"Motel"  (MF) 

Motel

    It was 11pm at the nondescript motel just off the freeway, somewhere
near Fresno.  The room was almost pitch black, two tired queen-sized
beds separated by a night stand.  We laid there and listened to his
13-year-old daughter in the next bed as she tossed and turned her way to
sleep.  The air conditioner fought the August heat outside with
alternating periods of purposeful growling and dead silence.

    After four hot days and nights of dusty camping in Yosemite, we were
in no mood to complain.  Solid walls separated us from our neighbors,
which certainly beat the thin walls of a tent.  At least she was eight
feet away instead of three.

    Not that the motel made it much easier, though.  His daughter had
been visiting him for three weeks.  Three weeks of celibacy, him in his
house, me in mine.  Four nights in a shared tent in a crowded
campground.  And now, as we were finally returning her to her mother in
Phoenix, I was showered and comfortable and horny beyond desperation.

    I didn't mention that the bed creaked and groaned at the slightest
movement, did I?  It wasn't going to be easy.  She was a light sleeper,
too.  And curious.

    I laid on my right side, facing her.  He spooned behind me, his
erection separated from me by his Jockeys and mine.  His left hand
snaked up underneath my oversized t-shirt and quietly played with my
right nipple.  He was twitching.  So was I.  She still wasn't asleep.

    And now, during the dead calm of the resting air conditioner, the
mattress advertised every wiggle we made.  Damn.

    Of course, that didn't do much to stop him.  Before too long, his
free hand bypassed my left breast and headed directly south.  There my
labia were spread wide and wet, my clitoris was decidedly harder than my
right nipple, and I quickly overruled any complaints from my left breast
and hooked my left leg behind his and hoped he'd stay there for awhile.
The bed complained, of course, and she grunted and rolled over again,
but we were soon motionless again.

    Well, almost motionless.  His fingers weren't motionless.  They
flickered across me, alternatively soft and not so soft.  Wandered up
and down each labia, inside and out.  Carefully measured the length and
breadth and rigidity of my clitoral shaft.  Did the Search For The
Headwaters Of The Nile to find out where all the slippery juice was
coming from.  And found it.

    And all the while we remained motionless.  Only his fingers moved.
Oh, he gently bit the back of my neck every now and then, and his penis
twitched against my butt, and we struggled to breathe normally, but we
were successful in keeping the bed quiet.  Lazy pleasure.  Eyes open,
eyes closed, it was dark either way.  I closed mine.

    When the air conditioner blessedly decided to come back alive, his
hand slipped away.  Then his body.  He slipped to the floor beside the
bed, urging me with his hands to rotate my body until my behind was
perched on the edge, the top of my head aiming at his daughter.  The bed
grumbled but he pushed onward, pulling my panties down and off my
dangling feet.  She rolled over.  I held my breath.  He held my hips.

    We were decadence.  My legs splayed wide and he licked and sucked on
me.  He nibbled on one fat lip, then another.  His tongue slithered here
and there, up and down, side to side, in and out.  His hands lay flat on
my hipbones.  His thumbs pulled me open.  I felt deliciously exposed.  I
felt delicious.

    He wasn't just tasting me.  He was consuming me.  His mouth drew me
in, piece by piece.  I felt savored.  Suckled.  I was engorged, flowing
and fragrant.  The air conditioner clicked off.

    Three weeks of only my own fingers, and four days of not even that.
It didn't take long.  When he sensed I was close, he drew my clit
between pursed lips in one strong, drawn out suck, relentlessly inhaling
me in and out until he pulled me over the edge.  I held my breath and
opened my mouth in a silent scream.  My hands pulled at the back of his
head, my hips pushed up at his mouth, hungry for it all and greedy for
more.

    His mouth finally relaxed its grip and I allowed myself to breathe
again.  I became conscious of his thumbs, gently sliding the length of
my thick inner labia and thankfully taking care to avoid further torment
of the supersensitive tip of my clit.  My heart pounded so loud I was
sure she could hear it.  Was she asleep?  Beyond my sight there was only
silence from that part of the room.

    The air conditioner rejoined us.

    He leaned back, his sweaty hands still attached to my hipbones.
Dare we?  Three weeks was far too long, as far as I was concerned.  I
expected he shared that same belief.  I sensed his body rising to lie on
top of me, but I halted him with my hands and silently directed him to
my side.  The bed creaked and groaned anew.  I nudged him onto his back,
then in one fluid motion I rolled on top of him.

    The mattress squeaked and complained.  Shut the fuck up, I grumbled
back to it.

    He'd shucked his underwear, of course.  I bit my lower lip and lined
up his shaft for a direct approach and, with a minimum of squirming and
readjusting of legs and angles, he just slipped smoothly inside my well-
lubricated vagina with the familiarity of comfortable lovers.  It was a
relief to again be wrapped around his thick, sturdy flesh.  His quiet
sigh and surging stiffness clearly echoed my own thoughts.

    I was sopping.  I had him buried all the way up inside me, and I
ached to move around on him, to feel his hardness impaling me and
scratching my itches.  To my dismay, even the slightest movement set the
bed off.  I strained to look at his daughter.  She was an indiscernible
black shape.  Facing away from us?  Probably.  Awake?  Perhaps.

    The fucking air conditioner turned off.

    Now we had to be quiet.  I opened my legs and wormed my hips around
to draw him deliciously deeper.  And there he remained, held in my snug
grasp, my body sprawled on top of him, legs outside of his, my mouth
breathing moistness on his neck.  I clenched around his root and he
twitched back.  Clench, twitch.  Clench, twitch.  He stopped breathing
through his nose and switched to his open mouth.  Clench, twitch.

    Clearly we were getting somewhere.  I felt him get more and more
aroused, signaled by his straining breath and his thumping heart and by
that ever-present response of surging stiffness every time my vagina
clenched down as tightly as I could around his wonderful cock.  His body
lay there silently and allowed me to grasp him, encircle him, rejoice
in his warm intrusion into my soul.

    It was then I knew I could get him to come.  It was a challenge, of
sorts.  Were my Kegels up to it?  Well, we were going to see, weren't
we?

    Clench, twitch, surge.  Clench, twitch, surge.  Almost every breath
was quicker, deeper.  Less controlled, more ragged.  Clench, twitch,
surge.  I was liquid.  I had him.

    Clench, twitch, surge, lunge, clench.

    I knew I had him.

    I cheated only once, gripping him with one long, continuous hold and
sliding up just a bit, no more than an inch or two, then sinking back
down on him to socket him again.  I couldn't help it.  I had to feel that
flesh-against-flesh friction just once, to feel how juicy I really was,
to remind him about my slippery velvet walls and how, when we finally
dropped his daughter off in Phoenix, how much he was going to want to
slam that fat cock of his into me over and over and over again until we
were both rubbed raw.

    But right now, all we had was the power of my Kegels.  At this point
it was a matter of pride.  Superwoman I wasn't.  It was only so long
that I could keep this up.  Now or never, I thought to myself.

    Clench hard, twitch, surge hard.  Clench *hard*, twitch straining
hips upward surge *hard*.  I found my rhythm.  Or rather I found *his*
rhythm, and it was working.

    Clench, clench, clench.  He held his hips high, his cock surged and
stiffened into a steel rod inside me, and I knew then I could do it.
Clench, clench, clench.  He cleared his throat and clawed his
fingernails into my butt and I was as relentless as he was earlier.

    Clench, clench, clench, clench.  His cock spasmed with that telltale
big jerk and his fingers dug in and froze.  I squeezed my vagina as hard
as I could and, oh fuck right *there*, I felt his initial ejaculation.
His body shuddered beneath me.  I relaxed my grip, felt his second spasm
and I clenched down around him again, *hard*.  He exhaled a tiny squeak.
Another spasm.  I gripped around the base of his cock, timing my squeeze
to hit him just before each twitching ejaculation flung another glob of
sticky warm white into my vagina.  Three weeks of semen poured out of
him.

    Sixty seconds too late, the air conditioner again rumbled to life.

    And when it was over, when he had shriveled down and finally one of
my soft clenches only served to squirt him out of me, I continued to lie
there on top of him, breathing in syncopated rhythm.  He reached a hand
between my legs and greeted a finger inside me.  I tried to clench down
on his finger.  There wasn't much left.  I was going to have to work
on those Kegels.