Het Pr0n.
Occasionally, I like to challenge myself by writing something completely unusual for me.
This time: Jeff/Michelle PWP.
Title: That Totally Wasn't Safe Sex
Pairing: Jeff DaRosa/Michelle DaRosa
Summary: Sheesha can't write het sex
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All names are used fictitiously.
Jeff is standing before Michelle, trying to fight off the impatience that tugs at him, while she tugs off her shirt. There are things you can't do when you're on tour, trapped on a bus, in a hotel, with your wife's brother, and numerous other guys, and Jeff can barely remember the last time he saw Michelle's sharp curves and ninety degree angles in anything more than a casual glance, watching her change.
She is looking up at Jeff, smiling shyly, like she's insecure, and he is ready to flood with her compliments until she drowns. Her shirt is off, and from his angle, he can see clearly down her bra. He's so impatient, because her dark, firm nipples are so, so visible. He should be helping her undress, and he knows that, but he feels like he'd mess up and embarass himself, so he's speaking to her, slow and soft, in a sea of praise.
Heavy white lace falls to the ground, making a light thump against the off-white carpet. It is the same colour that adorns Michelle's smooth, flawless flesh, marred only by the pink of her nipples.
Jeff's rough, musician's calloused hands graze over the curve of Michelle's body, smoothing and stopping just above the waistline of her jeans. He's staring at her body, and she's staring into his eyes, hazy and grey, and set so deeply in concentration, as if he's memorising the flow of her body, and the way the flesh of her stomach is pushed and contorted by her jeans, giving the illusion of body mass that isn't actually there.
Soon, Jeff's fingers become discontent in sitting idly at Michelle's waist, and they move downwards, slightly to the right, and pull at the button of her jeans. Michelle pulls back slightly, because she's nervous, and she shouldn't be, but Jeff is so careful, and he's still whispering. The words are mostly inaudible, but he's speaking with a fierce passion, and her name litters his language. Michelle feels like she's a teenager again, awkward and nervous, because her parents could walk in at any moment.
The button pops, and Michelle's jeans are already slipping down her body, past the small curve of her hips. But before Jeff can do anything more, Michelle grabs his wrists. Her grip is gentle, but it startles him, and he jerks slightly, which causes Michelle to laugh, quiet and breathy and almost metallic. She's placing his hands over her breasts, with that same shy smile settled on her lips, and he can't help but feel comfortable. His hands are massaging and kneading the creamy skin, and her sweet nipples, an impressive contrast between his dark, masculine hands, and her fair, soft flesh. She's leaning into his touch, and he's thinking of how she moves with a dancer's grace, regardless of what she's doing.
Now, with Jeff touching her, and her breathing turning deep and thoughtless, Michelle's nerves are gone. She wants to be pressed, flush against him, touching him and needing him, and leaving scratches down his back that will last for weeks and eventually scar. Jeff isn't the impatient one anymore, and Michelle is guiding him to the bed, forcefully, because he seems to disoriented, and she doesn't mind at all.
Compared to Jeff, Michelle feels naked. Her tawny, orange panties are skimpy, by her standards, and they feel so wet that she thinks there might be a dark, damp spot, marring the colouring.
She's pleased that Jeff is wearing a button-up shirt, because it's easier for her to take off, and she takes pleasure in being able to practically rip the fabric off of his tan, slightly-toned chest.
Normally, Michelle isn't quite so eager, but she's gone months without sex, and John wasn't quite so respectful when it came to sex on tour. A shudder runs through Michelle when she thinks about her brother, pounding his little fiancé into a mattress, and Jeff's eyes go wide when he sees her make the motion. It's pure disgust, and she's sitting over him, straddling him.
"Is something wrong?" Jeff asks. He's trying, hard, to sound collected, but there's still a note of distress in his voice, and he feels like such a woman.
Michelle's leaning down, and resting her forehead against Jeff's.
"Nothing was wrong, until you ruined the mood," She says. It doesn't come out the way she wishes it would have, because her breathing is deep, and the words are sharp and panted.
Before Jeff can respond, and likely embarass himself, Michelle is pressing her lips to his, open-mouthed and desperate. Jeff's mouth is moving against Michelle's, in slow, but not quite sensual, motions. There's need there, but that's nothing new, and he's hard and wondering when exactly it was that he lost his pants.
Jeff is pushed up against the headboard, turning his neck at an awkward angle, which he knows that he'll later regret, but he doesn't care. Michelle's slender fingers have slipped between the fabric of her panties, and her skin. Her usual grace has decreased greatly, and she's moving swiftly and impatiently.
The orange fabric is tossed aside, and lands on the edge of the bed. Neither of them notice or care.
Grey boxers adorn Jeff's skin, and they make him look darker than he is. The fabric is thin, and strained, and Michelle can see the outline of Jeff's hard-on, as well as the shadowing of his pubic hair. She raises her eyebrows, and pulls swiftly. The movement causes friction, and Jeff's hips buck up.
Those grey, grey boxers aren't fully discarded, and stay tangled around Jeff's calves. He's not complaining, because before he can try to pull them away, Michelle has him back against the headboard, head on an even more painful angle, and she's pressing herself down on him, squirming slightly, to make sure she's lined up properly.
It doesn't take much time for Michelle, and she's soon seated in Jeff's lap. He's groaning softly, in appreciation, and she's wanting to laugh. It's far too easy to please him.
The pain in Jeff's neck increases, and almost becomes unbearable, because Michelle is pushing him, and pushing him, and she's bouncing in his lap, and fucking pulsing. Her breaths are fast and deep and erractic, much like the sharp jerks of her hips, but she's silent. Jeff, on the other hand, is groaning and moaning, and coming somewhere close to screaming. He wants to do something, anything, possibly move, so that his neck doesn't snap and kill him. Of course, if he's going to die, this is definitely the best way to go.
The silky smooth skin on Michelle's hips is fluttering and dancing beneath Jeff's calloused fingertips, with her movements.
"I love you," Jeff's panting, staring up into Michelle's eyes, which are alive with thought and concentration. She knows exactly what she's doing. Her mouth is hanging open, because breathing is taking too much of an effort, and she can't close it, but she's smiling.
"You too," Michelle responds, and it's so careless and casual and so true.
Michelle is writhing above Jeff and he's lifting up to meet her, letting out the occasional noise, because he's just so euphoric, and Michelle is putting everything she has into this and he knows it. She's not enjoying the sex for what it is, limbs and sweat and heavy breathing. She's enjoying the power she has over Jeff, because she has him bubbling and gushing, and then she has him coming.
A stream of curses falls past Jeff's lips, whispered in hush, and Michelle is still, smiling down at him. She waits for Jeff's breathing to slow, before pulling herself up and off of him.
The bed dips in slightly beneath Michelle's lithe frame when she lays down beside Jeff.
I'm too lazy to come up with a quality ending. They had sex. That's fantastic.
This time: Jeff/Michelle PWP.
Title: That Totally Wasn't Safe Sex
Pairing: Jeff DaRosa/Michelle DaRosa
Summary: Sheesha can't write het sex
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. All names are used fictitiously.
Jeff is standing before Michelle, trying to fight off the impatience that tugs at him, while she tugs off her shirt. There are things you can't do when you're on tour, trapped on a bus, in a hotel, with your wife's brother, and numerous other guys, and Jeff can barely remember the last time he saw Michelle's sharp curves and ninety degree angles in anything more than a casual glance, watching her change.
She is looking up at Jeff, smiling shyly, like she's insecure, and he is ready to flood with her compliments until she drowns. Her shirt is off, and from his angle, he can see clearly down her bra. He's so impatient, because her dark, firm nipples are so, so visible. He should be helping her undress, and he knows that, but he feels like he'd mess up and embarass himself, so he's speaking to her, slow and soft, in a sea of praise.
Heavy white lace falls to the ground, making a light thump against the off-white carpet. It is the same colour that adorns Michelle's smooth, flawless flesh, marred only by the pink of her nipples.
Jeff's rough, musician's calloused hands graze over the curve of Michelle's body, smoothing and stopping just above the waistline of her jeans. He's staring at her body, and she's staring into his eyes, hazy and grey, and set so deeply in concentration, as if he's memorising the flow of her body, and the way the flesh of her stomach is pushed and contorted by her jeans, giving the illusion of body mass that isn't actually there.
Soon, Jeff's fingers become discontent in sitting idly at Michelle's waist, and they move downwards, slightly to the right, and pull at the button of her jeans. Michelle pulls back slightly, because she's nervous, and she shouldn't be, but Jeff is so careful, and he's still whispering. The words are mostly inaudible, but he's speaking with a fierce passion, and her name litters his language. Michelle feels like she's a teenager again, awkward and nervous, because her parents could walk in at any moment.
The button pops, and Michelle's jeans are already slipping down her body, past the small curve of her hips. But before Jeff can do anything more, Michelle grabs his wrists. Her grip is gentle, but it startles him, and he jerks slightly, which causes Michelle to laugh, quiet and breathy and almost metallic. She's placing his hands over her breasts, with that same shy smile settled on her lips, and he can't help but feel comfortable. His hands are massaging and kneading the creamy skin, and her sweet nipples, an impressive contrast between his dark, masculine hands, and her fair, soft flesh. She's leaning into his touch, and he's thinking of how she moves with a dancer's grace, regardless of what she's doing.
Now, with Jeff touching her, and her breathing turning deep and thoughtless, Michelle's nerves are gone. She wants to be pressed, flush against him, touching him and needing him, and leaving scratches down his back that will last for weeks and eventually scar. Jeff isn't the impatient one anymore, and Michelle is guiding him to the bed, forcefully, because he seems to disoriented, and she doesn't mind at all.
Compared to Jeff, Michelle feels naked. Her tawny, orange panties are skimpy, by her standards, and they feel so wet that she thinks there might be a dark, damp spot, marring the colouring.
She's pleased that Jeff is wearing a button-up shirt, because it's easier for her to take off, and she takes pleasure in being able to practically rip the fabric off of his tan, slightly-toned chest.
Normally, Michelle isn't quite so eager, but she's gone months without sex, and John wasn't quite so respectful when it came to sex on tour. A shudder runs through Michelle when she thinks about her brother, pounding his little fiancé into a mattress, and Jeff's eyes go wide when he sees her make the motion. It's pure disgust, and she's sitting over him, straddling him.
"Is something wrong?" Jeff asks. He's trying, hard, to sound collected, but there's still a note of distress in his voice, and he feels like such a woman.
Michelle's leaning down, and resting her forehead against Jeff's.
"Nothing was wrong, until you ruined the mood," She says. It doesn't come out the way she wishes it would have, because her breathing is deep, and the words are sharp and panted.
Before Jeff can respond, and likely embarass himself, Michelle is pressing her lips to his, open-mouthed and desperate. Jeff's mouth is moving against Michelle's, in slow, but not quite sensual, motions. There's need there, but that's nothing new, and he's hard and wondering when exactly it was that he lost his pants.
Jeff is pushed up against the headboard, turning his neck at an awkward angle, which he knows that he'll later regret, but he doesn't care. Michelle's slender fingers have slipped between the fabric of her panties, and her skin. Her usual grace has decreased greatly, and she's moving swiftly and impatiently.
The orange fabric is tossed aside, and lands on the edge of the bed. Neither of them notice or care.
Grey boxers adorn Jeff's skin, and they make him look darker than he is. The fabric is thin, and strained, and Michelle can see the outline of Jeff's hard-on, as well as the shadowing of his pubic hair. She raises her eyebrows, and pulls swiftly. The movement causes friction, and Jeff's hips buck up.
Those grey, grey boxers aren't fully discarded, and stay tangled around Jeff's calves. He's not complaining, because before he can try to pull them away, Michelle has him back against the headboard, head on an even more painful angle, and she's pressing herself down on him, squirming slightly, to make sure she's lined up properly.
It doesn't take much time for Michelle, and she's soon seated in Jeff's lap. He's groaning softly, in appreciation, and she's wanting to laugh. It's far too easy to please him.
The pain in Jeff's neck increases, and almost becomes unbearable, because Michelle is pushing him, and pushing him, and she's bouncing in his lap, and fucking pulsing. Her breaths are fast and deep and erractic, much like the sharp jerks of her hips, but she's silent. Jeff, on the other hand, is groaning and moaning, and coming somewhere close to screaming. He wants to do something, anything, possibly move, so that his neck doesn't snap and kill him. Of course, if he's going to die, this is definitely the best way to go.
The silky smooth skin on Michelle's hips is fluttering and dancing beneath Jeff's calloused fingertips, with her movements.
"I love you," Jeff's panting, staring up into Michelle's eyes, which are alive with thought and concentration. She knows exactly what she's doing. Her mouth is hanging open, because breathing is taking too much of an effort, and she can't close it, but she's smiling.
"You too," Michelle responds, and it's so careless and casual and so true.
Michelle is writhing above Jeff and he's lifting up to meet her, letting out the occasional noise, because he's just so euphoric, and Michelle is putting everything she has into this and he knows it. She's not enjoying the sex for what it is, limbs and sweat and heavy breathing. She's enjoying the power she has over Jeff, because she has him bubbling and gushing, and then she has him coming.
A stream of curses falls past Jeff's lips, whispered in hush, and Michelle is still, smiling down at him. She waits for Jeff's breathing to slow, before pulling herself up and off of him.
The bed dips in slightly beneath Michelle's lithe frame when she lays down beside Jeff.
I'm too lazy to come up with a quality ending. They had sex. That's fantastic.