Once naked in the spreading glow of warmth from the little space heater, she cocks her hips and stares at him not seductively but with defiance. She seems smaller, softer, with her clothes off. She has scabs on her knees, like a little tomboy—in fact, she has a lot of bruises, all over. She’s such a physical player. He has bruises himself all the time, scrapes, nicks and scratches.
At the last moment, when it comes to taking off his jeans, he shies. He begins to look around desperately for his sneakers but they seem to have walked off on some mysterious errand of their own. Buying time, he stutters the first thing in his head. “Wear your chuh-chuh-chains.”
Surprised, she laughs and backs off to comply.
Her fingers have gone rusty on her so he helps her clasp the one around her waist and passes the others between her legs from back to front, his fingers brushing through the floss of her pubic hair, the heat of her vulva against his palm.
Wishing he didn’t blush so easily, he tells himself this must be the most difficult thing, taking off your pants. Having that stupid thing sticking out announcing the state you’re in. What if she laughs at him? What if it’s all just a big come-on to her, a chance to make a fool of him? He sees instead that she is unnerved herself as she realizes that with his clothes off, he is as big as he looks, and bigger. She steels herself visibly, intensifying his distress. Peeking at her from under his lashes, he swallows with a painfully constricted throat and squeezes his cock nervously before he realizes his hand is even on it.
Again she makes the first move, pressing her body against his, chains cool against his skin, a hard edge against the crest of his hipbones shadowing the rigidity of his penis against her. She sucks his right nipple, producing such an intense sensation the hair on his arms stiffens. Suddenly she sinks to her knees, taking his cock in her fist and tonguing the head. His throat closes in panic.
“No, please, don’t,” he whispers.
Seeming to take no offense, she does stop. She draws him down to the cot. It shudders under their combined weight. She’s so narrow, so much smaller than he is.
He tries to remember the mechanics as he understands them. Lubrication. The lush crinkle of hair on her pubis seems to part naturally as he rolls his fingertips through it but when he touches the small protuberance of her button directly, she jerks violently. Hastily he lifts his thumb.
She settles down against him again. His thick fingertips probe crevices, separate damp folded wings, silky inside. He closes his eyes to help visualize the structures his fingers inform. Finger finds an aperture, a slick tight channel. Oh it’s hot and slippery. With the intrusion of another finger, the envelope of muscle seems to grow wider and slicker.
To his fondling, and groping, she is astonishingly submissive, almost disinterested, as if she has something more important on her mind. She tangles his hair around her fingers, plays with his chains, tongues them briefly, but with seemingly no more curiosity than his baby sister examining an unwanted cracker.
He takes a deep breath. Coupling. Hose to coupler, executed at the proper angle. A simple principle. Parts her legs with his knees. She lifts her pelvis.
Lips close to her ear, he blurts, “Help me.”
Her fingers close around his cock and he holds his breath as she guides him between her thighs and there he is, there she is. From the first contact with her flesh, he meets resistance and she crabs against him. He freezes in a sweating panic.
“You’re not ready. I’m hurting you.”
“No, no,” she murmurs and shifts again and when he pushes, she opens a little.
And he can’t stop anymore. He sinks into the sensation of opening her. The grip of her body on his is a magnitude of difference from pleasuring himself. He feels held, possessed by the heat, the silkiness, the distinct muscularity of her cunt. He tips her face to taste her chains and she rolls her head and they are tongue to tongue. When he moves, the breaking wave of silken friction feels so fine he can’t stop. Instinctively making the necessary mechanical adjustment, he presses the small of her back with one hand, lifts her and himself simultaneously. Fills a little deeper and backs a little. Her hips roll under his easy guidance, her cunt clips his cock and he almost faints with the sudden clutch.
And when he looks at her, her eyes are wide. They grow wider yet as he sinks again and then rides the undulation of her hips. She gasps with him, seemingly as amazed at this movement as he is.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh ‘god.”
Her hand finds the small of his back, follows the swell of his gluteal muscles tightening and relaxing as he rocks against her, inside her, with her. And she begins to roll with him, around him, against him. The cot moves with them, creaking and groaning. Around his cock the wet seems to flood, as if the friction were melting a viscous lubricant. The cot’s metal frame shrieks suddenly and all at once the world drops out from underneath them. In the briefest fraction of a second of freefall, as he rides her body down, he cannot stop the sudden sensation of letting go. Of a great power train turning abruptly over, gears
