I want to come pretty, she thinks.
She likes being polished. It’s comfortable and safe. But the climax that bows and contorts her body is a tangled, jagged thing. It lingers and lashes and loosens her. It pulls at her veneer.
Her hips jerk. She bites her lip, and sucks the wound. Oddly, she often comes pretty – controlled, obedient orgasms with lovely, feather-light sighs. The sighs are sexy. Beautiful. Hot. But never pornographic. No. Never that. She has a fear of sounding porny. She’s not the porny type….
She sounds porny as hell with him.
I want to come pretty, I want to come pretty.
She doesn’t come pretty. Not close. She comes as she did the first three (or four) times – messy and out of control. It’s terrible. Scary. Contorted and ugly. Her lip’s bleeding. She’s four orgasms in. But something inside her is shifting. She’s starting not to care. Incredible, she thinks. She never doesn’t care.
She shudders. He makes her want too much. His fingers find her hips. She lives balanced on a needle, straining, resisting. She can’t afford to fall. She is charming and lovely, delightful and sweet in restaurants and bars. But in the warm half light of the small, quiet room, she is a thing that needs to be fucked.
She rises up above him, temporarily distilled. She’s become her body’s response. Jerking hips. Grinding thighs. Slick, plump, cunt. Her muttered curses sound scripted. Porny. Awful. But they are real. Honest and un-pretty. Raw and authentically her.
His tongue and teeth push impulses up through layers of ego and skin. She feels giddy and young, in thrall to herself. She would love to give him orgasms that show her at her lovely best, but the weight of his pleasure cracks her veneer. He will always get her instead.
Coming pretty is not enough.