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marnanightingaleSometimes, I just write smut. On very rare occasions, I even write het, more or less vanilla smut. This was one of those occasions. Them as hates that sort of thing -- BE YE WARNED.
Feedback: That would be very pleasant.
Copyright Marna Nightingale 2004.
She is a woman who likes surprises. Sometimes when he leaves work she is there, waiting. Sometimes he leaves the grocery store to find her leaning against his car, smiling. Once, when he had flown to a strange city on a business trip, she was there before him, standing at the gate. More than once he has been standing in a crowded bar, when a soft hand has suddenly caressed his neck. By the time he turns around, all he sees is her back, headed for the door. Not so quickly that he can catch her; not so slowly that she will lose him.
He calls her his downfall. He is a man who likes to be in control. Schedules. Tidy home, tidy hair. A methodical man, competent and contained. But when she comes to him like that, he never refuses her.
She is a woman who likes surprises. Tonight, she met him at the gym. He hasn't seen her for three weeks. Three weeks in which the now-familiar tension of wondering when she will appear has had time to work in him, three weeks in which he has grown used to the dark undertow of desire that builds in him when he is kept waiting. He admits to himself, though rarely to her, that he has grown to like it, that the building tension and spikes of arousal, the racing in his blood and thickening in his groin that comes when he catches a glimpse of a woman with her walk or her hair, give life an edge he thought he'd left behind him in the hormone squalls of adolescence. He is a man who likes to be in control. He is becoming a man who likes this. He simmers, until she comes to him, and then, abruptly, he burns.
He calls her his downfall. In the elevator, she moves against him like the tide coming in, presses him against the wall, with two floors to go, her mouth in the hollow of his collarbone, one hand flat on his chest, holding him frozen in place like nothing stronger ever would, the other washing over him, taking her pleasure of his nipple, his side, his thigh, petting him for the feel of him under her hand, making soft sounds of approval and then stepping back cool and smiling as the doors open, leaving him already hard and gasping as she saunters out and makes for the door of the apartment. He tells her -- to distract himself from the burn, from the swing of her hips as she leads him inside, from the sight of her bending to slip off her shoes as he kicks off his -- that she is Pandora. Ever since he first gave in to the temptation of her, ever since the first time he opened her box, he says, making her laugh with the oddity of such a euphemism on the tongue of such a plain-spoken man, he insists that chaos has been loosed upon his world. He is a man who likes to be in control.
She is a woman who likes surprises. He follows her over to the full-length window in the living room that is worth an extra hundred dollars a month to her, and looks down on the city. It is not until after he somehow finds that his shirt is off and his hands are resting gently on the glass, splayed over his head, while her hands make circles on his torso and the gentle rake of her nails makes him shiver and the lazy wandering of her tongue and teeth along his spine make him burn, it is not until he feels his jeans undone and her hands smoothing them from his hips and the sharp possession of her teeth in his back that he realizes that the city, did it care to, could look up on him, and he shudders.
He closes his eyes but the air from the vent on the floor washes warmly over his skin, tickling in the hair of his legs, sending rushes of sensation through him, driving home his nakedness, and he thinks of being seen and isn't sure whether fear or arousal makes him shudder again. The faces of friends and old girlfriends flash though his mind -- what if one of them, rather than a stranger, walked by, looked up, saw -- and for the very fact that this makes him harder he wants for a moment to pull away, but he doesn't move. Won't move. He is a man who likes to be in control. And this is control, this giving over, this steadiness as she lifts his feet to rid him of his jeans and socks, but his breath comes in little gasps all the same. As her hair brushes his thighs, and tangles in his hardness, surprising him. As she kneels and her hands begin to trace up his body, stroking here, scratching there, mouth and hands between them stroking, searching, small wounds and small favours, never letting him settle. Surprising him.
She is a woman who likes surprises. Hands sliding down from his back in a flurry of shivery nails to clasp his ass as her mouth drifts over his thigh, her tongue finds the curve of his hipbone. His breath catches in his throat as her breath teases him, drifting over his cock as her fingertips brush softly over the sensitive curve where his ass meets his thigh, and then together, and up, but her hands are on the base of his spine now, and he is jumping with the shock as her teeth mark the soft skin of the hollows she once told him reminded her of the sea, when the tide is going out, and the shoreline is all half-moon depressions, scooped out by the water as it flows from the land as she is flowing away from there, away from that curve and up onto his ribs. She loves his body like she loves the seashore, she'd said, and he smiled, then, thinking of the footprints she always left, running across the sand as the tide changed, delighting in leaving her mark, in disrupting and changing those curves. He doesn't smile now but stands, eyes closed, unaware that he is twisting gently in her hands, in time with the thick, sweet pulsing of his cock. He is a man who likes to be in control, and his control is starting to shatter. She releases him for a moment to brush back her hair and he lets himself sag against the coolness of the glass, hoping that his burning face and heated skin will appreciate the respite. But oh, as he sags her hand comes down on his ass, just once, just hard enough to drive him forward so that his hips meet the window, and the heat on his ass and the cool, smooth slide along his hardness and heat are too much, and he jerks back in time to meet her hand again, and again, trying not to, but his eyes are snapped open now and wild, and he is helplessly arching his back from the feel of the nails of her other hand circling, circling at the base of his spine until he thinks that the heat and the cool and the shiver will drive him mad. He is a man who likes to be in control, but there is no control here except the edges of the trap she's got him in, cool window against his front and heat behind and pleasure like madness everywhere and he clenches his hands helplessly on the smooth surface of the window and calls her his devil, his darling... his downfall.
She stands, and turns him so the cool of the glass supports him, and her teeth rake down his neck and her hair on his chest is silk and fire and he sways and her hand on his thigh is steadying him, shaking him, burning him as her mouth makes free of his chest, exploring the hollows of his collarbones at her leisure and dipping down to find a nipple and as her teeth close on it he cries out, and cannot stop crying out, moaning a litany of praise at each new surprise, keening like a mourner at her control because she is so slow, so slow, exploring him like she explores all places she loves, darting here and there, always in motion but thorough, so thorough, and as she finds the second nipple he finds himself calculating, estimating, but he doesn't want to think about that now, he doesn't want to know the schedule. All he can do is be in the moment, and be surprised, for her. She is a woman who likes surprises, and he is learning to like them too.
Her mouth is on his stomach now, her tongue dipping into his navel and lazily trailing lower, following the line of hair, and he holds his breath as she drops to her knees and her open mouth envelops the tip of him and her hands slide up the insides of his thighs. Her breath on the shaft feels as though she is taking him deeper, but she's not, not yet, and the feel of her tongue around the rim, probing for and finding the most sensitive spots, backing off to gently probe the slit as her hands are sliding, sliding over his ass and back to rake her nails over his thighs, and brushing softly behind his testicles and even as he glories in the scrape of her nails he feels a flash of regret for them, knowing that unless she has freshly cut them it'll never come to more than teasing, stroking between his legs and gliding away again and it's all too much, it's too much and not enough at once, and he's dizzy with it all, surprised again that he can feel so much, almost more than he thinks he can stand, and still want, and want, and want, that he can feel so wild, so uncontrolled, and yet there he is, leaning on the window, his hands still fisted against the glass, where she put them. Surprised at his control, until she surges forward, like a wave, and as the tip hits the back of her throat and the heat washes over him and he's riding the wave her body has become, moaning.
He feels himself start to surge and knows that if she keeps this up he hasn't got long and his knees start to buckle and he feels himself sliding to the floor and laughs inside, thinking that she's his downfall again, but his arms come up and he lifts her under the arms and as they fall together his mouth finally, finally swoops down on hers and his tongue is thrusting, demanding, harsh in her astonished mouth as he pulls her tank top up and busy at her nipple when he reluctantly frees her mouth to pull her shirt over her head, and by then he's cooler, controlled enough to undo her bra and by the time he's unbuttoning her jeans, his mouth is back on hers and she's shuddering and dazed beneath him.
As he strips the jeans from her legs he checks the pockets, and his grin is as fierce as her eyes are wide. He fumbles a little with the condom in his hand and as he gets it on her mouth opens to him again and her legs start to come up and he pulls back long enough to bring them to his shoulders and catch his breath and then he is at her entrance, and she is as wet as he knew she'd be, soaking wet with all she's done to him and her joy in it pours through her, and he is moving like a swimmer into the cunt of this woman who is like the sea to him, like the waves, necessary and wild and exhilarating in her storms, and she is looking at him wide-eyed, surprised at his control, as he throws back his head and thrusts into her deep and hard and just too slow, gritting his teeth to hold off, wanting to give as good as he's gotten, pouring his control into her chaos, back into Pandora's box, taking just a little sweet revenge on her as she moves against him and begins to moan and then to keen, and as he finally takes pity on her, on himself, and moves as little faster, snapping his hips into her the way she loves it, the staccato rhythm of her cries changes, becomes a single rising shriek, and she is coming, coming gloriously and the wave crests and his control is not so much lost as thrown away, he is flowing with her, flowing into her, snarling and keening and wild and he pounds into her and she comes again as he erupts inside her and still he is pounding into her like a wave pounds the shore and she is giving, giving and coming back as the shore does until at last neither of them can bear any more.
As they slowly subside, rocking themselves to peace like a raft on the calmest of seas, he feels a pang of remorse at the mess he's made of her lovely controlled plan and he makes an apologetic noise or two and tells her, where she is lying on his chest now, listening to the rumble of his voice, that once again, she has been his downfall and she laughs. For whatever her plotting, she is a woman who likes surprises, and he is a man who likes to be in control.
Feedback: That would be very pleasant.
Copyright Marna Nightingale 2004.
She is a woman who likes surprises. Sometimes when he leaves work she is there, waiting. Sometimes he leaves the grocery store to find her leaning against his car, smiling. Once, when he had flown to a strange city on a business trip, she was there before him, standing at the gate. More than once he has been standing in a crowded bar, when a soft hand has suddenly caressed his neck. By the time he turns around, all he sees is her back, headed for the door. Not so quickly that he can catch her; not so slowly that she will lose him.
He calls her his downfall. He is a man who likes to be in control. Schedules. Tidy home, tidy hair. A methodical man, competent and contained. But when she comes to him like that, he never refuses her.
She is a woman who likes surprises. Tonight, she met him at the gym. He hasn't seen her for three weeks. Three weeks in which the now-familiar tension of wondering when she will appear has had time to work in him, three weeks in which he has grown used to the dark undertow of desire that builds in him when he is kept waiting. He admits to himself, though rarely to her, that he has grown to like it, that the building tension and spikes of arousal, the racing in his blood and thickening in his groin that comes when he catches a glimpse of a woman with her walk or her hair, give life an edge he thought he'd left behind him in the hormone squalls of adolescence. He is a man who likes to be in control. He is becoming a man who likes this. He simmers, until she comes to him, and then, abruptly, he burns.
He calls her his downfall. In the elevator, she moves against him like the tide coming in, presses him against the wall, with two floors to go, her mouth in the hollow of his collarbone, one hand flat on his chest, holding him frozen in place like nothing stronger ever would, the other washing over him, taking her pleasure of his nipple, his side, his thigh, petting him for the feel of him under her hand, making soft sounds of approval and then stepping back cool and smiling as the doors open, leaving him already hard and gasping as she saunters out and makes for the door of the apartment. He tells her -- to distract himself from the burn, from the swing of her hips as she leads him inside, from the sight of her bending to slip off her shoes as he kicks off his -- that she is Pandora. Ever since he first gave in to the temptation of her, ever since the first time he opened her box, he says, making her laugh with the oddity of such a euphemism on the tongue of such a plain-spoken man, he insists that chaos has been loosed upon his world. He is a man who likes to be in control.
She is a woman who likes surprises. He follows her over to the full-length window in the living room that is worth an extra hundred dollars a month to her, and looks down on the city. It is not until after he somehow finds that his shirt is off and his hands are resting gently on the glass, splayed over his head, while her hands make circles on his torso and the gentle rake of her nails makes him shiver and the lazy wandering of her tongue and teeth along his spine make him burn, it is not until he feels his jeans undone and her hands smoothing them from his hips and the sharp possession of her teeth in his back that he realizes that the city, did it care to, could look up on him, and he shudders.
He closes his eyes but the air from the vent on the floor washes warmly over his skin, tickling in the hair of his legs, sending rushes of sensation through him, driving home his nakedness, and he thinks of being seen and isn't sure whether fear or arousal makes him shudder again. The faces of friends and old girlfriends flash though his mind -- what if one of them, rather than a stranger, walked by, looked up, saw -- and for the very fact that this makes him harder he wants for a moment to pull away, but he doesn't move. Won't move. He is a man who likes to be in control. And this is control, this giving over, this steadiness as she lifts his feet to rid him of his jeans and socks, but his breath comes in little gasps all the same. As her hair brushes his thighs, and tangles in his hardness, surprising him. As she kneels and her hands begin to trace up his body, stroking here, scratching there, mouth and hands between them stroking, searching, small wounds and small favours, never letting him settle. Surprising him.
She is a woman who likes surprises. Hands sliding down from his back in a flurry of shivery nails to clasp his ass as her mouth drifts over his thigh, her tongue finds the curve of his hipbone. His breath catches in his throat as her breath teases him, drifting over his cock as her fingertips brush softly over the sensitive curve where his ass meets his thigh, and then together, and up, but her hands are on the base of his spine now, and he is jumping with the shock as her teeth mark the soft skin of the hollows she once told him reminded her of the sea, when the tide is going out, and the shoreline is all half-moon depressions, scooped out by the water as it flows from the land as she is flowing away from there, away from that curve and up onto his ribs. She loves his body like she loves the seashore, she'd said, and he smiled, then, thinking of the footprints she always left, running across the sand as the tide changed, delighting in leaving her mark, in disrupting and changing those curves. He doesn't smile now but stands, eyes closed, unaware that he is twisting gently in her hands, in time with the thick, sweet pulsing of his cock. He is a man who likes to be in control, and his control is starting to shatter. She releases him for a moment to brush back her hair and he lets himself sag against the coolness of the glass, hoping that his burning face and heated skin will appreciate the respite. But oh, as he sags her hand comes down on his ass, just once, just hard enough to drive him forward so that his hips meet the window, and the heat on his ass and the cool, smooth slide along his hardness and heat are too much, and he jerks back in time to meet her hand again, and again, trying not to, but his eyes are snapped open now and wild, and he is helplessly arching his back from the feel of the nails of her other hand circling, circling at the base of his spine until he thinks that the heat and the cool and the shiver will drive him mad. He is a man who likes to be in control, but there is no control here except the edges of the trap she's got him in, cool window against his front and heat behind and pleasure like madness everywhere and he clenches his hands helplessly on the smooth surface of the window and calls her his devil, his darling... his downfall.
She stands, and turns him so the cool of the glass supports him, and her teeth rake down his neck and her hair on his chest is silk and fire and he sways and her hand on his thigh is steadying him, shaking him, burning him as her mouth makes free of his chest, exploring the hollows of his collarbones at her leisure and dipping down to find a nipple and as her teeth close on it he cries out, and cannot stop crying out, moaning a litany of praise at each new surprise, keening like a mourner at her control because she is so slow, so slow, exploring him like she explores all places she loves, darting here and there, always in motion but thorough, so thorough, and as she finds the second nipple he finds himself calculating, estimating, but he doesn't want to think about that now, he doesn't want to know the schedule. All he can do is be in the moment, and be surprised, for her. She is a woman who likes surprises, and he is learning to like them too.
Her mouth is on his stomach now, her tongue dipping into his navel and lazily trailing lower, following the line of hair, and he holds his breath as she drops to her knees and her open mouth envelops the tip of him and her hands slide up the insides of his thighs. Her breath on the shaft feels as though she is taking him deeper, but she's not, not yet, and the feel of her tongue around the rim, probing for and finding the most sensitive spots, backing off to gently probe the slit as her hands are sliding, sliding over his ass and back to rake her nails over his thighs, and brushing softly behind his testicles and even as he glories in the scrape of her nails he feels a flash of regret for them, knowing that unless she has freshly cut them it'll never come to more than teasing, stroking between his legs and gliding away again and it's all too much, it's too much and not enough at once, and he's dizzy with it all, surprised again that he can feel so much, almost more than he thinks he can stand, and still want, and want, and want, that he can feel so wild, so uncontrolled, and yet there he is, leaning on the window, his hands still fisted against the glass, where she put them. Surprised at his control, until she surges forward, like a wave, and as the tip hits the back of her throat and the heat washes over him and he's riding the wave her body has become, moaning.
He feels himself start to surge and knows that if she keeps this up he hasn't got long and his knees start to buckle and he feels himself sliding to the floor and laughs inside, thinking that she's his downfall again, but his arms come up and he lifts her under the arms and as they fall together his mouth finally, finally swoops down on hers and his tongue is thrusting, demanding, harsh in her astonished mouth as he pulls her tank top up and busy at her nipple when he reluctantly frees her mouth to pull her shirt over her head, and by then he's cooler, controlled enough to undo her bra and by the time he's unbuttoning her jeans, his mouth is back on hers and she's shuddering and dazed beneath him.
As he strips the jeans from her legs he checks the pockets, and his grin is as fierce as her eyes are wide. He fumbles a little with the condom in his hand and as he gets it on her mouth opens to him again and her legs start to come up and he pulls back long enough to bring them to his shoulders and catch his breath and then he is at her entrance, and she is as wet as he knew she'd be, soaking wet with all she's done to him and her joy in it pours through her, and he is moving like a swimmer into the cunt of this woman who is like the sea to him, like the waves, necessary and wild and exhilarating in her storms, and she is looking at him wide-eyed, surprised at his control, as he throws back his head and thrusts into her deep and hard and just too slow, gritting his teeth to hold off, wanting to give as good as he's gotten, pouring his control into her chaos, back into Pandora's box, taking just a little sweet revenge on her as she moves against him and begins to moan and then to keen, and as he finally takes pity on her, on himself, and moves as little faster, snapping his hips into her the way she loves it, the staccato rhythm of her cries changes, becomes a single rising shriek, and she is coming, coming gloriously and the wave crests and his control is not so much lost as thrown away, he is flowing with her, flowing into her, snarling and keening and wild and he pounds into her and she comes again as he erupts inside her and still he is pounding into her like a wave pounds the shore and she is giving, giving and coming back as the shore does until at last neither of them can bear any more.
As they slowly subside, rocking themselves to peace like a raft on the calmest of seas, he feels a pang of remorse at the mess he's made of her lovely controlled plan and he makes an apologetic noise or two and tells her, where she is lying on his chest now, listening to the rumble of his voice, that once again, she has been his downfall and she laughs. For whatever her plotting, she is a woman who likes surprises, and he is a man who likes to be in control.
