Stairs

And in the time it takes for her arms to slip from round his neck, her lips to pull gently from his, a wave of his lust has focused and thickened the moment. His hand twines in her hair, dragging her head backwards, exposing her throat.

He bites. “Get up those stairs, now,” is grown into her. She stumbles away from him, take the three small strides required to set foot on the first tread. She mounts one step, two, her hand steadying her body on the cool wall. “Stop.”

She stops. Heart is pounding, face is flushed, cunt moist. His hands explore her legs, wait, bum, tits; stroking and pinching. She is still in the shell of her clothes. Somewhat separate, still of herself, not fully exposed and vulnerable to him. “Get those jeans down.” Not strip. Not totally naked for him, just bared and clumsily available to those proprietorial hands.

He moans his appreciation to himself as he touches her, fondles the creamy white flesh, slapses it, hears the resounding cracks, watches it redden. He leans forwards and nips her, bites her, take mouthfuls of flesh in his mouth, savouring it and almost tearing at it.

He pushes her forward so that her face and arms catch and scratch on the rough carpet. Burns and scabbed over flesh later will document the assault.

Her thong is pulled aside. His fingers stroke her lips. His fingers twirl deliciously over the bump of her clip. His fingers scoop dribbling moisture forward, to ticket and tease. His fingers enter her. The biting continues; she is crying out, and oscillates – drawing her body to the steps, away from the sharpness, into the coache and catching fibres of the carpet, and then drifting back towards his mouth when he pulls his teeth from her flesh. Then to the press of the stairs again.

She hears the wrong of the condom packet, feels the pressure from his fingers slacken as he dons it. Feels his cock press against her oozing pulsing cunt. She whimpers and moans, claws catlike at the carpet, finding purchase, lifting her body back to meet the hard heat of him, poised to enter her.

His cock presses hard into her, her hips relentlessly ground onto the stair. Her body two or three steps up squashed hard under his full body weight. She is mewling. Her hair matted and damp in her sweat. Nails gripping at the carpet. He fucks and grunts and mutters to her. Tells her she is soaking, tells her to grip his cock hard. She squelches, clenching muscles. He moans, and wraps his hands round her neck, mashing her face to the carpet. She feels her clavicles hard pressed to the stairs. Ache and crueles and sore neck later will document the assault. She feels the heat of the air sealed shut inside her body. Her hearing waves, her sight wobbles. He releases her; she gasps in a huge lungful of air, lets out an animal plea, and fucks her arse towards him.

He pulls his cock from her sodden cunt, presses it against her anus. She freezes. No lube. No enema beforehand. No no no no no no no no no. She is frozen. He leans down over her, pressing her, quashing her, humbling her. She wails at him. He whispers in her ear, “If I want to fuck this tight arse, with no lube, and without you having had an enema, I will. My pleasure. My three hole slut. My call. My body to do what I want with.” She wails at him. And he pushes forward with his lower body, dryly forcing and stretching her. She wails at him.

Tears escape her. No no no no no no no no no. She is mewling again, quivering, trying to relax. She’s aware she’s dribbling tears, snot and saliva on the stairs.

His cock pulses all the way into her. She feels that sharp ache of her body admitting him. She can’t like this. Can’t want this. Can’t believe he’s doing this. No no no no no no no no no.

Yes.

He fucks her, unrelentingly. Her body puzzled and mashed into the stairs. Her crying and mewling ebb and flow. Her body now wants him just where he is. No no no no no say her mind.

“Oh yes, ” he says. And shesobs and fucks back at him. Time dissolves into ribbons of heat and sensing. She feels. She moves. She is fucked and fucked and fucked.

He withdraws. Whips the condom off. “Turn over.” She somehow rehinges herself to twist and turn, aching and stiff. He thrusts his cock down her throat, gags her. She sucks him, licks him. He hardens further in her mouth.

He tells her to stop. She whimpers in frustration. He tells her to pull her head from him, tilt her head slightly. Open her mouth. Wider. Wider. Good girl.

He watches her face, her tongue, her greedy expression. He wanks. She waits, still. He wanks. She waits, grosses at the sight of him. He wanks. She opens her mouth that tiny little bit wider, sticks her tongue out, and waits.

He cries out and cums. And cums. And cums. She feels the warm wet of him squirt and dribble into her mouth. Though she cannot taste him. He squeezes his cock into her mouth. Every. Last. Drop.

He tells her to swallow. She swallows.

She collapses backwards on the stairs, arms akimbo, body played, jeans twisted tight around her ankles, thong skewed.

She cannot speak or move. Dominated, quashed, humbled.

She smiles weakly up at him.