The Gauntlet has Been Thrown (Carolyn/Herc)(NC-17)
Title: The Gauntlet has Been Thrown
Author: Jenny Starseed
Rating: NC-17
Character(s): Carolyn/Herc
Summary: Carolyn and Herc have sex. Of course it has to be a battle of the wills.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 542 words
Author's Notes: Right. My first PWP fic, and it features the least likely couple you’ll find in PWP fic. For a prompt I prompted myself. That I ended up filling myself. Who says you can predict the direction of your own writing?
I don't own any of the characters. They all belong to Mr. John Finnemore. Unbeta-ed and unbrit-picked.
“You think you’re a sky sex god. Can you prove it? Show me.”
That’s it, a gauntlet has been thrown down, Carolyn has put down a challenge and Herc never backed down from a challenge. She’s got that defiant gleam in her eye and he wants to fuck that smug look off her face. He wants her submission, NOW. Infuriating woman, controlling, always needs the last word, can never admit she’s wrong. He wants to fuck that smug superior look away. He wants her ADORATION, he wants her to acquiesce to her, and he wants to WIN over her.
“Terms of the competition?”
“Who can orgasm first. A race to the end.”
“Wager?”
“No wager, just satisfaction.”
Fine. Agreed. GO!
There’s grabbing, nipping, sucking and a bit of kicking. Against the wall she goes, her hands in his hair, his mouth on her neck. She wants him to lose his control. Such a suave and smug man. Just like Gordon. Just like Douglas. What a peacock. How tiring. She knows what men are like and she wants him to beg.
Hands over, hands under, lots of grabbing and gentle touches, but mostly grabbing. A bit of bruising. Enough child’s play, hand on belt, in the pants and right! That’s stunned expression she’s looking for. Smug grin appears on her face. All those smooth words out, animal grunting in. Good. That’s it.
They can still do this clothed. It’s frantic, dirty and very quick. It’s not what proper English people do. It’s not what prim and proper people do in their 50s and 60s. People with silly dogs and silly cars certainly don’t grunt, gyrate, screw and gasp their way into sexual oblivion. She’s digging her nails into his back and it hurts, but he loves the feel of her strong stubby legs wrapped around him, pushing him further into her. She’s gasping and going “ah” and “oh” and the sight is marvellous. He’s obviously going to win.
That is until...Bitch! Oh, that’s a turn on. Now that smug face of hers is back on. No time to lose, he’s close to the end if he doesn’t do...ah! Works every time like it did with every Mrs. Shipwright.
“You’re not going to win, you know” she whispers in his ears in between gasps.
“Your dirty talk needs improving, you loudmouth hussy,” he pants out.
“My dirty talk? Yours reminds me of my great uncle Edgar.”
“Bitch!”
“Bastard!”
“Argumentative wrench!”
“Smug prick!”
And on it goes until words are superfluous. More gasps, grunts and ah’s. She tips her head back, feeling her pleasure grow and increase, he squints his eyes with the effort of pushing and pulling into her continuously. Her arms are painful around his neck, her breath tickles his ears and before long, all is released with a grasp, a groan and a yell (later neither of them will admit it) and a sigh.
She takes her arms off him, he lets go of her waist and they listen to their respective breaths calming and quieting. They had somehow slid down against the wall, both looking relieved, stunned and relaxed. Herc puts his hands in hers and whispers in her ear “let’s call it a draw and do it again after dinner.”
Author: Jenny Starseed
Rating: NC-17
Character(s): Carolyn/Herc
Summary: Carolyn and Herc have sex. Of course it has to be a battle of the wills.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 542 words
Author's Notes: Right. My first PWP fic, and it features the least likely couple you’ll find in PWP fic. For a prompt I prompted myself. That I ended up filling myself. Who says you can predict the direction of your own writing?
I don't own any of the characters. They all belong to Mr. John Finnemore. Unbeta-ed and unbrit-picked.
“You think you’re a sky sex god. Can you prove it? Show me.”
That’s it, a gauntlet has been thrown down, Carolyn has put down a challenge and Herc never backed down from a challenge. She’s got that defiant gleam in her eye and he wants to fuck that smug look off her face. He wants her submission, NOW. Infuriating woman, controlling, always needs the last word, can never admit she’s wrong. He wants to fuck that smug superior look away. He wants her ADORATION, he wants her to acquiesce to her, and he wants to WIN over her.
“Terms of the competition?”
“Who can orgasm first. A race to the end.”
“Wager?”
“No wager, just satisfaction.”
Fine. Agreed. GO!
There’s grabbing, nipping, sucking and a bit of kicking. Against the wall she goes, her hands in his hair, his mouth on her neck. She wants him to lose his control. Such a suave and smug man. Just like Gordon. Just like Douglas. What a peacock. How tiring. She knows what men are like and she wants him to beg.
Hands over, hands under, lots of grabbing and gentle touches, but mostly grabbing. A bit of bruising. Enough child’s play, hand on belt, in the pants and right! That’s stunned expression she’s looking for. Smug grin appears on her face. All those smooth words out, animal grunting in. Good. That’s it.
They can still do this clothed. It’s frantic, dirty and very quick. It’s not what proper English people do. It’s not what prim and proper people do in their 50s and 60s. People with silly dogs and silly cars certainly don’t grunt, gyrate, screw and gasp their way into sexual oblivion. She’s digging her nails into his back and it hurts, but he loves the feel of her strong stubby legs wrapped around him, pushing him further into her. She’s gasping and going “ah” and “oh” and the sight is marvellous. He’s obviously going to win.
That is until...Bitch! Oh, that’s a turn on. Now that smug face of hers is back on. No time to lose, he’s close to the end if he doesn’t do...ah! Works every time like it did with every Mrs. Shipwright.
“You’re not going to win, you know” she whispers in his ears in between gasps.
“Your dirty talk needs improving, you loudmouth hussy,” he pants out.
“My dirty talk? Yours reminds me of my great uncle Edgar.”
“Bitch!”
“Bastard!”
“Argumentative wrench!”
“Smug prick!”
And on it goes until words are superfluous. More gasps, grunts and ah’s. She tips her head back, feeling her pleasure grow and increase, he squints his eyes with the effort of pushing and pulling into her continuously. Her arms are painful around his neck, her breath tickles his ears and before long, all is released with a grasp, a groan and a yell (later neither of them will admit it) and a sigh.
She takes her arms off him, he lets go of her waist and they listen to their respective breaths calming and quieting. They had somehow slid down against the wall, both looking relieved, stunned and relaxed. Herc puts his hands in hers and whispers in her ear “let’s call it a draw and do it again after dinner.”