

‘Hey,’ he says, from the hotel bed, and the way he says it makes me look up from where I’m crouched on the floor, suitcase open, rooting around inside for deodorant. I sit back on my heels, let the suitcase fall closed. He’s on his back, legs tangled in the sheets, one arm behind his head. The way he’s looking at me, soft and dark and full of intention, makes the colour come up in my cheeks – I can feel it, hot and bright under my skin, flushing up my throat, over my chest where I’m still damp from the shower, smell of hotel body wash hanging vaguely floral in the air.

‘C’mere,’ he says, so soft it’s more of a breath, and on some half-thought-out instinct I don’t stand up, instead I lean forward onto my hands and knees and crawl slow towards the bed, back arched a little, eyes not leaving his face. I bite my lip, and he says, low, ‘oh, that’s how it is, is it?’ and sits up a bit on one arm. I keep my eyes on his, teasing a barely-there smile, letting my knees and palms drag slow and tactile-hungry across the rug, and a warm knot coils low in my belly, makes me slick and pulsing between my legs.

He starts to sit up but I just shake my head, no, and the rise and fall of his chest starts to quicken, grow rougher. He’s still looking at me, eye contact unbroken, when I get to the bed and crawl up over its foot, knock his thighs gently apart with my forearms and sink my mouth down around his cock and oh it’s good, half-hard already and quickening further in my mouth, bumping soft against my soft palate. I make a noise, involuntary satisfaction, as his hips rise a little against my mouth and the world collapses soft down into – this, the weight of his cock in my mouth and the jerky tightening of his belly under my palms.

KOTW: crawling

KOTW: jeans

When she comes into the kitchen it’s still early. The morning light coming through the blinds is painting the room with stripes of light and shadow, and he’s standing in front of the coffee-machine, fingers playing absently over the curves of two mugs. He’s wearing a tshirt and his oldest jeans, the pair worn thin enough they cling over the curve of his ass. There’s a hole just under the waistband where the jeans have worn thin enough she can catch a glimpse of his briefs – purple, today.

‘Hey,’ she says, and he turns around and grins, all tousled bedhead, a crease from the pillowcase still imprinted faintly on his face. She comes up to him, close enough she can press right against the crotch of his jeans, nudge his ass up against the kitchen counter. The stiffer curve of his zip with the bulkier heft of the button is right between her legs, and she rolls her hips a little, presses against him. She can feel the line of his dick shift and stiffen under the jeans.

‘Hnnng,’ he says, ‘want coffee, baby?’

She looks up in his face, dimples.

‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘but I want this first,’ and she fumbles between their bodies, undoes his button and zipper and pushes his jeans and briefs down over his thighs, gets down on her knees. The jeans slip down his legs, pool on the kitchen tile around his ankles, and she gets a palm against each of his hips and puts her face into the crease of his thigh, breathes in the scent of him. He makes a little noise, touches her hair, fully erect now, his swollen dick bumping up against her cheek, and she turns her head and sinks her mouth down around him, a wet suckling warmth.

The jeans get left on the floor when they go back upstairs.

KOTW: jeans