[F4A] 'Edging'

Transcript

You've been at it for hours. It started in the truck, when you made me hike up my skirt and put my foot on the dash, my other leg slung over your lap while you drove, your hand towing between my legs, brushing intimate curls and hot, puffy labia, fingertips just barely sliding between them now and then. When you caught the edge of my clitoris, I tense up, gasp, bite my lip.

You smirked at me, glancing to the side only once or twice, your eyes otherwise on the road. My bike was stashed in the back. I'd ridden out to see you on your job site, and it started to rain.

You decided to see me home but made me the condition that I pay you for the ride. I smiled small, trying not to grin. Your games, I love them.

Now and then, your hand would close around my ankle draped across your thigh. My legs are short, and in this truck they feel shorter. I feel spread open and exposed, visible to everyone.

But then your windows are tinted, and it's not like we're close to the ground in this thing. And then you'd let go, go, back to lazily stroking the softness of my sex, the plush skin of my inner thighs. Traffic is bad this time of day.

It's an hour before we're home, and at that point, your fingertips are wet, and my body feels like it's going to fly apart. You wouldn't let me come, your touches barely breaching past your first knuckle, even as your calloused fingertips still toys in, just enough to stroke the underside of my clit again, and again, and again. We finally get home.

You press my knees back together and tell me to wait, hopping out the driver's side and coming around to open my door. It's raining harder now. You hold out your hand.

I'm still gripping it when we're in the house, and you're pushing me against the wall. Your hand between my legs, two fingers pushed deep, and you're fucking me with them. I can't breathe.

There's sound, but I can't breathe around the intensity of this, ragged noises bursting from my lips. You're breathing just as harsh against my neck as your knuckles bruise my cunt with the pounding of your fingers. You at a third, and my free hand is digging into your shoulder.

I'm close to screaming. Don't come, you grit out, your soft lips trembling just under my ear. You're breathing harder, rougher.

Don't come, baby, don't come. And you continue to fuck me, your fingers curling. I'm on my toes in a second, straining, swearing at you because.

.. You stop before I fall over, my body on the edge, legs shaking as you drag me to the back room. Our room, the one we don't sleep in, and you take me to the bars.

You made this. It's made for me. Puts me spread-eagle standing, on my toes, arms out and up, strong enough for me to hold onto, to handle the both of us.

You tie me in place and step back to admire your handiwork, smirking. My skirt is still rucked up over my thick thighs. I'm slick and shaking, feeling drugged on sensation, eyes heavy, skin on fire, sex aching and not nearly used enough.

Your hand threads into my hair to tilt my head back. I whine your title because we're too far gone for names. I beg you softly, little pleas that make your eyes darken and your smirk smolder into something far more dangerous.

Your hand is closing around my throat, my head tilting back further as your breath skims along my right ear. You don't say anything. You hold me there, silent, until the edge grows in distance and I'm not quite as mindless.

When you're satisfied, a stiff breeze won't send me screaming into orgasm. You lessen your hold and draw your hands down my torso. You squeeze the shapes of me, my breasts, the softness of my sides, my wide hips.

My shirt is given consideration before you're unbuttoning it, spreading it open and yanking up my bra to expose my tits and my dark hard nipples. Your thumbs brush these, the only warning I have before your fingers latch and you pull and pull. My back arches, my hands closing over the bar above my head, spine curling towards you.

I see you at the edges of my vision, biting your lip, trying not to smile. You like making me respond when my body makes the shapes that turn you on most. Your free hand moves to stroke up the inside of my legs, to skink softly to find me slick some inches from my cunt.

So easy, you murmur. I blush to the roots of my hair, closing my eyes and trying not to beg. Your fingers brush the center of me.

One finger eases in and it's such a tease. It's not enough, but oh, it's better than nothing. My hips rock and you laugh at me, your hand moving from my chest to my throat, squeezing, your thumb rubbing just under my ear.

Oh darling, we've got miles to go before I let you come. Your hand drops from my sex and I hear the telltale sound of your buckle being undone, the clink of metal, the sound of a zipper. I clench on nothing.

Despair, an aching want, a heady mixture. I'd have dropped to my knees if not for my bonds. One finger is suddenly three.

I sob tight around you, knowing you've more to give me. So much more. A long, long way to go, you murmur.