Let Me Save You

The Way A Story Should...

I'm flung into the duvet, ripples of polyester flounder and drown me in their torrential waves but I come up for air, for relief, for his lips. They taste of summer and wit and mint ice cream. His hazel eyes burn gelignite into mine, with purpose, with intent. The beauty in the symmetry of his profile kills me, even the crooked of his smile, sly, lies tact with perfection. His shirt is ripped off, I can't keep track whose hands are doing what, but I let out a chuckle as it's sent flying across the room, to sink into oblivion. And there he is, miles and miles of wire and tendon, wire and tendon, pulsing with electricity. I trace the abs of his stomach, powerful, defined. Mine. My lips find his nipples, perturbing from a chest tight and strong. He lets out a moan. A delicate do-that-again moan that rings through my ears in its melody, my addiction. He isn't ready for me, I register this in his eyes as my lips fall below the belly button. He isn't. So I shoot back up to meet his eyes, and intermingle our breaths, and lose myself in the soft rose velvet of his lips, lapping waves, hungry.
Then there's a flip. Because our arms and legs and muscles are doing things in spontaneity, fuelled on impulse before our minds even dare try to catch up. And I'm on top of him. The surprise on his face, the bewilderment of it, makes me rock hard. He can feel it too, upon his... Y'know.
"Someone's excited," it comes out breathless, excitement rips the air out his throat.
"Damn right I am," I snap, I lunge, forcing myself into his mouth, clumsily, hungrily... Passionately.
There was nothing else to it. Passion. Passion that leads my lips again to trail the dip in his collarbone, then the broad of his chest, then the stone hard of his abs, then a footpath of shaven before... Jackpot.
He knew what he was doing wearing speedos on a day like this. He knew where this would go. The bulge only seemed to build as I trailed my index finger against his member, beaming impatient. He watched me, too stubborn to ask. Too impatient not to. "JJ..."
"I want you to say it," I smile. The devil-smile he loves so much. The devil-smile that got us here, he'd say.
The silence hangs over us, the air tense with streaks of indigo lightning.
"I want you..." he gulps.
The desire pours out from him, in not so many words. But that was the beauty of Pope. I didn't need words to read the ecstasy of his laugh, the intent in his smile, the catch in his breath, the thirst in his moan.
And then I rip it off and suck him off.
I start with a tease, with a bellend so fucking huge it pretty much already takes my whole damn mouth. His moan enriches the moment, the honey of him as i take it all in. I watch his eyes roll into the far crevices of his skull, the white of his teeth glistening as they clamp down into the pale pink of his bottom lip. I feel his body twisting into my rhythm, curving upwards, calling upon God so many times you might say we'd been consecrated. But then his hand finds my hair, clamping into my curls, rough. The way I like it.
"Stop-" — he's breathless, he's gulping and breathless and almost soulless — "I don't want to blow my load before I get to return the favour."
And then by my hair, suddenly he's back again, towering over me, with muscles rippling with revenge, intent. I'd missed his lips, soft and full. He doesn't care that my breath's new fragrance reeks of his discharge. And it is he who trails my chest, sucking my soul out my nipples, then my stomach, then- Shit. The world goes hazy. And I guess he must've definitely consecrated our bed because I hear angels.
I'm flipped over. I love when Pope gets like this. When he's forceful. When he's authoritative. When he takes charge. Especially when it comes to me. I feel him sliding threateningly, playfully up and down, up and down against my ass. I'm ready for him. I do a little jiggle to prove it.
He slaps it. He couldn't have hit it hard enough. I moan, a loud I-don't-give-a-fuck-who-hears-us moan, because holy fucking shit that was hot.
I turn to him, to meet his blazing eyes.
He's buried his head in me, in between my thighs. And this time the haze is different, when it comes I go weak in my muscle and tendon. My being rendered to jelly. His tongue does things that shut my nerves down in every possible area, and all I want him to do is eat till I'm raw. His hands are planted, clawing into my buttcheeks still, tattooing my ass in his design, red ripe.
Then he's finished, and the real fun begins.

"JJ!"

"JJ!!!"

His voice jolts me to life, to the serene of Autumn, coming through the windows in tangerine blades.

And then I'm on the floor.

There's Pope holding up one end of my bed, Kie giggling behind him, and John B giving me one of those "typical" gazes he always gives when he gets on a high horse about something. Today. Like most days, even though he's usually just as late as I am, he's chosen my tardiness.

"Come on we're going to be late." Pope sighs, sitting my bed back in place.

It was a dream.

Of course it was. Of course it was...