"'And now we begin the rest of our lives,' Elizabeth whispered, as Lance pulled her down onto the bed. He said nothing. He was not a man born to make love with words. Lost in his kiss, held in his embrace, beneath his body, Elizabeth turned to fire and ice, which have a language of their own, a tongue that is not at all difficult to understand. It is the silent speech of a man and a woman alone. Windward held them, and the June night held Windward, as Lance and Elizabeth had the world to themselves. Haakon had left for Chicago as planned, while Eric and Kristin were on their way to Duluth. In the morning, Lance and Elizabeth would make their journey to the ranch, to continue the life they were beginning tonight. Elizabeth would never forget, not ever, nor cease to desire, forever, the triumphant sensation of his long staff coming into her. Her face contorted in the darkness as she took him, a grimace of victorious anticipation. Oh, you're mine now, come! Then he was all inside her and she would never let him go. And Lance felt, all about and around the living length of himself, those quivering folds of delight that soothed him everywhere, and maddened him everywhere, a hot enticing kiss that only heaven could have created, that only a creature made of heaven could bestow. Elizabeth felt his arms about her and the hardness of him inside her and his hungry kiss upon her mouth. He tangled the hair at the back of her neck in one hand, and with the other he stroked delicately the tender petal of flesh that was her whole life now, her life and world threatening to explode like a voluptuous star. Her arms went around him, and her hands caressed his back, tracing his spine down, all the way down until she held in her hand the tingling twin crescents of his manhood, and the taut gourd enclosing them. His fingers were gentle and knowing, and probing and tender and proud. Her fingers were as hungry as her body, as her lips, as hungry as the lips of her body. Lost in the splendor of her caresses and her kiss, Lance bent over her, kissed her breasts, his own wise touch moving up and down, up and down her inner thighs, his caresses long as forever, even as he stroked her slowly with his body, stroked her with the long length of himself. And so Lance loved her, each separate thrust an attempt to have her utterly, to bring to both of them and yet to defer forever the ultimate moment of release, a game that can never be won but is never lost. Elizabeth felt herself move slowly around him, as if her body were trying to find a way to take him into herself. And then she felt herself moving more quickly around him, then faster still, until she had lost all control of her movements, of what her body was doing. But she did not care. She barely realized what was happening, so great was the pleasure he gave and she took, the pleasure he took and she gave. Elizabeth felt her mind fade away and come back, fade away again, only to be stirred back to life by glittering new flickers of pleasure. Then a breathless hollow seemed to glow and grow and spread out beneath her breasts, down through her abdomen as she writhed, spreading downward until every last thought was gone, every last morsel of memory gained in life had fled. Nothing was left of her then except a pulsing petal of sensation. She heard Lance cry, 'Iiiiiiiiiii!' but could not say whether in agony or affirmation, and then the glorious rush took her too. She cried along with him, and felt inside her the pulsing pulsing pulsing spill of him, the flood her body greedily devoured. And this time she knew for certain. She had no doubt. The tender speech of their flesh, silent though it was had trembled the spheres of life. And out of the abyss a witness had been summoned, sworn before heaven to attest the love of Elizabeth and Lance."
"'Look,' he said. 'Look at yourself, your flower, in the mirror.' Suddenly, inexplicably, Margot was afraid. She was not sure she could look. Remy cupped her breasts, pinched her nipples, and the familiar twinge of pleasure sprang forth deep inside her, flushing her vulva with moistness. Remy reached down and slid a finger between her pussy lips, rubbing up and down, barely touching the opening of her vagina, making her breath catch in her throat. In her hand she clutched the lion dildo so hard her knuckles were white. Remy pushed her legs apart further, and reached up kneading and rolling her nipples between his fingers. 'Look!' he commanded, and Margot snapped her eyes open and looked into the mirror. Her pussy was red and lavender and swollen and pulsing. She could see the sucking motion it made, wanting to be filled. It was violent and gentle and beautiful like Remy's painting. She gasped, staring at it, at the self she'd never known. Remy reached down gently and took the hand that held the lion. 'Don't look away,' he said in her ear, and he guided her hand, guided the lion's head toward her swollen, wanting pussy. He lightly rubbed the ridges of the carved head of the dildo over her stiff clitoris, making her vagina quiver like a mouth that wanted to suck. Margo was mesmerized at the sight of herself. She began to work the dildo between her pussy lips, the mane and face of the lion becoming slick and milky with her honey. Remy reached up and pinched both nipples hard, causing a gasping shudder deep inside Margot, and she plunged the dildo deep in her pussy, watching in the mirror as the lion's head disappeared deep inside her again and again and again, her nipples taut and huge and stiff, full of painful pleasure as Remy rolled and pinched them between his fingernails. He was working himself against her back, his cum lubricating the skin between them, and she felt the head of his cock slide up and down the knobs of her vertebrae. She pushed the yellow-wood deeper, deeper, twisting it against her clit and Remy pressed down, pinching both nipples so hard between his fingers that they burned with fire, and she watched as she came, spilling sticky, sparkling fluid out onto her hands, Remy shooting hot wetness against her, bathing each other in their sweetness."
"She felt a gentle press spreading her wide and had to bury her face into the hollow of his shoulder as he fed his cock into her in one smooth motion, not stopping until the head nudged the hot spot at her core. He was huge -- long and thick, almost bruising, and his pubic bone bumped against her tender clit. She wrapped her arms around his back, feeling the soft throb of his pulse deep inside. She could tell he was holding back, heard his breath catch, felt a hot flood of his pre-cum."
"His sheer width was enough to send her senses soaring, but the additional tilt of his hips each time their bodies completely melded made her clit yearn for more. She met him, rolling her pelvis, daring to grind back, and Ric groaned softly at that, his mouth close to her ear."
"His cock pounded deeper, bottoming out, a hot, sticky rutting with every stroke."
"'Ahhh Leesa,' he gasped when her muscles began those little butterfly flutters that were a precursor to her climax."
"She felt him holding back again, wanting it to last, but her pussy was spasming, hot little pulses of pleasure that pushed her closer and closer to the edge."
"Her back arched as she felt her juices releasing in a flood of hot convulsions. Ric muffled his own climax against her mouth, his cock swelling and throbbing inside of her, every fiery blast of his cum forcing a little whimpering cry from her lips."
"And suddenly it was there, boiling up from the root of his cock, pulling everything tight, waves of ecstasy rippling in ever bigger circles from his groin spreading to his thighs, his butt, his belly."
"A low, warm feeling of bliss starts to collect inside of me. It's like my body temperature is rising with every lick of that expert tongue. But then, Dean pushes back the hood of my clit. He flicks the tip of his tongue against that tender bundle, and I can feel by body straining against its very edges. As he lavishes my clit with his tongue, I feel like I could disintegrate under the intensity of my own bliss."
Beauty & the Running Back -- Colleen Masters
(Typos are those of the author, not Uncle Walter.)
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