Wank Wednesday :: Move

Today's prompt for Word Ejeculation's Wank Wednesday is Move.

Full ficlet is below the jump.

Warning: This post is NOT SAFE FOR WORK. 18+ only.
...

"Don't move." Her breath is hot against his ear, her touch teasing. But the way she guides him, he knows that she's all business.

"Be still."

It isn't easy for him. Lying naked on his stomach in the center of their bed, eyes closed, he's too tuned into everything. Every current on the air, every shift in the mattress as she moves.

The first stroke is light as a whisper. Silent. Smooth flesh against his thigh.

He hums and fights for stillness when all he wants to do is move. Shift into her touch, find her fingers with his hand and draw them down his body, to the flesh that's pressed against the sheets, aching and hard. But he's good. He keeps it under control, even though he's ready to go out of his skin.

Especially when the second stroke is cold.

The freezing wet along his spine makes him hiss, and he twists. She fits a knee to the dip of his shoulder blade and presses down, whispers against his ear.

"What did I tell you?"

"I know," he groans. "I know."

The pressure alternates, cold ice and hot tongue, warm fingers brushing over skin that's electrically sensitive. He wants to rut against the mattress or on her thigh, to open her up underneath him and slide himself home. His hands clench into fists and he grits his teeth together. It's all he can do.

And yet he's slipping. Twitching, overwhelmed.

She takes another lick along the juncture of ass and thigh, and it's all he can do not to launch off the bed when her nose hits his sac. "Fuck," he spits, but the word's not out of his mouth before she's gone, before all sensation's ripped away, and he's breathing hard, there alone on that mattress, untouched.

Please, he wants to breathe. Please touch me.

Agonizing seconds pass, but then she's there again, her body pressed to his completely. He can see it in his mind, even as he's reveling in it, full breasts against his spine and hands on his arms, her hips fit to his ass. His cock throbs, and he squeezes his fists. And then there are those words.

"Flip over."

He's on his back before she can breathe again, supine beneath her with his hands on her hips, his cock pressed to hot, wet flesh.

She tsk's and shakes her head.

"Don't move."

His frustrated groan echoes in the room. But sure enough, he stills.

Over him, she slides back and forth, maddening strokes of her sex against the underside of his. His balls are wet, and the slick sounds are like a begging plea for him to thrust. For the longest time, she tortures him, until he fears she'll lead him, helpless, to the edge and watch him tumble over it without letting him inside.

Then, finally, she lifts up, circles his cock with her hand.

In one slow, agonizing slide, she lowers herself down. Takes him in.

It's hot and wet, tight flesh and the need to pull her flush against him. To be buried completely. One.

She intertwines her fingers with his and places their hands on either side of his head. With unbearable pressure, she grinds down on him.

"Now," she whispers. "Now, move."

...

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