1.08.2012

Clandestine Arrangements of the Strictly Fictional Variety

Grace sucked cock like a scientist. There was always an air of professionalism about it, always some level of unbiased sanctity. Whether or not Harry was going to come, let alone how hard, did not seem to be an issue that crossed her mind when she was down in her lab. Each upstroke was an experiment in the name of cold pleasure, every drop of saliva an earnest attempt at keeping her subject aroused-- in this case the prick itself, not the one attached to it. Only a fool would try to stop her while the quota of her mouth was being filled.

Despite the base simplicity there were some rules to their game. Grace was a rare breed still too shy to strip naked with the lights blaring down, but to fellate was to live and life was to be seen. She'd rip his shorts off within seconds of entering the bedroom. Thankfully, and as an uncommon blessing from the ghosts of gods, he didn't have time to trip over his words before she was off to the races. Reaching for the light switch was a task too hard to venture. The edges of the mattress served as handlebars since her arms, her shoulders, the back of her bobbing head felt out of the question. That was too intimate. That showed attachment. There could be no mistake as to what Grace was doing. Hers was not a labor of love, but an acute fascination with phallus that caught Harry in its headlights. He didn't mind the little death, as the hated French called it. There were still some things worth suffering for and her lips were on that list. Sometimes.

Even in his pre-orgasmic state he often felt bad for something that he couldn't see: a remote possibility of having anything other than shallow sex with her. It was vain to think that she wanted more and he recalled her laughing at the mention of his guilt, but didn't all women yearn to be exclusive? The only thing specific to Grace's time below was the fact that she approached it unlike anyone he'd seen: a veritable pragmatist on her knees before the altar of unrequited lust. It could be any day that the saints would march in. Harry was to tumble down to darkest hell regardless. He was sure that its soundtrack would be laced with the voices of angels from a life too innocent to recognize as ever being his own. Thank God they couldn't see him now, at least not in the flesh.

When the lights and her pants finally went off there was a shift in roles and power. It was his show then, a rod to give a pounding. It was the one thing left that he could do whereas she, like the rest, had lowered herself through his loins. No longer was there any misconception over motives. When Harry came he told her by sprinkling on her bush. If her tonsils were the target he'd fetch a beverage afterward. The chivalry ended there, though, since a walk down called for dressing. Grace hung up her lab coat and proceeded to the stairwell. The passing through of doors left her instantly transmuted into every woman he'd already had and none he wanted to meet again.

If you're wondering who Harry is I can say he does the same.

2 comments:

Phina Gray said...

i had excitement at the title of this one. the writing itself didn't let me down, just not the subject matter i was hoping for.

dave said...

build one bridge, but they won't call you a bridge builder when you die. suck one cock and you're a cocksucker for life. she liked it.