Lay Lady Lay
"Relax, Steph."
His fingers slip across her shoulders, tugging away her black overcoat. A scoop-neck tee-shirt holds no resistance: To his grip, all seems divisible.
She loops her arm around his neck. He kisses her shoulder as they stare out over the Hudson Bay. Calm blue waters do not hold their interest.
It feels good to be held by a man again; a real man.
She ignores the crunching noise her neck makes as she turned around, displacing his touch and wrapping her arms around his neck. She tries to be tender, remembering his surgery.
Also ignored is a glimmer of affection, shining brightly in his eyes.
His lips are soft..yet they could hold cruelty. How she wishes that that cruelty could be directed toward her, so that she could walk away easily. But Kurt is far too kind.
His hands grope downward, trying to unhook her bra and betraying his complete lack of expertise. She remembers his excuse during their first time: "Oh, my wife doesn't wear underwear." She didn't believe him then. Now, as his hands painfully twist the material, restricting her, she believes him.
That tiny kernel of thought; that she is in competition with his sexy young wife, drives her to thrust her tongue more firmly into his mouth. Her bra comes loose abruptly, cool air on her oppressed flesh coming as a relief.
Her breasts remain the very pride and joy of her body. She tries not to notice the red creases her bra has left upon her flesh, stretch marks from her outsized implants. He doesn't notice; he lifts her up by the waist and lies her flat upon the mattress. They float falsely upon her chest, not sinking to the weight of gravity; he does not care. His mouth fixes upon the left peak while he unbuttons his shirt with a free hand.
He smells of the ocean; it fills her nostrils with a natural scent as her head falls backward. Tiny, prepatory shocks travel her system, moistening her flesh with sweat.
Her fingers move on instinct, trying to wind through a head of hair that doesn't exist. The smooth flesh of his skull feels malleable, almost pinchable; she does so as his teeth scrapes her nipple.
His shirt has disappeared in time it takes him to switch nipples. She sighed; this part of their foreplay always provided a slow, sweet thrill for Stephanie. It isn't the sexiest thing (her breasts are only mildly sensitive) in the world, but it's a lovely, broaching feeling.
Her eyes are closed; a change in temperature and sensation announces Kurt's downward progress. His mouth lands upon her belly as his hands tuck into the waistband of her taupe slacks. She has neglected to wear panties today; she never does, when she wears pants, unless it's her time of the month.
He nuzzles her pubic mound, the neatly-trimmed hair upon it crinkles against his nose. She wonders if he will make the endeavor.
When they met, he bluntly told her that he hadn't ever done oral. Period. And would never do it. And discussing what they would and wouldn't' do to each other made him feel like a hooker, so couldn't they just let if flow naturally?
All she had to do was withold one little blowjob. Next time around, he was quickly diving like a pro.
She smiled as his tongue made a tentative stroke upon her unopened lips. He heaved a sigh that vibrated her most sensitive parts before spreading her with the tip of his tongue.
Stephanie lay open for him, doing nothing more than sighing at his gentle touch. Her thighs lazily caressed his ears; her fingers tighten on his skull. Hunter had always demanded an active bed partner; Andrew a passive one. The assorted nameless faces who meant nothing to her danced by, but their time within her world so brief that she could not attribute any traits to them.
Heat rises slowly; there's nothing fervent about it. When there is, and she hits its frantic peak, she clutches his head, strains against him; He laps until the quivering stops, and her taste turns metallic.
He gasps for air against her stomach (she understands why he didn't become a long-distance swimmer). His kisses, reflexively, the tiny white scar that hides at her panty line. She cannot meet his eyes. She cannot tell him where it came from.
Her father told her to tell everyone that it was just a riding accident, and that was the truth. Somewhat.
She reaches to him, to touch him. Wanting to take forever pleasuring him. But he is in control, this time, and holds her thighs open and enters in one smooth motion.
There's something to be said for flexible men.
An experimental rocking; a reestablishment of rhythm. He does not stop, moving with the efficient machismo of the most confident of men.
He kisses her face. Her neck. He is so far above that she cannot reach him, it's almost like mating with a god.
It ends for her; not for him. The world opens and crashes again, drawing him down with her. But it is not finished.
He goes on until she can do nothing more than sob; it's wonderful. It hurts in more than one place. Only he can give her enough.
A pulsation; she cannot breathe for a moment. He is heavy as the earth itself, and yet she will not let him go. His breath ruffles her bangs.
The only sound is a heater, piping its tinny noise through the ancient pipes.
**
Morning comes on a chill breeze. She opens her eyes and sees a stream of frozen water glued to the pane. There are fall trees turning in the distance, and a regatta rows down the river.
She rolls over, covered only by a light sheet, woven through her legs and over her breasts. She feels like a Botticelli,, painted with mock-delicacy; a false Venus.
Her eyes fall upon her cell phone; a light flashing there reminds her that she is Stephanie Marie McMahon, and the day can hide her for so small an amount of time.
Water runs in the bathroom; she can see him shaving in front of the mirror. He is whistling to himself, as though she cannot hear him:
Lay, lady, lay
'Cross my big brass bed....