Ride of a Man

It’s late and I’m curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea and a magazine, waiting for Sam to arrive home from a meeting a billion hours away. It was supposed to be a special evening, all romance and candle light, but thanks to an over-turned lorry, we’ve agreed that it’s going to be a late take-away and telephone kind of night instead.

His progress reports from the road are increasingly irate, and I revert to the time-honored tradition of playfully distracting him with sex. With each call, I tell him what I would do to soothe him were I in the car with him – a hand is creeping up his thigh at Junction 30, and by Junction 25, my head is in his lap, giving him a oral sex, that all the other drivers can’t see.

If I was there and the traffic was moving.

“Great,” he grumbles, “I’ve got a traffic jam in front of me, a horny woman at home, a hard on, and a banging headache.”

“Poor love,” I compensated. “I’ll fix you a drink and a bath. Everything else can wait.”

So I wrap my robe around me and do as promised, pulling out the wine and turning up the boiler for the bath. When I hear his car in the drive, I open the door like the dutiful wife I sometimes pretend to be, ready to take his coat and briefcase (though I draw the line at slipper fetching.)

And there he is, my big gorgeous ride of man, every bit as fine looking as always despite being fed up and exhausted. The coat and briefcase get unceremoniously dropped to the hall floor, and his arms are around me, holding me tight against him while he buries one hand in my hair and pulls my face against his.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he whispers in my ear.

“Hello, handsome,” I whisper back, and place a gentle kiss against his cheek.

“Don’t think you’re getting off that easy,” he murmurs, and suddenly his mouth is on mine, plowing and hungry as he parts my lips with a fiery kiss. His tongue grazes my lip and glides over my teeth as it searches out my own, and it’s the same as it always is: I crumble, I weaken, and I’m his.

Such a simple thing, a kiss can be. And yet I’m set alight by it; my face grows hot and my nipples harden, and I know the wetness that I can never stop when this man touches me is gathering against the unmistakable hardness I can feel pushing against his trousers.

We’re so well matched this way; we always fit so well together.

I lower my hand to touch him, but it only lingers briefly before he groans and catches my hand in his. With a pull that takes me by surprise, he turns me away from him and shoves me against the hallway wall. I’m pinned there by one strong arm, my cheek resting against the surface as his hand sneaks around to loosen the tie on my robe. He pulls it from my shoulders and it pools on the floor; his hand moves to my head and he gathers a hank of long blonde hair in his grip.

“You cannot tell me dirty tales for three hours and think you’re not going to get shagged,” he growls against my ear, and I shiver at the tone in his voice, at the thought of being taken right here, like this.

His free hand is roaming my body, pulling the curve of my bottom against his crotch, rubbing my breasts, teasing and grazing the cleft of my love spot. Which floods instantly as he pins one nipple between his thumb and finger and squeezes – hard, the way he knows I like it.

The moan that rockets from my lips is as involuntary as the panting breaths I’m taking, and he pushes his bound erection against my rear. I grind my hips against him, my body desperate to feel all of it. One hand reaches back to stroke him, to squeeze him, but his free hand slaps mine away and I put it back against the wall.

“Want it, do you?” he asks seductively. His fingers reach between my legs and he finds the slick flood that tells him yes, I want it. He groans and rocks hard against me, pushing my whole body against the wall before he takes his hand away. I’m about to protest, to beg him to put his hand back and touch me again, when I hear the sound of his zipper.

When the hot head of his shaft brushes against my butt, my knees tremble and I whimper – whimper for his love shaft, whimper for more, whimper for him.

“Spread your legs and I’ll put this inside you,” he tells me, and rubs his erection against my hip with his hand so I can feel all of it. Instantly I’m on my toes, lifting my feet apart, arching my back to spread open for him and invite him in.

The heat that glides against my lips is astonishing; he rocks against me from behind, still pinning my hair to the wall, denying me as I strain for him to enter me.

“Tell me what you want,” he asks as he strokes my hair.

My head snaps back and the words tumble out. “Do me! Please. Oh, give it to me,” I beg.

His fingers reach down to touch my spot and I gasp, and then his hand shoves the head of his muscle to the entrance of my vagina. With one long push he enters me and it’s hard to tell whose cry is who’s as we lock together.

He doesn’t need to hold me any more; I’m impaled on his penis, pushing against the wall to get more of it, breathless with the need to feel all of him buried inside me. One hand goes to my hip, steadying me against his thrusts; the other hand reaches round and finds my love spot again.

With this touch, I come undone; I am moaning, panting, shoving against his hardness, trashing between his love muscle and the wall. His fingers on my sweet spot are frantic, and his thrusting is frenzied and relentless.

“You are so, so wet,” he whispers, and his hand leaves my sweetness. I open my mouth with a cry and his fingers slide between my lips, and I moan into his hand.

His fingers slide down my chin, between my breasts and across my belly, leaving an unbroken trail of slickness behind. I grab his hand, trapping it to my clitoris, and grind hard against it as he strokes in and out. The rhythm against my clitoris and the feel of his plunging shaft in my vagina is too intense, too perfect; the climax hits like a flash flood, running up from toes to my sweet spot and exploding as I scream his name.

I drop his hand and he grabs both of my hips; the pace picks up again as I pant below him, and I feel his penis expand inside me just before he bursts. With on last thrust, he pushes his length inside me and heaves a shuddering cry, and there we are, collapsed against the wall, clutched together in damp, sweaty tableau.

Slowly his penis recedes and I gently pull us apart. We stand, my back still to his front, and he wraps his arms around me again and nuzzles the back of my neck.

“Hello, darling,” I murmur, resting against him,

By: norio takahashi