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Eyes like Armageddon
Eyes like Armageddon
Inspired by mel071079
Centre of town's quiet. Everybody's at the carnival or the beach. Which is where I should be, instead of heading back to work. Another wasted weekend, instead of a weekend of getting fucking wasted.
Scent emerges from the doorway before she does. Molton Brown. Then she's there, stepping out of "Liberation" smack in my path, juggling purse and handbag, oblivious, so I spin a one-eighty around her. Half a second. Jeans by Prada, cashmere by Farhi, hair by Sorbie. Don't know where her tee is from but I like the way it stretches. Wonder what's in the carrier?
Eyes like Armageddon. Leveled at me. What you staring at?
It's okay, I'm used to looks like that from girls like her. Walk on.
Five seconds, ten steps, turn to have another scope. Might as well check out her arse. But catch those eyes again. She could tell me to fuck off but doesn't need to. Aloof and cool, the eyes say it all. No chance. Even if you had a shave and grew some hair. Fine. Screw you, sister.
Down the street, fumbling with my keys, trying not to lose my Starbucks.
Turn around. Sandals by Fendi.
"You're not my type but..."
Half the words she'll ever say to me.
Her lips part slightly, close again, and in that fraction of a gesture I know. For a split second I'm a fortune teller. And she's the fucking cookie. In my chest there's a tiny pop. It's all gonna happen. Fuck.
Door slams. Blinds are down so it's half dark. New chairs in reception so it smells of leather.
Face her, skinny in one hand, Yale in the other. Hands are on my buckle already. Unblinking, a foot away, doesn't try to kiss so neither do I. What's the point? Or maybe she just doesn't want stubble-rash.
Sterling silver, bought off a Hopi Indian in Monument Valley, 1994, but what's it to her? She's got it undone, and is already halfway down the buttons. Impatient. Jams the waistband over my hips. One cool hand goes inside my Haynes, the other sends my two-shot latte towards the bin. I'll find the keys later.
Tear at her cardigan, need to. Breaks eye contact, starts to head down. Settles on the new leather. Mies van der Rohe. She'll eat my cock but she won't fucking kneel. No fucking way.
Sucks deep. Tongue working. Eyes on my navel. Thrust forward and she gags momentarily. Bigger than you expected huh? Grab a handful of chestnut. Thick, silky. Good work Trevor.
Yank her head. Look at me when I'm skullfucking you. Blazing defiance pours back. Just shoot your load you fucker. Power of her thought has me spurting. Once, twice, three times. Four, five, six, seven. She's standing up. Eight.
Half smiling, kisses me deep then pulls away. Laughs as I swallow my own spunk.
Pull her closer. My terms now. One hand goes up, the other down. Right can feel under-wiring, left feels heat. And moisture, even through the denim. Slaps me. Eyes still level, deep, like a shark.
Don't know who undid her belt, but it's stamping a Chanel logo on the sole of my foot. Legs exquisite. Pencil thighs. Reach behind the desk. Scissors. Snip. Snip. Victoria's Secret joins the recycling.
Smooth. Warm. Smell like violets. Clit full and proud, easy to find. Tongue circling, closer, closer, teasing. Lapping like a fucking pussycat. Gasp, legs clench. Hands scrabble at my crew cut, trying to get a grip, give up in frustration, pound the back of my head. Shuddering, snorting, stomach bucking. Heels kick at my shoulder blades, lock behind my neck. No escape. Death by orgasm.
Finally lets me go. Eyes exchange meaning. The main event.
Follows me up stairs. Past the kitchen, into the chill zone. Ha.
Press her back against the wall, lean into her, all my weight pinning her. Lose the fucking tee. Armani. Thought so. More Victoria's Secret. Front fastening. Fucking glorious.
One hand behind my neck, one on my arse, pulling me into her.
Better idea. Turn her round and push her over the sofa. Where's Johnny?
Into her cunt first. Slow and deep, catches her breath when I hit the spot. Slide out, nicely lubed. That's handy.
Up an inch or two, gently in. Too dry. Get some more juice on my cock. Still too fucking dry. Head for the kitchen.
Olivio feels cool through the rubber. Easing in, oh yeah. Working deeper, bit by bit. Oh fucking yeah. I feel her need. Harder. Harder. Oh fuck. I can't believe it's not butter. I can't believe it's not pussy.
Like standing on a station platform, knowing I'm going to go over. Hold on. Hold on.
We both step off the edge together. Hang weightless for a moment before oblivion takes us. In the plasma behind the sofa, reflection of her eyes. Her shark's eyes. Rolling upwards, closing. Helpless.
Down at the door she pauses. Eyes composed. Prada, Farhi, Armani. All restored. Looks at me. Softer?
"Did I tell you that..."
I raise my hand, cut her off, close the door. I know - I'm not you're type.
Well, she's probably right. But so what. Her knickers are in my bin, and my juice is on her tee. It'll fucking do.
8/27/2006 3:54 pm
10/2/2006 3:33 am
Fantastic ... absolutely fantastic !|